Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This story takes place several years after the events of Hogwarts Legacy, in a reimagined continuation where the consequences of ancient magic, war, and unspoken truths still linger within Hogwarts. All characters portrayed—whether original or adapted—are of age, and the setting reflects a more mature, introspective tone grounded in the lives of former students who have grown into adults shaped by the past.

While much of the foundation remains faithful to the game's spirit, I've taken narrative liberties in order to explore certain emotional arcs and relationships more deeply. These changes were made with care, to serve the story's themes of loss, distance, and the fragile thread of connection that survives even the heaviest silence. For example, the battle against Ranrok takes place in the 7th year, leaving room in the years prior to that to let the characters make stronger relationships.

Consider this tale an expansion of the world, seen through older eyes and quieter moments.

And I'd like to say that english it's not my first language, so please excuse me if i make mistakes in that area.

Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester - 5 years after Graduation

The Great Hall was full of light that day. Not the warm, playful kind from enchanted candles, but something quieter—muted, dignified. Final. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

Graduation robes swayed around me, voices rising in anticipation, laughter echoing across long tables stripped of their usual feasts, sensing they were finally safe. But I felt still, as though I were caught between two versions of myself: the girl who had arrived at Hogwarts with wide eyes and a name that meant nothing, not a single thing to her name... and the young witch who had helped end a war nobody should've had to fight.

I suppose that's the way of things. We're never the same when the fire settles.

Ranrok is gone, but so it's Fig. That last battle burned through me like wildfire, and in the end, all it left behind was ash and ancient magic. I saved Hogwarts. They said so. They called me a hero, a type of guardian that people make portraits of and lingers in history books. But as I looked out across the sea of robes and smiling faces, all I could think about was the people I couldn't see anymore. The ones who didn't make it. The ones I might never see again.

Sebastian stood apart, close to the edge of the hall, the way he always did when he was trying to look unreadable. But I could still read him—his jaw tense, fingers twitching like he wanted to run. I knew he wouldn't stay. Not after everything. After what he'd done. After what we had covered up.

We made a choice, Ominis and I. A dangerous one.

Silent promised that night, when we reached Sebastian in the dark with his wand still raised and Solomon dead at his feet. We told no one. We shielded him. Protected him from the justice he might not survive. We did what we had to. We were a family, a broken one, picked from different parts that didn't fit in their own mold.

And it cost us something.

Sebastian didn't even wait for the ceremony to end. I remember catching his eye once—just once—and the look there broke me. A mixture of guilt and gratitude. And then he was gone, off into the world, chasing miracles for Anne, chasing distance from the ruins of what we had become. He told us he would do it for her, that the death of Solomon wouldn't be in vain.

A big part of me believes his motives aren't fully motivated by that, insted fulled by the guilt of leaving Anne alone, once more.

Ominis stayed a while longer. He stood next to me as the names were called. He even smiled once, faintly. But we both knew. The moment we stepped outside these walls, we'd walk different paths. He was a Gaunt, destined for Ministry halls and shadowed obligations. And I? I belonged to a different kind of legacy now—an ancient, silent one that no one else quite understood. I'd go where the magic called me. Where Professor Fig would have wanted me to go.

I promised him before he closed his eyes.

We promised to write. So many promises.

And we did. At first.

But letters faded. Time stretched long between replies. The silence grew roots. And soon, it felt too late to reach across the distance. Ominis had his hands full with the burdens of a name that weighed more than it should. The Ministry welcomed him, of course—it always did with pureblood legacies like his. But the Gaunt name came with expectations, with cold stares across lavish dinners and the quiet demand that he become a perfect echo of the lineage he resented. I knew he hated it, hated them. Hated the way their values clung to him like a second skin he couldn't shed. But what choice did he have? To resist was to risk everything he had managed to build. So he stayed. Composed, dutiful... and growing more distant each season.

I learned to tuck my feelings somewhere quiet. One does that, I suppose, when they love someone more than they should. You convince yourself that affection is better off unspoken, that friendship is too precious to risk on a kind of love that might only end in silence. I thought I was protecting us—him. But in the end, I lost both. If that was the price of love, I would rather admire him from afar, quietly, with dignity. Distance, at least, didn't ask for explanations.

I suppose it always happens that way. The war ends. The castle quiets. The students grow. But part of me never left that Hall. Part of me still stands there—surrounded by applause, heavy with unspoken truths, heart full of people who used to know me better than anyone.

People I lost not to death, but to time.

And now, all these years later, I've been called back, like a second nature I returned. Back to the only place that ever felt like home. To teach. To guide.

Hogwarts remembers.

And so do I.

Chapter Text

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress Matilda Weasley
Office of the Headmistress
Scotland

_______________________

July 7th, 1894

Miss Eline Winchester
Magical Research Division
Department of Mysteries
Ministry of Magic
London

Dear Miss Winchester,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in the midst of one of your ever-fascinating discoveries, as I have no doubt your work continues to push the boundaries of what we once thought we understood about ancient magic. The halls of Hogwarts have felt your absence more than once, though your legacy still lingers—both in memory and in the lives of those you've touched. I write to you now not only with professional purpose, but with sincere regard.

Recent events have compelled me to make difficult decisions in the best interests of the school. As you may know, Professor Black has been relieved of his duties—his recent... negligence left our students vulnerable, and though these are complicated times, the safety of the Hogwarts community remains my highest priority.

Professor Hecat, now retiring from full‑time teaching, has spoken highly of you. She believes your presence will bring renewed heart and clarity to the role, guiding the next generation in strength, empathy, and resilience.

I am well aware that such a proposition is no small request. You have carved a place for yourself within the Ministry, and your reputation as a practitioner and scholar of ancient magic is not only remarkable, but deeply valued in our world. However, I believe—fervently—that you possess something even more valuable to the students of today: the strength of lived experience.

I would be honored if we could meet before the term begins—to discuss your integration into the faculty if you accept, your vision for the classroom, and any accommodations you may require. At your convenience, please send your owl or reply via the staff messenger.
My office (which I suspect you still remember all too well) will be prepared with tea, biscuits, and more than a little warm conversation.

You were once a guardian of this school, and I believe you are meant to be again. Hogwarts has changed in many ways since you last walked these halls—but that, dear Eline, is precisely why it needs its most valiant alumna back, at its heart.

With sincere regard,
and a touch of selfish hope,

Matilda Weasley
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

╭───────╯ °✧° ╰───────╮

╰───────╮ °✧° ╭───────╯

Eline Winchester
Magical Research Division
Department of Mysteries
Ministry of Magic
London

______________________

July 9th, 1894

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress Matilda Weasley
Office of the Headmistress
Scotland

Dear Headmistress Weasley,

I hope this owl finds you in excellent health and spirits. Receiving your letter stirred something I hadn't felt in a long time—perhaps a strange blend of disbelief, and the warmth one only associates with home. Thank you, truly, for your kind words and for thinking of me in such a pivotal moment for Hogwarts.

I would be lying if I said your offer didn't leave me speechless. The very idea of returning to the castle—not merely as a visitor, but as a professor is something I never envisioned for myself. I am honoured beyond measure that you would consider me for the post.

That said, I must admit that I find myself hesitant. I've always believed teaching to be a calling for those not only knowledgeable, but steady of hand and sure of heart. And though I do not doubt my commitment to the safety and growth of students, I cannot help but wonder whether my age and lack of teaching experience might place me at a disadvantage.

I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you in person, before coming to a decision. There is much I would like to ask—about the current state of the school, about the position, and perhaps even about myself. If you're still willing to receive me for tea and a proper conversation, I would be grateful beyond words.

Thank you again, Headmistress, for this unexpected and deeply moving invitation. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

PS: Congratulations on your new position as Headmistress, you had fulfilled it in a wonderful way, even when you did it from the shadows.

With all my respect,

Eline Winchester
Magical Research Division
Department of Mysteries
London

╭───────╯ °✧° ╰───────╮

╰───────╮ °✧° ╭───────╯

I closed the heavy oak door behind me with a quiet click, the echo of its latch oddly final. The kind of finality that doesn't slam, but settles.

Two hours. That's how long we had spoken.

Two hours of tea refilled without asking, of parchment maps and staff lists, of laughter tucked between memories and quiet sighs. Of Matilda Weasley weaving her words carefully, not to convince—but to remind. To remind me of who I had once been within these stone walls. To show me who I could become again.

And somehow, with no sudden declaration, no grand conclusion... I had agreed.

I was now the new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

I stood alone in the corridor just beyond her office, the sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass windows. It dappled the stone in reds and golds, catching dust in mid-air like magic made visible. For a moment, I let the silence press against me, grounding me, allowing the weight of what just happened to truly sink in.

I hadn't planned to say yes.

I walked into that room still unsure, half-hearted, prepared to say something polite and firm. But Matilda had this way—this soft, steady manner of speaking that made you forget you were being asked anything at all. She didn't offer pressure. She offered purpose. A purpose I thought I'd left buried somewhere under Ministry files and half-finished letters to friends I never sent.

She looked me in the eye and said, "I've seen few survive darkness, Eline. Fewer who came out of it wanting to protect others from it."

What do you say to that?

I exhaled slowly, my fingers trailing the carved bannister as I descended the first few steps of the spiral staircase. A sudden flood of memory overtook me—the weight of a wand in my hand, the echoes of laughter in the Great Hall, the fierce warmth of friendship, and the cold ache of loss.

This castle had broken me and rebuilt me before.

And now it was calling me back.

I didn't feel ready. But maybe readiness was never the point. Maybe courage, as someone once said, is acting despite the fear—not without it.

As I reached the corridor, a quiet smile crept onto my lips.

This time, I wasn't looking for a home.

This time, I was returning to it.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester - 7 years after Graduation - Present

The final bell echoed through the stone halls of Hogwarts, ringing out with a familiar chime that marked the end of the day's last class. I was organizing my stack of Defense Against the Dark Arts essays—three students had apparently decided that "fighting fear with confidence" meant literally trying to punch a Boggart in the face—when I heard the echo of footsteps and laughter trickling through the half-open classroom door.

"Did you see her face? She looked like she'd swallowed a whole lemon."

"I swear she threatened to assign homework until our NEWTS, even though she's leaving! The nerve!"

"And thank Merlin for that. Good riddance, Professor Umbridge."

A round of gleeful snickers followed, then the patter of retreating footsteps.

I couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped me as I leaned back against the desk. Laverne Umbridge. I had her too, once, unfortunately. Every word dripping in honey, every reprimand wrapped in sugar and sealed with a smile that never quite reached her eyes, which are souless. Her detentions were legendary in their absurdity. I still remembered spending an entire evening copying Arithmancy equations onto doilies because she said my parchment lacked "grace and elegance".

"Even if you are a so-called hero, you must write with delicacy — not with the dainty flailing of a giant toad’s limbs," she said to me once.

Still, she'd served Hogwarts for decades, even if half the castle would rather forget it.

When I arrived at the staff room that evening, the atmosphere was... strained, in the most polite and ceremonial way. A handful of polite claps, over-sweetened pumpkin fizz, and a large cake that spelled "Best Wishes, Professor Umbridge" in disturbingly pink frosting. No one dared mention that the 'Best Wishes' were mostly for the rest of us.

Laverne herself stood near the hearth, dressed in a plum-coloured ensemble with matching gloves, smiling tightly while pretending not to notice how quickly glasses emptied around her, like always.

I exchanged a few polite words, raised my glass for the toast, and I begin to make my exit near Professor Sharp and Matilda Weasley, both of whom looked as stiff as I felt, but it was a safe space because Umbridge barely tolerate the ex-auror.

So I made my way toward the fireplace, where a rigid figure of Professor Sharp welcomed me, arms crossed, a glass of firewhisky untouched at his side, and the most dreadful expression ever.

"Found the safest corner in the room, I see." I said, settling beside them with a half-smile.

Sharp raised a brow. "Strategic positioning, Winchester. Limited exposure to conversation, good view of all exits."

Matilda said with a fond chuckle. "He's been counting possible escape routes since the cake arrived." Her tone slightly happily as the liquor flow. 

"I don't trust anything that shade of pink," Sharp muttered. "And I'm fairly certain it's moving."

I let out a soft laugh, grateful for the levity.

"Still," I said, glancing toward the center of the room where Laverne was busy recounting some horror story involving improperly labeled star charts and "youthful defiance," "she did last longer than anyone expected. I think some of the portraits were starting a betting pool."

"She had staying power," Matilda agreed. "Just... perhaps not the warmest of presences."

"More like enduring a particularly long winter," Sharp added bluntly.

We shared a look that said more than words dared. That type of teacher left a mark—but not always the kind you could see.

"She once accused me of 'willful optimism.' Gave me detention for smiling too much." I said softly, staring into the void, remembering it, making me chill.

"Sounds accurate," Sharp deadpanned. "You do smile an awful lot. Very suspicious behavior."

I let a small laugh, but even that sound made professor Umbridge snapped her head into our direction, giving us a stern look.

"It's oddly quiet for a celebration, don't you think?" I muttered, lifting my cup of warm cider as I leaned slightly toward Sharp and Professor Weasley. The chatter in the staff room had simmered to a steady hum, with a few professors gathered near the long table of pastries and tea. The walls were still decorated with streamers — pink and an opaque green, of course — but most of us had stopped pretending they were celebratory.

"She always had a way of dampening a room even during her own farewell" Sharp muttered, his lips barely twitching into something that may have once been a smirk. He sipped his drink, the ever-present shadow of sarcasm in his eyes. "At least she didn't hex the cake on her way in. A rare show of restraint."

Professor Weasley gave him a warning glance but didn't bother suppressing her small smile."Be nice, Aesop."

"I am being nice. That was me being nice." I laughed quietly into my cup.

"Please, professor Sharp, don't make me laugh. I fear she might hex me with one look. Apparently, enthusiasm is disruptive." 

"To her? Likely a personal offence." Sharp rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

Matilda folded her hands neatly in front of her, her usual calm expression never faltering. "Despite her... peculiarities, she did serve this institution for a respectable number of years. And now Hogwarts turns a page." Her tone shifted then — less casual, more precise.

Sharp caught the subtle change too. He raised an eyebrow at her. "And speaking of new pages, you did mention something earlier about a replacement?"

I blinked. "Oh, that's right. You never said who's taking the position."

Weasley sipped her drink, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. "I wanted to wait until things were official before saying anything. You know how these appointments can be... delicate."

"Delicate?" I repeated, suspicious now. "Wait—don't tell me it's someone from the Ministry."

"Technically, yes." Matilda's eyes sparkled just a little.

Sharp narrowed his eyes. "That tone always means trouble."

"The ex-ministry club is getting bigger." I give the professor with the glass of firewhiskey a little grin. 

Weasley ignored him, shaking her head softly. She turned her attention to me." He's been working in the Ministry for some time now, but the opportunity to return to Hogwarts presented itself and, well, I thought it fitting. And he needed a change of pace too"

I squinted at her. "You're not being cryptic for fun, are you?"

She raised her brows. "The new professor of Arithmancy is Ominis Gaunt."

The name hit like a cold splash of water.

My mouth opened slightly, then closed, then opened again, like a gaping fish. I turned toward Sharp, who looked as surprised as I felt — which said a lot for someone who rarely reacted to anything.

"You're joking," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

"She isn't," Sharp said, already recovering, though a spark of curiosity remained in his tone. "Gaunt? At Hogwarts? That's... unexpected."

"Unexpected," Matilda agreed, still calm. "But perhaps long overdue."

Eventually, as the gathering thinned and the sky beyond the tall windows darkened into evening, I found myself seated beside the headmistress. She was swirling her glass of mulled mead absently, a knowing little smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

"We've survived the farewell, then," she said with a glance in my direction.

"Barely," I replied, offering a wry smile, the shock of the news still lingering. "Though I admit, I'll miss seeing students weep after miscalculating their star charts."

"Mm. I dare say some students were cheering outside your classroom this afternoon."

I raised an eyebrow, suppressing another smile. "You heard that?"

"I hear many things, Eline. Comes with the title." She sipped her drink, then leaned back slightly, eyes still warm beneath her spectacles. "You didn't say much after I mentioned his name," said Matilda softly.

"I was processing," I admitted, voice low, a bit embarrased to have been caught so easily. "You have a knack for revealing things only when it's too late to run."

She let out a gentle laugh. "People change. Paths twist." She tilted her head, her tone never patronizing — only understanding. "He applied of his own volition. Impeccable recommendation letters, high marks from his department, and his name... well, it still carries weight, whether he likes it or not."

I smiled faintly. "I remember how much he hated that name."

"He still does," she confirmed, almost amused. Then she studied me more closely. "Will this be a problem, Winchester?"

I shook my head. "No. Just... unexpected.

She turned toward me fully. "You'll be working together now. Staff meetings, shared responsibilities, even dueling exercises. Best not to let unspoken things weigh too heavily."

Smiling gently she said. "After all, Hogwarts has a curious way of bringing the past into the present."

I let out a small breath of laughter. "You make it sound like fate."

Matilda gave a slow, deliberate shrug. "Or perhaps just excellent timing." Then, with a knowing look, she added, "You'll see him tomorrow morning. He's arriving early to settle in. I expect you'll be cordial."

"Always." I gave her a mock salute. "Headmistress's orders."

She chuckled. "Goodnight, Professor Winchester. Have a good sleep tonight"

"Goodnight... and thank you."

As she walked away, her robes trailing softly behind her, I remained by the fire, heart beating a little louder than before.

Ominis Gaunt. At Hogwarts.

Of all the people in the world... why did he cameback?

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

It had been an oddly quiet morning. The kind of quiet that presses too tightly on the ears, as though the castle were holding its breath.

No students. No papers. No distractions. Just that gnawing, restless feeling I’d been carrying around like a curse lately — tightening every time I passed the empty classroom where the new Arithmancy professor would soon make himself at home.

Ominis Gaunt.

I hadn’t said his name aloud in years. And yet I’d been whispering it inside my thoughts more often than I dared to admit since the staff announcement. It clung to the edges of everything — a whisper behind every corner of Hogwarts, in every soft footstep down those hallowed halls.

But that weight — the one I couldn’t quite name — was suddenly replaced by a sharper urgency when the owl landed at my window. Its talons scraped frantically against the glass.

I didn’t even finish reading the note. I knew. The handwriting alone was enough. I knew something had gone wrong.

Antha.

I bolted out of my chambers, barely remembering to pull on my boots, and made straight for the Room of Requirement. It knew, as it always did. The door appeared before I had time to speak a word, and the space inside had already reshaped itself into what I needed: the long oak table lined with ingredients, the faint shimmer of the brewing stand, my meticulously labeled vials — waiting.

“Stay with me,” I whispered under my breath as I set to work. “Please, stay with me.”

The elixir wasn’t difficult to make — not anymore. I knew every motion by heart, had brewed it more times than I cared to count. The root of valeriana, already drying on the hanging rack, ground swiftly in the stone mortar. A single phoenix feather — steeped overnight in moonlit water — hissed the moment it touched the cauldron’s heat. A droplet of runewood resin glowed as it sank into the mixture, turning it a delicate, soft silver.

And finally, a pinch of unicorn horn shavings — collected with reverence, never harm. The moment they touched the mixture, the room smelled like air before a storm.

The elixir shimmered.

And yet, my hands still trembled. Because I knew this wasn’t enough. It never had been.

It bought us a month. A month of less pain, of steady breath, of borrowed time. But every brewing reminded me that it was just that — borrowed. And time had never been kind to Antha Virell.

I sealed the vial and slipped it into a padded satchel, tightening the straps around my chest. Caligo was already waiting outside the North Tower, wings half-open, sensing my unrest.

“Good boy,” I said softly, pressing my forehead to his. His feathers were cool from the morning mist.

With one fluid leap, I was on his back, and with a thunderous beat of his wings, we were in the sky, racing south toward Bainburgh.

The wind bit at my cheeks, but I didn’t care. I needed to see her. I needed to know she was still—

The sea glittered beneath us, sun rising higher now, casting a golden trail toward the Manor. The cliffs came into view first, then the small silhouette of the cottage where a friend — a quiet merchant with a sharp tongue and a kind soul — kept her safe.

My heart pounded louder than Caligo’s wingbeats.

Antha was waiting. And I’d give anything — again and again — to keep her waiting just a little longer in this world.

Even if it meant burning myself out, one elixir at a time.

I landed Caligo behind the stone cottage, where the wild hedgerows shielded him from curious eyes and sea winds. He lowered his great head, and I gave his feathered neck one last stroke. “Wait for me,” I whispered. He always did.

The back door was already slightly ajar, as if the house knew I was coming. A faint smell of sea salt and burned thyme clung to the breeze. I pushed it open and stepped into the narrow kitchen, where herbs hung from the ceiling in dried garlands, and firewood snapped in a modest hearth.

I barely registered Aurora’s voice calling my name from deeper inside. My boots clattered across the floorboards as I made for the bedroom door, which stood half-open. The moment I crossed the threshold, my heart sunk.

Antha lay there, curled on her side atop the thin mattress, her cheeks flushed with fever and her skin gleaming with sweat. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. One hand clutched the blanket, the other — limp — was held by Aurora Primrose, who sat at the bedside with a furrowed brow and her lips tight in a worried line.

“Thank the stars,” Aurora exhaled the moment she saw me.

“I came as fast as I could,” I said, rushing to the side of the bed. I dropped the satchel on the floor and knelt beside Antha, pushing back the damp hair from her forehead. Her skin burned under my touch.

“I— I need to sit her up,” I said, already reaching behind her back.

“Let me help.” Aurora stood, her hands steady despite the strain in her face. Between the two of us, we propped Antha against the pillows. Her eyes fluttered open weakly at the motion.

“There you are,” I murmured. “You’re alright now. I’ve got it.”

She didn’t speak — not yet. Her lips moved like she was trying, but even that seemed to cost her more energy than she had. I uncorked the vial, the soft glow of the elixir catching her eye, and pressed it gently to her lips. She swallowed slowly, her throat working with effort.

As the silvery light passed her tongue, a calm began to take hold. Her breathing grew less labored, and the lines of pain in her brow eased — slightly, but unmistakably. Her fingers twitched. Then her shoulders slumped, not from weakness but from release.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

We stayed like that for a while — Aurora standing behind me, one hand on the back of the chair, the other over her heart. The hush of the waves beyond the walls crept in, as though the house itself was watching with us.

“Twenty-nine days,” I said quietly.

Aurora’s gaze moved from Antha to me. “Only twenty-nine?”

I nodded. “It’s shorter this time. The last batch held thirty-one.” I swallowed. “There’s no guarantee how long the next will last. I don’t even know if the ingredients are reacting differently or if her body is… changing.” I shook my head. “We’re running out of time.”

Aurora didn’t respond right away. She crossed her arms, the worry carved into her every movement. “We’ve always known this wasn’t forever,” she said finally. “But still.”

I sat back on my heels, closing the vial and setting it aside on the table. “We need something more. Something that doesn’t just delay the inevitable. This was never meant to be permanent — just a reprieve.”

Aurora looked down at Antha, who had dozed off, her chest now rising and falling with a steadier rhythm. “You think it’s shortening. Month by month.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it’s possible. And if that’s true, then…” I let the thought die in my throat.

Then we’re near the end.

I couldn’t say it aloud.

Aurora walked around the bed and sat down on the edge of the window bench. “So what now?”

“I have theories,” I replied, tiredness seeping into my voice. “A few old texts here and there— I just need a bit more time”

She didn’t argue. She never had. That was one of the reasons Antha had chosen to trust her.

There was a long silence between us, broken only by the soft clatter of the wind chimes outside. Then, from the bed, a faint voice — dry and quiet, but whole — spoke.

“Don’t look so grim,” said Antha, with a weak but wry smile. “You’ve both already given me more than I could’ve asked for. Seven years of grace, a home by the sea… a name I can live under. That’s a life. A full one.”

“Antha…” I began, my throat tightening.

“I mean it,” she interrupted, her gaze shifting between us. “Not everyone gets to outrun their past, or rewrite it into something gentler. I did. Thanks to you both.”

I reached for her hand. “I just wish it could be more.”

She gave mine a squeeze. “It already is.”

I looked at her, the woman I’d once met in a time full of pain, and saw someone who had refused to let that pain define her. There was strength in her — a quiet, unyielding strength that made it all the harder to watch time chip away at her light.

But we weren’t done. Not yet.

We had twenty-nine more days.

And maybe — just maybe — that would be enough to find another way.

It took nearly half an hour for Antha to gather enough strenght to sit upright unaided. Even then, we moved slowly, with my arm firm around her waist and her steps light and deliberate. Aurora walked ahead of us into the kitchen, pulling out chairs and lighting the kettle with a flick of her wand.

By the time Antha and I reached the table, steam was already rising from the chipped mugs, and the faint aroma of mint and elderflower filled the air.

“You sit there,” I told her gently, helping her into the same worn chair by the window she always took. She exhaled slowly as she leaned back, and I took the place across from her while Aurora settled to my right.

Outside, the grey afternoon had softened into a misty quiet, the kind that blurred the cliffs and sea into a single, endless tone. Inside, the cottage felt warmer now. The tension that had ruled the air only an hour before had begun to unravel. Slowly. Carefully.

Antha cradled the mug between both hands, letting its heat sink into her fingers. “I think this is the first time I’ve sat upright without pain in three days,” she admitted with a faint smile.

“You should’ve sent me the letter sooner,” I murmured, but without reproach.

Aurora nodded, looking slightly guilty. “She didn’t want to worry you.”

Antha shrugged, sipping the tea. “I didn’t want to waste your time with what we already knew would come.” She paused, then added, “It’s always the same, isn’t it? A little worse than before. A little more weight to carry. And yet…” She looked at me. “I’m still here.”

“You’re more than just here,” I said, holding her gaze. “You’ve lived. Built something. You’ve mattered.”

She smiled at that, small but sincere. “I owe that to the both of you.”

Aurora reached across and touched Antha’s arm. “You gave yourself this life, Antha. We just helped clear the path.”

There was a silence after that — not uncomfortable, but filled with the heaviness of truth shared between people who didn’t need to decorate their pain to make it palatable.

My fingers curled around my own mug as I stared down at the dark surface of the tea. The warmth was welcome, grounding. I took a slow breath before speaking again.

“I should warn you,” I said casually, as though it were merely another bit of gossip. “There’s been a new appointment at the castle.”

Aurora arched a brow. “Not yours, I hope. I’d rather not have to dig you out of the castle dungeons again for arguing with a headmaster.”

I smirked faintly. “No. Mine’s old news already. Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Ah, yes,” she nodded with a knowing grin. “The heroic professor.”

“I hardly—” I waved her off, suppressing a laugh. “In any case, no. The new one is for Arithmancy.”

Antha tilted her head, interest piqued despite the lingering haze of fatigue in her expression. “Oh? That dreadful Umbridge woman finally retired?”

“You’ll be pleased to know her reign has ended,” I replied with mock solemnity.

She chuckled, weakly but genuinely. “I never forgave her for saying I lacked ‘numerical disposition’.”

“Apparently she lacked a disposition for kindness,” Aurora added dryly.

“I can confirm,” I muttered. “But yes, she’s gone now. And the new professor…” I stirred the tea with a spoon, watching it swirl. “Is Ominis.”

The name landed between us like a pebble dropped in still water. No crash. Just ripples.

Antha blinked slowly. Her lips parted — not quite in surprise, but in the recognition of something once buried and now unearthed. “Ominis Gaunt?”

I nodded.

She leaned back, her thumb absently tracing the rim of her mug. “He’s… teaching?”

“Starting today, actually,” I replied, as casually as I could manage, though I didn’t miss the subtle shift in her posture. “Arithmancy. Not the most expected choice, but Weasley seems to believe in him.”

Aurora, tactful as always, rose quietly and walked to the door. “I’ll give you two a moment. Sounds like someone’s come for the shop.” She slipped outside, her presence fading with the soft chime of the door.

The silence that remained wasn’t heavy — not exactly — but it was charged.

Antha’s gaze drifted to the small window, where the fog clung to the glass like frost. “It’s been years.”

“Almost eight,” I said softly.

She nodded. “I didn’t think I’d hear his name again. Not in this house.”

I took a sip of my tea, more to fill the space than out of thirst. “I didn’t expect it either.”

“And how do you feel about it?” she asked, glancing back at me now, her tone gentle — the kind of softness that came from knowing where it might hurt.

I hesitated, then gave her an honest smile. “Like a waterfall of emotions, I'm still trying to figure it out.”

Antha smiled too, bittersweet and tired. “Well. Let’s hope the castle’s halls are kinder this time around.”

Her fingers traced the faded grain of the wooden table, slow and thoughtful, as if chasing after a memory that didn’t quite want to be caught. I let the silence sit for a while — it didn’t feel wrong. Just lived-in. Familiar.

After a long sip of her tea, I leaned forward a little, resting one elbow on the table and offering her a playful, sideways smile.

“Alright, enough brooding. Now that the mystery of Ominis has returned from the depths of the past — tell me,” I nudged her ankle under the table lightly with the toe of my boot, “how’s life been treating you since the last time I made the journey over here? It’s been what… two, three weeks?”

“Something like that,” Antha said, looking up with a soft smile, already catching my tone. “You always act like I’m leading some kind of exciting double life.”

“Maybe you are,” I said with mock intrigue, raising a brow. “Maybe behind Aurora’s shelves there’s a handsome merchant sneaking in love letters tied to bundles of lacewing flies.”

Antha laughed — an actual laugh this time, raspy from the strain but real. “Merlin, no. The last young man I saw at the shop came in looking for something to help grow facial hair. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.”

“Perfect age to start charming, then. You’ve still got the hair,” I teased.

She mock-gasped. “You mean the streaks of silver?”

“Dignified,” I corrected.

“Wisdom,” she said, lifting her mug like a toast.

We clinked them together gently.

“But really,” I said more softly now, resting my chin on my hand, “have you been alright?”

Antha’s smile lingered, more fragile this time. “I have. As much as I can be. Aurora’s been… more than generous. The house is always warm, the food is good. We go for walks when I can manage it. We read in the evenings. Sometimes she plays a bit of music — out of tune, mostly, but I don’t have the heart to tell her.”

“And she still scolds you if you don’t take your tea with honey?”

“Every time.”

I chuckled. “Good. Someone needs to keep you in line.”

She grew quiet again, tracing the rim of her mug with her fingers. “You know,” she said slowly, “it’s strange. I used to wonder how long I’d have. Back then, every week felt like a countdown. Now… it’s different. It’s not that I’m waiting for the end anymore. I’m just… grateful for the days I get.”

I reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve made something beautiful out of borrowed time, Antha.”

She met my eyes. “And I’ve had the best people beside me to help shape it.”

We both sat there for a while longer in that shared, quiet space — the kind that didn’t need filling with grand words or plans. Just the clinking of cups, the rhythm of our breaths, and the faint sound of Aurora’s voice outside bartering over a root that probably didn’t cure half of what she claimed.

The moment hung there, quiet and still. Antha had gone back to her tea, cupping it between both hands as if drawing warmth into her bones. I watched the steam rise in lazy spirals, lost in thought.

“There’s… something else,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice even, casual, like I hadn’t weighed the words for days before deciding whether or not to say them aloud. “Something I heard, just in passing, really.”

Antha tilted her head slightly, the lines at the corners of her eyes softening with curiosity.

“They say there’s someone new at the Department of Experimental Magic at the Ministry,” I continued, tracing the edge of my mug with my fingertip. “Someone… particularly invested in magical afflictions. Curses. That sort of thing.”

A pause.

“I didn’t catch a name,” I added quickly, though that wasn’t true. I had. And I had nearly dropped my wand when I’d heard it.

But I wasn’t sure if saying his name would bring comfort — or open an old wound.

Antha didn’t say anything right away. Her gaze drifted to the window, where sunlight painted long slanted shapes across the wooden floorboards.

“Must be nice,” she murmured at last, “that people out there are still trying to untangle things like this. Curses. Magic gone wrong.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. It was steadier than mine had been.

I nodded. “It is.”

Another silence. But this one had something else beneath it. Something unspoken, but understood. Like a small tremor behind the walls that both of us decided to ignore, for now.

We didn’t speak much after that. Some truths live best in silence — not because they’re painful, but because they ask to be held gently, like a flame that flickers too easily.

Antha stood with effort, stubborn as ever, brushing off my help as she made her way to the front door with me. “I’ll be alright,” she said, offering that same tired, beautiful smile that had carried her through more than most could ever bear. “You know I always am.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” I said, and meant every word.

We hugged tightly — the kind of embrace that speaks of years, of shared weight, of mutual understanding without needing to recount every story. I kissed her temple before pulling away, and then turned to Aurora, who’d returned from helping a customer and now stood in the doorway, arms folded, her gaze kind.

“Thank you,” I said to her. “For everything.”

She nodded. “You know she’s safe here.”

I stepped outside, and Caligo raised his head, feathers shimmering in the soft afternoon light. He gave a low trill as I approached, as if sensing my unease.

Before mounting, I turned back one last time. Antha stood just behind Aurora, a blanket over her shoulders, one hand raised in farewell. I lifted mine in return, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I’ll be back soon,” I called.

“You always are,” she replied with a wink.

The wind tugged at my brown hair as we lifted into the air. Bainburgh grew smaller beneath us, the coastline glinting in the distance like silver thread. The horizon stretched ahead — and with it, the winding road back to the castle I once called home.

I should’ve felt resolved. Certain. After all, Hogwarts had summoned me back for a reason.

But instead, I felt that flutter again. That unwelcome, absurd flicker of nerves curling low in my chest. I gritted my teeth against it, gripping Caligo’s reins tighter.

It was ridiculous — letting someone from the past have this kind of effect on me.

He was just another professor now.

Just another ghost returned to walk familiar halls.

And I would face him, as I always had.

Chapter Text

Ominis Gaunt

The wheels of the carriage groaned as they rolled to a stop on the uneven stone. I heard the soft, leathery rustle of the Thestrals’ wings as they stilled, their breath a low, steady huff in the cold morning air. I did not need eyes to feel how much the air around Hogwarts had changed—and yet, somehow, had remained exactly the same.

My hand tightened slightly on the handle of my walking cane—the new one. Not the wand I once held out in front of me as a teen. It tapped once on the stone as I stepped out of the carriage.

The scent was the first thing that struck me.

Earth damp with dew, laced with the familiar tang of the lake just down the hill. That old pine-tree musk I’d memorized long ago on sleepless nights, pacing the corridors. There was a note of wildness here, of magic untempered. Home, whether I wanted it to be or not.

I let out a slow breath. So this was it.

I had imagined returning a thousand different ways. As a guest. As someone passing through. Never like this.

“Professor Gaunt,” came a voice I hadn’t heard in years but could place in an instant.

Professor Matilda Weasley—no longer just a deputy. Her voice had always been composed, pleasant, but now it carried the weight of authority. And still, beneath it, a trace of warmth.

“Matilda,” I said, inclining my head in her direction. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“I should be thanking you for accepting the offer in such a short notice,” she said, with a smile I could almost hear. “You’re returning not just as an alumnus, but as a member of the staff. It’s a curious sort of full circle.”

“Curious indeed.”

She began to walk, and I followed the measured rhythm of her steps. My cane clicked softly beside me, echoing faintly off the walls as we entered through the main doors. Each step stirred the ghosts of memories: late-night patrols, arguments whispered in corners, laughter in the Great Hall.

The castle murmured around me. It always did, to those who listened.

“Your quarters have been arranged in the east tower,” Matilda continued. “It should be quiet enough, and close to your classroom.”

“Aritmancy,” I said flatly. “Not exactly the subject I imagined myself teaching.”

“You’re more qualified than you give yourself credit for,” she replied, and I could tell it wasn’t flattery. “The previous professor left a rather… memorable impression. I expect the students will find your presence refreshing.”

I only hummed. No use dwelling on the details of the past or the burden of expectations—not when those had shaped every year of my life before this.

“The school is lucky to have you,” she said, and after a pause, added carefully, “Some faces you knew still walk these halls.”

I didn’t answer that.

She said it softly, without saying her name. Professional, always. But even after all these years, she knew exactly where the venomous tentaculas were buried.

As we neared the staff wing, she opened a heavy wooden door with a wave of her wand.

“There is someone else I’d like you to meet,” she said, and stepped aside.

A small figure bowed so fast he nearly lost his balance. “T-Tuffy, sir!” came the squeaky voice. “Very honored to assist Professor Gaunt in Aritmancy and carry your—your chalk and your biscuits and—oh, anything, really!”

I fought the urge to step back at the sheer enthusiasm. Instead, I nodded once. “Thank you, Tuffy. I expect you’ll know your way better than I do.”

“Oh yes, sir, I know all the steps and the squeaky floorboards and the leaky windows and—”

“Tuffy,” Matilda interrupted gently, “perhaps later.”

“Yes, Headmistress, very good,” he said, bobbing again.

Matilda turned back to me. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Your first class isn’t until Monday, but I imagine the castle won’t let you rest too long.”

She paused again.

“Should you need anything… or wish to reconnect, you’ll find the castle has a way of offering second chances.”

With that, she left.

I stood in the doorway a while longer, listening to her footsteps fade. The silence that followed was not empty. It was thick with the weight of what once was.

And what might be again.

I didn’t need to turn toward him to feel the shift in the air—Tuffy was bouncing slightly on his feet, his fingers clasped tightly in front of his chest as if trying to contain himself.

“If it pleases Professor Gaunt,” he began in a soft, breathy voice, “Tuffy may show the classroom now? And the office? It’s not far, just five lefts and two rights—or two rights and five lefts, depending on the direction, of course.”

I gave a small nod, and the sound of his bare feet pattering across the stone floor signaled he’d already begun the trek. “Lead on.”

“Oh! Yes, sir—Tuffy shall go slowly, just in case,” he added hastily. “Tuffy knows not every corridor is… um… friendly at first.”

As we walked, my cane tapped steadily in front of me. The castle hummed around us—doors creaked faintly behind ancient hinges, and portraits murmured under their breath, curious. I heard one whisper “Gaunt” behind us before being swiftly shushed by another.

“You’ve been working at Hogwarts long?” I asked, more to fill the silence than from actual interest.

“Tuffy has been here since—oh—since a long time, taughting Arithmancy!” he squeaked proudly. “Long time ago, sir. Tuffy helped alphabetize star charts and sweep up constellation sand. One professor always spilled the sand.”

The corners of my mouth twitched. “I take it I won’t be spilling any sand.”

“Oh no, sir! Tuffy will keep things tidy, very tidy, and organized. Your office has been cleaned and dusted and the quills have all been tested—though one might still squeak a bit.”

The corridor turned, and I could feel it widen as we reached a familiar staircase. The upper tower where Aritmancy classes had always been taught—it hadn’t changed. Even the chill in the air felt the same, biting against the skin.

When we reached the classroom door, Tuffy paused.

“It’s just here, sir,” he said, before gently pushing it open.

The scent of old parchment and dried ink drifted out instantly. I stepped inside, letting my cane guide me forward.

“Chalkboard’s straight ahead,” Tuffy narrated sweetly, “desks in five neat rows, all sanded fresh this summer, no splinters—oh! And your lectern has a drawer now! Tuffy added it—hope that’s not too forward, sir.”

I rested a hand on the edge of the lectern. Smooth wood, recently polished. I imagined the students, sitting in those chairs, scribbling equations, groaning at theory, whispering behind textbooks. It had a sort of charm, in its own severe way.

Tuffy hurried past me and opened another door to the right. “And this is your office, sir! With a tea tray and fresh parchment and—um—some biscuits from the kitchens. The kind with the lemon zest. Tuffy heard they’re… comforting.”

The space smelled of dried herbs and warm tea leaves. My fingers brushed against the high-backed chair behind the desk, then along the edge of the bookshelf. A few books were already waiting for me—ledgers, rosters, course outlines.

“Thank you,” I said simply, but meant it.

Tuffy beamed—I could hear it in his voice. “Tuffy is very honored to be your assistant, sir. Tuffy can help with class preparation, or reading things aloud, or… or even counting quills if that ever becomes necessary.”

I let out a quiet chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He shifted slightly. “Would you like to sit for a moment, sir? Or—Tuffy can bring tea, if you wish.”

“No tea,” I said. “Just… give me a moment here.”

Tuffy bowed deeply. “Of course, sir. Tuffy will wait just outside the door.”

He padded out with the gentlest click of the handle behind him.

I remained still in the middle of the room, surrounded by quiet and parchment and the faint ticking of an enchanted wall clock.

So this was to be my new beginning.

Hogwarts had changed—but not nearly as much as I had.

And yet… I wasn’t quite sure what version of me had walked through those doors.

My fingers closed around the smooth handle of my walking cane.

Crafted from dark ash wood and reinforced with dragonbone through its core, its design was unassuming at first glance, but the enchantment woven into its tip was anything but ordinary. Each time the end of it struck the floor, a silent ripple of magic pulsed outward, feeding into my mind a quiet map of the room around me.

It wasn’t sight—not in the traditional sense. But it gave shape to walls, furniture, corners, windows. A pulse, a presence, like sonar folded in spellwork. With every step I took, I could almost see the way the room adjusted itself to my senses—subtle curves in the desk’s edge, the narrowness of the window ledge, the tiny tilt in the third floorboard by the hearth.

I moved slowly, one step at a time, letting the cane’s whispers fill the stillness of the office.

There was something oddly intimate about this space. Something hushed. It didn’t feel entirely mine yet—but it would, in time.

My hand brushed over a small trinket left on the shelf. A wooden serpent, carved with deliberate precision—likely a gift from a student, long ago. It made me think, unwelcome and uninvited, of other serpents. The kind with gilded tongues and long shadows. The kind who sat behind heavy desks at the Ministry and smiled like they owned the world.

My fingers tightened slightly on the cane.

I hadn’t packed much. Left even less behind.

There had been no goodbyes. Not truly. Only a slammed door and a final sentence that still echoed faintly, even now, buried beneath the thick walls of Hogwarts.

This is how you repay your blood?

I had answered, but not with words.

My hands relaxed. I let go of the shelf and made my way slowly to the high-backed chair by the hearth. It creaked softly beneath me, familiar in its solitude.

A breath. Then another.

I had traded one kind of silence for another. But this one, at least, held space for thought instead of judgment.

Outside the window, the wind was shifting. I could smell damp stone and the faraway trace of burning pine from Hogsmeade’s chimneys. The castle breathed differently than the city. Its magic was older. Less polished. And, strangely, more forgiving.

Perhaps it understood second chances.

Perhaps it welcomed them.

Or perhaps it simply didn’t care who I had been—only what I chose to become now.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester – Sunday morning, Hogwarts

I overslept. Of course I did. After days spent brewing and chasing time, the sleep I managed last night was deep, dreamless, and unapologetically heavy. I awoke with the taste of dried air on my tongue and the sun already spilling too brightly across the floor of my chambers. A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was well past the hour most professors chose to take breakfast.

It was Sunday. No classes, no schedule. And yet, I still felt as though I were late for something important.

My fingers rushed through my hair as I threw on my teaching robes. I told myself I was only going to the Great Hall for tea and maybe a piece of toast. I told myself I would eat quickly and return to my office to grade those essays on Inferi.

I walked briskly through the corridors, trying not to let the sound of my own footsteps echo too loudly. The castle was quieter on weekends, a kind of sleepy hush settled over the stones, broken only by distant laughter or the occasional hoot of an owl.

The Great Hall was warm when I entered, filled with the scent of buttered bread and spiced pumpkin tea. A handful of professors were already seated at the long staff table, casually spread out along its length, mugs in hand, murmuring in conversation.

And then I saw him.

My heart did a peculiar thing in my chest—tightened, paused, and then resumed its rhythm with irritating clarity.

He sat mid-table, speaking in low tones with Professor Sharp. His back was straight, as always. His posture, his stillness, the way he held his cup—nothing about him had changed.

Except everything had.

Gone was the boy I remembered, the one with sharp cheekbones and a frame just slightly too narrow for his robes. The man seated now was all composed presence—taller, broader through the shoulders, his blonde hair still neatly combed but shorter than I remembered. He wore dark robes, tailored and unwrinkled, and though he did not look around— of course he didn’t—he somehow still filled the space around him like a shadow slipping beneath the door.

He looked… older. Polished. Certain.

And entirely unfamiliar.

I stood frozen for half a second too long before my legs found the will to move. I took a seat—deliberately—at the far end of the table, beside Professor Garlick and Professor Ronen, both of whom offered me warm smiles.

“Morning, Eline,” Garlick said, voice gentle. “Later than usual. Sleep in?”

“Something like that,” I murmured, pouring myself tea with what I hoped was a steady hand.

“We were just discussing that poor third-year who tried to bewitch a spoon into a compass yesterday,” Ronen chuckled. “It led him straight into the lake.”

I allowed myself a laugh. Just enough.

Conversation drifted around me. The usual chatter of professors relaxing after a long week. I focused on the scent of my tea, the scrape of cutlery, the bubbling voices of students across the room. I didn’t look toward the center of the table. I didn’t need to. I could feel him there.

Not a word had been spoken between us. Not yet.

And perhaps that was the worst part. Or the safest.

The butter on my toast had melted before I even took a bite. I stirred my tea more than I drank it, tracing idle circles with the spoon as I half-listened to Ronen’s latest anecdote involving a misfired Cheering Charm and a hysterical second-year who laughed himself straight into detention.

I smiled where appropriate. Nodded at the right moments.

But my attention drifted, inevitably, back to the presence I had spent the last seven years trying not to think about. I didn’t even have to turn my head. I knew his voice like I knew the hum of the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling, quiet but weighted with thought, always measured.

And that voice was speaking now—softly, precisely—commenting on curriculum structure with Professor Sharp.

How strange, I thought, that I could remember the cadence of it so perfectly. I hadn’t heard him speak in years, and yet it returned like muscle memory.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw students at the Ravenclaw table lean toward each other, whispering behind their hands and glancing—too obviously—toward the staff table.

A group of Hufflepuff girls closer to the front were giggling beneath their napkins.

“You don’t think he’s the new Arithmancy professor?” one of them whispered—not quietly enough.

“Who else would it be?” another replied, her eyes wide. “Did you see him? He looks like a page out of Witch Weekly’s Autumn Elegance special.”

“Bit cold though,” one muttered.

“Cold but handsome ,” another sighed dreamily.

Garlick, sitting beside me, gave a small laugh behind her cup. “Seems the students have already formed their opinions.”

“I’m not surprised,” I replied, a little too dryly.

She glanced sideways at me, her expression knowing but kind. “He does bring… quite the presence.”

Presence.

Yes, that was one word for it.

I dared a glance toward him—just a flick of the eyes. He was holding his tea cup between long fingers, listening attentively to Sharp. His expression was impassive, but not unfriendly. Controlled, as always.

A memory tugged at me—one of those uninvited ones that surface when you’re tired and your walls are down.

Fifth year. The Undercroft. Late at night, our breath turning white in the cold. Ominis hunched over a pile of books, frustrated by a translation. I had sat across from him, watching the muscle in his jaw tick, offering suggestions he pretended not to need.

He had never liked being helped. Neither did I.

I blinked the image away and reached for the butter dish instead, grounding myself in the present.

I was no longer seventeen. Neither was he.

We were colleagues now. Professors. Adults.

And yet, when his head tilted slightly—as if he could feel eyes on him—and his chin lifted, facing straight ahead with eerie precision, I froze again. My fingers hovered just over my cup.

He didn’t speak. Neither did I.

But in that quiet moment, I wondered if he knew I was there.

If he had known all along.

Garlick had drifted into a light conversation with Ronen, and I used the distraction to stop pretending I could stomach the toast, now gone stiff and lukewarm on my plate. My hands folded in my lap, tense as wire, while my eyes stayed trained on the steaming tea before me.

The conversations around the Great Hall bubbled in the background—laughter, whispers, the occasional shriek of cutlery against a plate. The ceiling above was a moody canvas of grey, clouds hanging low, promising rain. I’d always liked mornings like this. But today, they only added to the heaviness in my chest.

I could feel him still.

Not just see him—though I hadn’t looked again—but feel his presence like a tremor in the room. As if gravity had adjusted itself to orbit around him now.

Professor Weasley stood from the centre of the table, her chair scraping softly across the stone. That subtle signal prompted the rest of the staff to begin gathering their things. Napkins folded, cups emptied, the quiet bustle of departure. Sharp muttered something under his breath about schedules and vanished in a whirl of robes.

I kept my head down, hoping—irrationally, childishly—that if I moved slowly enough, I could slip away unnoticed.

I stood.

Turned.

Took one step toward the exit.

“Morning, Professor Winchester.”

His voice struck before I saw him.

Calm. Perfectly measured. Utterly unshakable.

I stopped mid-step. I didn’t even register the sound of my own name at first, only the way my spine locked itself straight. I turned my head stiffly, as if oiled machinery had suddenly grown cold and rigid.

Ominis stood near the end of the table, close to where the enchanted goblets were vanishing one by one. His hands were neatly clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.

He hadn’t smiled.

He hadn’t even inclined his head.

But his chin was tilted just enough to make it clear: the greeting was intentional. He knew exactly who I was. Where I stood. The distance between us. He’d chosen this moment.

I swallowed tightly.

“Morning, Professor Gaunt.”

The words scraped their way up my throat. Too formal. Too exact. My voice wasn’t trembling, but it felt like it wanted to.

He gave a faint, polite nod in return. Nothing more.

No flicker of amusement. No hint of warmth. No trace of that boy who used to spar with me in the Undercroft until our tempers flared and our spells lit up the stone.

He turned away before I could process anything else.

I stood still a moment longer. Garlick passed by with a light touch to my arm, murmuring something about greenhouse rot and needing to check on the puffapods. I nodded absently.

My feet eventually remembered how to move.

But the echo of that voice followed me long after I left the hall.

I left the Great Hall without another glance over my shoulder.

The castle was quiet as I climbed the stairs to the Defence classroom, the gentle hum of portraits murmuring their half-dreams, the soft shift of enchanted tapestries swaying in their own rhythm. My steps echoed more than I would’ve liked. More than they ever had, somehow.

Once inside, I locked the door behind me and let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The room smelled faintly of old parchment and spell residue—soothing, familiar. A place that was mine, shaped by my hands since the day I took the post. I crossed the stone floor slowly, trailing my fingers along a stack of marked essays on my desk. I didn’t sit.

Instead, I reached for a small trinket resting near the window: a smooth stone, carved with protective runes, warm from the sun. A former student had given it to me years ago. I liked the weight of it in my palm.

I closed my hand around it.

The silence was different today.

Not heavy. Not hostile. Just… uncertain.

Seven years.

That’s how long it had been.

And yet it took only one exchange—two words each—to turn the ground slightly uneven beneath my feet again.

I turned toward the window, letting the grey light wash over my face. Somewhere below, the Black Lake rippled with lazy indifference.

And somewhere beyond that… Ominis Gaunt was walking these halls again.

I wasn’t sure what that meant.

Not yet.

But I knew it would mean something .

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester - Sunday afternoon

I had barely taken a sip of my tea when the knock came. Two short taps, and a third one too eager to be polite.

“Come in,” I said, setting the cup down, already sensing which house scarf would greet me as every sunday afternoon when the fild outside the castle roared.

The door creaked open, and a head of bushy auburn curls poked through. Elsie Wardwell, fourth year, Gryffindor through and through, and best friend to Louis Corwin, this year’s star Chaser.

“Professor Winchester,” she said with a grin too wide for her face. “They’re asking for you. Well— he is, mostly. Said it doesn’t feel right if you don’t give them the usual pre-match blessing. His words, not mine.”

I blinked once, then twice, before softening with a sigh. Of course.

“I told them you’re probably too busy, but they said, ‘She always comes.’ So… will you?”

I gave her a small smile and rose, smoothing my robes with a practiced flick of my wand. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be Gryffindor spirit to let them down now, would it?”

Elsie beamed and turned to lead the way, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “They’re going to scream when they see you,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Especially Louis. He made them all rehearse what they’d say if you agreed.”

Merlin help me.

The walk down to the pitch was loud with the sound of footsteps and laughter in the distance, echoing across the stone walls and sloping lawns. Banners flapped in the wind—red and gold on one side, green and silver on the other. I recognized the scent of polished broom handles, wet earth, and that crisp sort of wind Hogwarts always seemed to conjure on match days.

The moment my boots touched the grassy edge of the pitch, a cluster of scarlet-and-gold uniforms turned toward me in unison, like a pack sensing their leader. The wind carried the unmistakable sound of eager footsteps, and soon I was surrounded.

I spotted them near the changing room: a sea of Gryffindor red, and right in the middle, Louis Corwin grinning with that crooked, lopsided charm only a seventeen-year-old boy could pull off convincingly.

They were waiting for me.

“Professor Winchester!” piped up Louis Corwin, the Seeker — full of nerves. “It’s time! You promised.”

“Yeah,” said another, eyes wide with anticipation. “The ancient ritual!”

I blinked, suppressing a grin. “Ah. Of course. The ancient ritual.”

There was nothing remotely ancient about it. The tradition had begun during my first year as a professor — entirely by accident — when I’d lifted my hands in jest, pretending to cast “Magia Antiqua” over a jittery team before a big match. It had stuck ever since. Gryffindors, in their eternal need for bold gestures and unshakeable morale, swore by it.

Even Weasley knew of it. Once, she’d caught me in the act and simply chuckled, shaking her head with that indulgent, knowing look of hers. “As long as you’re not actually hexing Slytherin’s broomsticks,” she had said, “carry on.”

The team had already knelt in a wide half-circle around me. Some closed their eyes. Others peered up, awed, as though I truly could summon centuries of forgotten power for a quidditch match.

I took a deep breath and let my arms rise with solemn ceremony, palms outward, fingers splayed. I closed my eyes, tilted my chin ever so slightly toward the clouds, and murmured under my breath — nonsense, really, but with conviction.

The wind caught my robes, flaring them just so. A hush fell over the group.

“For courage,” I intoned, “for strength. For fire in the veins and clarity in the mind.”

A few of them actually shivered. It took everything in me not to laugh.

Then — dramatically — I swept my hands down in a firm motion, as though sealing invisible magic into their bones.

“It is done,” I whispered.

A cheer erupted. I watched as nervous shoulders lifted, as eyes brightened, as doubt gave way to belief.

I left them to finish getting ready and made my way up to the stands. The sun peeked out for a moment, sending streaks of light over the pitch. The castle loomed behind me, warm and familiar, yet something in my stomach twisted as I climbed the steps to the professor’s box.

And there he was.

Seated on the far left, posture perfectly straight, hands resting atop the handle of his wand-crafted cane. He didn’t look toward me—he didn’t need to. Ominis Gaunt didn’t see with his eyes.

But I felt his gaze all the same. Accusatory. Reserved. Familiar in a way that caught my breath.

I sat on the opposite end, right beside Professor Ronen, who gave me a cheerful nod and offered me a sugar quill from his pocket. I accepted it with a polite smile, my attention caught in the thrum of the crowd, but my thoughts… were a tangle of things left unsaid.

And when I glanced over, Ominis was still there. Silent. Steady.

Watching me.

As if always watching me.

The wind shifted just as the whistle blew.

The sound pierced the air like a spell cast clean and sharp, and the stands erupted. Students screamed, scarves spun in the wind, and magical fireworks burst overhead in bursts of red, gold, green, and silver. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The match had begun.

Gryffindor versus Slytherin was never just a game. It was legacy. It was tradition. It was the hum of history shaking the pitch beneath our feet.

I leaned slightly forward, my fingers curling around the edge of the stone railing. Broomsticks shot into the sky like arrows, players weaving through clouds and spells of speed, chasing the Quaffle and each other with reckless, glorious abandon. The commentator, a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl with lungs like a banshee and the flair of a born showwoman, narrated the chaos with wild enthusiasm.

“—and that’s Corwin with a stunning feint—oh, brilliant save from Lorran, Slytherin’s Keeper just doesn’t blink—!”

The crowd was thunder, but in the corner of my mind, a storm of a different kind was building. I could feel him there. Ominis.

He hadn’t spoken a word. Hadn’t even flinched when the Bludger nearly decapitated a Slytherin Beater and the crowd howled. He sat, poised, composed, as if born of marble—except for one detail.

His head was tilted, just so. His chin ever so slightly angled in my direction.

The realization sent a pulse through my chest, something stubborn and stupid and sixteen again. I tried to ignore it. Focus on the game, I told myself. Just the game.

But the sky wasn’t the only thing charged with lightning.

“Gryffindor scores again!” the commentator shouted, and the Gryffindor stands went ballistic. Firecrackers shaped like lions roared into the air, fizzling gold against the clouds.

Beside me, Professor Garlick clapped with delight. “Oh, they’re on fire today,” she said to me, leaning in with a smile. “Corwin’s really grown into himself.”

I nodded, my voice caught in my throat. “He’s always had it in him.”

And still… I could feel it.

That weight. That presence.

Ominis didn’t need eyes to see. There had always been something uncanny about the way he sensed —things, people, lies. Me.

I finally turned my head slightly in his direction. Just a fraction. Just enough to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

He was still facing forward. Still unmoved.

But the corners of his lips—only just—tilted downward. A line of quiet disapproval etched across his features.

Always the same, you.

That’s what his silence said.

My jaw clenched, and I pulled my eyes back to the match just as Slytherin scored twice in quick succession. The cheers of the green-and-silver half of the stands surged.

The Quaffle zipped back and forth. The Beaters clashed. A Bludger missed a Chaser by an inch and slammed into a goalpost, shattering it with a magical ripple that rebuilt itself instantly. No one held back. Not the players. Not the wind.

Not even my thoughts.

Because underneath the exhilaration, something else buzzed beneath my skin.

I wasn’t just being watched.

I was being seen .

The game continued, too close to call. Tensions rose. Wands flicked in the crowd to magnify cheers or conjure illusions. My blood roared in my ears—not from the adrenaline of the sport, but from the knowledge that he hadn’t looked away once.

And maybe… neither had I.

The match ended with a breathtaking spiral—Gryffindor’s Seeker dove headfirst toward the pitch, chasing the Snitch down to the very last foot of air—and caught it just before hitting the ground. The crowd erupted . The air shook with the sheer volume of celebration, of heartbreak, of history being written again.

Students stormed the pitch in waves. Professors rose from their seats.

And still, I didn’t move.

Not until I heard him shift. The softest sound of a cane touching stone.

I looked over.

He stood. Head turned toward me now. No expression, no words.

Just a subtle tilt of his head. Then a single nod.

He walked away without saying a word.

And I—still breathless from victory, still rattled by that gaze—was left sitting in the roaring aftermath of cheers, heart thrumming louder than a hundred broomsticks in flight.

Chapter Text

Ominis Gaunt

I woke before sunrise. Not from excitement, nor nervousness—those had been left behind in childhood—but from routine. I had spent years rising early at the Ministry, in a flat that never felt like home, preparing for days that blurred together in cold corridors and colder conversations.

But this morning… this morning smelled like warm parchment and toasted bread, damp stone and sunlight struggling through ancient glass. Hogwarts. Even if I hadn’t set foot in this castle for nearly a decade, my magic still remembered the way.

Taffy greeted me outside the Great Hall, his small feet padding nervously on the flagstone.

“Professor Gaunt, sir,” he piped up, voice wobbling just a little. “I took the liberty of preparing the arithmetic classroom as you requested. Everything is in place—the chalk, the charts, and I’ve enchanted the seating to rearrange depending on the complexity of the subject matter.” He paused, fidgeting with the hem of his tea-towel tunic. “And I… I polished your desk. Twice.”

I tilted my head slightly toward him. “Thank you, Taffy. That’s more than enough.”

The little elf beamed at the praise and began leading me up the stairs.

The cane I walked with now, sent out soft pulses of magic as the tip struck the ground, mapping the space around me in echoes I could feel in my chest, behind my eyes. Every corner, every edge, unfolded in my mind like the memory of a room long known.

The arithmetic classroom was exactly where it had always been: past the suit of armour that insisted on saluting everyone who walked by. I paused at the door.

It was quiet. Still. Too still.

Taffy opened the door for me. “Third-years, sir. Gryffindor and Slytherin combined lesson. Only seventeen of them today.”

“May Merlin grant me patience,” I muttered under my breath.

The desks whispered with hushed chatter as I stepped in.

I didn’t need sight to feel the curiosity, the trepidation. First impressions linger longer when you’re a Gaunt. I introduced myself with clipped words, efficient and sharp. I did not smile.

And I didn’t mention that just two tables to the side sat the son of a Greengrass—who wouldn’t stop clicking his bloody ink bottle—or that one of the Gryffindor girls whispered something about my cane.

We started with magical logic puzzles. Some faltered, most froze. But one boy, a small Ravenclaw with a lisp and ink-stained hands, solved his in under a minute.

The next hour passed quickly.

At the end of the lesson, I dismissed the students, listening to their robes swish as they rushed out, grateful.

Taffy lingered at my side. “They were… less terrified than I expected.”

I gave a small huff of laughter. “So was I.”

We locked the classroom. I had half a mind to head to my office and continue reviewing the next year’s syllabus, when I heard her voice—Eline Winchester—in the corridor below. Not close enough to make out words, but enough to be certain.

Her voice hadn’t changed. Still steady, still warm… still haunted.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just stood there, hand on my cane, listening to footsteps that didn’t belong to me.

The silence de la salle didn’t last long.

Barely an hour passed before the next class filed in—older students this time, mostly Ravenclaws and Slytherins, full of arrogance or exhaustion, depending on the hour. I recognized a few surnames before they even spoke: Selwyn, Travers, Nott. Legacies always announce themselves, even when they think they don’t.

Taffy had already prepared everything. Graphs and star charts floated in place, neat as pinstripes. The room pulsed lightly with runes hovering over each desk, waiting for interaction.

I leaned on my cane, listening.

“Today,” I began, “we’ll be working through predictive numeric patterns—applying arithmantic theory to magical dueling outcomes. Yes, dueling. I assume that caught your attention.”

The temperature in the room shifted. A few students straightened. Someone muttered, “Finally something useful.”

“Don’t mistake usefulness for simplicity,” I said coldly, stepping forward. “The equations you’ll be using are layered, evolving, and unforgiving. A single miscalculation, and your defensive charm falters before a Stunning Spell lands.”

They listened, now.

One Slytherin girl—Rhiannon Mulciber, if memory served—attempted a shortcut through the second formula set. I heard her wand shift, the quill tapping too quickly.

“Miss Mulciber,” I said without raising my voice, “if your answer depends on root-7 symmetry in a situation where the caster’s wand is hawthorn and the lunar phase is waning, you will not last two seconds in a real duel.”

The room went dead quiet.

To her credit, she corrected herself immediately.

By the end of the lesson, their pride was bruised but intact. Some even seem to had enjoyed it. That was the thing with older students: challenge them properly, and they bite down.

Taffy bounced nervously as they filed out. “You were quite sharp, sir. Not cruel, but… efficient. Most efficient.”

I allowed myself the faintest nod.

That was when I heard the click of Matilda Weasley’s boots in the corridor.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to.

“Settling in, Professor Gaunt?” she asked, stepping lightly into the room as though she’d always belonged there. Her voice had that same inflection as the portraits in the Headmistress’ office—firm, but full of things unsaid.

“As much as one can in a castle that hasn’t changed since 1290.”

She laughed, softly. “You always did have a talent for understatement.”

I turned slightly in her direction. “If you’re here to assess me, I suggest you wait until after the third week. That’s when the real chaos begins.”

“Actually,” she said, “I came to thank you. The staff already speak highly of you, and Taffy is positively beaming with purpose.”

I didn’t respond immediately. My grip tightened slightly on the cane.

“Have you had a chance,” she continued, gently, “to reconnect with any of your former classmates?”

There it was. A thread, carefully placed.

“I’ve reconnected with the castle,” I replied dryly. “That seems sufficient for now.”

She didn’t press. Of course she didn’t. She simply seem to smiled with that perceptive stillness of hers, as though she’d seen the memory I didn’t say aloud.

“Well, if anything changes, Professor Winchester is often in the greenhouses on Mondays. I believe you both once—”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” I cut in, not unkindly, but firmly.

A pause.

Then, a polite nod. “Very well. Welcome back, Ominis. I hope Hogwarts feels more like home this time.”

She left before I could think of an answer.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The castle was quiet in that particular way it only ever was deep into the night—when even the portraits had grown too tired to mumble, and the torches along the stone corridors flickered with a kind of gentle reverence, as though trying not to wake the sleeping walls.

I couldn’t sleep.

Not for lack of exhaustion—no, that sat heavy in my limbs like lead—but because something had nested behind my ribs, fluttering, persistent. A feeling. A pull.

A thought had lodged itself in my mind during the match the day before—barely a whisper, an echo of a reading I’d once stumbled upon regarding magical fauna and the way their innate properties resonated with magical instability. Not a permanent solution—not yet. But perhaps… creatures in a similar vein could help her. Ones tied to ancient harmonics of the earth and the stars.

So there I was, barefoot in my slippers, cloak thrown over my night robes, slipping through Hogwarts like a student again—though this time with my wand held aloft, casting just enough glow to see the way.

The library felt like a cathedral at that hour. Endless shelves stretched into the dark like ribs around a beating heart. I loved it most when it was like this—silent, undisturbed, the air full of the scent of parchment and ink and something older still. I made my way to the far end, to a section rarely visited: Magizoology and Applied Arithmancy.

I reached up to pull a thick, leather-bound tome entitled “Harmonic Essence in Magical Creatures: A Study in Stability and Resonance” , when I heard it.

And suddenlu, i heard it

The softest breath. Not mine.

I froze.

There was a pause—a beat too long to be coincidence—and then a voice, low and unmistakable:

“Isn't it a curious place for a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?”

My heart gave a lurch.

I turned slowly. He was standing not far from me, dressed in midnight blue robes, his cane in one hand, the other resting lightly on the back of a nearby chair. Ominis Gaunt.

Of course it would be him.

The moonlight cast a sliver of silver down the side of his face. His hair, pale as ever, was slightly tousled, and there was a certain calm precision to the way he stood, as if he belonged to the stillness around us.

I swallowed. “I could say the same about an Arithmancy professor.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though listening more closely to my voice than to my words. “Arithmancy has never cared much for time of day. Or night.”

I clutched the book in my hands a little tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded once. “Neither could I.”

The silence after that was neither awkward nor comfortable. Just… charged. Like something unsaid hovered between the spines of every book nearby.

I stepped sideways to make room, but of course he didn’t need it. He already knew exactly where I was.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Just… following a thought.”

He didn’t push.

I heard the soft tap of his cane as he moved forward, fingers trailing lightly along the shelves. The enchantment on the tip of the cane whispered to the air. Of course I’d heard of its invention years ago. He used it so naturally now it almost looked like part of him.

He paused near a shelf adjacent to mine, tilting his head toward the book in my hands. “You found ‘Harmonic Essence’.”

I blinked. “You know it?”

“I read it once. Five years ago.” A pause. “Didn’t find what I was hoping for.”

His words hung in the air like smoke.

I didn’t ask what it was he had hoped to find.

I stepped back, holding the book to my chest. I felt… oddly exposed. Not because he saw me—he didn’t—but because I suddenly wasn’t sure what he saw.

“I should head back,” I said softly.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want students to see us and think we are fraternising.”

A little dryness there. Like a punch to the center of my chest.

He stood still for a moment, his fingers brushing the spine of a book without truly touching it.

The words were soft, measured. But there was a sharpness beneath them — something too controlled to be casual.

Something in me twisted. Or snapped.

Before I could stop myself, I let it slip:

“Of course. Merlin forbid they saw you with me .”

Silence followed immediately. Heavy. Like the library itself had taken a breath and was holding it.

Ominis didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn to face me. But the space between us tightened, as if the very air had shifted.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, quieter. Almost careful.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I shut the book in my hands with more force than necessary. “I know,” I said, my voice clipped. “I’m tired. It’s late. Just…don’t mind me.”

There was a pause, then — professional, restrained, distant:

“Goodnight, Professor Winchester.”

I waited a beat before replying. “Goodnight, Professor Gaunt.”

And I turned away, footsteps echoing softly as I left the library, heart pounding far too loudly for someone who was supposed to have moved on.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester 

There’s something about the duelling chamber that never quite lets you breathe.

Maybe it’s the lingering tension from spells that left their mark on the stones a century ago. Or maybe it’s that every wall feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to raise their wand and break the silence with a bang and a blaze of light.

I was pacing, slowly, down the length of the duelling platform. Wand in hand, cloak barely brushing the floor, mind whirling. I told myself it was just the usual pre-event anticipation —the natural nerves before a group of seventh-years started launching hexes at one another under my supervision.

But I knew better.

I shouldn’t have worn this coat. Too warm, too heavy. Or maybe it wasn’t the coat at all.

The doors creaked open behind me, and I didn’t need to turn. I felt it. That slight shift in the air. That silent sort of presence that walks in before the person does.

Ominis Gaunt.

“Professor Gaunt,” I said, keeping my eyes on the platform. My voice came out steadier than I expected. “Thank you for joining us this morning.”

His footsteps paused just behind me, sharp against the stone.

“Of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Department of Magical Education.”

There was something about the way he said it —like he wasn’t quite talking about the Ministry. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. Or maybe I wasn’t.

I turned my head, just a little, enough to glimpse him from the corner of my eye.

He wasn’t the boy I remembered.

He stood taller. Firmer. Shoulders broad beneath elegant, charcoal robes. Now he looked… carved. Solid. Like time had made choices for him, chiselled them into the angles of his face. His rich-blond hair was slightly longer than I remembered, combed back neatly. Refined, as always, but there was something else. Something harder.

The cane in his hand pulsed faintly with silver light. I wondered what he saw —what he felt— when he walked into a place like this.

I didn’t ask.

“Let’s begin, then,” I said, turning to face the group of seventh-years that had started to fill the chamber. My tone clipped into something more professional, something easier to manage.

The students were already whispering. I caught the end of something as I passed a group of Slytherins:

“—like they’re about to duel each other—”

“—or snog, Merlin forbid—”

I bit the inside of my cheek and kept walking.

The platform lit up as the first duel began. Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Because of course it would be.

The moment their spells collided, I felt it —that buzz of excitement, of adrenaline. I always loved watching students duel when they did it well. There was artistry in a clever disarming charm, pride in a perfectly-timed Protego. These kids had worked for this, trained for it.

And still, in the corner of my eye —always there— was him.

Ominis didn’t speak often. He stood with his hands behind his back, perfectly still. Listening. His head would tilt slightly when a spell whistled past him in the air. Every so often, he’d speak, and it cut through the room like a quiet razor.

“That shield was two seconds too late. That would’ve been a broken wand arm in a real duel.”

Or—

“Creative reversal. But her stance is too exposed. She’d be dead before she finished the counter-curse.”

He was calm. Cool. Incisive. As if everything was a puzzle he’d already solved and was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

At one point, one of the Gryffindor students —Nellie Osprey, determined and proud as ever— nearly fell off the duelling platform trying to dodge a jinx. I stepped forward instantly.

“Take a breath, Miss Osprey,” I called. “You’re not being chased by a Chimera.”

Some nervous laughter rippled across the room. Nellie flushed but nodded.

From behind me, Ominis added evenly, “Though if she were, she’d be eaten.”

The students burst out laughing.

He didn’t smile, of course.

I caught myself staring.

The duels continued. One by one, students took their turns. Spells soared. Shields shimmered. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in weeks —caught in the motion, the adrenaline, the pride.

But there it was again —a pressure. Like being watched. Not by students, not by Matilda Weasley, not by the governor who’d be reviewing the scores.

By him.

I dared a glance.

He wasn’t looking at me, not directly. But the set of his jaw, the slight angle of his head… He knew where I stood. He always did.

And maybe it was stupid, and maybe I was imagining it, but something in me felt… seen.

Not admired. Not judged.

Just… seen.

And somehow, that was worse.

The final match ended in a blaze of sparks —Gryffindor narrowly beating Slytherin by a clever feint and a well-placed Expelliarmus. Cheers erupted. I applauded with the rest, proud and smiling, heart still racing.

But even as the students began to gather their things and chatter about who should’ve won, and who had cheated, and how they were starving for lunch—

I felt it.

Still.

That gaze.

Like a spell never quite lifted.

And I didn’t know if I wanted it to.

The room emptied slowly.

Spells fizzled out of the air. Footsteps echoed off the stone as students gathered their cloaks and scattered in every direction —some still buzzing from victory, others muttering about injustice. The kind of energy that stays crackling in your bones even after the duel ends.

I stayed behind.

Leaning against the edge of the long oak desk, arms crossed gently in front of me, watching as the last of them filtered out. My wand twitched in my sleeve, catching every so often on the threads of stray magic that still lingered in the room.

“Thank you, Professor,” said Clara Bramble, one of my brightest Slytherins. Her robes were slightly scorched at the hem, but her chin was high, and her freckles still dotted her cheeks despite the layer of dust.

“You did well,” I smiled softly, pushing away from the desk to walk her toward the door. “You adjusted your footwork like we discussed last week.”

Clara beamed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It worked. He couldn’t hit me after that.”

“He didn’t stand a chance.”

She left with a proud little bounce in her step.

And just like that —I was alone again.

Or not.

I hadn’t heard him move.

But he was there.

I turned slowly, breath catching, the tension snapping back like a thread pulled too tight. Ominis Gaunt stood a few feet away, cane in hand, posture formal as ever. His expression was unreadable —but that wasn’t new.

What was new was that he had approached me.

He didn’t speak right away.

I waited, pretending to busy myself with reorganizing some parchment scrolls, trying to still the thrum in my hands.

Then, quietly —measured, even—

“You’ve trained them well.”

I froze.

Not visibly —I hoped— but inside, something stalled.

I looked up. “I— thank you.”

It came out too quickly. Too surprised. Too… raw.

He nodded once. “They’re sharp. Disciplined. Confident in the way students should be when they trust their teacher.”

I blinked. “I thought—” I hesitated, then let the thought hang in the air. “I didn’t think you were impressed.”

His head tilted slightly, almost curious. “Because I didn’t smile?”

I let out something between a breath and a laugh. “You don’t exactly give away much, Ominis.”

He didn’t smile. Of course not. But something about the corners of his mouth shifted —something minute, like a flicker in the dark.

He stepped closer, the tap of his cane gentle against the floor.

“That’s intentional,” he said. “But you shouldn’t mistake silence for disapproval.”

There was a silence, then. A different one. Not cold. Not tense.

Just… still.

I nodded slowly. “Noted.”

For a moment, I considered saying more —something half-formed on my tongue, like you used to be more talkative or you used to trust me enough not to be . But I swallowed it down.

Too much, too soon.

Instead, I glanced toward the duelling platform. “They’ll be sore tomorrow.”

“I imagine so.”

He turned toward the door, about to leave.

But before he did—

“You were always good at this,” he said without facing me. “Teaching.”

My heart didn’t race —it didn’t need to. It just… tightened.

As if something I didn’t know I’d been waiting for had finally stepped into the light.

And then he left.

I stood there, trying to breathe normally in a room that felt much too full of ghosts.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The sun was beginning to sink, casting long shadows through the leaded windows of the corridor. I had remained behind after class to grade a few essays—simple enough, I thought. Only a handful left, a bit of ink, a flick of the wand to organize them by name. Easy.

But of course, there’s always one.

One essay, folded unevenly, no name, half-dried ink smudged across the parchment. I recognized the handwriting immediately—tight, careful strokes, annoyingly precise even when rushed. It belonged to a Hufflepuff fifth-year, who had been oddly anxious during class. She’d forgotten to submit it, clearly. I sighed, pinched the bridge of my nose, and made my way out of the classroom.

I didn’t mind walking to the Hufflepuff common room. It gave me time to breathe. These past days had been… full. Not difficult, not exactly. Just—heavy. Like something unspoken pressing against the walls of the castle. Or perhaps only pressing against me.

I turned the corner into the west wing, footsteps echoing soft against the stone.

Then I saw him.

Ominis Gaunt, standing near the entrance to the Hufflepuff corridor, just a few steps ahead of me. I stopped short. His posture was as composed as ever—back straight, head slightly turned as if listening to something no one else could hear. His magical cane rested against his palm lightly, the small runes on its tip glowing faintly in the dim light.

He turned his head a little. “Professor Winchester.”

My heart stuttered. I wasn’t sure whether to drop the essay and bolt or simply nod and walk past.

“Ominis,” I greeted, careful not to let my voice falter.

“I was returning a confiscated Sneakoscope,” he said, as if we owed each other explanations for our presence in this school we both called home. “A sixth-year tried hiding it in a suit of armor. It screamed for ten minutes.”

I gave a faint chuckle. “Hufflepuffs and mischief… not as innocent as they seem.”

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. A ghost of a smile. “Don’t let them hear you say that.”

I held the essay up, making sure that it makes a sound for him. “Just delivering this. One of my students forgot to hand it in.”

Ominis nodded, but didn’t move. Instead, he asked, “You always do that?”

I blinked. “Do what?”

“Chase after students for an essay.” His tone wasn’t mocking, but there was something underneath. Something unreadable.

“I like to give second chances,” I said quietly, then added before I could stop myself, “Even to those who don’t ask for them.”

A pause. His jaw shifted slightly, and he turned just a little toward me. I wasn’t sure he was looking at me, exactly—but I felt as if I were under inspection.

“Some people don’t think they deserve them,” he replied.

I swallowed. The weight of everything unspoken between us hung there, suspended like fog.

“Still,” I said, too quickly, “doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be offered.”

Another silence. Only the soft sounds of the castle remained between us. Footsteps down another hall. A distant clatter of something Peeves had probably shattered. A soft hum in the stones.

“I’ll let you go,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “Don’t want the student thinking we’re… fraternizing.”

It was meant as a joke. Dry. Detached. Almost teasing.

I blinked. Then laughed—just once, short and low.

“Right. The horror. Being seen with me,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “Truly, you’d never recover from such scandal.”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. His lips parted, as if he might, but nothing came.

I took a breath, stepped past him, leaving only the scent of lavender and ink trailing behind me. “Good evening, Professor Gaunt.”

He didn’t stop me, and I didn’t look back.

But something in me stayed behind with him, in that hallway where so little had been said—yet so much had been heard.

A nervous Hufflepuff student greeted me at the entrance to her common room, robes wrinkled and hair slightly windswept from the tower breeze. She gave me a shy smile and stammered an apology. I said nothing much—just handed her the essay and gave a nod. My mind was still caught in the corridor.

He hadn’t changed that much.

And yet he wasn’t the same.

My steps echoed softly as I made my way back down the stairs. I could’ve taken a shortcut to my chambers, but I didn’t. I wanted the long way. The stone under my boots, the soft shuffle of portraits whispering as I passed, the echoes of past years lodged between the cracks of the castle. Hogwarts had always been like that—alive. Sometimes too alive.

There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard in a long time.

It wasn’t the coldness with which he spoke at breakfast. Nor the careful sarcasm he used on nearly everyone. It was something else. Something reined in. Something he wouldn’t let surface.

Was he hurt?

Or was I still the one bleeding?

I didn’t want to think about that.

I paused near one of the tall windows facing the Black Lake. The sky had deepened into velvet blue, scattered with stars. For a moment, the vastness of it all made me feel small again, like I was fifteen and the weight of the world hadn’t quite settled on my shoulders yet.

It hadn’t been a bad day. There had been smiles in class, laughter in the halls, even a pleasant gust of wind when I opened the southern tower windows. And yet…

And yet, everything felt shadowed by that brief encounter. By the way he’d said, “Professor Winchester.” By the way my name in his mouth sounded more like a carefully sheathed dagger than a cordial greeting.

I leaned against the stone wall and closed my eyes.

What did I expect, really? That after all those years of silence, the castle’s magic would erase the weight of what we once carried? That we’d simply be colleagues now, as if we hadn’t shared secrets too dark for children our age?

We weren’t the same. But we hadn’t changed as much as we pretended.

By the time I reached my rooms, I pulled off my shoes with a long sigh. The little corner of Hogwarts I called home was warm and familiar: books stacked far too high on the shelves, jars of potion ingredients glinting under the candlelight, and plants that refused to stop growing even in the greyest Scottish winters. Caligo slept by the window, his dark wings tucked close around his body, a peaceful silhouette against the moonlight.

I settled down beside the fire and stared at the way the flames danced across the copper teapot.

“The horror, being seen with me,” I whispered, smiling just slightly—sad, not bitter.

The fire crackled as if answering.

Maybe I couldn’t blame him. Not completely.

But I also couldn’t pretend his words hadn’t left a mark.

For now, all I could do was prepare for tomorrow’s lesson, pretend that nothing had cracked open, and hope that the castle knew what it was doing by bringing us back here.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

Detention was never anyone’s favorite task—neither for the students nor the professors—but there was something oddly appropriate about the room I had been assigned for it.

Tucked away at the end of the Arithmancy corridor on the second floor, the old classroom had a permanent chill in the air. Its windows were narrow and tall, casting long, grim lines of afternoon light across the flagstone floor. The ceiling creaked even when no one walked above, as though the castle itself remembered too much. It smelled faintly of old ink, waxed wood, and forgotten essays.

I lit the lanterns with a flick of my wand as I stepped in, trying to warm the place a little—at least in appearance. My boots clicked softly on the stone floor, echoing in the empty room. Desks were arranged in straight, stiff lines, dustless but untouched for months. Only the three closest to the front had any sign of use—quills, parchment, a bottle of ink each.

And, of course, the students themselves.

They were already seated when I entered, visibly attempting not to look guilty. Not very successfully.

The Ravenclaw girl sat perfectly straight, her hands folded, quill untouched. Her expression was hard to read—equal parts defiant and anxious. Beside her, the Slytherin boy leaned back in his chair just far enough to tempt disaster, arms crossed and smirk fully in place, like he found the whole ordeal entertaining. The third, a Hufflepuff with curls that refused to behave, was hunched over his parchment with the grim look of someone who expected to be here until sunrise.

“Good afternoon,” I said, shutting the door behind me with a gentle click. “Wands on the desk, please. No arguments.”

A soft groan from the Slytherin, but all three complied. Wood clinked quietly on wood.

“You’ll each write the following sentence until I tell you to stop: ‘I will not enter restricted areas uninvited.’ Legibly. No enchantments. And if I catch a single one of you trying to use a replication charm, I’ll make you start over from scratch. Understood?”

The Hufflepuff nodded quickly.

The Ravenclaw girl raised a hand halfway, voice sharp with irritation. “Professor Winchester, if I may—no one actually entered the Restricted Section. We were caught outside it.”

I gave her a flat look. “At two in the morning. Behind a locked gate. Whispering.”

She pursed her lips but said nothing further.

The Slytherin boy chuckled lowly. “We were just… curious.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Curiosity is no excuse for rule-breaking. Especially in places that can be dangerous.”

He smirked. “I thought danger was part of the appeal.”

“You’re mistaking Hogwarts for a novel,” I said calmly, moving to the front of the room. “There are other ways to get your hearts racing that don’t involve detention. Maybe try and win a quidditch match”

The Hufflepuff turned beet red.

“Start writing,” I added.

They did, reluctantly, quills scratching hesitantly at first, then with more resolve as the room settled into its expected rhythm. I pulled a chair behind the teacher’s desk, sat down, and pulled a book from my satchel—one I’d meant to read for Antha, something to do with rare magical flora found near unicor nesting grounds. The irony wasn’t lost on me: here I was, watching over three students punished for doing the very thing I had once done myself.

I glanced up at them again. Young, foolish, and brave. Just like we were.

Only difference was… they still had time to learn.

The soft scratching of quills created a kind of rhythm—repetitive, persistent, almost lulling. The kind of background noise that didn’t demand attention, just… let the mind drift.

And drift I did.

My eyes were on the pages of my book, but the words blurred a little, replaced by a hazy memory of salt in the air and the crunch of sand beneath my boots. There’s a stretch of coast not far from Bainburgh, where the cliffs open just enough to let the sea breeze slip through with less bite than usual. In the warmer months—what little warmth Scotland allows—Antha and I go walking there. Or we used to.

She always brought a basket, filled with too many things. Overprepared, as always. I’d carry the blanket, she’d argue over the best spot, and somehow we’d end up in the same curve of beach we always picked. We didn’t swim, not really—but we’d let the water lap at our ankles and pretend we were somewhere else. Somewhere without time, or pasts, or secrets.

I blinked back to the present, suddenly aware of a faint shimmer of movement out of the corner of my eye.

The Slytherin boy had angled his parchment subtly away from my line of sight—very clever—and was whispering something under his breath, wand just barely in reach.

A replication charm.

I didn’t even need to see it happen; the magic had a distinct tug to it, a tiny pulse in the air.

I let the silence stretch for one more second before closing my book softly and standing.

“Mr. Nott,” I said, my tone light as a feather. “Do tell me—do you enjoy losing House points, or is it more of an instinctual need for attention?”

He flinched. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Trying to charm your punishment into writing itself, yes, I gathered.” I walked slowly around to his desk, hands clasped behind my back. “Unfortunately, it was neither subtle nor clever. And it certainly wasn’t permitted.”

He sank lower in his chair, shoulders tightening.

“Shall I be generous and subtract ten points from Slytherin… or would you prefer fifteen, so you feel it was worth the attempt?”

The Ravenclaw girl bit back a snort of laughter.

“Ten,” he muttered quickly.

“Excellent,” I said with a small, satisfied smile. “Then I expect you to double your lines. Starting now.”

He groaned, but picked up his quill again.

I returned to the front, trying not to let my amusement show too much. Rules were rules—but every once in a while, a little theatrical discipline did wonders for the soul. And for the House competition.

When I had just begun to reread the same paragraph for the third time—something about localized magical anomalies in healing tinctures—the door burst open with a sharp clack .

The sound sliced through the hush of the classroom like a spell cutting air.

I turned my head instinctively, blinking once. My chair gave a soft creak as I straightened my posture, caught between surprise and curiosity.

There he was.

The doorway framed him like a portrait: tall, composed, every movement so measured it made the suddenness of his entrance feel all the more deliberate. The click of his boots against the stone floor echoed with the same certainty as the firm tap of his cane. His chin was slightly tilted in that way I remembered—attentive, focused, not lost.

Never lost.

Three students trailed behind him, each looking more sheepish than the last. A Gryffindor boy with wind-blown hair and grass stains on his robes. A quiet Hufflepuff girl who wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. And a Ravenclaw with a black eye that looked suspiciously recent.

I rose slowly to my feet, smoothing the fabric of my robes. The other students had all looked up, pens pausing, tension creeping into the space like mist.

“Apologies for the interruption,” he said, his voice clipped and calm, directed not at me but into the room, toward the center of the silence. “You must be... Professor Winchester,” he added, the title pressed out with cold formality when he realized.

“Professor Gaunt,” I replied, my voice more neutral than I felt. “We were just getting started.”

“I’ve brought three more for detention,” he continued, motioning slightly with his cane as though that were enough explanation. “They were caught attempting to sabotage the Slytherin Quidditch brooms before tomorrow’s match.”

A few of my students gasped.

Typical, I thought—but I didn’t say it.

“Creative,” I muttered instead, lifting an eyebrow. “Detestable, but creative.”

The boy with the grass-stained robes opened his mouth as if to defend himself, but Ominis turned slightly in his direction and said, “You’ll write what you did, why it was reckless, and how you plan to remedy your behavior. Twice. Neatly.”

The boy snapped his mouth shut.

I gestured to the open seats, and the new arrivals shuffled toward them, murmuring apologies that no one quite believed.

My gaze flicked back to Ominis just as he turned toward the door.

And for a fleeting second, his face tilted in my direction—not by accident.

Our eyes didn’t meet, of course. They never had, not really. But his head turned just enough that I felt it.

Felt him.

He nodded once, the barest motion.

Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him without a sound.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Was that the Professor Gaunt?” a Ravenclaw girl whispered across the aisle, the scratch of her quill halting mid-word.

“Sure looked like him,” the Gryffindor muttered back. “I thought he’d be… older. Or… colder?”

“He is cold,” the Hufflepuff chimed in with a frown. “Did you hear how he spoke? Like he was reading off a cursed script.”

A few soft chuckles rose up, and I shut my book—not loudly, but with just enough finality that it drew their eyes.

“Unless the essay requires commentary on the dramatic entrances of faculty members,” I said evenly, “I suggest your quills return to the parchment.”

Immediate silence. Heads bowed, hands moved, ink scratched.

I leaned back slightly in my chair and glanced toward the closed door, as if it still held some trace of him.

The Professor Gaunt.

As if there were more than one.

As if his name hadn’t carried weight even when we were seventeen.

He always had that effect—stepping into a room and altering its temperature by sheer presence. I used to think it was a Slytherin thing. Later, I realized it was just… him. That restraint he wore like a second skin. The kind of stillness that made people lean in without knowing why.

I looked down at my own parchment, still blank beneath my open hand, ready to take notes about the book in my lap.

He hadn’t even been in the room five minutes, and yet he’d left behind that subtle, lingering tension. Like someone had stirred the surface of a lake that hadn’t moved in years.

I exhaled quietly and picked up my quill again.

The last inch of sunlight had long since faded from the high arched windows when I finally capped my ink bottle and stood to open the door.

“All right,” I said, rolling my sleeves down as the students looked up, visibly relieved. “You’re dismissed. Straight back to your dormitories, no detours—not even to sneak a Chocolate Frog from the kitchens. And if you so much as look at the Restricted Section on your way out…”

My eyes landed on the Slytherin boy, who managed a sheepish smile.

“I’ll personally see to it that you spend the rest of your semester alphabetizing every scroll in the Archives,” I finished lightly, though with a note of warning that only years of teaching could craft.

They grinned, muttered their goodnights, and shuffled out of the classroom—dragging tired feet and whispering behind their hands.

I gathered the stray parchments they’d left behind, flicked my wand to reset the desks, and sighed as I looked over the now-quiet room. Teaching had its rewards, yes, but Merlin, detention nights drained the soul.

With a final glance to make sure nothing was left behind, I stepped into the hall, wand in hand to seal the door—only to stop mid-motion.

There, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor with arms loosely crossed and head tilted ever so slightly upward, stood Professor Gaunt.

Or rather, he wasn’t standing there when the students passed.

I was certain of it.

The corridor had been empty just minutes ago.

My fingers gripped my wand a little tighter as my pulse ticked higher in my throat. The silence between us stretched for half a second too long, like a held breath neither of us had the courage to exhale.

“Waiting to deduct more points, or do you prefer to haunt the corridors now, Professor Gaunt?” I said lightly, careful not to let my voice betray the sudden spike in my chest.

His head turned slowly at the sound of my voice, face impassive, unreadable. That same stillness as always—measured, calculated.

“Just making sure your students don’t wander where they shouldn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “Some corridors… lead to more than they bargain for.”

My jaw tensed, but I didn’t respond.

There it was again—words layered with meaning, edges soft but sharp beneath the surface.

I stepped forward, locking the classroom with a flick of my wand. “Well, lucky for them, they have professors who know these corridors well.”

His lips moved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but might’ve been a ghost of one. “Indeed.”

For a moment, we stood there, neither speaking nor moving, as if trapped in some invisible bubble the castle itself had conjured.

Then, just as suddenly, he turned away.

“Goodnight, Professor Winchester.”

“Goodnight, Professor Gaunt.”

With that, he disappeared into the darkened hall, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that had grown far too familiar.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

It was the kind of afternoon Hogwarts does best—muted, grey-toned, and laced with the scent of old parchment and drifting rain. The sky outside my window had turned to soft pewter, the faint tapping of droplets against the stone ledge the only sound, save for the low, contented purring of the tabby cat curled on the armrest of the chair across from mine.

I sat at my desk in my office, the one tucked beneath the west tower, cluttered with essays to mark, spare quills, and a half-drunk cup of bergamot tea. Quill in hand, I had just underlined a rather clumsy conclusion about the behavioural patterns of Ashwinders when the telltale flutter of wings broke the stillness.

A tawny owl landed neatly on the iron bar outside the narrow window, blinking at me with sharp eyes before it tapped once against the glass. The tabby stirred but did not leave her perch.

With a flick of my wand, the latch loosened. The owl dropped a modest envelope on my desk, sealed with rough wax and no insignia. Unremarkable. But the handwriting—uneven, slanted—tugged something loose in my memory.

I opened it carefully.

I didn’t move.

The letter sat on my desk, as still as the cat that now watched me with wide, amber eyes—sensing the shift in the air.

Sebastian.

Even thinking his name out loud in my head felt too loud for the room.

It wasn’t just that he had returned to the outskirts of our buried past. It was how he’d done it. Quiet, asking around. Cowardly. Typical. After all these years, after the promises whispered over Antha’s fevered breaths and in the half-lit corners of our youth, he comes crawling back without a name.

The parchment beneath my hand crinkled slightly.

I had protected him. We had. Lied to Aurors. Stolen time from the jaws of Azkaban. Spun a web of silence so thick, so impossibly fragile, that we barely dared breathe wrong around it.

And he’d walked away from her. From Anne. From Antha .

That was what I had never forgiven. Not the killing, not even the hunger for dark answers—I had understood those things, more than I should admit. But when the dust settled and the danger passed, he hadn’t stayed.

He had left her.

He had left us .

And I had stayed.

I had watched her suffer. Watched her weaken. I had brewed elixir after elexir with my own hands, chased shadows in the farthest corners of the forest, taken risks she’ll never know about, all because he had walked away in search of miracles—and never sent word back.

He was supposed to be the one who couldn’t let go.

I let out a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding, long and slow, pressing a palm to my chest as if to pin the ache in place.

There was no one left in my life but her. No siblings, no cousins. No parents to scold me for hiding too many truths under my skin. My grief had shape, it had names, and most of them were gone.

Anne was what remained. She was home . She was what I had fought for, chosen, and protected.

And now he came asking.

Of course he did.

The tea on my desk had gone cold. I stood, slowly, crossing the room on steady feet, though nothing inside me felt steady anymore.

A letter. She deserved a warning. Even if I didn’t yet know what I wanted from this.

I opened the drawer and pulled out the complementary enchanted ink. The cat followed me, tail curling as she leapt onto the windowsill.

“I know,” I murmured to her, voice soft and tired. “I know.”

Dear Antha,

I hope this finds you well and that the recent warm winds have been kind to your joints. Have you been keeping up with your walks down by the shore? I do hope so. The sea air always does wonders—when it doesn’t bite. Things here are as they usually are: plenty of essays to mark, a few too many cauldrons left unattended by ambitious second-years, and a staff room that smells perpetually of cinnamon tea, thanks to Matilda.

I was wondering how business has been lately. Any new curiosities brought in by your friend in Bainburgh? If something caught your eye, I’d love to hear about it. I know your taste is impeccable.

Please let me know if you’re still feeling all right. I’ll try to come visit soon, maybe even bring Caligo with me, if he agrees to behave.

Warmest thoughts,

E.

The enchanted ink, when touching it complementary parchment always made a ridiculous stranger smell, foul at times. A mixture of Ashwinder eggs and trolls boogey, but if it meant to keep this secret for a bit longer, i had to endure it.

Aurora,

A shadow from the past has stirred.

Someone is asking questions in Feldcroft.

Someone who once had no right to walk away.

Someone who now wants to know if she's alive.

Prepare.

I’ll come soon.

—Wren

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The castle had long since quieted.

Only the occasional gust of wind rattled against the old stained glass, and somewhere in the distance, the soft hoot of a restless owl broke the hush of the sleeping halls. I stood by the open window of my office, arms crossed, watching my owl vanish into the indigo night. I had charmed the message carefully, written with a heavy hand and sealed twice—one for Antha, and one hidden beneath the ink only Aurora would be able to read.

And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

My chest tightened. Not the fleeting anxiety of a forgotten task or an ill-prepared lesson. This was the kind of pressure that made my ribs ache and my breath catch—as if my body knew something my mind refused to admit. Something was shifting. Something had returned.

The echo of old choices, of words left unsaid. Of Sebastian’s name—spoken again after too long buried.

Without realizing it, I reached for my cloak, fingers fumbling over the clasp as if by muscle memory. My wand was already in my pocket. The castle walls pressed too close tonight. I needed…green. Open. Cool air. Soil.

I needed to breathe.

The path to the greenhouses was bathed in silver moonlight, quiet but not entirely still. The sentient vines curling near the Herbology classrooms whispered as I passed, brushing at my cloak like curious hands. The further I walked, the quieter my thoughts became.

When I stepped into the greenhouse, the scent hit me first—earthy, a hint of moon lily and something faintly citrus. Warmth radiated from the enchanted heating stones under the tiled floor, and soft luminescence glowed from a handful of nocturnal blooms. I loved it, that first hit of that scent.

I closed my eyes, finally letting my shoulders drop.

I drifted between rows of planter beds until I reached a low bench, where a few creeping starflowers twitched gently in my presence. I sat down slowly, trailing a finger through the soil of a half-filled pot, grounding myself.

My thoughts, however, didn’t settle.

The ghost of a voice echoed in my head.

“You promised you’d look after her, and then you vanished.”

I pressed my palm flat into the soil.

How could Sebastian—after everything—just return? After leaving Antha behind, after chasing remedies instead of staying when she needed him most. He had let me carry the burden, the guilt, the care. He had run, and now—

A sharp click broke the quiet.

My head jerked up, heart suddenly racing. The door of the greenhouse creaked open, and I instinctively reached for my wand—only to freeze when I heard the unmistakable tapping of a cane against stone.

He moved slowly, with practiced confidence. The tip of his magical cane sent out a faint hum, responding to the space around him. I watched as the silhouette of Professor Gaunt stepped into the moonlight, pausing just inside the threshold as though the room itself was holding its breath.

I did not speak. Neither did he.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the soft buzz of glowing flora and the faint crackling of magical lanterns.

Then, with a faint tilt of his head, Ominis said quietly,

“I had a feeling someone was out here. I didn’t expect it to be you.”

His tone wasn’t accusing. Merely…observant. Almost gentle.

I swallowed, the tension in my throat refusing to ease. “I couldn’t sleep,” I replied, my voice lower than usual. “The... walls were too loud.”

A pause. He took a few steps forward, letting the enchanted tip of his cane skim across the stone floor, navigating around planters with practiced ease.

“I know what that’s like.”

He stopped a few feet away from me, not sitting, not crowding. Just being there.

The silence that followed was…different. Not awkward. Not heavy with resentment. But it was full of something unspoken. Something pulsing beneath the surface.

Ominis didn’t move for a moment.

The faint moonlight slid across his face, catching on the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the pale strands of hair that had fallen loose from his usual tidy style. He stood perfectly still, but there was a subtle tension in his shoulders—like a wire pulled too tight.

Then, slowly, his head turned in my direction. His unseeing eyes, always so strangely direct, searched the air as if trying to parse something he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You sound…” he hesitated, the word catching slightly in his throat, “…tired.”

I let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s generous.”

He frowned at that. Not with annoyance. With concern.

Ominis had learned long ago how to read people without sight—the quality of their breath, the subtle shift in their stance, the way silence filled a space. And right now, the quiet around me wasn’t peaceful. It ached. There was a crack in my voice, in the way I moved. Something I was holding together with threadbare resolve.

He took one step forward.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, edged with a careful sincerity that didn’t suit the usual chill of his demeanor. “You’ve barely spoken since the term started, and yet I find you here in the middle of the night, hands buried in dirt, looking as though the world is falling apart.”

I flinched—almost imperceptibly—but didn’t meet his gaze. My fingers dug deeper into the soil.

“It’s nothing,” I said, too quickly. “Just… noise. Life. Things.”

But he didn’t move away. Didn’t accept the answer.

He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to hear what I couldn’t say. “It’s not just ‘things’, Eline.”

My name. Spoken so deliberately, with that unmistakable cadence only he ever used.

It unmoored something in me.

I looked at him then—really looked. At the slight furrow in his brow, the way his lips parted just slightly like he wanted to say something else and didn’t know how. He stood there, tall and calm and utterly unreadable to anyone else… but not to me.

Not to the girl who had once pulled him out of the shadows of his own making. Not to the woman who now sat crumbling quietly beneath the weight of what neither of us had ever said.

A beat passed.

“Why are you really here, Ominis?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Just inhaled slowly, as though steadying himself.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he admitted at last. “But perhaps… I knew I wouldn’t be the only one awake tonight.”

The implication hung between us, suspended in the air like the heady scent of blooming foxglove.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel alone in my quiet.

I sighed, letting my fingers fall from the roots. The dirt clung to my skin. “You don’t get to do that,” I whispered.

“Do what?”

“Ask what’s wrong. Say my name like you haven’t ignored me for the past weeks. Like you didn’t vanish for years without a word.”

The words tumbled out, bitter and unpolished. I hadn’t planned to say them, but once they were out, they hung in the air like frost.

A beat passed. His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, absorbing my sharpness with that impossible calm.

“I’m not here to argue,” he said finally. “I just…” He exhaled through his nose. “You looked like you needed someone.”

That nearly broke me.

I lowered my gaze again, throat tight. “I usually do,” I murmured. “But no one ever knows what to do with that. Neither I”

Another silence.

Then, gently, like the quietest leaf brushing against glass:

“I stayed because I remembered how this place comforted you. I thought… maybe it still did.”

I blinked quickly. My chest felt too full, too tight. The pressure from earlier hadn’t gone, but it shifted—no longer crushing, just… seen .

We didn’t speak after that. He didn’t ask for details, and I didn’t offer them. He didn’t walk away either.

And when I sat back on the bench, fingers loose in my lap and breath beginning to steady, I felt him move closer. Not enough to invade, just enough to say: I’m here.

And for the first time in days, I believed it.

He didn’t leave.

He just stood there, quietly, as if guarding the silence around us. Not watching but still somehow attuned to everything. The steady drip of condensation from the glass panes above. The rustling of nocturnal leaves. My shallow, fractured breaths, trying to find rhythm again.

And then I felt it.

Not some grand revelation. Just… a loosening. My spine curved forward. My hands unclenched, dirt falling in slow grains from between my fingers. The weight in my chest softened, and I realised— I had been holding it all in . For days. Weeks. Months, maybe. Since the summer. Since Anne—Antha—since the pressure of keeping things together became not a habit but a survival instinct.

Another panic attack.

And I hadn’t even noticed.

Of course I hadn’t. I never did. I only knew how to move forward.

But now, in this quiet space made warmer by his presence, I was finally breathing.

I didn’t cry. Never did. But I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the greenhouse wall, letting my shoulders rest for the first time in what felt like years.

“You remember,” Ominis said gently, “our sixth year… when we were given greenhouse cleaning as detention?”

I let out a breath of a laugh. “Merlin. I’d almost forgotten.”

“I haven’t. I still remember the exact moment you dropped an entire pot of bouncing bulbs on your foot and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. But you were limping for a week.”

“It didn’t hurt that much,” I protested weakly, eyes still closed.

“You were bleeding through your boot.”

“…Okay, it did hurt like hell.”

He chuckled. He actually chuckled , and I turned my head toward the sound instinctively, surprised at how much that soft warmth affected me. His laugh had always been rare. Guarded. Earned.

“I think that was the first time I realised you were absolutely incapable of asking for help,” he said.

I tilted my head. “Still am, apparently.”

There was a pause. “You don’t have to be.”

My chest ached again—but not from panic this time. It was a gentler ache. The kind that comes from being seen.

I blinked up at the glass ceiling, where a sliver of moonlight filtered through the misted panes. “You were always better at reading people than anyone gave you credit for.”

“I don’t read people,” he said. “I just… remember things others forget.”

“Like my bleeding foot?”

“And the way you stayed behind after everyone else left, just to calm a trembling Dirigible Plum. You thought no one saw you. But I was there.”

I stared at him.

His expression was neutral, as always, but I could feel something underneath it—a thread of something careful and fragile. Remorse, maybe. Or memory.

We hadn’t spoken like this in years. It felt both dangerous and necessary. Like standing barefoot on cold stone, unsure if it would give way.

“…Thank you,” I said quietly.

“For what?”

“For still remembering who I am, even when I’ve almost forgotten.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head slightly, and I knew he was listening to me with that same deep attention he always had.

Then he said, “Try not to carry it all alone, Eline. Even the strongest wings get tired.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was… peaceful.

And I let it be.

Chapter Text

I had barely slept. Which seems rather normal now

The hours seemed to blur into one another ever since the letter arrived—Sebastian, ghosts, greenhouses, Ominis. There hadn’t been a single moment of silence in my own head, and yet, the castle outside marched on with relentless rhythm. Students bustling, owls flying, chalk scraping. Hogwarts never paused for anyone’s inner unrest.

Still, something about this morning felt different.

I stood in front of my desk, parchment in hand, my lesson notes carefully marked with an ink-dipped quill that trembled slightly between my fingers. Not from fear. From… too much. My nerves had yet to settle, but my voice would, when the time came. It always did.

Today was we were having a joint class. A special lesson, suggested—rather smartly—by Headmistress Weasley after a casual conversation in the corridor had spiraled into theoretical magic, dark protections, and arithmantic breakdowns. A collaboration between Defence Against the Dark Arts and Arithmancy. Between me and Professor Gaunt. Of course.

The thought alone sent something sharp up my spine.

I had known he was brilliant—always had been—but seeing him again, older, composed, perfectly measured in tone and step, and yet still carrying the same shadows, had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. I wondered if he felt the same—or if I was simply another relic in a place we both once called sanctuary and exile.

The classroom had been rearranged slightly to accommodate his arrival. A long table near the front, rather than the usual rows, with additional protection spells in place around a locked pedestal covered with a heavy black cloth. Underneath: the artefact. The Mirror of Malheur . Temperamental, ancient, and certainly beyond the usual sixth-year curriculum. But valuable.

Valuable because, as I’d explained in the teacher’s lounge, dark artefacts are best understood before they are feared. And with Ominis beside me, they would not only understand it—they would read it, dissect it, strip it of all mystery until its malevolence lay cold and clear beneath the numbers and protections it obeyed.

The sound of footsteps by the door jolted me back.

Students. Their voices echoed down the corridor, some more eager than others, dragging their bags, laughing nervously, casting each other glances as if uncertain whether this was something to be excited for—or terrified of.

A few Gryffindors entered first. One of them, a girl with hair like flame and eyes sharper than her wandwork, gave me a curious look.

“Professor Winchester, is it true we’re having a class with Professor Gaunt today?”

I nodded calmly, though the mention of his name fluttered like a moth inside my chest.

“It is. Today’s lesson will explore the behaviour of defensive enchantments cast upon cursed objects. Professor Gaunt will guide us through the arithmantic patterns such spells follow. You’ll be working in groups,” I added, before they could groan, “and yes, this will count toward your term’s grade.”

They groaned anyway.

As more students trickled in—Ravenclaws clutching notebooks, Slytherins with barely concealed intrigue, a few Hufflepuffs already looking terrified—I cleared my throat and turned to face the black-draped pedestal.

“This artefact,” I began, voice smooth now, practiced, “is an original Mirror of Malheur. Cursed mirrors are not uncommon in dark magic lore, but this one—this one feeds . Not on blood, not on soul… but on doubt. We will not be unwrapping it yet.”

A couple students exhaled with visible relief.

I let the silence settle just enough to draw their focus before continuing. “Throughout this class, you will learn to detect the signatures of fear-based enchantments, and to formulate magical resistance—not through brute force, but through understanding. I trust each of you is prepared.”

A few nodded. One sneezed. Another muttered, “Suppose we’re ready as we’ll ever be.”

And still, the other half of the lesson had yet to begin.

Because he had yet to arrive.

And despite everything—the silence between us, the weight of our shared past—my chest still tightened slightly at the thought of hearing his voice again.

“Any moment now,” I murmured, as the last Ravenclaw sat and opened his ink pot.

Any moment now, the serpent would enter the lion’s den once more.

Exactly at the hour—no sooner, no later—the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Professor Gaunt entered the room with the same air he had carried even as a student: controlled, deliberate, cloaked in something quietly regal. His movements were fluid despite the cane that clicked lightly against the stone floor with each step, his long, dark coat brushing the edge of his boots, a silver pin gleaming faintly near the collar.

The room seemed to still the moment he appeared.

Even the most talkative Gryffindor at the back stopped mid-sentence.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Good morning.”

The greeting came low, smooth, with just enough weight to demand focus. Students murmured replies, uncertain whether to stand, bow, or hold their breath. A few exchanged glances as if to confirm: Yes, that’s him. The new one. The Gaunt.

My heart gave a small jolt I pretended not to feel.

He nodded in my direction, a gesture so subtle that anyone else might have missed it—but I didn’t. The inclination of his head, the brief angle of his jaw. Recognition. Not warmth. But not cold, either.

He made his way toward the long table with precision, his cane stopping exactly where it needed to without hesitation. It still fascinated me sometimes—how he moved like someone who could see. Like someone who had already memorized every line of the room and didn’t need light to command it.

“Shall we begin?” he asked, still not facing me directly, though I could tell by the turn of his head that he was addressing me.

“Yes,” I replied, finding the firmness in my voice again. “They’ve already been briefed.”

“Excellent.”

He turned slightly toward the students now, standing just a step beside me. Our presence together—two professors, two former students who had once wandered these very corridors side by side—cast a strange tension in the air. They felt it. I felt it.

“This artefact,” he began, lifting a gloved hand just slightly toward the covered mirror, “is bound by a layering of defensive magic designed to repel intrusion. What makes it unique is not the enchantment itself, but the arithmantic signature embedded within its resistance.”

He paused. Let that sink in.

“You will work in pairs. Each pair will be given one segment of the sequence to decode and interpret. You’ll then compare your findings to determine the logic of its defensive reaction.”

He lifted a small device from his coat pocket—a sphere of enchanted crystal, humming softly. “This will allow you to simulate magical contact without removing the cover. For your safety.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” I added dryly. A few students chuckled. His lips twitched, just barely. I might have imagined it.

He turned slightly toward me again. “I believe that brings us to your portion, Professor Winchester.”

“Thank you.” I stepped forward, and the rhythm between us clicked into place—unnatural in how natural it felt. It was like fencing, the unspoken agreement of movement, of space and rhythm, each step met with another.

I could sense the students shifting between curiosity and awe. It wasn’t often they saw two professors working in harmony, and certainly not like this .

What they didn’t know was how strange it felt from this side. To stand beside someone whose voice I knew by heart, whose anger I had once feared, whose grief I had once shared.

And yet here we were.

Teaching.

Together.

I stepped forward, wand in hand, the familiar pulse of energy humming faintly at my fingertips. The students had begun to settle—curiosity anchored now by a growing attention.

“To master defensive magic,” I began, my voice calm but firm, “one must first master the mind.”

Some of the Ravenclaws in the front row straightened. One Slytherin rolled his eyes slightly. I allowed it, for now.

“Spells are only as strong as the caster’s clarity. If your thoughts scatter, so will your incantation. If your fear overcomes you, your shield will fracture.” I paused a moment, letting them sit with that. “You don’t fight dark magic with power alone. You fight it with focus .”

I glanced toward the covered mirror behind me. The surface still shimmered faintly beneath its cloth, a silent reminder of the enchantments woven into it.

“To anchor the mind,” I continued, “is to tether it to something real. Something strong. A truth. A memory. A name.”

I let my eyes drift for just a second—unintentionally—to Ominis, who remained still, almost statuesque, a dark silhouette beside the mirror.

“Years ago,” I said, lowering my wand slightly, “I found myself cornered by a creature that fed on fear. No spell I tried held. My wand refused to obey me. What saved me—what broke the creature’s influence—was the thought of a single voice.”

The room held its breath.

“I won’t tell you whose,” I added with a small, knowing smile, “but the sound of it, even just the memory… was enough. That was my anchor, you will need to find yours to conquer this task.”

There was a murmur among the students—some wondering, some amused.

“And that,” came Ominis’ voice, rich and low beside me, “is precisely why intention precedes execution. Enchantment without clarity is like attempting to solve an arithmantic formula while sleepwalking.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You’ve done that before?”

“Only once,” he replied coolly, tilting his head, “and I failed spectacularly.”

Some of the students chuckled. I couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at my lips. He still had that dry sharpness that never needed volume to strike.

“Let’s demonstrate,” I said, gesturing toward the training stand we had prepared. “One of the layered enchantments on this artefact is reactive—it reads the caster’s emotional state.”

“Try it while distracted,” Ominis murmured, loud enough for me but not for the students. “And they’ll get a face full of Stinging Hex.”

“Which is precisely why we anchor.” I turned to the students again. “You’ll attempt the ‘Protego’ charm while channeling a clear, strong thought. One that centers you.”

Ominis moved toward the artefact stand, his gloved fingers brushing the surface of the cloth before pulling it back with quiet reverence. “Remember: do not just cast . Direct your intent.”

A Gryffindor student raised her hand. “But how do we know we’ve done it right?”

“If the artefact doesn’t hex you,” I said with a smile, “you’re doing just fine.”

That earned a few laughs. Confidence settled back into the room.

Ominis stepped beside me again as we watched the first pair take their place. He leaned in just slightly, voice low. “Do you always use metaphorical trauma to get their attention?”

“Only when I want them to listen ,” I replied just as quietly.

His brow ticked upward in a way I hadn’t seen in years. “Effective.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief pause as we watched a student mutter his incantation—and immediately get buzzed backwards with a soft jolt of blue light.

“He thought of his latest essay,” I said with a small sigh. “Poor choice.”

“He’s lucky it didn’t explode,” Ominis noted.

We shared a glance—brief but undeniable. Familiarity, despite everything. Despite time. Despite distance.

The next student succeeded, and the artefact gave a gentle hum of acceptance. The room broke into applause.

Then came a voice from the back.

“Did you two… rehearse this beforehand?”

I blinked.

Ominis turned his head slightly.

And then, against my own expectations, I laughed. Softly, genuinely—like someone had slipped the tension off my shoulders for a brief, blessed second.

“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “We most certainly did not.”

“Shame,” the student muttered. “Would’ve made for a brilliant show.”

I met Ominis’ expression just then—something unreadable behind his eyes, but not unfriendly. And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to enjoy the feeling.

The class went on. But something had shifted.

Even if we didn’t speak of it.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The staff room was nearly empty when I stepped in, the morning light falling in slanted stripes across the worn wooden floor. The air held the hush of a Saturday still untouched by students, and for a brief moment, it felt like the castle was holding its breath.

I had only come to fetch a few things—my satchel, an extra scarf, and the enchanted compass that always found its way to the wrong drawer. Caligo would be waiting in the clearing past the greenhouses, and I had promised Aurora I’d arrive before midday. But just as I reached for the scarf hanging from the coatrack—

“Oh, just the witch I needed to see,” came Matilda’s voice, warm and unmistakable, from the corner by the hearth.

I turned to see her seated comfortably in one of the deep armchairs, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a small, folded parcel resting on the table beside her. A copy of The Enchanter’s Gardener lay open in her lap, half-forgotten.

“You’re heading to Bainburgh, aren’t you?” she asked, eyes sharp despite the gentle smile.

I nodded. “Just for the day. Aurora’s holding some ingredients for me… and a few other things. Besides, i hope, a tasty meal.”

“Mmm,” she hummed knowingly, lifting her mug to her lips. “Well, since fate has delivered you straight to me, would you mind picking up something from her shop?”

She reached for the parcel on the table and passed it to me. Wrapped in patterned cloth and tied with a forest-green ribbon, it had the faintest scent of pine.

“I already paid for it—Aurora knows. But she said you’d need to mention the ivory buttons and moon-silver lining , or she’ll pretend not to know what I’m talking about.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “You know how she is with her enchanted tailoring. Very dramatic.”

I smiled despite myself, slipping the bundle into my satchel. “Consider it done. Anything else?”

Matilda leaned back in her chair, her expression softening. She looked at me the way she often did when I wasn’t speaking—like she was reading something between the lines of my silence.

“You’ve looked… stretched thin lately, dear,” she said gently. “I know you carry more than you let on. But don’t forget: you’re allowed to exhale once in a while.”

The words landed with a weight that nearly caught me off guard.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, giving her a tired smile that barely met my eyes. “I will. I just… not in front of...well, the wrong ghosts.”

Her laugh was quiet, a puff of warmth in the cold room.

“Then exhale in Bainburgh,” she said, voice low, kind. “Let the sea winds do what they do best.”

I nodded once, grateful in a way I wouldn’t name.

And as I stepped out of the room, I caught her murmuring to the air behind me—

“Tell Aurora to add a charm for warmth. And please, for the love of Merlin, wear some gloves, you're going to freeze for fingers.”

It took little coaxing to rouse Caligo from his perch near the paddocks.

The moment he saw me—scarlet scarf fluttering, boots crunching against frost-laced grass—he gave a low, impatient trill and lowered his broad wings with ceremony. As if to say, finally . I offered a slice of dried meat from my coat pocket, and his beak clicked with approval.

The saddle straps were already charmed for quick fastening. I’d done it a hundred times before, but there was something ritualistic in the way my hands moved—checking buckles, whispering soft enchantments under my breath, brushing a hand along his feathered neck. Caligo always trembled slightly when I did that. Not in fear, but in recognition.

And then, with a single lurch of muscle and sky, we were airborne.

The world peeled away beneath us like a page turned in haste.

The castle fell behind—its towers like the fingers of a sleeping giant reaching into fog—and soon only the mountains stretched around us in all directions, heather and rock blending into the distant glint of lochs. There was something merciful about the clouds that morning: thick and grey, but not cruel. No wind lashed at us, no rain interrupted our flight. It was simply cool , dim , vast .

I took a big breath.

Truly breathe. The kind of breath that reached places the ground never let me find.

The cold clung to my cheeks, but my chest—tight for days—finally loosened. Up here, I wasn’t anyone’s professor, nor a keeper, just a person. I wasn’t the girl with ghosts stitched into her spine. I was simply part of the sky, riding muscle and instinct and ancient magic.

Caligo let out a high, curious trill as a flock of golden-winged snidgets swept past, their formation breaking briefly as they scattered in our wake. A moment later, a low, throatier call sounded above us—a wild hippogriff, dark-plumed and enormous, circling toward the distant crags. Caligo answered with a sharp, almost smug cry of his own.

I laughed softly into the wind. He always had to show off.

Below us, the land shifted. The rocky formation gave way to softer hills, then the mottled green-and-gold patchwork of farmland. Stone walls threaded through fields like seams in a quilt, tiny cottages clustered like memories around crooked roads. Further west, the coast emerged slowly: cliffs first, then the low sweep of beach near Bainburgh, pale and windswept.

It was always colder there. The sea churned in slow, grey ripples, and the sky above it mirrored that unrest. But even through the dullness of cloud, there was a kind of warmth to it—a familiarity, like a worn jumper pulled over your shoulders on a day you didn’t know you needed it.

From up here, Bainburgh looked like it had been dropped gently between land and sea. Smoke curled from chimneys. Someone’s laundry fluttered ghostlike on a line near the bakery. I knew where Aurora’s shop was without needing the compass—tucked behind the crooked apothecary with the blue door, the one that never quite closed properly.

Caligo shifted beneath me, angling downward, his shadow skimming down as we prepared to land.

And for a moment longer, I kept my eyes closed.

Not because I feared what waited on the ground—but because, just for a little while longer, I wanted to believe I could stay in the sky forever.

Caligo’s hooves hit the earth with practiced grace. I leaned forward, whispering a quiet “thank you” against the curve of his neck before sliding down. His wings folded with a rustle like old parchment, and he let out a low hum, already angling toward the cover shed Aurora paid for him when we stayed too long.

The smell of the moss mixed with something sweeter—baked bread, maybe—and the faint aroma of crushed lavender from Aurora’s little garden behind the shop made me sighed with content. Bainburgh may not have been home, but it was close enough. A pocket of stillness where everything moved slower. A place that asked nothing of me except that I show up hungry and tired, and maybe a little bruised.

Aurora was already waiting near the edge of the path, apron dusted with flour, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her eyes squinted in that way they always did before her smile broke loose.

“There she is,” she called, walking toward me, brushing her hands on her apron before pulling me into a quick, tight hug. “Did the sky treat you kindly today?”

I nodded, tucking windswept curls behind my ears. “It gave me room to breathe.”

She held me at arm’s length, inspecting me like a garment on a hanger. “And you need that. You’re thinner than last time. Don’t make me start scolding you before you’re even inside.”

I laughed, genuinely. “I wouldn’t dare deprive you of the dramatics.”

The shop door jingled as we entered, and the smell inside was intoxicating—spices, fabrics, warm sugar, and a hint of sea air that never quite left. Antha appeared from behind the little curtain separating the back kitchen, her hair pinned loosely and her sleeves smudged with sauce. When her eyes met mine, her whole face lit up.

“You made it,” she said, and though the words were simple, her voice carried more relief than I could ever name.

She pulled me into a softer hug—one that lingered a little longer than necessary—and whispered just for me, “You always come when I need you most.”

“Must be something in the stars,” I whispered back.

Aurora had already turned the sign to closed and was bustling toward the stove, muttering about needing to check on the roast. I heard the clatter of pots, the rush of water, and the rhythmic sound of Antha slicing vegetables with a precision born of repetition.

While they moved around each other like dance partners in a well-rehearsed kitchen, I perched near the window, sipping the tea Aurora handed me. I watched the golden light fade over the coast while fabrics fluttered on nearby racks—soft wools and heavy cloaks, dyed in rich autumn tones. I remembered the reason I’d come.

“Oh—before I forget,” I said, reaching into my satchel, “Matilda asked if I could pick up the cloak set she ordered. Said it was already paid for, but you know how she is—too busy to apparate to the next village.”

Aurora chuckled, wiping her hands as she moved toward the back shelves. “Of course she did. That woman has been eyeing my deep-amber lining since last winter. Said it makes her look ‘decisively academic.’ Whatever that means.”

“I think she means intimidating with taste,” I said, smiling into my teacup.

Aurora returned with a neatly bundled parcel tied with gold thread, placing it beside me on the bench. “Tell her I added the gloves. As a gift.”

“You’re going to spoil her.”

“She’s earned it. Besides,” she said, glancing toward Antha, who was now humming softly as she stirred something thick and savory in a copper pot, “it’s a day for warm things. We all need them lately.”

The wind pressed gently against the shutters, and inside the little shop, with the scents of cinnamon and roasted vegetables, with Aurora’s quiet chatter and Antha’s steady presence by the stove, I felt something strange bloom behind my ribs.

The table had been set with quiet care. Antha had always had a talent for making things feel like a holiday—without any of the noise. She laid out thick slices of roasted squash, baked trout with thyme and sea salt, golden potatoes glazed in butter and rosemary, and a braided loaf that still steamed when broken. Aurora poured cider into mismatched mugs, her cheeks pink from the warmth of the kitchen.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” I said as I settled into the seat they’d clearly kept for me—centered, the cushion a little firmer than the rest.

Antha shrugged, sitting opposite me and brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I just fed you what I’d feed anyone I love.”

The words clung to the edges of my throat, and I could only smile in return.

Aurora sat down beside her, tearing off a piece of bread and offering it in my direction. “Go on then, eat before it goes cold. You’re too polite for your own good.”

I obeyed, if only because my stomach had been growling since I landed. The first few minutes passed in a comfortable rhythm of chewing, sipping, and letting the flavors speak louder than words.

It wasn’t until my plate was half-empty that I finally asked, “How’s business been treating you both?”

Aurora leaned back a little, wiping her hands. “Busy. Good, mostly. The last few weeks I’ve had more orders than expected—people are finally realizing Bainburgh gets colder than Hogsmeade in winter. Still, I might need to bring in a part-timer soon. I’m running out of daylight.”

“And your commissions?” I asked, turning to Antha, who had been unusually quiet, spooning sauce over her fish in small, deliberate motions.

“Slower,” she said after a pause. “But manageable. I’ve been getting some requests from the coast again. Mostly from people who… remember me from before.”

There was something careful in her tone. Not guarded—more like cautious hope.

“They remember the woman who made potions that actually worked,” Aurora added proudly.

Antha smiled faintly, but didn’t meet my gaze. I let it be.

“And Hogwarts?” Aurora asked then, redirecting her focus to me with that signature twinkle in her eye. “You’ve survived the first weeks, I assume?”

I snorted. “Barely. The students are bright—brighter than I was at their age, some of them—but half of them try to duel before breakfast and the other half still haven’t figured out that doors open outward in some corridors.”

That earned a round of laughter. Antha lifted her cider mug in mock toast. “To survival.”

I clinked mine softly against hers. “Barely.”

Aurora tilted her head. “And the staff? No one driving you mad yet?”

My fork paused mid-air.

I hesitated just long enough for Aurora to narrow her eyes at me.

“Ah,” she said. “So that kind of madness.”

“It’s not—” I began, then sighed, setting the fork down gently. “It’s just… complicated.”

Antha raised an eyebrow but said nothing, giving me space. That was the thing about her—she never pushed.

“There’s someone... I mentioned it to Antha last time,” I admitted. “From when I was a student. He’s teaching now.”

“ He ,” Aurora noted in a sing-alike voice, and I shot her a look so sharp it made her chuckle into her cider.

“Not like that.”

Antha tilted her head. “But like something .”

“More like… a memory I haven’t looked into for years. That kind of knowing.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. The kind of silence only close friends could share without discomfort. The kind that said we’re listening .

And so we kept eating, letting the salt and steam and old memories wrap around us like a second cloak.

The last of the plates had been cleared, and the scent of roasted hazelnuts and cinnamon now floated through the air, carried by the warmth of the oven. Aurora brought over three shallow bowls filled with a thick, amber-hued custard. She set one in front of me and tapped the spoon beside it playfully.

“From that old recipe book you left here years ago,” she said. “Still can’t quite do it like you did.”

I smiled as I picked up the spoon. “You’ve improved it. Mine always curdled.”

We ate in soft, slow mouthfuls. The kind of quiet that came only after a full meal and a full heart. Antha was humming gently under her breath—an old tune, one we all recognized from summer days spent near the sea when she picked up her plate, carrying it over to the kitchen, ready to star washing the dishes. She didn’t notice the glance Aurora gave me over her spoon.

It was brief. Measured.

Then Aurora spoke casually, almost too casually. “Had a letter from Feldcroft this week.”

I looked up at her, spoon paused mid-motion.

“Oh?” I kept my voice light.

“From Old Corbyn, the parchment-seller,” she continued, leaning back in her chair. “Claims someone’s asking questions around the village. Unusual ones.”

“What kind of questions?” I asked softly, my voice lower now. “The same ones i mentioned you in my letter?”

Aurora didn’t look at me directly. “The sort that make people rummage through memory. Asking if anyone’s moved away under odd circumstances. If they’ve heard from… ghosts, maybe.”

A long breath left me. My stomach, once so comfortably full, now tensed.

“I didn’t think he’d be bold enough to go back.”

“He wasn’t asking about her by name. Not directly.” Aurora’s voice turned quieter still. “But anyone who lived there long enough can read between lines.”

My fingers curled slightly around the bowl.

“Did Corbyn speak to him?”

“Only long enough to send word here. He knows to keep his mouth shut.” She stirred the last of her custard idly. “Still, it’s only a matter of time.”

“She’s been doing well,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.

“I know,” said Aurora gently. “Let’s keep it that way.”

There was nothing else to say. Not then. The name that remained unspoken hung above us like a spell never cast—always threatening to fall.

And so we went back to our custard, each of us tasting sweetness laced with dread.

The sea breeze met us the moment Aurora pushed open the back door, carrying with it the salt-heavy scent of low tide and distant gull cries. The little garden behind the shop was wild and lovely—bordered by flowering thistle, herb bushes that had gone slightly rogue, and stones warmed by the brief flickers of afternoon sun.

We stepped out together, arms wrapped in shawls, our boots crunching gently over gravel and faded grass. Aurora closed the door quietly behind us.

“She’s resting,” she said softly. “She gets tired easily these days, but you know how she hides it.”

I nodded. We began walking slowly toward the narrow trail that wound behind the property, toward a craggy overlook that stared out over the sea.

“I don’t like this,” I admitted after a while, letting the words fall into the open air between us. “That he’s asking. That he’s there.”

Aurora didn’t answer at first. She reached out to tuck a sprig of windblown rosemary back into its pot, then wiped her hands on her skirt.

“I thought maybe… he’d finally let go,” she said eventually. “That all of us had.”

“He never could,” I murmured, eyes on the horizon. “But looking for her now… It’s reckless. Dangerous.”

We paused at the edge of the path, where the cliffside dropped away into stone and sky. The waves below crashed in rhythm, wild and timeless. A single hawk wheeled high above, its cry barely audible.

“He abandoned her,” I continued, voice low. “Not once. Twice. First when she needed him most, and again when she stopped needing him at all.”

Aurora gave me a sidelong glance. “But you are the one who has not forgiven him.”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know if I can.”

We stood in silence for a while. The wind tugged gently at my hair, at the loose hem of Aurora’s shawl. The world felt still, suspended. Then she spoke again, carefully.

“She doesn’t know, El.”

“No,” I said. “And she won’t. Not from me.”

“Would you tell her, if it came to it?”

I hesitated.

“Only if it meant protecting her again,” I said. “But if I can keep her happy and safe and never say his name aloud again—I’ll take that chance.”

Aurora nodded, gazing out toward the grey water.

“She still talks about you, you know,” she said, voice lightening a little. “Says you’re the only one who could ever make her laugh when she didn’t want to.”

“She does the same for me.”

A gull cried overhead. Somewhere beyond the cliffs, the low bell of a distant boat echoed against the water.

“I’m glad she has you,” Aurora said softly.

“I’m glad she has you,” I replied, and meant it.

We stood a little longer, side by side, letting the wind carry away the ghosts that had followed us outside. At least, for now.

The sun was beginning to slip beyond the hills, casting a gold-washed glow over Bainburgh that softened its stone cottages and made the sea glimmer like molten pewter. The light stretched long and low across the cobbled path as I fastened the last strap on Caligo’s harness, my fingers working with practiced ease while my mind lingered on the warmth of the kitchen I was about to leave behind.

Antha stood on the threshold of the shop, wrapped in one of Aurora’s thick shawls, her hair braided loosely down one shoulder. Her skin looked pale, but her smile was steady.

“You’ll write when you get back?” she asked, in that half-chiding, half-affectionate tone she reserved only for me.

“I always do,” I said, stepping closer. “And you—don’t overexert yourself. Let Aurora take over the orders if you’re too tired.”

“I’m not an invalid, Eline.”

“No,” I smiled. “You’re just stubborn.”

She rolled her eyes but opened her arms. I stepped into her embrace, and for a moment, all the tension I’d gathered like moss around my chest dissolved. There was still something of the old Anne in that hug—the fierce, dry wit and unspoken loyalty. A tether to a past we had both outlived.

Aurora joined us then, closing the shop door behind her with a soft clack. She handed me a wrapped parcel—Matilda’s coat.

“She’ll love it,” I told her, tucking it into my satchel.

“She better,” Aurora smirked, then her voice softened. “Fly safe, El.”

Caligo let out a soft, impatient click, feathers ruffling in the wind as he lowered his head toward me.

“I’ll send word once I’ve arrived,” I promised. “And if—if anything changes… let me know at once.”

Aurora and Antha exchanged a look, unreadable, but nodded in unison.

I climbed onto the hippogriff’s back, settling into the worn leather saddle. My fingers found the familiar groove behind his neck, and I leaned down just slightly, whispering in his ear.

“Home, Caligo. Gently.”

With a few powerful strides, he launched into the air, talons leaving the earth behind as we soared up above the rooftops. The wind met us immediately, rushing against my face, and I let out a slow breath as Bainburgh shrank beneath us—just a scattering of warm lights against the lengthening twilight.

I looked back only once.

They were still standing there—two figures in a doorway framed by golden light. One waving gently, the other with her arms crossed against the chill. Two pillars of my quiet, hidden world.

Then the clouds swept in, and the sea fell behind us, and all that remained was the open sky, and the long, slow journey back to Hogwarts.

A long stretch of cloudless dusk pressed against the horizon, glowing in shades of blue steel and worn amber. Caligo flew steady beneath me, his wings slicing through the evening air with rhythmic strength. I let myself breathe, truly breathe, for the first time in days. The kind of breath that reached all the way down, untangling the knots that worry and silence had built inside my chest.

There was a weightless quiet to this height. A gentle sort of solitude that made it easy to believe—for a moment—that all was well.

But something shifted.

It was so subtle at first I nearly missed it. A twitch of the wind, a ripple beneath the stillness. Caligo’s wings stiffened slightly, a shiver rolling down his feathered neck. His ears flicked back.

My hand instinctively went to the base of his neck, stroking once, gently. “It’s alright, boy,” I whispered. But my words rang hollow.

I looked down.

The Scottish countryside stretched below us in fading color—cliffs, misty hills, ribbons of river glinting in the half-light. Familiar. Harmless.

Yet every instinct in me began to bristle. The sensation crept in like cold fingers along the spine—an unshakable feeling of being watched. Not seen. Watched.

My magic stirred.

Not in that soft, companionable way it usually did—this was different. Older. More primal. It pressed against the edges of my ribs, an ancient awareness that something was wrong. Very wrong.

The air thickened. Even Caligo felt it—his flight became uneven, more alert. He let out a low, uncertain sound, somewhere between a growl and a screech.

Then I saw it.

A glint of movement, just past the curve of my vision. And another. Shadows above and below, too coordinated to be wild creatures, too silent to be innocuous.

Poachers.

My heart seized in my chest. They weren’t after me.

They were after him.

“Caligo—!” I barely had time to shout before it happened.

A blast of green light shot out of nowhere—no warning, no cry—and slammed into our side. Caligo shrieked, his body twisting midair, the impact rocking us violently. My vision blurred, my grip loosened—and the sky tilted.

We were falling.

Chapter Text

Ominis Gaunt

The morning broke quietly, as it often does in the higher chambers of Hogwarts. The thick stone walls filter the dawn into a kind of stillness—no light for me, but something softer, something felt . I remained in bed longer than usual, tangled in the sheets at my waist, the chill in the air creeping up across my bare chest like a whispered reminder that yes, it was morning again, to my utter despair.

I didn’t sleep much anymore. Not well, at least. My dreams came in pieces, some loud, some sharp, and some too quiet to chase away when I wake.

My fingers found the edge of my wand on the nightstand. I didn’t light the room. I didn’t need to. The quiet here, in these early hours before the castle stirs, feels like mine alone. No clatter of cutlery, no scuffing feet or rustling robes—just the faint creaks of the stones shrinking under morning cold.

And then I heard it.

That distinct rhythm.

The beat of something large moving through the air. Wings. Not just any wings—those belonged to him .

Caligo.

The name landed in my chest before I could speak it in my mind. The sound of him soaring above the grounds was unmistakable: deliberate, thunderous, full of purpose. And where he went, so did she. I remember the kind beast, a distance memory from we were young. Eline and I, just the two of us as the witch present him to me. I never felt quite small until that moment, but Caligo was one of the warmest creature ever to exist.

And of course she was leaving. Off to another adventure.

I sat up, sheets falling from my torso, the chill more biting now. I let it anchor me before standing, feeling the stone beneath my feet and making my way to the basin near the far wall. The familiarity of movement is a kind of comfort; my hands summoned warm water with a flick, and the scent of pine and bergamot rose like steam.

I scrubbed my face and neck slowly, rhythmically. The ache behind my eyes was persistent today, but I ignored it, the way I ignore most things lately. Still, she lingered in the back of my thoughts—flashes of her laughter, the smell of wind and wildflowers that always clung to her, even in winter.

That’s none of your business anymore , I reminded myself.

Dressing was muscle memory. A dark shirt over my shoulders, every button fastened in sequence. Trousers. Belt. Boots. The moment my hands touched my cane, the quiet hum of its magic thrummed against my palm. Alive, aware of me.

I hesitated.

The wand holstered at my side tugged slightly, like a weight I never stop carrying.

And yet, none of it prepared me for how empty the morning already felt.

She was gone. Flying to wherever she always disappears to when the world grows too heavy. With him . With the creature that always answers her call.

I tried to tell myself I didn’t care. I told myself I was fine.

But the truth was something heavier, quieter. Like a hollow echo in the stones.

And I hated how easily it came back.

I had always belived that Hogwarts would feel smaller upon return—as things from childhood tend to do—but the castle had grown, if anything. Or perhaps it was I who had shrunk. Not physically, of course, but in the way a man folds into himself after too many years keeping his back straight in rooms where no one truly sees him.

After preparing for the day with deliberate quiet, I made my way through the corridors with my usual pace—one that students had come to associate with my presence long before I opened my mouth. The tap of my enchanted cane echoed softly against the stone, guiding me like a pulse. I liked the rhythm. It steadied me.

Aritmancy was not the most glamorous subject, but it was the one I had grown to love for its consistency, its elegance in the chaos. Numbers made sense, unlike people.

When I opened the classroom door, the familiar scent of ink and chalk met me first. Then the gentle hum of magic still lingering from the last session—old wards humming like sleepy bees.

“Professor Gaunt!” came a soft voice.

Tabby.

He was already there, standing on a stool beside the large teacher’s desk, scrolls stacked neatly beside him. I heard the rustle of parchment, the clink of an ink bottle being repositioned.

“Good morning, Tabby,” I said, my voice low but not cold. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, sir. Very well, sir. And you?”

I paused. “As well as one can, these days.”

Tabby didn’t push. He never did. I liked that about him.

“Tabby has taken the liberty, sir of drafting lesson plans, yes, for third years and sixth years too!” Tabby says, unrolling the scroll with careful, twitchy fingers. “Sir Gaunt mentioned… oh yes, sir did mention that we might begin combinatorial charms this week, didn’t he?”

“Mm. Yes.” I made my way to the front of the room and rested a hand against the long table. “I’d like to introduce practical logic alongside it. Let’s not let the theory rot in their heads before they apply it. Hogwarts students are infamous for memorizing incantations without understanding why they work.”

There was something oddly comforting about planning in silence with him. Occasionally I would interject, offer a note on structure or shift the pacing of a lesson. Tabby would nod and continue, scribbling with swift, precise strokes.

But somewhere in the middle of our preparation, I faltered. My head turned slightly toward the far window, as if I could see beyond it—beyond the hills and clouds and open skies.

I had heard Caligo’s wings earlier. I had not mentioned it aloud. I didn’t need to.

There were few people who rode a hippogriff with such confidence from the castle.

And only one who made my chest twist the way it just had.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Tabby asked, gently.

I straightened my posture. “No. Nothing at all.”

But the truth is—something tugged at me.

A small shift in the air, as though some part of Hogwarts had just… exhaled.

I caught myself.

The moment hung in the air like a note left unresolved. I shook my head once—firm, almost imperceptible—and rolled my shoulders back. Whatever sensation had come over me was just that: a sensation. Fleeting. Misplaced. Sentimental nonsense. I wasn’t a student anymore.

“Apologies, Tabby,” I said, returning to the desk. My fingers brushed the edge of the scroll, locating the section we’d left off. “You were saying something about the sixth-year sequence?”

Tabby gives a little nod—very small, very understanding-like.
“Tabby thought, if it pleases professor Gaunt,” he says in a hushed voice, “we might begin with the theory, yes-, and then give them a partnered task! A clever one, it is! A charm all twisty with numbers—if the young ones don’t cooperate, poof! The solution crumbles like old parchment, it does!”

“Good,” I murmured. “Force them to engage their minds and their patience. That may prove the greater challenge.”

He chuckled again, a gentle puff of amusement. “Sixth-years are particularly… spirited.”

“You’re being kind,” I said dryly. “They’re insufferable.”

Tabby’s quill danced across the parchment again. I listened to the scratch of it with quiet satisfaction, allowing myself to lean against the desk for a moment. These small rituals—planning, listening, the feel of the wood under my palm—they tethered me. In the Ministry, everything had been marble and steel and echoes. Too much power. Too little clarity.

Here… I knew who I was.

“I may introduce an ancient numeric warding method,” I added after a moment. “Obscure but practical. Something to challenge them.”

“Tabby will prepare a little demonstration, oh yes!” he chirps, bowing his head just a bit. “Would kind sir prefer Tabby to use the Gaunt manuscripts… or—oh dear, perhaps—sir’s very own precious library?”

I hesitated.

“Mine.”

Tabby gave a brief nod. No comment on the name I had just carefully avoided invoking. Good.

“Tabby also gave a nice polish to the braille indexing system, sir… in the lower cabinet, yes-yes,” he adds in a soft whisper, gesturing with a careful hand toward the locked shelf. “Should make the cross-referencing ever so much easier, Tabby hopes…”

I paused, touched by the gesture though I said nothing of it. Instead, I turned my face slightly in his direction.

“You’re very thorough, Tabby.”

The little elf smiled under his nose. “Only because you make it worthwhile, sir. Tabby is happy to help.”

I didn’t smile back. Not visibly. But something softened in my chest.

This… this was a better kind of power.

I caught myself.

The moment hung in the air like a note left unresolved. I shook my head once—firm, almost imperceptible—and rolled my shoulders back. Whatever sensation had come over me was just that: a sensation. Fleeting. Misplaced. Sentimental nonsense. I wasn’t a student anymore.

“Apologies, Tabby,” I said, returning to the desk. My fingers brushed the edge of the scroll, locating the section we’d left off. “You were saying something about the sixth-year sequence?”

Tabby gave a small, understanding nod. “I thought we could begin with theory, then assign a paired exercise to solve a numerically encoded charm. If they can’t cooperate, the solution will dissolve.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Force them to engage their minds and their patience. That may prove the greater challenge.”

He chuckled again, a gentle puff of amusement. “Sixth-years are particularly… spirited.”

“You’re being kind,” I said dryly. “They’re insufferable.”

Tabby’s quill danced across the parchment again. I listened to the scratch of it with quiet satisfaction, allowing myself to lean against the desk for a moment. These small rituals—planning, listening, the feel of the wood under my palm—they tethered me. In the Ministry, everything had been marble and steel and echoes. Too much power. Too little clarity.

Here… I knew who I was.

“I may introduce an ancient numeric warding method,” I added after a moment. “Obscure but practical. Something to challenge them.”

“I’ll prepare a sample demonstration,” he said. “Would you like me to reference the Gaunt manuscripts or your personal library?”

I hesitated.

“Mine.”

Tabby gave a brief nod. No comment on the name I had just carefully avoided invoking. Good.

“I’ve also polished the braille indexing system in the lower cabinet,” he added quietly, gesturing toward the locked shelf. “Should make cross-referencing easier.”

I paused, touched by the gesture though I said nothing of it. Instead, I turned my face slightly in his direction.

“You’re very thorough, Tabby.”

The little elf smiled under his nose. “Only because you make it worthwhile, sir.”

I didn’t smile back. Not visibly. But something softened in my chest.

This… this was a better kind of power.

The morning passed with a quiet rhythm I had grown to appreciate. Tabby and I mapped out the week’s lessons with precision—me dictating from memory, him annotating with an elegance I had come to rely on. We debated sequencing, discussed inter-year balance, and even managed to fit in a few tweaks to the curriculum that had been lingering in my mind since the start of term.

By the time the castle’s bells chimed noon, the sun—veiled though it was behind the eternal Scottish clouds—was casting a faint warmth through the windows. I allowed myself a proper pause, retreating briefly to my quarters for lunch.

I ate alone. I preferred it that way.

Afterward, I returned to the classroom, taking my place behind the long desk as the early afternoon settled in, heavy and subdued. The air held that quiet hush Hogwarts knew so well, when most students were scattered across the grounds or holed up in the common rooms, and the corridors breathed silence rather than sound.

I unlocked the classroom door, propped it slightly open, and waited. No summons, no schedule—just an open invitation. A small mercy, perhaps, for those who had stumbled during the week’s more complex exercises.

They trickled in, slowly. A fourth-year Ravenclaw, hesitant but determined. Two Slytherins—brooding, defensive, but curious. A Hufflepuff who asked permission before sitting down, as though entering sacred ground.

“Sit,” I said, not unkindly.

No reprimands. No lectures. Just instruction.

They laid their parchments out on the desks and I guided them, one by one, through their mistakes. I could hear where the logic unraveled in their words, where they misunderstood the theory behind the numerical constructs or misread the arithmantic bindings. I offered corrections. Questions. Sometimes, only silence until they found the answer themselves.

Tabby moved quietly around the room, adjusting chalk diagrams, fetching spare scrolls, passing along my notes without a word.

It was… peaceful, in its own strange way.

This, I had to admit—even to myself—was the part of teaching I had never expected to enjoy. The private moments of clarity. Of connection.

And yet, even in the rhythm of it, something prickled faintly at the edge of my mind.

A feeling I couldn’t quite place.

A young voice—uncertain but genuine—broke the soft hush that had settled over the classroom.

“Professor Gaunt,” said the Ravenclaw girl, her fingers still holding her quill mid-air. “Did you always wanted to teach?”

The question hovered awkwardly in the air, like dust caught in a shaft of afternoon light.

I tilted my head, pausing beside her desk.

It wasn’t the first time a student had asked something personal. Most assumed I would ignore them—or cut the conversation short. And often, I did. Not out of cruelty. But because I preferred the quiet certainty of instruction to the messiness of self.

“I suppose that depends,” I said, calmly.

She blinked. I heard the slight shift in her robes.

“On what?” she asked, a little bolder now.

“On the day you ask me,” I replied. Then I turned toward the board, adjusting my stance.

There was a low chuckle—one of the Slytherin boys. “That sounds like a no, sir.”

I said nothing at first. Let them wonder.

Let them sit in the silence long enough to learn that it wasn’t emptiness, but invitation.

Then I spoke—quieter this time. “No, I didn’t. I was meant for something else. Something I thought would matter more.”

The room stilled.

“And does this matter less?” asked the Hufflepuff girl near the window.

“No,” I said simply. “Not anymore.”

They didn’t expect the answer.

They didn’t know how much I meant it.

I continued pacing slowly between the desks, listening to the scratch of quills, the murmured questions, the reshuffling of scrolls. But the energy in the room had changed. Slightly. As if the students sensed something they hadn’t before—an opening, not wide, but real.

And maybe that was enough.

They didn’t need grand revelations.

They only needed to know that I was here. That I saw them—even if I couldn’t see them.

Even now, I wasn’t the warmest of mentors. I couldn’t offer the kind of guidance others did with a smile or a gentle word.

But I stayed. I listened. I corrected gently. And I returned, week after week.

It wasn’t always kindness that guided me. Sometimes it was duty.

But sometimes… it was more.

The aroma of roasted beef, rosemary potatoes, and buttered greens lingered thick in the air the moment I entered the Great Hall. I could tell it was fuller than usual—a murmur of weekend chatter echoed like water against stone, students decompressing after a long week of lessons and late-night essays. My steps found their way to the staff table almost without thought, guided not by eyes but memory, muscle, and the faintest creak of wood beneath my boots.

I nodded politely toward Weasley as I passed her, catching the faint clink of her teacup. Professor Kogawa was laughing softly, something about a fifth-year who had crash-landed into a snowdrift chasing a rogue snitch. Sharp, amused voices—all predictable.

Predictable.

I slid into my seat with a sigh I barely allowed to reach the surface. My fingers traced the lip of the goblet before me, chilled with pumpkin juice, the metal familiar in shape and temperature. Tabby, attentive as always, whispered my plate’s contents from my side—turkey with thyme, cranberry sauce, and a slice of leek tart. I nodded.

But as the hum of dinner washed over me, I started counting—something I hadn’t done in years.

Not the number of students.

Not the number of words in each conversation.

But the rhythm of her steps.

Eline Winchester had a way of walking that no other witch at Hogwarts did. Light on her feet, with a barely perceptible sway, like the wind adjusting its direction mid-flight. Her boots made the faintest scratch on stone when she approached the dais, followed by a breath—always held, always released halfway between her first two steps. I’d known it since we were fifteen.

Tonight, it never came.

Ten minutes passed. Then twelve. I feigned listening to a remark from Weasley. Nodded at Sharp as he poured himself a glass of elf-made wine. Fourteen. Still no sign of her.

Fifteen.

I stopped pretending. My fingers froze around my fork, and the air around me grew strangely cold. Not physically, not quite—but in that odd way your skin feels when your instincts begin to whisper.

Where is she?

I tilted my head subtly. No voice among the students from Gryffindor table calling out a “Professor Winchester!” in excitement. No laughter from the Ravenclaws quoting something clever she’d said in class. No mention at all.

I swallowed tightly. Something is off.

She’s never late to meals. Never.

It wasn’t just habit—it was her anchor. A structure, a rhythm to keep the chaos at bay. She shows up. She stays. She endures.

So where was she?

The low hum of the Great Hall had been steadily thinning, like mist dispersing under sunlight. Cutlery clinked less frequently. Conversations died mid-sentence as chairs scraped back from the long house tables. One by one, the students filed out in clusters, their footsteps echoing off the stone.

But not hers.

My fork had long since come to rest beside the untouched meal. It wasn’t hunger that gnawed at me—it was the absence. An absence I couldn’t justify, not logically, not with her habits.

I stood up slowly. The tap of my cane against the floor reverberated with purpose as I made my way to the end of the staff table, toward the familiar presence of Headmistress Weasley. Her voice floated still—warm, composed—as she bade a handful of Hufflepuffs goodnight.

“Headmistress,” I said quietly, inclining my head, “have you, by any chance, seen Professor Winchester this evening?”

There was a pause. A very slight one. But it was enough.

She didn’t answer at once—and that told me everything I needed to know.

“Not since this morning,” she replied at last, and her tone carried a careful neutrality. Too careful. “She mentioned she had some errands to run in Bainburgh. Normally she’s back before dinner.”

Another pause, tighter this time.

“She hasn’t sent word?”

“No,” Matilda said, and I detected the subtle tension in her voice—maternal, restrained, but present. “Which is unlike her. I… assumed she’d be back by now.”

The last of the students exited the hall. Their laughter and chatter faded with their steps.

I stepped closer.

“Would you like me to—”

“No,” she interrupted softly, but firmly. “Not yet. Let’s not raise alarm prematurely. It’s entirely possible she lost track of time.”

Yes. Possible. But not likely.

Matilda lowered her voice further, as though the stones themselves might overhear.

“Still… if she hasn’t returned within the hour, I’ll need your help.”

“Of course,” I replied without hesitation.

She lingered another beat. I heard the faint tapping of her fingernail against the side of her goblet—an old tick of hers, one I’d heard many times before in moments of doubt.

As I turned to leave, the great doors groaned shut behind me. The corridors beyond felt colder than they should have.

And the silence… sharper than before.

Chapter Text

Ominis gaunt

The upper floor of the staff tower was warmer than usual, filled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of porcelain. Someone had spelled a kettle to stay warm in the corner, and the air carried the scent of over-steeped chamomile and ink. A few professors were still sorting through papers from earlier lessons; others had settled into low chairs, legs crossed, teacups in hand, speaking in hushed tones about curriculum or Quidditch standings.

I remained near one of the long windows, facing nothing in particular.

Matilda stood at my side, her presence like a steadying hand even when she didn’t speak. We’d shared only a few words since dinner ended. She knew I wasn’t myself. I’d tried to explain it away—blamed fatigue, a lingering headache from the storm the day before—but she hadn’t bought any of it. Neither had I.

Eline hadn’t returned.

I told myself it was nothing. That she was delayed in Bainburgh, caught in a conversation, or simply taking a longer route home. But I knew her rhythm, the precision in how she lived, even if she pretended otherwise. When she promised to return before dinner, she did.

Except tonight, she hadn’t.

My fingers rested on the silver tip of my cane, but I wasn’t truly gripping it. Just… grazing. Listening. Feeling.

“She always comes back before sunset,” I said aloud, before I could stop myself.

Matilda’s breath caught softly beside me. “I know,” she murmured. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

It wasn’t her words that set me on edge, but the subtle shift beneath them—concern restrained by experience. Matilda Weasley wasn’t the type to panic. But she also didn’t speak unless she had cause.

Somewhere nearby, Sharp laughed—one of his rare, dry chuckles at something Kogawa had said. Binns floated overhead, muttering to himself in ghostly echoes. Even amid the casual noise, my mind kept drifting back to that absence . That one space that hadn’t been filled.

She wasn’t here.

And I could feel it.

As if the air knew her shape and missed it too.

I turned slightly toward Matilda, lowering my voice.

“We need to do something, Headmistress. She should’ve returned by now.”

Matilda exhaled through her nose, no longer trying to mask her concern. “I know. I’ll send—”

BANG.

The door slammed open with such force it struck the stone wall behind it, silencing the room in an instant.

Every instinct in me flared as I turned toward the sound, cane tight in my grip.

Footsteps—uneven, dragging—and the unmistakable weight of wet boots on stone. The scent of damp earth, sweat, and blood hit me first. Then her voice, unmistakably hers, laced with exhaustion and that damnable dry humour she wielded like a shield.

“Apologies for the dramatic entrance, Headmistress,” she rasped, breathless. “Turns out the skies were a bit crowded today. A few… aggressive ducks objected to my return.”

She was limping. I could hear it in the rhythm of her steps, in the way her breathing hitched. Something slick hit the floor—mud, maybe blood. Her magic—hers—was clinging to the air, fractured, erratic.

She was hurt.

“Merlin—Winchester!” Sharp was already moving from his place by the fireplace. I heard the scrape of his boots, fast and direct, just as she stumbled.

A sharp intake of breath—hers—then silence, except for the shuffle of cloth and leather as Sharp caught her just in time.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, barely audible. “Just… need to sit.”

Liar.

I could smell the copper on her. Her grip faltered around her middle. Whatever she’d faced out there, it hadn’t just grazed her.

She was barely standing.

And yet, even as her body failed her, she’d walked in on her own feet.

The room exploded into motion—professors rising, chairs pushed aside, someone summoning blankets and salves. Matilda moved, sharp and commanding, her voice slicing through the sudden panic. But I couldn’t move.

Not yet.

All I could do was stand there, jaw tight, pulse loud in my ears, and think the same word over and over again:

Why?

We moved fast.

Sharp kept one arm steady around her back, the other gently gripping her forearm. She tried to bat him away, ever the stubborn Gryffindor, but her fingers lacked any strength.

“I said I’m fine,” she hissed under her breath.

“Of course you are,” Sharp replied dryly, not slowing his pace. “And I’m the Bloody Baron.”

The other professors were murmuring, their concern filling the corridor like fog. Matilda led the way, wand already raised to signal the infirmary staff, emanating such a worry she didn’t even try to mask.

I stayed beside her. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

I focused on the sharp rhythm of her breathing, the little cracks in it when she stepped wrong, the way her magic buzzed faintly—erratic and defensive, even now. That current of energy was something I hadn’t sensed since we were children. It frightened me.

We entered the infirmary in a blur of noise and movement. The room smelled of balm and eucalyptus, clean sheets and sterilized instruments.

A cot had already been prepared. Sharp helped lower her onto it, and though she tried to make it look effortless, I heard the muffled groan she failed to fully swallow. Her whole body tensed as she was laid back, her right hand still gripping her left side, hard.

Nurse Blainey, appeared beside her almost instantly.

“Miss Winchester, I’m going to examine your injury. Please try to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Eline muttered, her voice thin and laced with something close to panic. “This is my relaxed face.”

Blainey gave a patient huff and touched her wand gently to Eline’s side.

Eline jerked—violently.

“Don’t—!” Her fingers clawed at the sheets, her teeth clenched. “Merlin—don’t touch there—”

I took a step forward, feeling something twist in my chest.

She was in pain. Real, gut-deep pain.

And yet, even through it, she wouldn’t let herself cry.

Matilda placed a hand on my shoulder then, grounding. “Let her work,” she said softly. “Noreen’s the best we have.”

I nodded stiffly, but didn’t move.

I needed to hear her breathe.

Matilda stepped closer, her tone gentle but edged with urgency.

“Eline,” she said, standing at the foot of the cot, “what happened out there?”

Eline’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of her name. She was pale now, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, a sheen of sweat beginning to form on her brow. She tried to laugh, but it came out ragged and dry.

“I took the scenic route home,” she muttered hoarsely. “Apparently, it came with… fireworks.”

Sharp scoffed behind me, but I heard the flicker of real concern beneath it.

Matilda crouched a little, leveling her gaze with Eline’s. “This isn’t a time for jokes.”

Eline exhaled slowly. She was trying to collect herself—to keep her answers measured, careful.

“I was ambushed. A group of poachers, I think. They tried to bring Caligo down. I don’t know how many. It was dark. Fast.”

Her voice broke on the last word, the breath hitching like a skipped heartbeat.

“I lost them in the clouds near the cliffs. But not before they hit me.”

Roswitha clicked her tongue. “Broken rib, at least one. Possibly more.”

I felt something cold coil in my stomach.

Matilda straightened slowly. Her voice was level, but I could sense the tremble beneath it. “Did they follow you?”

Eline shook her head—barely. “No. I don’t think so. Caligo was faster. He got me home.”

Matilda didn’t speak for a moment. I imagined her nodding, absorbing the information. Calculating. Protective instinct rising.

“We’ll alert the Magical Wildlife Division,” she said at last. “And strengthen the perimeter enchantments.”

I stood frozen by the wall. My hands curled at my sides.

Poachers. Of course.

But this wasn’t just some random attack. I felt it.

Something had shifted. Something that had been quiet far too long.

The air in the infirmary had thickened, saturated with the metallic scent of blood, damp fabric, and the sting of healing potions. Most of the faculty remained, scattered along the walls or clustered by the doorway, speaking in hushed tones that tried to mask their alarm and failed miserably.

I stood near the foot of the cot, my arms crossed but tension vibrating beneath my skin like a taut spell ready to snap. Every sound from Eline made my jaw clench—the sharp intake of breath, the strained exhale, the way her voice cracked when Roswitha applied pressure to her side.

“Hold still, Professor Winchester,” Noreen instructed softly. “It’s at least two ribs. Possibly fractured, not fully broken. I’ll need to reduce the swelling before I can set them.”

Eline’s only answer was a faint breath, barely perceptible, and then she winced again as another wave of pain crested through her.

My hand gripped the edge of a nearby table. I didn’t realize until that moment how hard it had become to simply… remain standing still.

Despite everything, her voice came out—low and hoarse—but controlled.

“Bai,” she said, searching the room. “Please… Caligo.”

Professor Howin stepped forward immediately, her boots scraping softly on the stone floor. “Where is he, Eline?”

“I managed to guide him to the lower paddocks. Near the Thestral enclosure,” she said between shallow breaths. “He’s strong… but shaken. Just make sure he’s safe.”

“I’ll see to him myself,” Bai replied without hesitation. “He’ll be all right. You just focus on breathing.”

I heard the distinct rustle of her cloak as she turned and swiftly exited, purpose in every step. For all her bluster with creatures, there was a gentleness in her touch when it came to beasts under duress. Eline had chosen well.

Noreen began murmuring a diagnostic incantation. The tip of her wand dimly emanated heat as it hovered over Eline’s torso, tracking fractures and internal bruising.

I heard Matilda speaking softly to someone else—perhaps Professor Ronen, perhaps Sharp. I wasn’t truly listening anymore.

My mind was caught in a loop.

She’d been attacked.

She’d nearly—

No. I wouldn’t allow the thought to finish.

What lingered instead was the scent of wet earth still clinging to her robes, the tremor in her breath, and that damned smile she gave when she walked in—bloodied and broken and still her .

My chest ached in a place no healer could ever reach.

The soft chime of Blainey’s wand signaled the end of her diagnostic spell. She exhaled deeply through her nose, tucking a few damp strands of hair behind her ear as she reached for a small vial of opalescent liquid resting on her tray.

“She’s stable,” she announced in a clear, calm voice meant more for the rest of the room than for Eline herself. “Two cracked ribs—one near the lung, but no puncture. A deep gash across her right side, likely from a curse or a magically enhanced weapon. Minor internal bruising, some magical backlash. Her nervous system is rattled, but nothing irreversible.”

She glanced down at Eline with the same expression she might give a particularly troublesome but beloved niece. “You’ve done more damage to yourself on less noble errands, I’d wager.”

Eline let out a dry laugh— barely a laugh, more like a memory of one. “Depends on how you define noble.”

The healing process took another twenty minutes. Noreen used a combination of charmwork and salves: Episkey for the ribs—slow and controlled, because the bones had already begun knitting improperly under strain—and Vulnera Sanentur , repeated in soft, steady tones over the laceration until the blood stopped welling. A cooling poultice spread across her side shimmered faintly in blue; it would soothe the nerve endings until the swelling subsided.

“You’ll be sore for a few days, no flying, no dueling,” Nurse Blainey said, packing away her tools. “Sleep on your back, and if you so much as think of getting back to class before I say so, I’ll tie you to the bedposts with a Sticking Charm.”

Eline didn’t argue. She only gave a slight incline of her head, a signal of compliance from someone used to enduring rather than resting.

The rest of the professors took that as their cue. Sharp, with a final nod toward Matilda, left first, followed by Professor Onai murmuring something in Twi under her breath. Kogawa, ever graceful, lingered a moment near the door before gliding out, and even the ever-blunt Professor Ronen gave a muttered well-wish before disappearing down the corridor.

Within minutes, the once-bustling infirmary fell quiet.

Only three of us remained.

I stood near the far wall, one hand still resting against a cabinet, listening to the scrape of Matilda pulling a chair closer to Eline’s bedside. Her presence was a low warmth in the air—strong, composed, watchful .

Eline breathed slower now, though I could still hear the tremble underneath, like a bowstring not fully slack.

“You frightened us, Eline,” Matilda said gently, smoothing out the blanket across her legs. “And you frightened that poor creature near to death.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back,” she murmured.

There was no bravado in her voice. No humor. Just quiet, simple truth.

My throat tightened.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions. I wanted to yell .

But all I could do was take a step closer, crossing the space between us until I stood just beside her cot. I reached out, slowly, fingers brushing against the edge of the blanket. Not touching her—just close enough to feel her magic hum beneath the surface of the linens.

“You did make it back,” I said, low. “That’s what matters now.”

She turned her head just slightly, enough that I felt her gaze settle on me.

Even in pain, even in silence— she saw me .

And somehow, I felt seen in return.

She shifted slightly on the bed— too fast —and grimaced. Her right hand immediately moved to her ribs, fingers pressing down gently as if trying to hold herself together.

Then, almost without thinking, she brought both hands up and covered her face.

“I’m sorry, Matilda,” she murmured behind her palms. Her voice wasn’t weak, not exactly—but it had that raw, tight edge that only came from exhaustion and guilt wrapped around each other like barbed wire. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t plan for this to happen.”

Matilda didn’t speak, but I could hear the subtle creak of her chair as she leaned forward. Not to scold. Just to be closer.

Eline exhaled. Slowly. Painfully.

“One moment we were gliding above the loch,” she continued, dropping her hands just enough for her voice to come through clearer, though she still didn’t meet our eyes. “And the next—”

She stopped, her jaw tightening. She opened her mouth like she meant to explain the chaos, to offer clarity—but instead she closed it again.

I could imagine it, too well: a quiet afternoon sky, Caligo’s wings slicing through mist and salt air, and then—an explosion. Pain. Falling.

“I didn’t even see them,” she said finally. “Didn’t sense a thing until it was too late. My magic— it flared a second before the blast, but it wasn’t enough.”

There was a shake in her voice now. She pressed a hand to her temple, as if trying to force the memory away. Or the shame.

Matilda placed a hand gently over Eline’s wrist. “You’re alive,” she said quietly, firmly. “And you got that creature home safely too. That’s what matters.”

But I could feel it in the air: Eline didn’t believe it. She was always her harshest judge. Always the martyr.

Always the hero who blamed herself for not seeing the arrow in time, even when it was shot from behind.

And I hated that. Hated that I could do nothing to quiet the tremor under her voice.

So I stayed quiet. Just a presence. Just… here.

Eline dropped her head to one side, her lips parted as if searching for something else to say. For a moment, only the faint hum of the torches filled the silence—the kind of silence that doesn't ask to be broken, but hurts if sustained too long.

And then, with a small, broken voice—that tone she used to pretend she wasn't on the verge of tears—she said:

“At least… your outfit from Aurora made it back in one piece.”

She gestured faintly with her hand toward the satchel near the foot of the bed, half open and scuffed from the fall. I hadn’t noticed it until now—Ronen must’ve picked it up when she stumbled in. Of course he had. Always the first to catch what others miss.

Matilda blinked, then let out a soft laugh. It was brief, but honest. And that sound—that tiny bit of warmth in the middle of all this bleakness—felt like something precious. She reached out and gently patted Eline’s forearm, careful not to graze the bandaged side.

“Trust you to worry about fabric while bleeding from the ribs,” she said, smiling just enough to show the affection behind the words.

But Eline only offered a tired shrug and leaned her head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, retreating into herself again.

She was trying. Gods, she was trying so hard not to fall apart in front of us.

And somehow, that made it worse.

As Matilda stood, she took a breath that said more than words. Her hand lingered on Eline’s for just a moment—motherly, steady, warm—then she looked at me. I could hear the rustle of her robes, the soft click of her boots as she turned toward the exit.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said quietly, and I knew she meant more than just space. She trusted me.

Then I heard the echo of her footsteps.

I sat down without thinking, sliding into the seat Matilda had just vacated. The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt fabric. The sheets beneath Eline rustled as she shifted slightly, probably to glance at me—but I didn’t need to see her eyes. Her silence said enough.

And then—my hand moved on its own. I reached out and gently took hers.

She didn’t flinch.

Her fingers were cold. Bruised knuckles. Shaky grip. But she held on.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I said quietly. “I really don’t.”

My thumb brushed over the edge of her hand, tracing the lines I used to know better than my own.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to feel too much. Not to get… attached. Not to look back.”

A pause.

“But then there’s you.”

I could hear my own voice—low, quiet, heavier than I intended.

“You leave on a routine errand and don’t return for dinner, and I spend the entire evening convincing myself I’m being paranoid. That I’m just… overreacting. That maybe you’d stayed behind to help someone or got caught in the rain. Logical reasons. Sensible ones.”

I shook my head, jaw tightening.

“But the truth is, I knew something was wrong. I felt it. And I hated it. Hated knowing that I couldn’t just shut it off, that no matter how far I’ve run from everything else, I never could outrun this—”

My grip on her hand tightened, just a fraction. Enough to feel it tremble.

“—this unbearable need to know you’re safe.”

My throat burned.

I hadn’t meant to say all of it, but once it started, it poured out like water from a cracked basin—quiet, but unstoppable.

Her hand was still in mine, smaller than I remembered. Fragile.

I turned toward her—toward the warmth of her presence, even if I couldn’t see the bruises I knew must be there, even if I couldn’t see the pain.

“Please,” I whispered, voice raw. “Please... just—tell me you’re all right.”

The words hung between us like fog in the highlands, thick and aching.

“I know you’re not. I’m not an idiot. I can feel it. You’re still trembling. Your breathing’s still shallow. You’re not fine, you’re just—hiding it again. Like always.”

My thumb pressed a little more firmly into her hand, grounding myself in her.

“I’ve spent years pretending it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. That I could keep my distance and be… functional. Professional. Controlled.”

I laughed under my breath. Bitter. Hollow.

“But Merlin help me, Eline—when that door flew open tonight, when I heard your voice like that—half broken, still joking—I swear something in me nearly cracked.”

Another pause. I swallowed hard.

“I need to hear you say it. Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

My voice dropped into almost nothing.

“Just say you’re all right.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Just the sound of her breath—slow, tight, shallow. Then, the subtle shift of her fingers closing around mine.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “That’s… all I know to say right now.”

She paused, then gave a small, trembling laugh—dry and hoarse, but genuine.

“I should say I’m fine. I want to say I’m fine. But I think you’d know I’m lying.”

Her hand tightened slightly. And for someone so broken, she felt strangely steady.

“I thought I wasn’t going to make it back,” she confessed, the words coming like rain slipping through a crack in the dam. “Up there, when the wind was screaming and Caligo was bleeding beneath me, when the spells kept coming—I wasn’t thinking about dying. I was thinking about what it would do to the people I left behind.”

Her breath caught.

“I thought of Antha. Of Matilda. Of the students. And then—”

She hesitated.

“—you.”

The silence returned, but it was warmer now. Heavy with something neither of us had dared name in years.

“I’m not all right,” she said softly, almost apologetically. “But I’m here. And you’re here. And for the first time in weeks… I think I can breathe.”

She didn’t let go.

And I didn’t want her to.

Her thumb brushed against the side of my hand, slow and tentative.

Then she exhaled—sharp, broken. Her voice cracked as she spoke, barely held together.

“I’ve missed you so much, Ominis.”

Not a whisper. Not a dramatic plea. Just the raw truth, laid bare in the stillness between us.

“My Ominis,” she added, softer this time. “Not the one the Ministry molded into stone, who never wrote back, who disappeared behind polished words and perfect silence.”

She laughed bitterly, and I felt her shoulders tremble under the weight of it.

“I missed the one who complained about the castle. The one who scowled at burnt toast like it had insulted his ancestry. The one who waited up for me after curfew and walked me back to the dorms just so I wouldn’t have to be alone with my thoughts.”

She turned her head slightly, and though I couldn’t see her eyes, I felt them on me.

“I missed you , the real you. Gruff. Gentle. Relentlessly loyal and far too hard on yourself.”

A beat. The silence crackled.

“I know we both had our reasons. But I—I kept hoping you’d come back before it was too late. And tonight, for a moment, I thought… maybe I’d run out of time to tell you.”

She shook her head slightly, a fresh breath catching in her throat.

“I didn’t want to die thinking you were gone for good.”

Her grip on my hand tightened.

“And I don’t want to keep living like you’re not still here.”

Her words undid something in me. Like a slow unravelling of stitches too tight for too long.

I closed my eyes, held her hand tighter.

“You think I didn’t miss you?” I said, my voice low, trembling against the quiet hum of the infirmary. “Merlin, Eline… I missed you every damn day.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

“You were the only thing that ever felt real in that place—after Hogwarts, I mean. The Ministry… my family… it was all smoke and mirrors. Appearances. Protocol. I kept telling myself I was doing what was expected of me. That it was easier to… to stay away. To disappear into the version of me they wanted.”

A bitter smile ghosted over my lips.

“And I hated him. That version. Cold. Predictable. Safe. I hated who I became without you.”

I shifted slightly on the chair, our hands still locked.

“But I thought staying away would protect you. That maybe… if I wasn’t near, the past wouldn’t catch up to you. To us.”

I drew in a shaky breath and finally said what I should’ve said years ago.

“I never stopped caring for you, Eline. Not once. I just got very, very good at pretending I didn’t. And I’m sorry. For all of it. For vanishing. For never writing back. For not being the friend you needed.”

I paused, and when I spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“You said you thought you might die tonight. And I realized… if something had happened to you, and I hadn’t said any of this—”

My throat closed up. I swallowed hard.

“—I’d never forgive myself.”

I turned my head toward her, wishing I could see her properly, her expression, her eyes, anything.

“But you’re here. You’re here, and I’m not walking away again. Not unless you ask me to.”

I didn’t know what else to say. Words felt… insufficient.

So I let silence say the rest.

Slowly, I leaned forward, and with the gentlest motion, I pressed my forehead against the back of our joined hands. Her skin was still cold from the wind, from the rain, but it didn’t matter.

I stayed there—bent over, eyes closed, breath steadying against her fingers—allowing myself this small, quiet truth.

“I’m here,” I whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. It was simple. Honest. A vow shaped in breath and skin.

And for the first time in a long, long while, I meant it with every part of me.

I didn’t lift my head right away. I just breathed, letting her warmth slowly thaw something in me I didn’t realise had frozen entirely.

Then, quietly, I spoke again—still against her fingers, still holding her hand like it might vanish if I let go.

“This… thing we’ve been doing,” I said, my voice steadier now, but low, careful. “The awkward silences. The distance. This… careful little dance where we pretend we’re just colleagues and nothing more.”

I finally sat upright and turned my face slightly in her direction. I didn’t need to see her to know she was listening. I could feel it in the way her thumb twitched ever so slightly under mine, in the stillness of her breath.

“We’ve lost enough time, Eline,” I said. “More than we ever should have. Time buried under guilt and pride and… fear. I’ve wasted too many moments choosing silence when I should have chosen you.”

There was no anger in my voice. No accusation. Just the weariness of someone who had finally grown tired of the walls he’d built around himself.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” I murmured, thumb brushing the back of her hand. “I’m done keeping you at arm’s length like it’ll somehow hurt less if things go wrong. Because nothing—nothing—has ever felt more right than this.”

I let the words hang there, not begging, not demanding—just offering. Honest, unguarded, and finally free.

I didn’t leave.

Not when the candles dimmed on their own accord. Not when the quiet hum of the castle gave way to the silence of deep night. Not even when the nurse returned briefly to check on her wounds and gave me that knowing look, the kind that didn’t need words.

Eline had fallen asleep, slowly, her breathing evening out only after her hand had curled fully around mine. I could feel her pulse there—steady, alive. That was enough.

I sat with her in the soft hush of the infirmary, the faint scent of healing potions lingering in the air, the occasional creak of the old wooden beams above. The castle felt more like a sanctuary than it had in years. Maybe because, for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t trying to push away the things I cared about.

At some point, I must’ve drifted off too.

Not deeply—not the kind of sleep that forgets the world—but enough that my body finally stopped holding itself so tightly. My head had tilted just slightly toward her pillow, still sitting in the chair beside her bed, our hands still clasped in a quiet, wordless promise.

When morning came, the sun creeping shyly through the infirmary windows, it found us like that. Two people weathered by war and regret, but still—still—reaching for something that felt like home.

And I held on.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The light came slowly through the tall, arched windows of the infirmary tower, filtered in golden threads by the grey of a clouded morning. It wasn’t warm sunlight—it rarely was in Scotland—but it carried with it a kind of quiet comfort, like a wool blanket that smelled faintly of rosemary and parchment.

My eyelids fluttered open to the sensation of something both heavy and warm wrapped around my right hand.

Ominis.

His fingers were still tangled with mine, as if neither of us had let go during the night. His head rested near our joined hands, golden strands of his hair catching a faint glimmer of the morning light. His breathing was steady, deep—he hadn’t stirred yet.

I blinked slowly, taking in the room in that morning hush, so unlike the chaos of the night before. My body ached with dull fire, especially at my ribs, but the magic had done its job. I was alive. I was here.

And so was he.

Across the room, I heard the soft shuffle of slippers and the distinct scratch of quill against parchment. Nurse Blainey, the ever-diligent matron, walked slowly down the corridor just beyond the drawn curtain. She was humming to herself faintly—something folkish, maybe from the Highlands. When she passed our bed, she glanced in with a practiced eye, and then… she paused.

Her gaze lingered just a heartbeat longer.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and then she moved on, her quill swishing back into motion on her clipboard. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.

Wonderful.

Caught red-handed— literally.

I should have let go of his hand. I should have moved, adjusted the covers, done something that screamed ‘professional distance.’ But I didn’t.

Because for the first time in what felt like a decade, I didn’t want to pretend.

I looked at him again, at the stillness in his face, the way the corners of his lips weren’t as tense as usual. There was something peaceful in him right now. Younger, almost. And despite everything—despite the distance, the unsent letters, the secrets, and the pain—I knew.

This was my Ominis.

And I’d missed him more than I’d let myself feel.

My gaze wandered over him again, tracing the familiar line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that somehow never truly faded, not even in sleep. His hair had fallen just slightly out of place—silken strands brushed across his forehead like wind-blown parchment.

I didn't think. And I couldn't resist.

My fingers moved on their own, still carefully cradled in his hand. Slowly, almost reverently, I lifted them, letting our grip ease—not to break it, but to shift.

And then, with the gentlest touch I could manage, I reached up and brushed his hair back.

A single pass. Soft. Careful.

Like I was afraid he might break.

I let my fingers linger at his temple for a breath too long, caught in the warmth of his skin, the weight of everything unspoken between us. There was no sound but the rustle of my sleeve and the distant clink of teacups on trays. The world had reduced itself to the rhythm of his breathing, the scent of healing herbs, and the hush between heartbeats.

It was… a silent confession.

Not a word spoken, not even to myself.

Just the truth whispered through touch.

You’re still here.

I’m still here.

And Merlin help me, I never stopped caring.

I should have pulled away. I should’ve let the moment remain quiet and unfinished, but I didn’t.

My fingers were still barely grazing his hair when I felt his breath shift.

A slow inhale.

Then the faintest furrow of his brow.

And then—

“Eline?”

His voice was low, still wrapped in sleep, rough around the edges like worn velvet.

He didn’t move much—just slightly lifted his head where it had been resting on our joined hands.

“Are you alright?”

His face turned slightly in my direction, the faintest crease forming between his brows. His expression wasn’t alarmed, but there was a stillness there—focused, listening.

Of course. He had felt the touch. Heard the way I held my breath when I realized he was waking. He noticed everything.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whispered, instinctively drawing my hand back, though not fully. I didn’t want to let go. “You were resting.”

“I felt you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Your hand.”

A pause.

“And you were trembling.”

I blinked, surprised. I hadn’t realized I was.

His fingers curled slightly around mine again. The gesture was steadying. Not forceful. Just… grounding.

“I’m alright,” I said, though the words didn’t sound very convincing, even to me. But it wasn't from my ribs my hands trembled, it was for something I didnt want to think in that moment.

His head tilted just slightly, sensing it. “Are you sure?”

The way he asked—gently, but without letting me deflect—made something in my chest ache. This was Ominis. The real one. The one who could hear things I couldn’t even admit out loud.

And yet, I managed a faint smile. “A little sore, maybe.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. The sound was halfway between relief and restrained worry.

“Good,” he said after a beat. “Well… not the sore part. But the rest.”

He shifted a little more upright in his chair, keeping our hands between us, and tilted his face toward me again.

His expression was unreadable, and yet… I knew.

He had been terrified.

I shifted slightly in the bed, careful not to jostle my side, though the pain had dulled now to something manageable. Ominis sat beside me still, his face tilted in my direction, our hands caught gently between us like a secret we hadn’t quite said aloud yet.

“I’ve missed this,” I said softly.

His head tilted just slightly again, his mouth parting like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

“This?” he asked, cautious.

“This,” I confirmed. “You. Me. Talking like this. Before everything got…” I trailed off.

“Complicated,” he finished.

I nodded.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but charged with something else. Not tension—more like… recognition. Familiarity.

“I used to think I knew exactly who I was when we were students,” I said after a moment. “Then everything happened and I—well, I suppose I lost track of her. The girl I was.”

Ominis gave a faint hum, like a note drawn low on a string instrument. “I know the feeling.”

He ran his thumb lightly along my knuckles, a motion so subtle I barely noticed until it sent a shiver up my arm.

“You were always so sure of yourself back then,” he continued. “Fearless. Determined.”

I smiled, but it faltered. “I think I was just good at pretending not to be afraid.”

He breathed out something like a laugh—quiet, warm. “Then maybe we were both pretending.”

I turned my head toward him, studying his features in the soft morning light that spilled faintly through the tall windows of the tower. His hair was a bit tousled from sleep. There was a crease still pressed into his cheek from where he’d rested it against our hands. He looked younger like this. Softer. But still unmistakably him.

“I’m sorry for not writing back,” he said suddenly, voice quiet but certain. “After I left the Ministry… I didn’t know how to… be that person again. The one you knew. The one I liked being around you.”

My heart gave a small, uneven flutter.

“I don’t need you to be anyone else,” I said gently. “I only ever wanted you to be you, Ominis. Whatever version of you that may be.”

He turned slightly toward me, his brows drawn. “Even if that version is bitter and brooding and annoyingly punctual?”

I let out a small, real laugh. “Especially then.”

His lips twitched at the corners—almost a smile.

“You always saw through me, Eline,” he murmured. “Even when I hated it.”

“That’s because you always saw through me first,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that followed was filled only by the distant sounds of the castle stirring to life—voices in the hallway, the soft steps of the nurse across the corridor, the rustle of parchment and quills. But here, in this little corner of the world, it felt like only we existed.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending,” I said finally. “Not anymore.”

He nodded slowly, the motion subtle but unmistakable. And then, so softly I almost didn’t hear it—

“Then let’s not.”

Ominis tilted his head ever so slightly, his lips curving with the ghost of a smile. “Alright,” he murmured, squeezing my hand just enough for me to feel it. “Enough of this brooding… Tell me—what’s your life been like? Outside of saving magical creatures, terrorizing students into excellence, and apparently getting attacked mid-air?”

I huffed a quiet laugh, rolling my eyes. “Terrorizing? Is that the general consensus?”

“Highly probable,” he said, clearly trying not to smile. “Though I might be projecting.”

I gave him a playful nudge with my other hand, instantly regretting it as a dull pain reminded me I was still bruised. He must’ve felt me tense, because his brow furrowed immediately.

“I’m fine,” I reassured him quickly, waving it off. “And to answer your question… life’s been busy. Quiet, mostly. I kept my head down after everything. Focused on teaching, on helping where I could. I’ve travelled here and there for a few special students. And I spend most summers at Bainburgh.”

He perked up at that. “Bainburgh?”

“Mhm. It’s peaceful. The sea, the cliffs… the quiet. I go there when I need to think. Or not think at all.” I paused, hesitating. “It’s also where Antha lives now.”

Ominis tilted his head slowly, and I could feel the shift in the air immediately. His voice, when it came, was careful—low and slightly hoarse. “Who’s Antha?”

My breath caught, only slightly—but I knew he felt it. Of course he did. Nothing ever slipped past him. I tried to swallow it down, that instinct to lie or deflect, but something in his face—gentle, steady—held me still. Anchored me.

My fingers tightened around his just a little.

“She’s…” I exhaled. “She’s Anne.”

Ominis didn’t move.

“She changed her name,” I continued softly. “After Feldcroft. After everything. She couldn’t stay Anne Sallow. Not anymore. She needed to leave that girl behind. The pain, the memory… the weight of it all. So she chose a new name. A new life.”

I looked down at our hands, unsure if I should keep going—but I had started now, and the words wouldn’t stop.

“She didn’t want to be found. Not by the world. Not even by magic, if it meant reopening what had already been torn apart. Antha Virell is who she is now. That’s who she’s been for years. And… she asked me once, if she were ever to die… to let it be as Antha. Not Anne. She wanted that peace.”

A long silence settled between us.

My voice broke into it, quieter than before. “I never told anyone. Not until now.”

I finally looked up. And Ominis… he wasn’t angry. There was something in his face I couldn’t fully name—grief, maybe, or longing. Or the ghost of a boy who once believed he could save everyone if he just tried hard enough.

He didn’t flinch, but I saw the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. Still, his voice was calm when he said, “You’ve stayed close to her.”

I nodded. “She’s been through more than anyone should. I visit when I can. And I keep her secret, like we all promised.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Thank you for that.”

I looked at him, really looked, and saw the weight he still carried. The way even after all these years, some burdens refused to loosen their grip.

“And you?” I asked, shifting the focus. “Besides teaching future Arithmancy geniuses and making the rest of us look unprepared… what’s life been like for you?”

He let out a quiet sound—almost a chuckle, almost a sigh. “Hm. Bureaucratic. Dull. Predictable. The Ministry wasn’t for me, not really. I convinced myself it was a way to make things right. But all it did was turn me into someone I didn’t like seeing in the mirror.”

“And now?”

“And now…” He tilted his face toward me, his expression unreadable. “Now I’m trying to remember who I used to be. Before politics. Before expectations. Before all the… noise.”

I brushed my thumb gently across the back of his hand. “You’re still him, you know. Even if it’s buried under layers of impeccable tailoring and biting sarcasm.”

That earned me a full smile. It was faint, but it was there. Real.

“Don’t tell the students,” he said dryly. “I’ve worked very hard to cultivate an air of complete indifference.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He shifted slightly, straightening up, the line of his shoulders easing—just a little.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

I blinked. “For what?”

“For trusting me.”

I smiled faintly. “You always did say I was a terrible liar.”

He smirked. “That hasn’t changed, clearly.”

That broke the heaviness between us just enough to let something lighter in. He turned slightly toward me, still holding my hand. His expression was a little more alive now, his tone carefully casual.

“So,” he said, his voice warm but teasing, “tell me—what else have I missed in the strange, secret life of Eline Winchester?”

I let out a soft laugh, the first real one in what felt like forever. “Where do I start? After saving the school and almost getting expelled for it?” I gave him a pointed look. “Thanks again for that, by the way.”

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “I remember it more as you dragging me into morally questionable decisions.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” I shot back. “You were the one always pushing the rules—until, of course, you became the poster boy for law and order at the Ministry.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And you, the beloved Hogwarts guardian. We really did grew up, didn’t we?”

I nodded. “I suppose we grew up. In our own, chaotic ways.”

He hummed in agreement. “So… beyond secret identities and mythical hippogriff flights—what’s your life like now? Day to day.”

I leaned back slightly on the pillows, relaxing into the moment. “Peaceful. Most days. I teach, I read, I fly. I try not to think about the things I’ve lost. Or the people.”

He said nothing for a moment, but I felt his thumb brush lightly across my knuckles. A silent I know.

“And you?” I asked softly. “What about you, Ominis Gaunt? What does a man like you do now that he’s free of the Ministry and… well, everything else?”

He turned his head toward me, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m figuring that out. Slowly. Teaching is… strange. Fulfilling in ways I didn’t expect.”

“And the students?”

“They remind me of us.” His voice was quieter now. “All that fire. All that foolish bravery. I think… I want to make sure none of them lose themselves the way we almost did.”

I nodded, emotion swelling in my chest. “You’ve always wanted to protect people. Even when you said you didn’t.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating huff. “Perhaps. Or maybe I just needed to believe I wasn’t powerless.”

“You never were.”

Our eyes met—his clouded, but piercing in their own way. For a long moment, neither of us said anything.

The silence between us turned golden, that kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. And yet, I found myself smiling—unprompted—as a memory bubbled up from some forgotten corner of my mind.

“Do you remember,” I began, my voice laced with amusement, “that time in fifth year when you tried to hex Peeves because he dumped honey all over your essay?”

Ominis let out a groan, his lips twitching. “Merlin, don’t remind me. I was sticky for days. No cleaning spell worked properly. It was cursed honey, you said.”

I grinned. “It was cursed honey! I read it in Moste Mischievous Maladies . You should’ve thanked me.”

“Oh, I thanked you by nearly setting the common room on fire trying to dry my robes, if I recall correctly.”

I laughed, sharp and sudden, and he joined in, his low chuckle shaking his shoulders. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in years—not the careful, polite hum he gave to strangers, but a real one. Full. Familiar.

“Oh—oh wait,” I said, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “And then you tried to storm the headmaster’s office to demand justice from Peeves , and got stuck in the staircase trick-step.”

He groaned again, louder this time. “I knew you’d bring that up.”

“You were yelling , Ominis. ‘Let me go, you blasted piece of stone, I demand my dignity back!’ The portraits talked about it for weeks !”

His hand was covering his face now, shaking his head. “I hate that you remember everything.”

“That’s a lie,” I said softly, smiling at him.

He dropped the hand and looked toward me, his smile settling into something fonder. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it is.”

Our hands were still joined. Our laughter slowly faded, but the warmth lingered. I hadn’t felt this light in years—like something heavy had been lifted from between us, if only for a moment.

And in that moment, it felt like no war had ever touched us. Like we were back at Hogwarts, fifteen years old, laughing over cursed honey and trick-steps.

Maybe some things didn’t have to stay buried forever.

The warm laughter still lingered in the room like a charm not yet broken. I had barely wiped the last tear from the corner of my eye when I heard the soft clicking of boots approaching down the corridor. Steady, unhurried. Familiar.

Ominis sat up just slightly, still holding my hand, though now his thumb brushed gently across my knuckles.

A moment later, Matilda Weasley appeared near the entrance, her silhouette framed by the soft morning light filtering through the high windows. Her arms were crossed, but her expression was anything but stern.

“Well, well,” she said with a knowing grin, stepping into the room with all the ease of someone who’d seen far too much to be surprised by anything anymore. “My favorite Gryffindor and Slytherin… finally smiling. What a rare sight.”

I felt the blush creep up my cheeks instantly. Ominis, of course, gave her a polite but unmistakable sigh.

Matilda merely raised a brow in amusement, then added, “Mr. Gaunt, might I borrow Professor Winchester for just a moment? I promise not to keep her long, nor to question the circumstances of her company.”

Ominis turned slightly toward me, lips twitching into something between a smile and a smirk. “I suppose I can give you one minute without me.”

“You’re too generous,” I murmured as he slowly let go of my hand.

He rose and, with a subtle nod to Matilda, stepped away and out into the corridor.I watched his figure disappeared softly.

Matilda waited only until the latch clicked before she turned to me, her expression softening.

“You’ve scared us, Eline,” she said, her voice quiet now, not scolding—just honest. “I’m very relieved you’re still in one piece.”

I nodded, suddenly feeling that ache of guilt again. “I didn’t mean for—”

“I know,” she said gently, holding up a hand. “And that’s precisely why you are not teaching tomorrow.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she arched one of those damn eyebrows again.

“You will rest, and I’ll see to the Defence class. End of discussion.”

I sighed and leaned back on the pillows. “Just one day?”

“One,” she confirmed, but her eyes twinkled. “Maybe two, if I find out you tried to sneak into the Great Hall before dinner.”

I rolled my eyes—half in jest, half in defeat.

Matilda reached down and gave my blanket a quick tug into place like a mother hen. “You Gryffindors never do sit still.”

She turned to go, but paused at the door and added quietly, “You know… you deserve moments like this morning. Don’t waste them, Eline.”

And then she was gone.

I watched the door creak open, slowly, carefully. For a moment, I wasn’t sure who it was—until I saw the silhouette.

Ominis.

He stepped inside with quiet steps, as if not to disturb something sacred. His face held that same calm restraint he always carried, but I knew better. I always did.

There it was—the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. Most wouldn’t notice it. But I did. I always noticed him .

A smile so subtle it could be mistaken for nothing at all.

But to me, it said I’m here . You’re not alone . We made it through the night .

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The air was different.

I noticed it the moment I stepped into the classroom.

The door didn’t creak—yet the faint click as it shut behind me echoed louder than it should’ve. Every student was already in their seat, unusually early for a Monday morning. Quills rested still above parchment. Books were open but unread. There was a quiet anticipation hanging over the room, stretched taut like an unspoken question.

I walked to the front with my usual pace, trying not to favor my side, even though the dull ache beneath my ribs reminded me with every step. I’d been through worse. Or at least, I told myself that.

It was the stillness in the air that unsettled me more than the pain.

They were watching me.

Not obviously—never directly—but I could feel it. Eyes darting up quickly from textbooks, lingering a second too long on the bruising just peeking past my collar despite the layers I’d tried to wear. They wanted answers. And none of them dared to ask.

I placed my satchel carefully atop the desk, drawing a slow breath as I turned to face them.

“Good morning,” I said with a steady voice.

A quiet chorus of “Good morning, Professor Winchester,” followed. Polite. Sincere. And yet… softer. As if they weren’t sure how loud they were allowed to be.

The windows were open just enough to let in the faint hum of the lake breeze. It smelled like parchment and something else—curiosity, maybe. Concern. There were always whispers at Hogwarts, and this time, they were about me. I had completely escaped nurse Noreen accusatory glaze, obviously disregarding her command of not teaching, as one does.

I leaned back slightly against the edge of my desk, schooling my features into calm.

“I hope you’ve all reviewed the translation exercises from last week,” I continued, picking up a quill and twirling it absentmindedly between my fingers.

No one spoke. Not even the usual few who were always eager to answer.

Then, from the second row, a tentative hand rose.

It belonged to Elijah Bell—a quiet third-year Hufflepuff with an impeccable sense of courtesy and a tendency to apologize to his inkpot when he knocked it over.

“Yes, Mr. Bell?” I asked, gently.

He lowered his hand slightly, fidgeting with his sleeves. His voice, when it came, was barely louder than a whisper.

“Are you… alright, professor?”

The room stiffened.

A few students turned to look at him. Others stared straight ahead, pretending not to hear, though I could see their shoulders tensing.

I gave him a soft smile. One I’d practiced a thousand times. The one that says I’m fine, whether it was true or not.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Bell,” I replied, carefully. “But there’s no need to worry. We’re here to talk about defense against the dark arts, not me.”

A few students dropped their gaze immediately. One scribbled something on their parchment as if my words had released them from a spell.

Still, the tension didn’t vanish. It simply shifted—into the corners of the room, into the glances exchanged when they thought I wasn’t looking. But I had taught enough years to know: students feel more than they say. And silence has a weight all its own.

So I taught.

With a steadier voice than I felt, I reviewed the variant runes they’d been struggling with. I moved among the rows, pausing now and then to look over a shoulder, offer a correction, a word of praise. I joked gently with one student who had spelled wind as wine —“a common mistake in certain libraries, I assure you”—and that earned a small laugh, even if it was still tinged with caution.

I didn’t mention the bruises. Or the limp. Or the reason why a certain large-winged creature had smashed through the Thestral pens near the school entrance.

But they knew.

They always knew.

And that knowing lingered between us like mist—thin, almost invisible, but clinging to everything.

The rest of the lesson passed without incident.

Or, rather, without spoken incident.

The students followed instructions with quiet diligence, their quills scratching across parchment in unison, like the wings of a murmuration. No disruptions, no side conversations—none of the usual rustling of adolescence that filled even the most serious classrooms at Hogwarts. Just… stillness, again.

They watched me without watching. They spoke softly when spoken to. They handed in their work with both hands, as if I might break if they were careless.

I pretended not to notice.

And when the class finished, they filtered out with murmured goodbyes, more frequent than usual. One or two lingered by the door, hesitating as if wanting to say something more, before thinking better of it.

I remained standing for a moment after the last student had gone, my fingers brushing over the edge of the desk. The silence they left behind felt heavier than the one they brought in.

I began gathering the essays with one hand when the knock came—three sharp raps on the door, quick and formal.

Before I could respond, it opened a crack and Professor Ronen leaned in, his expression gentle but unreadable.

“Professor Winchester,” he said with a slight incline of his head, “the headmistress requests your presence in her office.”

My heart sank just a little—enough to be noticed.

I gave a brief nod and murmured, “Thank you,” before setting down the stack of parchment in my satchel, fingers tightening instinctively around the worn leather strap.

The walk through the halls felt longer than it was. Even the castle seemed quieter than usual—as if the walls, too, were holding their breath.

I tried not to speculate. But my thoughts raced nonetheless.

Matilda Weasley never called lightly.

And she certainly never called without reason.

The stone steps that led to the headmistress’s office gave a soft groan beneath my boots as I ascended—slower than usual, the echo of my own pace a steady reminder that I hadn’t quite recovered, not fully. But it wasn’t the dull ache in my side that made my stomach coil.

It was the summons.

Even though I trusted Matilda— especially because I trusted her—the request had stirred something uneasy in my chest. Perhaps it was old instincts, deeply buried, resurfacing. Perhaps it was the ghost of old Headmaster Black, who had made this same office feel like the seat of judgment itself.

But this wasn’t Black’s office anymore.

When the carved door swung open with its usual gentle creak, I was met not by shadowed disdain, but by warmth—flickering firelight from a floating hearth, brass instruments ticking rhythmically on high shelves, and the faint scent of lemon verbena from the tea Matilda always kept steeping near her desk.

Still, the tension lingered.

She looked up as I entered, eyes sharp behind her spectacles, hands folded atop an open file. Her expression was unreadable—not cold, not cruel… just weighted. Purposeful.

“Eline,” she said, not unkindly, gesturing to the seat across from her.

I stepped forward, my fingertips brushing the back of the chair before I sat. The air in the room, despite its warmth, felt thick. Tightly held. Like a breath waiting to be exhaled.

She closed the file in front of her with a quiet snap .

And just like that, I knew—this wasn’t merely a check-in.

She had something to say.

And I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to hear it.

She didn’t speak right away.

Instead, she studied me for a moment—her eyes not clinical like a nurse’s, nor sharp like a Ministry official’s. They were… gentle. Familiar. The kind of gaze that saw past the pressed uniform and steady voice I’d worn all day, and landed straight on the exhaustion I hadn’t managed to hide.

Matilda sighed softly, removing her glasses and setting them beside the steaming cup on her desk.

“You shouldn’t be back on your feet so soon. Nor teaching”

Her voice held no reprimand—only concern, wrapped in that firm-but-kind tone she used with students who thought themselves invincible. I smiled faintly, leaning back slightly in the chair.

“I’m fine, really,” I said, though I doubted it sounded convincing. “A bit sore, but—”

“Don’t do that,” she interrupted gently, tilting her head and raising a hand as if to stop me. “Don’t do that thing where you convince everyone else you’re invulnerable. I know you, Eline. You don’t always have to be the strong one.”

The words landed deeper than they should have. I glanced away for a second, studying the embroidery of the carpet at my feet, tracing the curling shapes of phoenix feathers with my eyes.

She continued, more softly now.

“I saw you in that infirmary. The way you winced every time the nurse pressed even lightly against your side. You’re still in pain.” A pause. “And you’re not doing yourself any favours by pretending otherwise.”

I exhaled, quietly. I didn’t mean to pretend. But sometimes it felt like the only way forward.

Matilda leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the edge of the desk. “This place will run just fine with or without you for a few more days. Your students won’t forget how to duel, and your Gryffindors certainly won’t forget how to misbehave.” A soft smile tugged at the edge of her lips.

I couldn’t help but return it.

“I missed them,” I admitted. “Even the ones who nearly lit my cloak on fire last month.”

“That sounds like third-years,” she muttered, then added, “You’ve always poured so much of yourself into this place. But you’ve only got one self to pour from, Eline. And I worry…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

The pause stretched, the silence not uncomfortable, but weighty. Like it held things neither of us were quite ready to say aloud.

Matilda exhaled with a chuckle, leaning back in her chair, arms folding loosely in front of her.

“I know that no matter what I say, you’re going to do what you want,” she said, amused but not unkind. “If I told you to stay in bed for another week, you’d probably sneak out through the window and limp your way to class just to prove a point.”

I grinned, unable to deny it. She wasn’t wrong.

She tilted her head slightly, that familiar fondness softening her expression. “You know,” she went on, “you always remind me of the day I first met you. You had just arrived, that wide-eyed fifth year, standing in the Entrance Hall with more awe than sense. You and Fig made quite the pair.”

I let out a quiet laugh, covering my face for a second. “Merlin, was I that obvious?”

“Utterly,” she confirmed with a sparkle in her eyes. “You had so many questions, so much curiosity. And I remember wondering if you’d be able to catch up—if the year’s head start the others had on you might overwhelm you.”

There was a pause, a knowing smile curling on her lips.

“But then… two weeks in, you vanished after dinner. Gave your poor Prefect a heart attack.”

My mouth fell open, laughing again. “You remember that?”

“Oh, I do. Because I was the one they woke up in the middle of the night when it turned out a certain Miss Winchester had wandered alone into the Forbidden Forest.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I defended weakly. “I had a wand. And a floating candle map.”

“Which you promptly lost after tripping over your own cloak.”

We both laughed now, and the sound felt like sunlight breaking through a cloudy morning.

Matilda shook her head, mock-disapproval dancing in her features. “That was the moment I knew you’d be trouble. The good kind. The kind that changes things.” Her voice softened then, not entirely teasing anymore, rolling her eyes at me. “And I wasn’t wrong.”

I looked down at my hands resting in my lap, warmth rising in my chest despite the pain still tugging at my side.

She had always seen more in me than I did in myself.

Matilda’s smile lingered for a moment longer before she drew in a slow breath and straightened slightly in her chair. The change in her posture was subtle, but unmistakable. Her brow furrowed just enough to give away the shift in mood, and when she spoke again, her voice held that tempered steel Eline had come to recognize.

“I’ve been in contact with the Ministry,” she said, the words measured, but not impersonal. “I reported the incident, of course. A full account. Everything I know. Everything you told me. The presence of your hippogriff. The attack. The damage.”

She paused, then scoffed softly—more out of frustration than amusement.

“But you know how that place functions. Or rather… doesn’t.” Her fingers drummed once on the desk, then stopped. “They’ve acknowledged it. Formally. Which in Ministry language means they’ll ‘investigate’—but only once they’ve filed the proper scrollwork, summoned two or three useless meetings, and consulted someone’s cousin in Magical Wildlife Affairs.”

Matilda’s tone sharpened slightly, her frown deepening.

“In short: nothing is going to happen. Not unless something worse happens. Apparently, an attempted hippogriff abduction—along with an injured Hogwarts professor—doesn’t meet their definition of an immediate threat.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a moment, her mask of headmistress professionalism cracked just enough to show the anger beneath.

“And I find that deeply unacceptable.”

I let out a breath, slow and measured, but I could feel the tension creeping up my spine like ivy against an old stone wall. My fingers curled lightly around the arms of the chair, grounding myself—though the office was warm, inviting even, the weight in my chest remained cold and sharp.

A smile tugged at my lips, but it wasn’t real. Not in the way it used to be.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said quietly, my eyes fixed on a seam in the rug beneath Matilda’s desk. “After everything I did… everything I gave them, those years doesn’t count for them. I thought I mattered more than just a name in someone else’s report. A signature on parchment. A memory tied to a battle no one wants to talk about anymore.”

I let out a small huff—amused, bitter. “I was an asset, once. Useful. Valuable, even. And now I’m just… the girl who didn’t die. The woman who keeps walking back into danger, and for what?”

I finally looked up at Matilda, meeting her eyes. She had always seen straight through me, ever since that very first day she welcomed me into this place. She still did.

“So,” I said, softly but not uncertainly. “Now what?”

Matilda didn't respond immediately. I saw her expression harden slightly, her jaw set in a firmer line, as if she were forcing herself to contain something she'd been bottling up for some time. Then, in that tone of hers—serene but with an iron core—she said:

“I’ve… been reaching out,” she admitted, hesitating just enough for me to catch it. “Moving some of my contacts around the hamlets that surround Bainburgh. Quietly. Discreetly.”

My breath caught.

“There’s been word,” she continued. “Nothing official yet. But small signs. Broken boundaries. Creatures gone missing. A few minor injuries. Not the scale of what we saw eight years ago, nothing like that—but something’s stirring again. Poachers. Small movements, here and there.”

My fingers twitched in my lap. The warmth of the fire suddenly felt too much.

“Not just opportunists. Not the usual black market types we’ve dealt with in the past,” Matilda added, frowning deeper now. “Something coordinated… or at least too consistent to ignore.”

Her eyes found mine again, and for a second, she looked ten years older. We both did.

“They’re not back,” she said quietly, as if trying to convince herself more than me. “But there’s… an echo.”

Matilda held my gaze for a few more seconds, as if carefully weighing her words. Finally, she exhaled, her tone softening, but taking on a quiet firmness.

“I need you not to get involved. Not yet.”

My chest tightened. I almost interrupted—almost told her she was asking for something impossible. But she raised a hand gently, her eyes filled with something that looked too much like worry.

“Please,” she continued. “I know how hard it is for you to stay on the sidelines when something stirs like this. I know your instinct is to protect, to act. But you’re still recovering, Eline. You might be back on your feet and teaching, but you’re not fully healed. Not truly.”

I didn’t answer right away. She was right. My body had returned to routine, but my soul still ached beneath the surface. The way pain pulses quietly, just under the skin.

“Let the dust settle first,” Matilda said, softer now. “Let me and others keep an eye on things. If something real begins to move again… we’ll decide together. But for now, rest. Heal. Let yourself be just a professor, just for a little while longer.”

A part of me screamed in silent protest—how could I stay idle when something might be threatening what little peace we had left?

But another part, the part buried beneath fatigue and bruises, simply… nodded.

Maybe—just maybe—I could try.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The quiet was almost sacred.

Early afternoon sun spilled through the tall, arched windows of the Hogwarts library, warming the old stone and catching dust motes mid-drift. The heavy scent of parchment, candle wax, and polished wood wrapped around me like a charm meant only for the most loyal of readers. There was something deeply safe about this place. Always had been.

I’d chosen one of the large mesons tucked away in the farthest eastern corner of the library—nearly hidden behind a towering bookshelf on advanced magical theory, as requested by Agnes, everything to keep the sacred silence of the place. The table was old, scarred by generations of students, and long enough to seat ten comfortably, though only five of us were gathered around it. Myself, and four students bent low over their essays with furrowed brows and ink-smudged fingers.

The heavy drapes were half-drawn, letting in just enough late-autumn light to keep things from feeling gloomy. A small enchanted lantern glowed softly at the center of the table, casting golden halos over open textbooks and scribbled margins. Nearby, a kettle of calming tea brewed silently, its aroma curling gently in the air—lavender and honeyroot, soothing for stressed minds.

I sat cross-legged in my chair, sleeves rolled up, a red quill in hand as I leaned over a parchment filled with frantic, overly looped handwriting. Across from me, young Barnaby was muttering his own thesis out loud, trying to remember what exactly separated defensive curses from deterrent ones. Next to him, Delia had her head in her hands, her bun undone, wand stuck in it like a quill.

“Take a breath,” I told her quietly, smiling behind the edge of my mug. “And try not to duel your parchment this time.”

She let out a little groan, then a laugh, and started again.

Even though it was a session for corrections—students who hadn’t done as well as they hoped—there was something warm in the air. The shared determination. The way they kept glancing at each other’s essays when they thought I wasn’t looking. The scratches of quill on parchment, the occasional sigh.

It reminded me of being young, of studying here with Sebastian and Ominis, hidden in corners, chasing answers and dodging rules. That strange, chaotic hopefulness of youth that somehow smelled like ink and treacle tart.

And now here I was, on the other side of the desk. A teacher. Still tangled in the same magic, just… a different role to play.

I leaned back slightly, flexing my fingers after too many annotations, and glanced toward the library entrance. The clock above it chimed softly—three  o’clock .

Time to go.

I tapped my wand lightly against the tabletop. “Alright, last thoughts. If I see one more essay confusing Petrificus Totalus with magical paralysis hexes, I will cry. Loudly. In the staff room.”

That got a ripple of chuckles.

“Make sure your corrections are handed in by Thursday. And—” I paused, gathering my own stack of parchment and slipping it into my satchel, “—remember that progress isn’t always clean. Sometimes it looks like ink stains and second drafts.”

Barnaby nodded solemnly like I’d just given him a prophecy.

I gave the group a final encouraging nod, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and stood. My muscles ached more than I wanted to admit. Healing took time—even magical healing. And though I’d smiled through the day, I was still tired. Deeply so.

I made my way out of the library, boots silent on the rugs, the hush of the place following me like a soft shawl.

Now… off to Hogsmeade. There were errands to run. Shops to visit. And if I was honest, I needed the walk.

The air outside would be cool. The wind would sting my cheeks.

And maybe, just maybe, the distance between me and the events of that day would feel a little bit smaller.

The halls had quieted more than usual at that hour. I supposed most students had already retreated to their common rooms or the Great Hall. I, on the other hand, had errands to run.

My scarf hung half-forgotten from my robe pocket, and the castle stones beneath my boots had begun to cool with the shift of late afternoon. I was just turning down the main corridor toward the entrance hall when I felt it—

—or rather, him .

Ominis Gaunt stood leaning faintly against one of the columns, as if he’d been part of the architecture all along. Composed as ever, his cane rested loosely in one hand, his posture immaculate, the air around him touched with a kind of stillness he carried with maddening ease.

“Don’t tell me,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth barely twitching, “you’re off to an illegal broom race over the Astronomy Tower.”

A soft laugh escaped me before I could help it.

“Of course. I’m the top contender, you know. Forty Galleons riding on whether I crash through the west-facing skylight.”

He raised a single eyebrow—not disapproving, exactly, just… skeptical. That same old expression that meant he was filing my words away to inspect them later, like some curious magical artifact.

“Is that your concerned face?” I asked, coming to a stop in front of him. “Or are you just weighing whether the hospital wing has coverage for self-inflicted stupidity?”

“I’m considering confiscating your broom before you do something reckless.”

“Careful,” I said, pointing a finger at him, mock-serious. “That sounded dangerously like affection.”

There was a pause, brief but heavier than the few words we’d exchanged. He turned his face slightly in my direction, that little crease between his brows forming like it always did when he was listening harder than usual. His cane tip tapped once on the stone.

“Where are you going?” he asked at last, quieter now.

I tilted my head slightly upward to meet his gaze out of habit—he couldn’t see, but something in me always felt the need to make sure he knew I was here . Present.

“To Hogsmeade,” I replied. “Just a few errands. Nothing big as fighting trolls but I thought some fresh air wouldn’t hurt.”

“Alone?”

I gave a short nod, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Just to Hogsmeade. I’m walking. It’s a clear day, and it’s barely far.”

He was quiet for a beat. Too quiet.

Then, with the same steady calm he used for announcing thunderclouds on the horizon, he simply said, “I’ll come with you.”

I blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“You seem to attract trouble like Flobberworms attract mildew,” he continued, casually raising his cane to tap once on the floor, made me wonder if it was a habit or a reflex. “And since the malevolent forces of the world seem to be particularly fond of attacking you in scenic, remote places, forgive me if I don’t find your solo walk through the forest path reassuring.”

I stared at him. He didn’t smile, not really—but his head tilted ever so slightly in my direction, as if daring me to argue.

“Ominis,” I said, somewhere between exasperated and amused, “you despise Hogsmeade. You once dismissed it as ‘a theatrical facade of heritage, shrieking with commerce’. ”

“I stand by it,” he said. “But it’s marginally less offensive than letting you get hexed into the shrubs again. And, well, Sirona's bar is nice”

“You weren’t even there when that happened.”

“Precisely. I’ve learned my lesson.” He tapped the floor again, and I caught the faintest curve of something resembling a smirk. “Besides, I could use the fresh air.”

“You hate the fresh air.”

“I hate forced fresh air,” he corrected, turning slowly to align himself beside me. “This is different. This is… protective accompaniment disguised as begrudging companionship .”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m consistent.”

I shook my head with a breathy laugh and fell into step beside him. Somehow, the quiet tension of the past few weeks didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The sun hung gently above us, not harsh like at noon, but warm in that early-afternoon kind of way that made everything glow just slightly golden. It must have been around half past three—the sort of hour when the castle was quietest, and the air smelled faintly of wild grass and distant hearth smoke.

The path to Hogsmeade curved softly through the trees, worn down by years of students sneaking Butterbeer and professors pretending not to notice. Birds chirped overhead with cheerful indifference to the world’s problems.

Ominis walked beside me in complete ease, his cane clicking rhythmically against the cobbled dirt. His posture was relaxed, his senses—always attuned—reading the environment with subtle shifts in his body.

We hadn’t spoken since leaving the gates. Not in a heavy, uncomfortable silence, but in the kind that stretches between two people who are simply there , and don’t need to fill the air with anything else.

Still, I found myself sneaking glances at him every so often. The sunlight sifted through the leaves above, catching the pale angles of his cheek, the faint crease between his brows he wore as a default expression, the way his fingers adjusted slightly on the handle of his staff with each change in terrain.

He didn’t look tired. Or worried. But I knew him well enough to tell he was listening—always listening.

And that, somehow, was grounding.

“Not bad for a day out of the castle,” I murmured at last, mostly to the breeze, half expecting him not to reply.

“You sound surprised,” he said without missing a beat.

I smirked. “Just impressed you haven’t complained once.”

“I’m saving it for the shops,” he replied. “I plan to be devastatingly critical of their inventory.”

I let out a quiet laugh, the sound carried off by the wind.

There it was. The quiet rhythm. The little normalcy I hadn’t realized I missed so deeply.

We were halfway down the slope where the forest gave way to scattered thickets, and the path opened toward the distant roofs of Hogsmeade. The village shimmered softly in the golden haze, like something out of a worn fairytale page.

Ominis, as always, walked as if he could see better than most who actually had their sight.

“You’re very quiet,” I said, tilting my head toward him. “Which is honestly more suspicious than comforting.”

“I’m walking in silence,” he replied, “not brooding. There’s a difference.”

“Debatable.”

“I’d argue, but you tend to twist the narrative in your favor.”

“That’s called winning an argument .”

“No, that’s called being a Gryffindor.”

I scoffed, mock-offended. “Says the man who used to smuggle sweets into the Common Room, but would rather die than admit it aloud.”

He angled his head toward me, the ghost of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “I never denied it. I just… cultivated doubt.”

“Semantics,” I said, stepping over a root that had lifted through the path. “And you never once shared a Chocolate Frog.”

“I was protecting you,” he said smoothly, tapping his cane once against a stone. “From the terrible fate of sugar dependency.”

“Oh, how noble.”

“It’s in my blood.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that the Gaunt motto? Thou shalt hoard sweets and dramatics in equal measure? ”

“It should be.”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and far-off chimneys. We walked a few more steps in silence before I caught him adjusting the grip on his cane again. Subtle. Meant to seem casual.

“You keep doing that,” I said, looking ahead. “Your wrist. That little turn.”

“I’m recalibrating for terrain. And also resisting the urge to throttle you.”

“How thoughtful.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have my wand.”

“That was a choice,” I reminded him. “A very dramatic, noble, brooding choice.”

He sighed. “You’ve been spending too much time with Professor Ronen. You’ve caught his flair for exaggeration.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

We’d walked in companionable silence for a few minutes. The breeze was steady, carrying the familiar scent of dew-soaked grass and old stone. Just ahead, I could already make out the first rooftop of Hogsmeade peeking through the trees.

Then, from beside me:

“So, what exactly are we doing in the village?”

I hesitated, kicking at a pebble as we walked. Then, I said it. Plain and unceremonious.

“I have a shop. I need to check in on things.”

The words hung there for a second. A beat of silence.

He stopped walking.

I turned, slowly, catching the slightest lift of his brows—subtle, but sharp.

“You have what ?”

“A shop,” I repeated, softer now. “Just a small one. I’ve had it for a while.”

Ominis tilted his head toward me, as if trying to hear the rest before I even said it.

“Define ‘a while.’”

“Since I was sixteen.”

His lips parted slightly, his brow creasing—visibly this time.

“You’ve had a shop since you were sixteen and somehow forgot to mention this in the past… what, ten years?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said quickly. “It’s just a tucked-away little space. Mostly potions, some rare books, ingredients. A small elf runs it when I can’t be there, you’ll meet her, she’s nice. It’s not meant to be public knowledge.”

He made a low sound in his throat. Not quite disbelief. Not quite amusement either.

“You had a secret shop at sixteen.”

“Secret is a strong word.”

“Is it?”

“It’s more of a… haven,” I said. “A place away from everything else. Something that was finally mine when nothing else felt like it was.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just resumed walking beside me with that pensive stillness of his. But I could feel it—the million questions spinning behind his eyes.

Then, dryly,

“Is there anything else you forgot to mention over the last decade? Perhaps a dragon farm? A hidden castle? A second identity?”

“Maybe,” I smirked. “But you’ll have to walk a bit further to find out.”

We were nearly at the edge of Hogsmeade now—the air subtly shifting, warmer, touched by the faint smells of baked goods and chimney smoke. The village always had that timeless hush about it, like nothing could ever change too drastically here.

Ominis was still quiet beside me, his steps measured, his walking cane lightly tapping the dirt path in rhythm. But I could feel his mind working overtime.

“You really want to know how I got it?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I think I deserve at least part of the story,” he replied, tone dry. “Unless you also want to reveal you inherited Gringotts in the next breath.”

I huffed a soft laugh. “Fine. I didn’t inherit Gringotts. Just a cursed shop. And in a good price also”

That made him slow just a little. “Pardon?”

“It was cursed, well…. It is cursed at the moment” I clarified, hands slipping into the pockets of my coat. “Years ago, a witch named Cassandra Mason owned it. She was… less than ethical. A Ministry official eventually had to shut her place down, something about battling a certain sixteen year old might wasn’t exactly good. But not before her magic twisted the shop itself—made it dangerous. Illusions. Traps. Nightmares made real. That sort of thing.”

Ominis’s brow furrowed again. “You bought a cursed shop?”

“I was offered it,” I said with a slight shrug. “Through a rather eccentric poltergeist solicitor. I had to, well… clear the shop first. Cleanse it, you might say. I survived his twisted little games and, at the end of it, the deed was mine.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “Of course you did.”

I smiled to myself. “There was a room that looped endlessly. Another that tried to crush me. One filled with whispering mannequins. It was… something.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, as if trying to get a better read on my tone. “You chose to keep it afterward?”

“I did,” I said softly. “It felt right. I think I wanted something mine . A rightful way to earn money if everything else turned out wrong.”

That seemed to land.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, with that dry edge back in his voice:

“And you left it in the hands of…?”

“Penny,” I said, smiling more now. “A free elf, but choose to say either way. She’s absolutely delightful. A bit anxious. But loyal to a fault. She’s the reason the place runs so well when I’m gone.”

Ominis’s lips twitched—just barely. “So you own a secret shop, once cursed, watched over by an anxious house-elf named Penny… and I’m only learning this today.”

I shrugged. “Well, we were busy avoiding each other for seven years. And while we were sixteen, Rookwood loyalist began their search for me, not a lot of room for shop talk, doesn’t it?.”

He chuckled. A rare, quiet thing that always caught me off guard. “Point taken.”

The streets of Hogsmeade curved gently as we approached the edge where the bustle thinned, and the more curious little corners of the village revealed themselves—those known only to locals, or to those who knew where to look .

I turned onto a quiet lane tucked between The Three Broomsticks and an old, vine-covered bookbinder’s, then guided Ominis a few paces further until we stood before a small, deep green storefront with golden lettering faded just slightly by time and weather.

Stitches and Draughts .

I paused for a breath. The old wooden sign above us creaked faintly with the summer breeze, and the glass windows glowed warm from the sun, blurred slightly from years of steam and enchantments.

“This is it,” I said softly, placing a hand on the door and gently pushing it open. A little brass bell tinkled overhead.

The moment we stepped inside, the air shifted—warmer, richer. The scents were the first thing that hit me. A blend of soft oiled leather and aged parchment, the smoky undertone of dried herbs hanging in neat bundles near the apothecary wall, and something more familiar: the worn, comforting scent of wool cloaks and heavy winter coats stacked neatly near the back corner. Lavender polish. Faint hints of cinnamon. And beneath it all, the deep, earthy pull of potion bases resting quietly in their corked vials.

It smelled like stories waiting to be told.

The shop was dimly lit, but golden. Cozy in a way only a space long cared for could be. Rows of shelves stretched along the walls, half of them filled with jars and small bottles carefully labeled in flowing script. The other half displayed gloves, enchanted scarves, thick traveling cloaks, and bespoke leather satchels that shimmered faintly with protective spells. A changing screen embroidered with charmed thread stood quietly near a velvet stool in one corner.

I let the door fall shut behind us and stepped further in.

“Penny?” I called out gently, raising my voice just enough. “Penny, dear, I’m here.”

A soft clatter followed somewhere in the back, and a moment later, a small figure appeared from behind a curtain of thick blue velvet. She wore a tidy tan apron over a dark green tunic, and perched atop her head was her prized possession: a tall, slightly crooked red hat with a gold feather, far too large for her and absolutely perfect. Every once in a while she choose a outrageous choice for wardrobe but in a sense, it was very her, she made it work.

“Miss Eline!” Penny gasped, her voice high-pitched and warm, hands fluttering excitedly before she gave a small curtsy. “Penny did not know Miss would visit today—Penny would have polished the cauldrons twice!”

I knelt just a little, smiling wide. “You polish them enough, Penny. Everything smells wonderful in here, as always.”

She beamed, eyes bright as tea saucers. Then she caught sight of Ominis, who had paused near a rack of storm cloaks, his hand lightly brushing the edge of the nearest sleeve.

“Oh!” Penny gasped again, suddenly straightening. “Miss brought a guest! Penny will bring tea, yes, tea and lemon biscuits—Penny baked them this morning!”

And without waiting, she vanished again into the back room, the sound of tiny feet pattering against the wooden floorboards trailing behind her.

I turned to Ominis and raised a brow.

“Welcome to my other life,” I murmured, voice soft with pride I hadn’t meant to let slip.

Penny led us to the back of the shop, her little feet tapping eagerly against the floorboards, her hat slightly askew from all the rushing. The back room was small, but warm, lit by a few low-hanging enchanted lanterns that gave off a golden glow. There was an old velvet settee by the window, two mismatched armchairs, and a low table already set with tea things and a plate of shortbread biscuits that smelled faintly of honey and rosemary.

“Penny brings the special blend,” she announced with proud ceremony, setting the pot down gently. “Chamomile, orange blossom, a hint of cinnamon, and a touch of peace essence. Penny thinks it helps calm busy heads.”

“And hearts,” I murmured, smiling fondly as she gave a small curtsy and slipped out, the bell on her hat tinkling as she left us alone.

Ominis felt for the edge of the armchair before settling in, graceful and precise, as always. I watched him move—confident, measured—and something in my chest tightened slightly. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed this version of him. The one who could just be still, present.

I sat across from him and curled my hands around the warm cup. The first sip was soothing, gently spiced, with a whisper of memory tucked into its steam.

We were quiet for a few minutes. Not awkwardly so—just comfortably. Letting the silence fill in the spaces where words weren’t needed.

“Did you ever think we’d end up like this?” I asked at last, lifting an eyebrow as I glanced around at the worn sofa, the creaky shelves lined with potion vials and leather gloves, the half-dressed mannequin still wearing a winter cloak I’d meant to reprice weeks ago.

He tilted his head slightly. “Drinking elf-brewed tea in the back room of your hidden shop in Hogsmeade? Not exactly the future I pictured.”

I chuckled. “What did you picture?”

“I don’t know. Something quieter. Possibly less… cinnamon-scented.”

“That’s the orange blossom.”

“Mm. Is it meant to make my nose tingle?”

“It’s meant to stop you from scowling every time someone offers you comfort.”

That earned me the smallest smile—barely a quirk of his mouth, but I caught it. I always caught those.

We lapsed back into silence for a beat, the clink of my spoon against the rim of my cup filling the space.

“Do you remember,” I said, suddenly, “when we were fifteen, and you tried to hex the caretaker because he confiscated your sneakoscope?”

He groaned, covering his face briefly. “I didn’t try . I threatened . There’s a difference.”

“He tripped and fell down the corridor, Ominis.”

“That was entirely unrelated. Coincidence.”

“Right. The fact that you had your wand out and said, ‘you’ll regret that, sir’ , just seconds before was… coincidental.”

He sighed into his tea. “I was dramatic.”

“You were a menace, all serious and pouty.” I corrected, grinning.

We laughed. Properly, this time. The kind that warmed more than just the air between us.

For a few precious moments, it was just us again. Two friends tucked away from the world, drinking tea and poking fun at the past. No shadows hanging over our heads. No secrets pressing at the edges of our words.

I leaned back into the armchair, barely able to contain the grin stretching across my face. The tea sat forgotten in my lap now, half-drunk, warming my hands more than anything else.

“Do you remember,” I began, trying to contain a laugh before it even left my throat, “when you threatened me the very first time we ever spoke?”

Ominis’s expression twitched. “I did not threaten you.”

“You absolutely did,” I insisted, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You told me your father was friends with the Headmaster and that if I ever stepped foot in the Undercroft again, you’d see to it that I was expelled.”

He groaned, letting his head drop into one hand. “Merlin, I’d repressed that.”

I let the laughter spill out then, not loud, but uncontainable. “You had your wand pointed at my chest, Ominis.”

“I was trying to protect our space. It was sacred!”

“You made it sound like some kind of underground cult. I thought Sebastian had recruited me into a secret society and you were the gatekeeper.”

Ominis lifted his head just enough to shoot me a look—dry and exasperated, but undeniably amused. “You weren’t supposed to be in there. It was our sanctuary. And then he let some Gryffindor in like it meant nothing.”

“Well, that Gryffindor ended up saving both of your hides more than once,” I teased, raising an eyebrow at him over the rim of my cup.

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should’ve hexed Sebastian instead.”

“Now that would’ve been a sight.”

For a moment, the memory hovered between us—our younger selves, tangled in tension and pride, full of secrets and fire. I remembered how cold his voice had been that day, and how his posture had stiffened the moment he heard my footsteps in the Undercroft. He had seemed so… untouchable. Controlled. But I’d learned quickly that underneath all that formality, Ominis Gaunt was not untouchable at all.

He was just afraid. Of letting anyone else in.

“You really were impossible back then,” I murmured, my voice softer now.

“I didn’t know what to make of you,” he admitted. “You were… persistent. Curious. Too brave for your own good.”

I smirked. “And you were so convinced I’d ruin everything.”

“You nearly did.”

“I nearly fixed everything.”

That earned me another small smile—crooked this time, almost boyish. The kind I hadn’t seen in years.

And just like that, the air shifted. It was still warm, still familiar—but something deeper tugged beneath the surface. The kind of gravity that reminded me how close we had once been. How far we’d come just to sit here again, sharing tea and stories and a silence that no longer hurt.

I looked down at the half-eaten biscuit in my hand, then back at him.

“Did you ever think we’d find our way back here?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

But his fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the table—close enough to mine that I felt the weight of the space between them.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I’m glad we did.”

“I’m glad too,” I whispered, almost surprised by how true it sounded once spoken aloud.

The words settled softly between us, like the last falling leaf on a still autumn afternoon.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. I let my eyes wander toward the little window at the back of the shop, where sunlight slanted through the glass panes in long golden lines, illuminating the worn wood floors and casting soft shadows over the shelves. Penny had placed dried lavender on the windowsill again. It smelled like quiet days and safer times.

I toyed with the rim of my cup, unsure how to breach the question that had been sitting on my tongue since the moment Ominis stepped into the shop. It was ridiculous—of course it was. But something in me needed to ask.

I turned my gaze back to him. He was still seated across from me, posture composed but relaxed, as though we hadn’t just spent years carefully building walls we were only now starting to tear down.

I drew in a quiet breath, then asked, as casually as I could manage, “Have you… heard from Sebastian lately?”

There it was—light, careful, but undeniably loaded.

Ominis didn’t react immediately. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something in the air that only he could hear.

I watched his brow furrow just the faintest bit.

“No,” he said finally. His voice was even, but quieter than before. “Not in a long while.”

I nodded slowly, staring into my tea like it could offer some kind of answer. “Right.”

“He vanished after—” He stopped himself. Recalibrated. “After everything that happened.”

I nodded again, slower this time. “I know.”

He shifted forward slightly, folding his hands together. “You still think about him.”

It wasn’t a question.

I smiled faintly. “Of course I do.”

There was a pause—quiet but heavy with understanding.

“I’ve tried reaching out,” he said. “Only once or twice. No response.”

“Same.”

The silence that followed wasn’t painful. It was something else. Something sad, but shared. We both carried him in different ways, but the weight was familiar on each side.

I looked at Ominis again. “Do you think he’s alright?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back slightly and lifted his face toward the ceiling, as if searching for an answer in the beams above.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I hope so. Wherever he is… I hope he found peace.”

So did I.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the hush of the shop, the ticking of the old wall clock and the clink of porcelain filling the silence. Ominis hadn’t said much after that, but his presence was steady, reassuring in its own quiet way.

It struck me how much had changed—and yet, sitting here like this, laughing over old memories and mourning ghosts we both still carried, it almost felt like we’d never truly drifted apart. Only paused.

I caught myself watching him again, noticing how the sunlight kissed the edges of his hair, how the tension in his shoulders had softened. Something in my chest unknotted.

And before the stillness could get too heavy, I cleared my throat and stood, brushing crumbs off my skirt.

“Well,” I said, letting a playful tone slip into my voice, “I don’t suppose you’re in the mood to finally meet a mildly deranged poltergeist who’s taken up residence in the cellar?”

Ominis lifted his chin slightly, brow arching in amused suspicion. “You’re keeping poltergeists in your basement? Haven't vanish into oblivion yet?”

“Not by choice,” I grinned, already walking toward the back of the shop. “I told you he came with the property. A bit of a nuisance, really. Calls himself ‘Fastidio.’ Speaks in rhyme. Very dramatic. Occasionally hurls furniture. You're going to like him, typical Slytherin behavior.”

He stood, adjusting his coat with a resigned sigh. “That sounds… incredibly foolish.”

“You say that now,” I chuckled over my shoulder. “Wait until he tries to haunt your shoelaces.”

“I don’t wear shoelaces.”

“Exactly.”

He followed me toward the cellar door, his steps light behind mine, his expression unreadable—but I knew him well enough to catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, the shadows of the past eased back, leaving space for something new—something warmer. Something that, perhaps, we both had been waiting far too long to rediscover.

Chapter Text

Eline Winchester

The scent of magic lingered thick in the air — a strange, heady cocktail of singed fabric, dust disturbed by sudden gusts, and the sharp tang of ozone left behind by defensive enchantments colliding midair. It clung to the rafters of the classroom like fog, curling beneath the ceiling beams and wrapping around the glow of the enchanted lanterns above.

“Expelliarmus! ” came the sharp cry of the Ravenclaw boy.

His wand-arm extended with admirable precision, and a pulse of red light surged across the dueling platform, striking the shield charm of the Slytherin girl with a loud crack that echoed off the stone walls. Her stance barely faltered.

“Protego, and Stupefy! ” she shot back, the latter word spoken with such relish it drew a wave of cheers from the cluster of first-years huddled at the front row of benches.

I leaned lightly against the side of my desk, watching intently as the sparks flew. The weight of spells cast, even simple ones, had a rhythm — a pulse. The air between the students shimmered with tension, with learning, with life. Magic crackled around them like a storm contained just barely within human skin. And despite myself, I smiled.

There was something incredibly honest about this: children testing their limits, pushing magic to the edge, but not over it. It was one of the few moments in teaching I truly cherished — when they forgot they were being watched.

“Mind your footing, Madeline,” I called out gently over the swell of excitement, “You’re dropping your back heel when you cast.”

The Slytherin girl adjusted immediately, jaw tightening in concentration.

A round of applause broke out as her opponent’s wand went flying across the floor. The battle was over.

I flicked my wand and the platform dimmed, the magic drawing back into the runes carved into its stone edge like a creature retreating into sleep. The cheers gave way to breathless chatter and the rustle of parchment as students began scribbling down final notes on their performance.

“Excellent work,” I said, pushing off the desk and clapping twice to gather their attention. “For next class, I want a paragraph from each of you analyzing your spellwork, and one suggestion for how you’d improve it.”

There were the usual groans, followed by rustling cloaks, scraping benches, and hurried footsteps. A handful of students lingered to chat — mostly Gryffindors who still hadn’t learned to move fast at the end of a lesson — but eventually the room cleared.

The battle platform lay quiet now. Just a square of worn stone that had seen too many triumphs and failures to count. I stepped down from the raised area and crossed toward my desk, heart still humming with the residual thrill of spellwork. I loved this room. Loved the memories steeped into its walls, both mine and not mine. Loved that it still smelled like chalk dust, burnt silk, and possibilities.

And then I noticed the draft.

It curled around my ankles like a curious specter — cool and persistent — where no draft should be.

But before I gave it much thought, I focused instead on the task at hand. The room needed a bit of order before the next wave of students would come bursting in with muddy boots and half-learned incantations. I moved slowly between desks, flicking my wand here and there: quills reassembled into inkpots, scattered parchment floated back into neat piles, the chalkboard wiped itself clean with a satisfied swish .

With the dueling platform dimmed and the scent of scorched robes beginning to fade, the classroom slipped into a hush. A rare silence, broken only by the faint scratching sound of my chair as I pushed it in. I glanced at the hourglass tucked by the window — still nearly two hours before my fourth-years would arrive.

I welcomed the pause.

Slipping behind the door to my office, I exhaled quietly, already reaching to remove my outer robe as I stepped inside. The space, as usual, was cluttered with parchment, tomes, and annotated scrolls that never seemed to diminish no matter how much I studied. The sunlight filtering through the high window gave the room a faint golden hue, catching the brass fixtures of my bookshelf and dancing across the steam rising from a forgotten cup of lavender tea.

I made my way to the desk, already half-distracted by the open page I’d left bookmarked in Curses and Curatives: Unraveling the Ancient Hexes of the Spine. There were two more books stacked underneath it — one in Latin, the other in heavy French — and three more splayed open behind them, all of them dealing in some way with magical corruption, bloodline afflictions, and counter-curses powerful enough to resist generational decay.

I had spent nearly every free moment buried in them.

If I had to read one more passage about “ritual infusion through lunar mediums” I might scream.

Still, I sat down, shifted a worn leather notebook onto my lap, and resumed scanning my notes on Anne. Symbols. Energies. Potential catalysts. Dead ends. And then… maybe something—

A chill again. This time not around my ankles, but a tingling down my spine.

I paused mid-sentence. My quill hovered over the parchment.

My eyes slowly drifted toward the far corner of the room.

There, just past the tapestry of Grindylows, nestled behind the wooden screen I rarely used, stood the narrow arched door that led downward — to the cellar beneath the classroom.

It was open.

Just slightly. But undeniably open.

My heart skipped once.

I never left it open. Not even unlocked. The latch responded only to my wand, sealed by a protective enchantment that whispered shut with a satisfying hum when engaged.

I rose quietly, the notebook sliding off my lap without a sound.

The door wavered gently in the air — as if it, too, were holding its breath.

Something was wrong.

I knew what I should do.

Report it. Fetch help. Alert the staff. Perhaps even send a message straight to Matilda herself — this was exactly the kind of situation we were meant to escalate.

But my feet remained planted.

My fingers curled tighter around my wand, knuckles pale.

No. I needed answers — not protocol. And if someone had truly slipped through my wards, then I wasn’t going to waste precious minutes delegating. I could handle myself. I had handled worse.

A quiet exhale left my lips as I moved slowly toward the narrow doorway. My boots barely made a sound on the stone floor. The door creaked just slightly as I pushed it open the rest of the way — just enough to slip past it sideways.

The moment I stepped onto the first stair, I felt it.

The rush.

That thrum of ancient magic in my veins — steady, low, like a drumbeat just beneath the skin. It didn’t blaze or flare the way it had in the past, but it was there . A low hum, ready to rise at the first sign of danger.

I raised my wand, whispering “Lumos” — the tip flaring to life with a pale, soft glow.

The stone steps beneath me were colder than usual. Damp. The cellar was old, sealed off from the school’s main heating charms, and the shadows felt heavier today — as if they held their breath the same way I did.

Each step was measured, soundless. I kept close to the wall, my ears tuned to even the faintest disturbance. The silence was oppressive, but not empty. It was the kind that waited .

Shelves came into view first — the wooden ones on the left stacked with old dueling dummies, crates of hex-resistant padding, and spare target boards charmed to scream when hit.

I turned the corner.

And that’s when I saw him.

Leaning casually against a crate of spare spellbooks, arms crossed and eyes already locked on me as if he’d been expecting me all along.

Sebastian Sallow.

“For the love of Merlin—Sebastian!”

I nearly slipped on the last bloody step.

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. He just raised a brow at me, like I was the one being dramatic for reacting normally to someone breaking into my office cellar without warning .

“Do you not believe in sending an owl?” I hissed as I stepped down fully into the room, waving my lit wand toward him like a scolding torch. “Or, I don’t know — a polite knock? A cursed talking portrait? Anything less theatrical than sneaking into a locked room like a bloody poltergeist?”

My grip on the wand didn’t loosen — not yet. The air between us thrummed with tension, and not the good kind. The impulse to hex him didn't diminish nor the need to poke his eye with my wand.

He had the gall to look mildly amused.

I paced toward him slowly, magic still humming beneath my skin, my mind racing to match the beat of my irritation.

“What are you doing here, Sebastian?”

My voice was low now, sharp — the kind I reserved for students when they were one inch away from blowing up the classroom cauldron. “How did you even get in? Do you have any idea the wards I put on that door?”

There was too much inside me to settle. The nerves, the adrenaline, the fact that I hadn’t seen his face in years— and now here he was, cool as ever, standing in my space like he’d just popped by for tea.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to hex him for making my heart race this much.

But instead, I stood there — wand still raised, waiting.

Waiting for a damn good answer.

“Talk,” I snapped.

One word. Sharp enough to slice stone.

He straightened, as if the weight of it physically struck him. His gaze, once casual, turned heavy. He didn’t smirk this time. No clever quip. No smugness. Just a long, steady look that told me this wasn’t one of his usual games.

“I need to know,” he said finally, his voice low and frayed at the edges, “if you’ve seen her.”

I blinked, breath catching somewhere in my throat.

“Anne,” he clarified, like I needed him to.

“I know you have,” he continued, taking a careful step forward, as if testing whether I’d hex him or not. “Don’t lie to me, Eline.”

I didn’t move. My wand stayed raised, but my arm had gone stiff. My fingers were tingling.

“She’s alive,” he went on, more insistently now. “I know she is. I’ve been to Feldcroft. I’ve spoken to… everyone I could. But it’s like she vanished. And every trace I followed—it always ended near Manor Cape. Why would my sister ended up so south?”

His voice cracked faintly on that name.

“And then I started hearing whispers. People saying someone had been visiting. A woman with a phoenix-feather cloak. A hippogriff landing in the woods. Elixirs exchanged in secret. Do you know how quickly I realized it was you?”

I closed my eyes for a second. The silence between us now had its own temperature — bitter, almost unbearable.

“I don’t care where she chooses to live,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if she hates me. I just need to know if she’s alright.”

His hands were clenched at his sides.

“Please,” he added, and for the first time since we were sixteen, Sebastian Sallow sounded… small.

Not angry. Not clever. Just desperate.

“Do you even deserve to know?” I asked, voice low but razor-sharp. My brow furrowed, the heat rising to my cheeks before I could stop it. “You vanish. For more than just mere months, Sebastian. Seven bloody years.”

He opened his mouth—but I cut him off with a scoff, stepping closer, wand still in hand, though trembling slightly now. “No word. No letters. No signs of life. Just silence. You left everyone behind and now you barge into my cellar demanding answers?”

His eyes darted to the shelves, the dim torchlight dancing across the dust in the air, but his focus returned to me almost immediately.

“I had reasons—”

“And what? You think that excuses it?” I snapped. “That it justifies abandoning Anne? Abandoning us ?”

The moment that last word left my mouth, I hated how raw it sounded. How close to the truth it cut.

I took a breath—forced, shallow. The kind you take before deciding whether to cry or hex someone. I didn’t do either.

“You don’t just get to disappear and then reappear like this matters to you now. You were like a brother to us!”

“Why would you deserve answers?” I pressed, my voice cracking slightly under the weight of everything I hadn’t said all these years. “You don’t get to walk in here, all shadows and desperation, and expect me to tell you anything.”

He shifted his weight, jaw tight.

“Start with where you’ve been. Explain that first.”

There was a long pause. I saw it then—just for a flicker—his mask slip. The exhaustion in his eyes wasn’t just physical. It was bone-deep. Soul-worn.

“I’ve been… tracking them,” he muttered. “Dark wizards. Anyone who might know anything— anything —about curses like Anne’s.”

My stomach twisted. I hadn’t expected honesty. And I certainly hadn’t expected that .

“I went after them,” he continued, his voice low now, almost a growl. “The kind who don’t come willingly. The ones who only talk when you force them to. I did things, Eline. Things I can’t justify—only that I needed answers.”

I blinked, stunned silent for a beat. My wand faltered slightly in the air.

He wasn’t lying.

“You tort-” I cut myself shortly, bile rising from my stomach.

He didn’t deny it.

I ran a hand down my face, rough and tired. The kind of tired that sleep didn’t fix. My wand was still in my grip, but my arm had fallen to my side. And then I just… sat down. A graceless, heavy plop onto one of the old wooden crates stacked near the cellar wall.

I exhaled hard. My shoulders sank with it.

“Sebastian,” I muttered, not even looking at him now, “I can’t keep justifying you. Not this time.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Not anymore.” My voice cracked. “Ominis and I—we used to tell ourselves it was just a phase. That you were grieving, lost, desperate. We covered for you. Lied for you. We told each other that one day, you’d come back to us. That you’d be better .”

I finally turned my head to face him. He was standing still, watching me, the silence in his eyes louder than any apology.

“We were seventeen,” I said. “And you never came back.”

I looked up at him, really looked at him. He still wore that damn coat like he never quite learned to take it off—creased, dark, worn through in the same places. But his eyes… they weren’t the same. No fire. Just smoke.

“Why didn’t you write?”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw set.

“Why did you disappear, Sebastian?” My voice was hoarse, like it hurt to speak his name aloud. “ We deserved more than silence. ”

He opened his mouth, but I cut in. “You owed us—Anne, Ominis, me— something . A letter. A sign. Anything. But you just vanished.”

“I couldn’t,” he said finally, his voice low. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s a convenient excuse,” I snapped, every word seemed to jolt from my mouth, myhands following suit in clipped, deliberate gestures—betraying a temper I could no longer mask behind stillness. “You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing?”

He stepped closer. “You think I didn’t want to? You think I didn’t sit there a thousand nights, quill in hand, trying to find a way to say I’d failed?”

“Failed who?” I asked, breath catching. “Us? Or her?”

“All of you,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t protect Anne. I couldn’t find a cure. And after what I did—after Solomon—I…”

“You were seventeen , Sebastian. We all were.” My voice shook. “You made a choice, a terrible one—but we didn’t stop loving you for it. We tried to help. You’re the one who left .”

He looked down. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Then why did you disappear?” I pressed again. “Say it. You owe me at least that.”

He raised his eyes again, and this time, there was something sharp in them. A hint of the boy he’d been, still stubborn even beneath the guilt.

“I went after anyone who might know something. Curses, dark magic, forbidden lore— anything . I hunted names, whispered rumors, old warlocks that lived in caves, former poachers, smugglers. I asked. I begged. Sometimes—” he paused, jaw tightening, “sometimes I tortured them. I was angry and I needed answers.”

I blinked.

He kept going, softer now. “There were… places I went where I wasn’t sure I’d come out whole. I didn’t write because I knew what I was becoming, and I didn’t want any of you to see it. Least of all Anne.”

There was a long silence between us.

I whispered, “She thought you were dead.”

He inhaled sharply but didn’t respond.

“She waited. For years. Every day she’d ask if we’d heard from you. Then one day… she stopped asking. Said she didn’t want to wait anymore.”

His shoulders dropped. “Is she happy?”

I didn’t answer right away. I studied his face. “She has peace. She has quiet. She has friends and family. She has a new name, but you knew that, you were always clever, Sebastian.”

He looked startled. “What?”

“She’s not Anne Sallow anymore. She left Feldcroft behind. Everything that came with it. Including you.”

That one hit him. His expression twisted into something hollow. “She changed her name?”

I nodded. “To Antha Virell. She said if she was going to die, she wanted to die as someone else . Someone who hadn’t been cursed, who hadn’t lost everyone she loved.”

The weight of that silence was enough to smother the air around us.

“She thinks you abandoned her,” I added. “And honestly? So did I.”

I let out a breath that sounded more like a scoff, looking across the whole cellar before turning back to face him.

“And now you’re at the Ministry,” I said, bitterly. “I heard.”

He stayed quiet, but I could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t surprised I knew.

“Working under some fancy title in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, right? Or is it one of those subcommittees with names that sound important and mean absolutely nothing?”

Still no reply.

“Tell me, Sebastian,” I pressed, voice rising slightly, “what are you hoping to achieve from there? A desk and a title? Some polished reports on dark magic while the real work rots in the shadows? You think Anne’s going to wake up cured one day because you chase away and torture dark wizards?”

His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly, but I didn’t give him room to speak.

“Or maybe you thought if you wore a badge long enough, it would somehow cleanse you of everything you did. Everything you became.”

I paused, eyes burning—not with tears, but with the sharp sting of rage left too long unspoken.

“I’ve read your name in files. Quiet ones, sealed ones. You went off-record more times than you can count. They’ve got a nickname for you, right? The ones who still remember your cases. The Hound. ”

His expression flickered. That one got to him.

“You hunted them like animals? Tortured people, just to squeeze out half-truths. And for what? You never brought anything real back. No cure. No leads. No peace.”

I stepped closer. “You didn’t vanish to help Anne, Sebastian. You vanished because it was easier to disappear than to face what you’d done.”

The words sat between us like a wall.

“I tried to defend you,” I said, softer now. “Ominis did too. We both did . When people whispered. When they said you’d gone dark, really dark—we swore you were still you . That you just needed time. That you’d come back.”

I swallowed hard. “But years passed. And all we had were the echoes.”

I exhaled slowly, the fire in my voice giving way to something quieter. He looked older—not just in his face, but in the weight he carried, like it had settled into the bones.

“Has any of it—any of this —brought you even one step closer to a cure?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, gaze shifting toward the stone floor.

“I’ve found… fragments,” he said at last, voice low, rough. “Names. Rumors. One witch in the Eastern Territories who was researching ancient restorative curses—but she disappeared before I got to her. A man in Knockturn claiming he could reverse dark decay, turned out to be a fraud.”

He shook his head. “But sometimes—sometimes I felt close. And that was enough to keep going.”

“Close,” I repeated, hollow. “You tortured people, Sebastian. For fragments.”

His eyes flashed. “And you think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “Every night, I remember the faces. The begging. The lies. I told myself it was for her—that if I had to become a monster to fix what I did to Anne, then I would.”

Silence fell again between us, cold and suffocating.

I rubbed a hand over my face, sinking back down onto the crate with a sigh.

“I’ve spent years searching too,” I said quietly. “Books, alchemical journals, half-illegible field reports from centuries ago. I’ve experimented with plants no one’s dared to touch in a hundred years. I’ve tested elixirs that could’ve killed me.”

I looked up at him. “The closest I’ve come is a stabilising draught. It slows the decay. It gives her better days. That’s all I’ve got.”

He looked at me then—really looked, like the words had cut through the fog of years.

“And I never tortured anyone to get there,” I added, not angry now. Just tired. Somewhat like a jab to him.

I stood, slowly, the words rising before I could stop them. The rawness of it all, the years we’d lost, the nights I’d spent helping Anne through the pain when he was nowhere to be found—it all burned behind my ribs.

“Well,” I said, voice clipped, eyes fixed on his. “Now you have the answers you came for. Anne’s alive. She’s stable. She’s—” I hesitated, swallowing hard, “happy. She lives under a different name in a quiet town, with people who care about her and don’t ask questions she doesn’t want to answer.”

He blinked, and something flickered in his expression—relief, guilt, longing. I didn’t care.

“What are you going to do with that, Sebastian?” I asked, stepping closer. “Walk back into her life, make her feel whole again for a month… and then disappear like you did last time?”

He looked away.

“Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You swoop in when the fire’s already out and think your presence will somehow fix the damage you left behind.”

My voice cracked on that last word.