Chapter Text
Morning came slow to Hogsmeade. The kind of gray morning that never truly woke, only lingered between sleep and light, like a held breath that refused to release.
Briar Williams sat at the small kitchen table near the window, watching frost melt along the glass. Outside, the street was still. Just the faint shiver of mist over the cobblestones, and the occasional creak of a cart wheel somewhere far off. The air had that dull chill of autumn outstaying its welcome. Wet, metallic, patient.
She stirred her tea absently, though it had gone cold some time ago. The spoon made a quiet, metallic circle in the cup, steady and rhythmic, as if by sound alone she could keep herself tethered to the world. The scent of bergamot had faded, replaced by something faintly mineral from the water. Like stone or rust.
It was always this way after Poppy left early for the woods. The house too quiet, the silence thick enough to touch. Briar tried to read sometimes, or to write in the journal she never touched, but lately her concentration had fled her. Everything seemed dulled, flattened by routine. Even the sunlight felt thin, a weak imitation of something once bright.
She had thought, once, that Hogsmeade would feel like freedom.
Now it only felt like waiting.
The kettle clicked faintly as it cooled. Somewhere in the walls, the wood creaked. Old beams shifting as though they, too, were restless. The little cottage had its moods. Some mornings, it felt almost alive. Others, like this one, it seemed to be holding its breath.
Briar reached for her journal, the leather soft from years of sitting useless, and opened it to a half-filled page. The ink in her quill had gone slightly dry; she had to press harder than usual to make it flow.
Restless she wrote, then stopped.
The word looked too clinical, like she was diagnosing herself. It wasn't even restlessness, not exactly. It was more like hunger. The kind that lived in the bones, not in the stomach.
She had everything she was supposed to want: a home, a friend who adored her, safety, purpose. Poppy had thrown herself into their rescue work with a kind of holy devotion, tracking poachers through the wild hills, nursing injured creatures back from the brink. Briar admired her for it. And so she helped, however she could.
But each day felt like another stitch in a life that didn't quite fit.
The beasts they saved looked at her with wide, dark eyes—half afraid, half trusting—as she pulled that slumbering ancient power from herself and conjured safe habitats for them. It was always easy to use her power that way. To flatten a poacher camp, to form a wall of rock around the beasts, to whirl flowing water and endless abundance around them. But she wondered sometimes if the beasts could see through her. If they sensed that though she healed and protected and saved, she did not believe in salvation.
It was a moral use of her power, and that was what she wanted. Though she was not passionate about it like Poppy was.
Poppy's voice broke the quiet.
"Briar?"
The sound of boots on the floorboards, a door swinging open, the sharp scent of morning air flooding the cottage. Poppy always brought the outside in with her: dirt under her nails, wind in her hair, the faint smell of pine and smoke clinging to her coat.
"You're up early," Briar said, closing the journal.
"I could say the same about you." Poppy grinned, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "I swear, you hardly sleep these days."
Briar smiled faintly. "You say that as though there's something worth sleeping through."
Poppy frowned at her tone but did not comment. She was used to Briar's moods. Used to the way her mind wandered into places conversation could not always follow.
"Just stopped by Brood and Peck. I'm heading out toward the woods. Ellie said there's been word of poachers near the edge of the forest. Wolves acting strangely, too. I was going to check it out before noon."
That drew Briar's attention. "Wolves?"
"Yes. Someone said they were seen circling the same stretch of trees for hours, not hunting. Just pacing. Almost like they were keeping an eye on something."
Briar's thoughts flickered briefly. Wolves, pacing the forest edge like sentinels. "I think I might've seen them, too," she said slowly. "Two nights ago, on the ridge near the old well path. I didn't think much of it at the time."
"That's likely the place." Poppy pulled on her gloves, already half turned toward the door. "If you can mark it on the map, I'll start there."
"I'll draw it for you." Briar rose and crossed to the desk, where a faded map of the Highlands was pinned to the wall. Her fingers traced the forest's outline, so familiar it might as well have been part of her own body. The parchment smelled faintly of dust and ink. "Here," she said, marking a small circle with her quill. "You'll pass the ridge just before dusk if you leave now. The wolves were restless, but not aggressive."
Poppy nodded. "I'll go see what's going on."
"Be careful, though. Promise me. Wolves are . . . well, wolves."
"Of course," Poppy said, smiling. "I always am."
That was not true, and they both knew it. Poppy had a streak of recklessness when it came to beasts that even kindness could not temper. But Briar did not press. She just watched her friend gather her things. The satchel of potions, the wand tucked into her sleeve, the glimmer of resolve in her eyes.
For a moment, envy struck her. Not of Poppy's bravery, but of her purpose. To believe so wholly in something. To know, without question, that your work meant more than yourself.
After Poppy left, the house fell silent again.
Briar lingered at the doorway long after her friend's figure vanished down the fog-lined road. The air outside smelled faintly of woodsmoke. Across the lane, the villagers were beginning to stir: shopkeepers sweeping their stoops, a child chasing a cat through the slush, a baker setting out loaves to cool.
She could almost admire their simplicity. The way their lives revolved around such small, tender things. Bread and warmth, gossip, weather.
And yet, when she looked at them, something in her recoiled.
They smiled too easily, she thought. As if the world were not full of ghosts.
She shut the door.
The cottage seemed larger when empty. Every room felt like an echo chamber of its own memories. Briar moved through it quietly, touching the edges of familiar things: the shelf of books lined with dust, the cracked teacup by the window, the dried flowers hanging from the rafters. Each carried a faint reside of another life.
She paused before a too-small Ravenclaw jumper thrown carelessly over the back of a chair—Ominis had given it to her in their sixth year. Yes, it was small, though she slid it over herself on chilly nights. It was worn. Familiar.
Ominis.
Her eyes darted to the sofa where they had collapsed together the day before, skin to skin. It was a nice distraction, the warmth of another body. At least just for a moment. Though the whole encounter had been thick with concern from Ominis. You seem bored to death, he'd remarked. And Briar was. Her life was endlessly monotonous, but that was not worth saying. Instead, she just kissed him to silence him.
It wasn't that she did not love him. She did, in her way. He was devoted after all their years together. But lately, his love had begun to feel less like safety and more like a promise she had not made.
Still, Ominis of all people, knew what it was to escape the shadow of family. It was what drew her to him back in Hogwarts. They had banded together after the fallout of those fifth-year shadows. A younger Ominis once told her, You're not your parents. You're not doomed to repeat their mistakes.
And she had desperately wanted to believe him.
So they clung to one another.
She suddenly felt cold.
Briar lit the hearth, though it did not help the chill. The fire cracked softly, its light breathing against the walls. She crouched before it, watching the embers shift and sigh. She stood, catching her reflection in the mirror above. Half shadow, half flame.
The longer she looked, the less she recognized herself.
She took a book from the shelf. A worn volume of magical theory, but the words blurred after a few lines. Her thoughts wandered, circling the edges of memory like wolves themselves. Faces, voices, fragments of the past rising unbidden: the echo of a duel, a cry in the dark, the rush of power that had once burned like light behind her eyes.
She pressed her hands to her eyes until the memories quieted.
Outside, the wind had picked up, scraping along the walls. Somewhere in the distance, she swore she could hear those wolves howling. Long and low and mournful. The sound raised the hairs along her arms.
Briar stood abruptly, tossing the book aside. She snatched her cloak off the hook and fastened it tightly around her throat. The cottage seemed to watch her as she turned the key in the lock, as though it, too, knew she wasn't coming back anytime soon.
She hesitated at the door, then stepped out into the gray.
The fog was thicker now, the kind that blurred edges and swallowed sound. Her boots started down the village road. Her breath came in pale clouds. Somewhere beyond the village stones, the wolves were still pacing.
But somewhere within the village stones, Ominis waited.
She did not know if she went to find him for comfort or for distraction. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.
But she walked faster all the same.