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Chapter Text

SOPHIE

Snow stacked up on the nursery window that made funny shadows on the floor. Sophie’s feet were cold, but she ignored it; she liked watching how the shapes moved. She tried not to think about how big and empty the nursery felt when it was dark. She hugged her knees, one arm wrapped tight around her doll.

Her twin brother sat near the fireplace, knees up, his milk and honey forgotten. He was frowning so hard his whole face scrunched up. Sophie stared at him for a while. He always looked like that when something felt wrong.

“I’m not Reeve,” he mumbled, almost too soft to hear. “I’m Altair.”

He said it again, louder. “Altair. Not Reeve.”

Sophie remembered hearing the grown-ups talking through a door; their voices were quiet and sharp. Christopher–their new Papa, as what Maman told them before she stopped waking–his voice and the old aunt’s spoke, “That boy’s name is Reeve now.” The other name–Altair–when they said that, it sounded like it hurt, like when you step on a sharp stone.

She didn’t really understand; no one explained, but she knew not to say that name out loud. Even her old name wasn’t supposed to be said aloud.

She watched her brother; she thought he might cry. Her eyes stung when he did that.

Sliding off the window ledge, Sophie padded across the cold floor. She sat by him, but kept her hands on her lap; touching sometimes made things worse.

“Altair isn’t safe,” she whispered, her voice shaky but serious.

He looked at her with his lower lip wobbling. “Is too.”

She shook her head. “Papa said… no Altair. They might send you away.” The words tumbled out and her mouth tasted bad. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it.

He sniffed, hands tight on his knees. “I don’t wanna go. I want–I want Maman.”

Sophie’s chest hurt; it was like that one time she couldn’t breathe and Maman used magic to make it better. But now… Maman’s gone, and there was only them. “I miss her too. But she said, listen to our new Papa. Remember?”

He looked at her, eyes shiny. “But I like Altair. Maman always called me that.”

Sophie held her doll tighter. “I know. But… we have to be good. For now.”

Altair wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t,” she whispered. Maman would’ve scolded him.

He hunched his shoulders like he wanted to curl up. Sophie then pulled a crumpled parchment from her pocket and put it on the floor. 

“I drew us,” she said quietly. “See? You’re here.”

Altair poked at the picture; one finger pointed at a stick figure, smudging the ink. “That’s me?”

Sophie nodded and pointed at another stick figure beside his. “And Us. Together.”

His eyes were still all wet but at least they didn’t drip now. “Okay,” he whispered. “But… Can you remember Altair? Just you and me?”

Sophie nodded solemnly. “Always.”

They sat close side-by-side until the fire made them sleepy. As Sophie’s eyelids drooped, she thought about names, and about how sometimes you had to put things away to keep them safe. 

When she and her brother woke up the next morning, Sophie helped Altair with his shirt. Afterwards, she searched for his shoes which she found under the bed a minute later. Once her brother was all dressed up, she fixed her black hair into lumpy braids. She then wiped her brother’s nose again using her handkerchief this time.

They waited in the cold hallway, holding hands. Altair squeezed her fingers too tight, but she didn’t pull away. The study smelled funny when they stepped in; like old books and dust.

Christopher sat behind the big desk. Sophie’s feet barely made it past the carpet edge when he looked at them slowly. He stayed quiet.

“You want to talk about your name?” he said.

Sophie nodded.

Christopher waited as Sophie tried to remember the right words. “He’ll… he’ll be Reeve. If he can stay. With me.”

Christopher stared at them. Altair peeked from behind her. “Can I pick my name?” he asked, his voice small. “I don’t like Reeve. It’s silly.”

Christopher blinked. “What name then?”

Altair chewed his lip then blurted, “Veles. Like in Maman’s book. The bear man. Veles Reeve, but not really Reeve.” His brows furrowed as he kind of spelled it, his voice wobbly. “R-i-e-v. Like Reeve, but… mine.”

Sophie scrunched her nose. She didn’t get all the words; still, she liked how he said them.

Christopher looked at both of them for a long time before he spoke again, “Very well. Veles Riev Maximilian.” His voice was even but it wasn’t unkind either. “But never say your old name. Not outside this room. Understand?”

Altair, now Riev, clung to Sophie’s hand as he nodded. “Okay.”

Christopher wrote on a piece of parchment. Sophie watched his hand move, thinking it looked like magic. She wanted to believe names could keep you safe if you did it right.

As they left, Sophie whispered, “You spelled it funny.”

Riev grinned; his eyes looked tired but sparkling. “It’s special. Just for me.”

Sophie almost smiled. They walked out together; their hands held tight with both feeling a little braver.

That night, Sophie tucked Riev in and watched snow falling. She whispered, “Veles Riev,” and then, just in her head, “Altair.”

CHRISTOPHER

The cemetery stones wore the snow quietly; the names half-buried beneath a crust of white. While the sun barely bled through the gray, Christopher came early, his boots leaving a careful path across the drift. Usually, he visited Eleonore, his late wife’s grave, then Andrea’s, his sister, just briefly. It was a reminder of the cost of his mistakes and decisions from both past and present. However, today he stayed longer at Andrea’s grave as the frost and silence folded around him.

The marble was simple. No title, just the name: Andrea Maximilian, 1959–1981. He rested a gloved hand on the top edge, his thumb pressed to the cold stone. Behind him, the house stood shuttered; the morning was still clean and thin with the world not yet awake.

He didn’t bother with flowers. Andrea had never cared for them.

He spoke low as if the cold might listen. “Your children came to my study yesterday.”

He let the silence hang; it was a habit from a life spent letting others fill the gaps. “Sophie, she’s quick. She found her brother’s shoes before breakfast. She also braided her own hair. Unevenly, but she doesn’t mind.” He could imagine it, her small hands worked quietly, while her glacial blue eyes narrowed as she stared at the mirror with furrowed brows. “The house-elves said she waited in the hall without complaint while holding Riev’s hand.”

He paused as he adjusted the leather of his glove. “And Riev, he asked if he could pick his own name. He’s not afraid to ask...” There was an unfamiliar edge to Christopher’s tone as he recalled Riev’s glacial blue eyes, akin to his sister and the identifying marker of a Maximilian, staring at him; it was so much like Andrea’s eyes with that tinge of defiance buried beneath.

“He wanted something from your stories,” he continued. “Veles. The bear man, he said.” A small smile formed at the corners of his lips. He remembered the source of that story. It was from a book gifted to Andrea by an ambassador from Eastern Europe during her early childhood years. “Veles Riev. He spelled the second name himself. It’s not quite right, but close enough to count as his own.”

He exhaled, his breath curling over the marble. “They listened when I told them never to use their old names. Not once did they argue. You taught them that didn’t you? Obedience, but not fear. Caution, but not cowardice.” His mouth drew into a thin line. “I wonder if I can keep that for them. I can protect them–wards… discipline…. But being a father… giving them a childhood, I’m not sure–” He inhaled deeply. “How did you do it? We were raised to guard the family, not to raise children. In our world, sentimentality is… it’s a liability.”

His eyes narrowed as his gaze set somewhere beyond the grave. “I think about what they’ll become here. Maximilians, yes. Safe, maybe. But… will they be happy? Or is it just another kind of exile, less brutal but no kinder than what the world would have offered if they bore Black’s name openly?” Would they suffer less as Maximilians, or is it only a different sort of wound; this was a question that he couldn’t find the answer to.

He hesitated as the next words came out rougher. “I made a promise and I intend to keep it, whatever it costs. But I wonder what you’d have wanted really, if you’d had more time.”

His jaw set. “And as for Black–” He said the name flatly, nearly spitting it into the snow. “He left them to the wolves. Whatever his intentions, he was a reckless, selfish fool. You said he was condemned for a crime he did not commit. Perhaps, but he never thought what would come after. You paid for that. The children paid for that.” He exhaled softly. “I suppose I pay as well.”

He was silent for a long moment as the wind slid past. “Sometimes… I wonder if this started when I suggested your engagement. I told you he wasn’t like the others, that he hated blood politics as much as you. Maybe I had been right at that time, for what little comfort that provides.” He’d like to believe that his sister had been happy during her brief years with Sirius. At least, for a time, she was free. Still, the price of freedom came with a steep cost. “If I’d held my tongue that day, if I didn’t mention his name, the Black family, perhaps… perhaps you’d still be alive. Perhaps none of this–”

He stopped himself as his gloved hand pressed harder against the stone. “Regret is useless. The twins, that’s what matters now. I’ll see them raised well and protected, Maximilian in every sense that matters. This is all I have left to give you.”

He stood in the hush and allowed the snow settle around his boots, the cold tightening the ache in his shoulders. Then, quietly, he said, “Rest, Andrée. I’ll handle the rest.”

Christopher turned and walked back up the slope, every step certain, as he buried every doubt  behind the shield of his back.

END OF PROLOGUE

Chapter Text

CEDRIC

Cedric never looked for trouble. 

Honestly, he found it rather distasteful; trouble was messy and usually avoidable with good manners and decent timing. But Hogwarts didn’t care much about his timing, and certainly not about manners, especially not when it threw you into things for simply keeping your eyes open.

He was heading back from the library, his satchel full of books for an essay he actually wanted to write. First week, good impression and all that. The halls were thinning out as the noise of dinner swelled from far-off corridors. But as he passed down a side passage, the air shifted. 

Cooler. Dimmer. Just… off.

Cedric slowed and frowned faintly. That stretch of hallway hadn’t looked dodgy before, but now… the silence had teeth, and it might just bite if he stepped a little too loud. 

Carpet softened his steps as he rounded a corner. There was no reason to sneak, but still, something about the hush made him quieter.

Then came the sound. A thud  followed by muffled voices. Laughter came, but mean; it was the kind that didn’t need an audience, only a victim. Another voice spoke; it was sharp-edged with that grating sort of fake confidence boys used when they were afraid of being outdone.

Shifting the weight of his bag, Cedric edged forward. A suit of armor loomed to his left, while a dusty trophy case yawned open on the right. Ahead, three older boys in Gryffindor scarves huddled in a clump, their backs forming a human wall. He couldn’t see who they were laughing at, but he heard him.

“Got too much maroon on… Probably says something about your masculinity,” the voice said; it was crisp and foreign, but also younger, perhaps closer to his age. It didn’t help him though; one Gryffindor shoved him back against a display case.

The boy grunted and the Gryffindors jeered. Still, he followed it up with, “Talk’s all I have. Saves me from working on my dueling posture.”

Cedric flinched at the tone. It was funny, technically, but there was something tight about it. The kind of funny that came just before getting punched.

One of the Gryffindors moved. There was another shove and something cracked against the stone.

Cedric’s stomach flipped.

He stepped forward before his brain caught up with his feet. His voice came out clearer than he expected, cool and even. “Oi! Professor McGonagall’s coming! She’s right around the corner.”

All three older boys snapped to attention. One swore. Another looked past him like he expected a tartan tidal wave to crash down the corridor.

Cedric stood his ground. Didn’t blink and tried to look like someone who definitely, certainly, wasn’t bluffing.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, probably a second-year racing to dinner; it sold the lie.

The older boys bolted, tripping over one another’s trainers in their hurry to disappear. Not long after, their retreating shouts echoed and then vanished.

Finally, silence settled like dust.

Cedric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. He stared at his hands that tingled with that floaty, blood-humming rush rising in his veins. Did I really just…

The boy on the ground looked up. His hair was rumpled and with one cheek swelling fast. He was small, but not frail. 

The boy stood with a sort of crooked dignity, like the wall was only holding him up because it happened to be there. Their eyes met. Then the boy looked away and wiped his bloodied mouth with his sleeve.

“Professor McGonagall’s not actually coming, is she?” he asked, the accent faint but pointed.

“Nope.” Cedric smiled a little sheepishly. “But they don’t know that.” He stepped closer, hand out. 

The boy looked at it for a beat, long enough to make Cedric wonder if he’d get snubbed; then he took it with a grip.

“Cedric Diggory. Hufflepuff.”

“Riev Maximilian,” the boy replied, a wry edge creeping in his tone. “Resident disaster.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

“I know.”

“But it was funny. And brave. Sort of.”

Riev straightened, only to wince in the attempt. “Do I get house points for comedy under duress?”

Cedric shook his head. “No. But you get my respect.”

That earned him a half-smile. “Suppose that’s something. Tell me I at least landed one good insult?”

Cedric laughed under his breath. “The maroon masculinity bit? Needs refining. Work on the punchline.”

Riev dabbed at his lip again, softer this time. “Still worth it.”

They stood there as the quiet settlied. Cedric could hear armor shifting somewhere behind them.

He gestured down the hall. “You should see Madam Pomfrey.”

Riev made a face. “If I show up like this, think she’ll blame me or the corridor?”

“Depends. Did you damage anything valuable?”

“Just my dignity.”

Cedric snorted. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”

He half-expected Riev to resist, but the boy just nodded and kept pace,striding steadily despite the limp. Chin held up high. 

Proud little badger, Professor Sprout would’ve called him, Cedric thought, even if he wasn’t one.

At the hospital wing, Cedric held the door for Riev. Madam Pomfrey’s gasp turned into brisk clucks and summoned salves. He leaned against the wall as he listened to Riev deflect questions with dry remarks and a patience that didn’t sound rehearsed.

He thought of how the older boys had scattered; how Riev had stood there bloody and still cracking jokes. He recognized something in it. It wasn’t recklessness, not really…

Defense. 

Cedric wore a quieter version himself more than once.

Eventually, Riev emerged bandaged, his bruising now a dull shadow. They walked back to the Great Hall without much talking. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. 

By the time they reached the staircase, Cedric could smell the roast from the Great Hall. At the foot of the stairs, he turned to Riev and said, “Next time, maybe skip the part where you get punched.”

“No punch. Just punchline. Got it.” Riev grinned, the kind of grin that looked honest.

Cedric liked that. His resilience and refusal to sulk.

They parted by the time they stepped inside the Great Hall. Riev gave him a nod that was too old to come from a first-year. 

Cedric watched him go, surprised at the tug he felt in his chest.

They weren’t friends. Not yet at least.

But he’d remember the boy who made a joke even with blood on his chin.

FRED

It started, as the best kinds of trouble always did, with a bit of gloriously controlled chaos on the Hogwarts lawns.

Fred lined up with the other Gryffindor first-years, grinning like someone had slipped him a double dose of Pepperup Potion. George gave him a nudge in the ribs; a nudge that said, behave, but in the most unserious way imaginable.

Flying lessons. Finally. Real Hogwarts magic. Brooms, wind, sky. And the best of all? 

Accidents.

The Maximilian twins stood just down the line, hovering near the Gryffindors like they’d wandered into the wrong common room and decided to stay out of spite. Fred had clocked them the second they stepped out of the castle. 

French, posh, new. And ripe for his entertainment.

He elbowed George. “Watch the Maximilians. Bet you a Sickle something goes gloriously sideways.”

George’s smirk twitched. “Oh this should be good.”

Madam Hooch’s whistle split the air like a thrown dart. Brooms snapped to attention. Students straightened up. Fred’s heart did a little excited jig.

“Step up to your broomsticks! Hold out your right hand and say, ‘Up!’”

Fred’s broom leapt into his palm like it was eager to be part of the mayhem. George’s did the same. The twins operated like musical chairs if every chair had mischief and mayhem sewn into it.

But over at the Slytherin end, Riev’s broom just… sat there.

Fred watched, his eyes narrowing with interest. Riev said “Up” again, with a little Gallic flair. And still, the broom sulked.

Sophie, meanwhile, barely whispered her “Up,” and her broom leapt into her hand like it owed her money.

Fred was already snorting. “It’s like the broom knows he’s French,” he muttered to George.

Riev glanced down at his broom like it had personally insulted his ancestors. “Up!”

The broom gave a tired little shudder… then rolled a few inches away like it was done with him.

Snickers flared across the line. Even George cracked a grin.

Sophie didn’t laugh, but Fred caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Subtle. Effective. And a little dangerous. 

Fred whispered to George. “Definitely the flair.”

“Bet the broom just hates his accent,” George murmured.

Then came the sharp, hawkish tone of Madam Hooch, already glaring at Riev. “Problems, Maximilian?”

“No, Professor,” Riev said, sighing like he’d aged ten years. “Just… having a chat with the broom.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. He already liked him. Terrible luck. But great delivery.

“Try again,” Hooch snapped.

“Up!”

The broom rocketed upward and smacked Riev square in the face.

Fred nearly choked on his spit. George was wheezing through his hands.

“Oh, he’s got talent,” Fred whispered, completely utterly delighted. “He’s a bloody natural.”

“Hope he survives long enough for us to learn his birthday,” George replied.

Riev, with one hand to his face and somehow still dignified, flashed a crooked grin. “See? Progress.”

More laughter rippled through the crowd. Even the brooms seemed to hum with anticipation now.

Madam Hooch sighed like this wasn’t the first time a student had nearly been decapitated by their own equipment. “Get on the broom. Just hover a few feet and come down. That’s all.”

Riev gave a dramatic little salute. “Hovering. Easy.”

Sophie stepped back like she’d seen this horror scene before.

Fred leaned forward slightly with his eyes gleaming. He knew this moment. He’d seen it loads of times at home when a prank teetered right on the edge of glory and explosion. He could almost hear the fuse sizzling.

Riev swung his leg over the broom.

The broom snarled to life like it had something to prove.

Fred caught the first flash of panic in Riev’s eyes and then the boy was gone, shooting forward with all the grace of a gnome shot out of a cannon.

“—NOM D’UN CHIEN—!”

Fred doubled over, gasping. Riev zipped past, legs kicking uselessly as his arms clung tightly on the handle. The broom spun him in a savage circle over the pitch.

George whooped. “He’s airborne!”

The other first-years yelled nonsense; some helpful, most not. Sophie didn’t even blink, only had  her arms crossed. Probably debating whether to bother saving him.

Madam Hooch’s voice lashed across the field. “Control it, boy!”

“I’M TRYING PROFESS—MERDE! I DON’T WANNA DIE!”

Fred was crying now. “Put him on a Nimbus 2000, see what happens. Might solve our owl problem.”

Cedric, bless his well-meaning Hufflepuff heart, tried to help. “Lean forward!”

“I DID THAT ALREADY!” Riev hollered as he vanished into a screaming flock of birds.

Fred could barely breathe. He glanced at Sophie. Still statuesque. Stone-faced. Fred was starting to suspect she didn’t have a pulse.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Fred whispered as he wiped a tear, “but I might have a favorite Slytherin.”

George nodded solemnly. “Always room for exception.”

Finally, Hooch snapped. Her wand flicked. The broom froze midair and dropped its rider like a sack of flour.

Riev hit the grass with a muted thud. Flat on his back with limbs askew, his eyes blinking skyward.

“Okay…” he croaked. “That could’ve gone better.”

Sophie appeared in his line of sight, her arms still folded and eyebrows slightly raised. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” he mumbled.

Madam Hooch stormed over as the rest of the class hovered somewhere between horror and awe. She crouched, voice low and lethal. “What the bloody hell was that?”

Riev, with a sheepish grin, replied, “An… attempt?”

Fred and George drifted closer, their faces as innocent as kneazles with feathers in their mouths.

George cleared his throat. “Professor, we have a suggestion.”

Hooch gave them a look like she was seriously considering a hex. “What?”

Fred slung an arm around Riev’s shoulders, absolutely beaming. “What if we skip brooms altogether? Strap him to a hippogriff.”

“Or a Thestral,” George chimed in.

“Or a dragon,” Fred added without missing a beat.

“At least those might listen to him,” George finished.

Riev let out a strangled laugh. “Honestly, I’d take the dragon.”

Cedric piped up again. “Maybe you just need practice?”

Sophie spoke, her tone deadpan. “Unless you’re planning an exorcism, practice won’t help.”

Hooch’s eye twitched. She waved them off like she’d reached some internal limit. “Get him out of my sight.”

Sophie reached down, caught her brother by the collar, and hauled him to his feet with the kind of quiet efficiency that said she’d done this before.

As they started away, Riev called over his shoulder, “So, Diggory. Flying lessons?”

Cedric brightened. “Sure! I—”

But the rogue broom, clearly not finished, jolted into the air and divebombed. Riev ducked with a yelp. The broom missed and shot into the grass.

Cedric blinked. “Alright. No amount of lessons will fix that.”

Riev patted his shoulder. “Good choice.”

The class scattered. Fred nudged George as they wandered back toward the castle.

“French twins, George. We’ve struck gold.”

George’s grin went wide. “Not just gold. The whole bloody Gringotts.”

The tide of students surged toward the castle in that special Hogwarts way; like someone had released a hundred enchanted ducks and told them to attend class. Fred and George slipped through the crowd without needing to talk; they never did. They moved in sync, cutting across staircases and dodging a third-year’s floating bookbag with ease.

Fred kept one eye ahead.

Sophie and Riev were just visible in the crowd. She walked straight-backed, eyes flicking from shadow to statue like she expected a pop quiz from the castle itself. Riev rubbed his temple, probably from the broom-related concussion he was definitely pretending he didn’t have.

Fred nudged George. “Still think they’re twins?”

George snorted. “Barely. Bet they came out a year apart and just didn’t tell anyone.”

They were nothing like him and George. Fred could feel it. He and George shared everything; from socks to detentions. They were always speaking, even when they weren’t. 

But the Maximilians kept this eerie distance as if standing too close might set off a trap. They didn’t talk, just moved like they’d rehearsed where not to step.

After lunch, first-years were marched out to the edge of the grounds for Care of Magical Creatures, which frankly, sounded like a setup for disaster or a bad joke. Or both. Either way, Fred could get behind it.

Everyone gathered in a lopsided circle on the grass; they still whispered about Riev’s aerial ballet-slash-brush-with-death. Fred caught the tail end of someone mimicking a broom crash with hand gestures. He didn’t correct them. It had been much funnier in person.

Professor Kettleburn limped out a minute later; he had silver-hair, two less fingers, and somehow still cheerful in a way that suggested he hadn’t meant to lose any digits but was quite proud of the stories. Fred liked him instantly.

There weren’t any fanged beasts or flying serpents… yet. Today, they got kneazles. Small, sharp-eared, twitchy things in low crates. All of them were glaring like they’d been promised a meal and were instead handed homework.

Fred elbowed George. “I’d wager those furballs are smarter than half the Slytherin table.”

George smirked. “Fewer allergies too.”

The Maximilian twins were off to the side. Riev crouched in the grass, looking as if he were catching up with an old friend. His kneazle, a grey lazy thing, was purring as it sprawled across his knee like it had picked its new person and wasn’t open to negotiation.

Fred tilted his head. “Boy’s got a gift.”

George followed his gaze. “For what, animal magnetism?”

“Meanwhile,” Fred added as his eyes slid to Sophie, “she looks like she’s doing advanced Arithmancy with hers.”

Sophie’s kneazle, bright orange and filled with pure loathing, bared its teeth just as she reached forward. She pulled back an inch before it could snap. 

No flinch, no scowl. 

Just that cold little pause, like she’d expected it.

“She’s all ice,” Fred muttered.

“Nah,” George said. “She’s like… one of those puzzle boxes. You can’t tell if it’s locked or just judging you.”

Fred snorted.

Sophie tried again carefully. The kneazle hissed as its tail swished like a wand whose owner held a grudge. She didn’t even blink.

Kettleburn watched with a kind of fond exasperation. “Kneazles are good judges of character, Miss Maximilian. Let it come to you.”

Her jaw tensed. Fred almost felt sorry for the poor creature.

“Switch partners!” Kettleburn called as if this would somehow make things less volatile.

Students scrambled to trade kneazles. Riev handed over his purring lump and took Sophie’s orange nightmare. It took five seconds for the thing to climb up his shoulder and act like it lived there.

Sophie looked at him like he’d just pulled off an advanced spell. “Yours likes you?”

Riev shrugged. “She stole a sausage from my pocket. We’re emotionally bonded now.”

Fred chuckled. It reminded him of the time George had tamed that stray mutt outside the Burrow with half a chicken leg, while Fred had nearly lost his hand to the same beast twenty minutes later. Twins. Same blood, but completely different animal politics.

Riev glanced down at Sophie’s scratched hand. “Yours hates you.”

Sophie didn’t miss a beat. “Brilliant observation.”

Fred leaned toward George. “She’s trying too hard. Beast can smell it.”

George nodded, his eyes squinting like he was solving a riddle. “Or maybe she’s scared it’ll judge her.”

Fred watched as Sophie held her hand out again. The kneazle gave a sniff; it growled faintly then padded off in the other direction without a backward glance.

Sophie rose; she brushed grass from her skirt like it had personally offended her and didn’t look at a soul. But when Riev reached over and gently tugged her sleeve down to cover the scratch, she didn’t pull away. It was a barely-there flicker. 

But Fred caught it.

Relief? Annoyance? Resignation? Hard to tell. He filed it under things to investigate later.

George caught his eye. “They don’t bicker like us.”

Fred made a face. “Weird, innit?”

“Bet they’ve never pranked each other in their lives.”

Fred squinted after them. Probably. Or we’re reading them wrong.

Last class of the day was Potions.

Which, in Fred’s humble opinion, was less about learning and more about seeing who could avoid vaporizing their eyebrows.

The dungeon smelled like burnt nettle, a sprinkle of lifetime regret, and something George once swore was pickled toad foot. No matter how often the cauldrons were scrubbed, the place always carried the ghost of last year’s catastrophes. Fred liked it actually; it had a certain “may explode at any moment” scent that made things interesting.

And for today’s special, Cure for Boils. A first-year classic, Charlie told them once. Easy in theory. In reality? A bubbling disaster waiting to happen the second someone added porcupine quills too early.

Snape stalked past the benches like he was selecting his next victim. His voice sliced through the low chatter.

“If any of you manage to brew something drinkable today, it will be a minor miracle.”

Fred didn’t flinch; he was already glancing sideways.

Maximilians again. Riev had set up beside his sister, naturally. His cauldron looked like it had been nudged into place by a one-eyed gnome; his ingredients were scattered like someone had blindfolded him. 

Sophie, meanwhile, had arranged her kit with Auror-level discipline; she probably sharpened her stirring rod.

Snape paused behind her like a Boggart sensing fear.

“Maximilian.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said, voice cool as frost on a goblet of pumpkin juice.

He gestured to her workstation. “Explain your technique.”

She didn’t even blink. “Finer grinding means the snake fangs dissolve quicker. It stabilizes the quill integration and prevents early solidification.”

Snape raised one brow. “And if you add the quills too early?”

“You get smoke, an explosion, and more boils. Counterproductive.”

For a half-second, Fred swore he caught Snape almost smiling. ItMerlin, that was terrifying.

“Proceed,” he said.

Fred leaned closer to George. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

George muttered, “Bet her blood runs cold.”

Meanwhile, Riev was staring at his directions like they were written in Mermish. “Clockwise or anti-clockwise after the quills?”

“Clockwise,” Sophie said without looking up. “Gently.”

Fred watched Riev stir. Froth burst up the sides of his cauldron like a bad cleaning spell that had gone off a fizzing fit.

He muttered something in French that made Fred raise an eyebrow. He didn’t know what it meant, but it definitely didn’t sound printable.

George leaned in. “If that, whatever it is now, gets worse, I’m casting a shield charm.”

Fred grinned. “Don’t bother. We’re in the splash zone.”

Riev fanned at the froth like that would help. Sophie didn’t say a word; she just passed him a clean ladle like this was a normal Tuesday.

Fred took stock. He and George? They bluffed their way through most assignments either with charm or a well-timed distraction. Sometimes, they got lucky, sometimes, not so.

Sophie and Riev were a different story; she plotted while he gambled, and somehow they both stayed afloat.

Snape came back around with his cloak trailing like doom.

He stopped behind Sophie’s cauldron. It was already cooling; the potion was smooth and in the right shade of murky green.

“Acceptable, Miss Maximilian,” he said.

Fred blinked. That was practically a standing ovation from Snape.

Then he saw it; Sophie’s fingers curled just slightly around her ladle as her shoulders lifted by a hair. 

Smug? No. More like satisfied.

Riev, however, held up his own potion which looked like a pond someone had chucked a dirty shoe into.

Snape sighed. “Read the instructions. Twice.”

Riev grinned. “But Professor, where’s the adventure in that?”

Snape’s glare could’ve scorched all the cauldrons in the room.

George whispered, “Only reason he’s not in detention is that Slytherin tie.”

Fred nodded. “Only reason we’re not in detention is we haven’t earned it yet.”

Class soon ended. 

The Maximilians packed up; Sophie wiped every surface down like contamination was a personal insult while Riev tossed his stuff into his bag like he was hoping it would sort itself out later.

Fred watched Riev nudge Sophie’s arm in thanks. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t back away either.

Fred scratched his chin. He and George? All noise and running commentary. The Maximilians were whispers and sidelong glances. Still twins. Just… written in a centuries-old runic code.

“Curious, aren’t they?” George said, echoing Fred’s thoughts.

Fred nodded slowly. “Foreign, but not like French foreign. Like… always half-translating?”

“She doesn’t laugh much,” George added as he eyed Sophie.

Fred hefted his books under one arm. “Maybe she just hasn’t had the right reason yet.”

George’s grin was a wicked curve. “Let’s give her one.”

As they filed into the corridor, Fred caught a last glimpse of them. Riev was already chattering with some Hufflepuff lad. Sophie walked alone, her eyes scanning the shadows in the corner like the walls might whisper something important.

Fred nudged George. “Reckon they’ve got secret signals.”

George shrugged. “We’ll crack it.”

Fred smiled, slow and thoughtful as ideas bubbled up like potion foam. Something involving enchanted sugar quills or maybe a kneazle with a wig.

Either way, the Maximilians wouldn’t stay an enigma for long.

Not with the Weasleys watching.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SOPHIE

It began in Transfiguration.

Sophie never intended to inspire fear.. She simply did what she’d been taught. Maintain a steady hand; never hesitate nor leave anything to chance.

Either you handled your own mess, or you forced a fix. 

At the château, mistakes never went unanswered, and neither did the disappointment in the eyes of those who demanded perfection.

Once, Father’s voice had surfaced unbidden. “They may not notice you immediately, but sooner or later, they will. Make sure it’s for the right reasons.”

And so, here she was at Hogwarts, determined to achieve the highest marks and uphold every rule, ones that appeared straightforward… until they weren’t.

Especially when she met Phoebe Blackwell. A nervous but kind Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall had paired them during one class activity.

Phoebe filled the awkwardness with small talk. For her part, Sophie listened attentively and nodded when appropriate; however, her responses never quite matched the way Phoebe seemed to hope for.

Their first task was to transform buttons into beetles. On her third try, Sophie’s button twitched. It sprouted legs, before scuttling across the desk. She allowed herself only the faintest nod, careful to keep any trace of satisfaction from her face.

Meanwhile, Phoebe’s button sagged into a misshapen puddle before shuddering upright. Gears began protruding as spindly legs unfolded from its sides.

That was when Sophie’s gaze lingered at the way Phoebe’s knuckles blanched while her magic hissed rather than hummed at the wand’s tip.

“You’re holding your wand too tightly,” Sophie said evenly

Phoebe’s mouth formed a soft “oh,” before she looked down. “Is that… bad?”

“You’re squeezing the magic out before it reaches the tip.” Sophie’s voice remained steady; she didn’t even smirk. Simply stated the problem. 

But Phoebe flinched as if she’d been rapped on the knuckles.

Sophie’s brows furrowed.

Why did she look hurt? She had only told the truth. That was what helped, wasn’t it?

During the next lesson, Phoebe deferred to Sophie’s lead, and Sophie saw no point in objecting. They received top marks with their buttons gleaming.

Cleanly and efficiently, as was taught by her tutors back home.

Sophie exhaled softly. This will suffice.

By the third lesson, Phoebe only spoke when required. “I can do it this time,” she said hesitantly.

“We’ll get a better mark if I do it,” Sophie replied. 

Phoebe nodded and remained silent for the rest of the class session.

Later, as Sophie packed her bag, she heard the whispers among her classmates.

“She’s scary.”

“She doesn’t let you try, just takes over.”

“I heard she made Blackwell cry.”

That last wasn’t true; Phoebe hadn’t cried. She’d only gone to McGonagall and asked for a new partner.

Later, Riev found her by the lake just as dusk draped the water in dark blue and gold. Sophie sat barefoot, her arms folded around her knees as her toes pressed to the cold stones despite the numbness. The chill helped her focus as it made things easier to name.

“She asked to be reassigned,” Sophie said. “Because I didn’t let her fail.”

Riev sat beside her as he spoke softly, “it’s because you didn’t let her try. Sometimes that feels the same.”

Sophie’s gaze lingered on the lake as the moon’s reflection trembled. “I thought it would be kinder… to get her through it.” Her arms tightened around her knees. ‘To make sure she didn’t embarrass herself.”

“I know you meant well, Soph…” Riev said. “But the thing is, you made the decision for her.”

Silence settled between them before Sophie spoke again. “She called me cold.”

“She called you clever first,” Riev said as he picked up pebbles to toss into the water. “Then clever and cold.”

“I was being efficient,” Sophie muttered. That’s what I’m supposed to be.

Riev’s lips curved faintly, but his eyes held something soft but resigned. “Have you noticed? Sometimes, folks want to feel like they matter.”

Sophie frowned. “They do matter–”

“I mean, in the process,” Riev added. “Not just with the result.”

Sophie remained silent, as the stones her brother had tossed dropped and sank into the lake’s water, along with his words.

The next morning, she quietly took her usual seat at the front row with her hands folded on the desk. Professor McGonagall gaze rested on her a moment longer than necessary before moving on.

The seat next to her remained empty.

Sophie didn’t flinch. She simply adjusted her quill despite the hush that settled around her like a silent verdict.

With each passing week, Sophie’s reputation grew. 

First years viewed her to be polite but distant. She answered questions clearly and concisely. She helped when directly asked; however, she never offered unsolicited advice. Neither had she ever laughed at a joke unless Riev told it, and even then, it was more like a small twitch in the corners of her lips than anything else.

No one despised her; few bothered to get close. Some were openly wary, especially when it came time to choose partners in class.

“Not enough trouble to make,” Riev had joked back home in the Ardennes before their departure to London. But Hogwarts had given them room enough to make an impression… or a reputation.

She just hadn’t meant for hers to sound like something to be whispered.

Eventually, the nickname “Ice Queen” began to circulate; first in whispers, then in open jest.

Her brother tried to help her lose that title. He’d nudge her toward group work or make introductions. Once, he teased out the spark he knew lived under her calm exterior. “Relax. Smile a little more,” he urged. “They’re not out to get you.”

Sophie tried, she really did, for his sake. 

She remembered the script, the correct answers, and even the right way to hold a teacup or bow her head. But Hogwarts wasn’t a Maximilian salon, nor a diplomatic parlour. There were no rules printed on crests or unspoken courtesies hidden in silverware.

Here, conversations didn’t follow scripts. She could cite treaties and infer intentions from a bow; but she didn’t know what to do with a group of girls whispering about their favourite sweets.

When she tried to soften her voice, it came out flat; any smile she forced out felt brittle.

It didn’t help that she neither understood their jokes, nor their games. She watched silently as her roommates braided each other’s hair or exchanged sweets from home; sometimes, they even passed notes under the desks. 

At the château, laughter was reserved only for guests. Affection only belonged to the past, to memories hazed in faint scent and lost lullaby long before Father’s shadow replaced it.

She’d join the circle when her roommates invited her, but she never quite found the rhythm.

Riev fared better at Hogwarts. He moved through it like he was born for it; even if he never quite fit in, he always seemed at ease. He made friends in every house; most were from the Hufflepuffs, several first-year Slytherins, a bit from Gryffindor, and even Ravenclaws who liked his jokes more than his accuracy. He never seemed to run out of stories or energy, or even the patience for those who needed cheering up.

Sometimes, from across the Hall, Sophie watched him. His ease and carelessness, she envied how effortless it seemed. How does he do it? She caught herself wondering this on several occasions. 

On another occasion, Riev tried to help her again. “Come sit with us at lunch,” he’d say while tugging her sleeve.

She’d try, again, for his sake.

However, after a few minutes of forced conversation, she’d excuse herself. “I have an essay,” she’d say. Or, “I need to finish these notes.”

Riev understood, but it never stopped him from trying again and again. He even tried to get Cedric to talk to her. 

And Cedric…

He was kind and patient, but even his efforts couldn’t bridge the gap. He’d smile at her in class. Sophie returned it with a small nod, but she never quite found a way to start the conversation herself.

The Weasley twins were another matter. They delighted in poking at her reserve. 

“Ice Queen!” they’d call, and waggled their eyebrows as she passed.

“Careful, George,” Fred grinned. “Don’t get frostbite.” 

Sophie ignored them.

But along with their teasing, their pranks grew more elaborate. First, there were enchanted snowballs and icy seats, then later on, it was followed by glitter that clung to her robes.

Sophie responded with either silence or a glare so sharp it could slice parchment. She was not going to give them the satisfaction of a response. 

But even she had limits.

At one point, Fred dumped a bucket of charmed icicles in her bag. 

Sophie stared at it for a couple of minutes, her expression unreadable. Un, deux, trois…. She breathed slowly through her nose. 

Taking out her wand, she flicked it at the gradually melting icicle and muttered a charm to keep it intact. Then, she walked toward the Weasley twins, her eyes sharp despite maintaining her composure. She dropped the icicles on their table, and said dryly, “Your charms need work.” 

The Weasley twins howled with laughter, even as she left.

When Sophie told Riev about this, he tried bribing the twins with sweets; he even threatened them that he’d tell Professor Snape about the time they changed all of his cauldrons to bright red and that they’d tried stealing from his storage. 

The twins called it a bluff.

Riev simply grinned. “I’m not his favorite, but between us, I got the Slytherin tie.”

That slowed the pranks, but the nickname stuck.

By November, Sophie focused instead on her studies. She continued to excel in Potions; she even managed to impress Professor Flitwick with a clever charm variant. However, even as her academics improved, her social world remained frozen. She became the girl people turned to for answers, not warmth.

One afternoon in the library, she noticed Phoebe at a nearby table, laughing softly with her new partner. She looked up once and caught Sophie’s gaze, but didn’t hold it. The silence wasn’t cruel, just… there.

On another occasion, she joined her roommates for a late-night study session. The talk shifted from homework to crushes and home life. Sophie merely listened until someone asked, “What about you, Sophie? Anyone you like back home?” 

The last time they’d asked her questions, she’d answered too exactly. Dual citizenship. Twins. Organized. It was all true; yet none of it right, nor enough.

So this time, she said less and only stared blankly before simply shaking her head. 

The silence lingered too long. Someone coughed then changed the subject, and Sophie retreated with her notebook in hand.

On a late evening, she found herself by the lake again as the water reflected the bright moon. She remembered Riev’s words. 

People wanted to feel they mattered. 

She didn’t know how to give that. She only knew how to get things done. That was how she was raised; how both of them were raised.

She could easily recite treaties or potion recipes, but she simply could not grasp the mechanics of mattering the way everyone else did.

Sophie sighed deeply as the thought surfaced, why can Riev do it but I can’t?

However, at the start of December, something shifted.

In the library, as Sophie collected references for an essay in Charms, she noticed a  small, dark-haired first-year Ravenclaw girl; her eyes were puffy red while flipping frantically through a pile of books. Her hands shook as she scratched out notes, each page growing messier by the second.

Sophie paused as she watched her. Panic but not necessarily incompetence. She had seen that before. Memories flashed, of herself at six, sweating over Arithmancy problems while the tutors loomed behind her and critiqued every smudge on the parchment.

Quietly, Sophie approached. “What are you looking for?”

The girl jumped. “Oh! Um… Professor Snape said we need to use an official reference for the essay. I can’t find the right book. I think someone took it out.”

Sophie stared at the stack. “You want Basic Medicinal Drafts by Arsenius Jigger.”

The girl nodded with widened eyes. “But it’s not here, and the essay… it’s due back tomorrow.”

Sophie slid her own copy from her bag. “Here. You can borrow mine.”

The girl blinked. “Really? Are you sure?”

Sophie nodded. “Just return it before breakfast. I need it for my notes.”

The girl clutched the book like a lifeline. “Thank you, thank you!”

Sophie blinked. Thanks was unnecessary. Still, she nodded. 

“I’m Emma, by the way. Emma Linwood.” 

“Sophie.”

Emma smiled and offered a handshake. “If you ever need a study partner, or… I dunno, help with Charms or something, just ask.”

Sophie hesitated for a heartbeat, then shook her hand and nodded. 

As Emma left, she stood for a moment. She hadn’t expected gratitude, nor recognition. But when Emma returned her notebook the next morning with a fresh quill tucked inside with a small “thanks!” note, Sophie ran her thumb over the crisp paper and couldn’t help the small almost-smile that crept onto her face.

The “Ice Queen” whispers still persisted, following her wherever she went. But now, every so often, someone would ask her for help; and it wasn’t just for answers. And every so often, Sophie would find herself lending a book, an ear or, on rare occasions, a word of advice.

Sophie hadn’t considered it as kindness. Lending the book had been a clean solution to a problem that didn’t need to be one. But Emma’s thanks, genuine and a little awkward, stayed with her longer than she expected.

One night, when Sophie copied her notes, she added a small index tab to Basic Medicinal Drafts right where the chapter on draught interactions began… in case someone needed to borrow her book again.

Not long after, small changes followed. When she corrected a Hufflepuff boy’s wand movement in Charms, she slowed her own movement enough for him to mimic without Sophie pointing it out aloud. 

Her roommates didn’t stare when she entered. They didn’t invite her to braid circles or pillow chats either, but the space she occupied began to shift even if just slightly.

Then, on the day before the start of Christmas break, something happened.

Sophie had been folding her robes before placing each item in her trunk in the exact order she wanted them retrieved at home. She preferred packing the night before departure rather than rushing like her brother.

Across the room, her roommates chatted. She kept her head down but listened.

Sera, a tall girl with ginger hair, spoke, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I dunno what’s going to happen with Gran. Mum says the Ministry can’t find half her paperwork. She worked there for ages, you know? But now they say it’s all lost or wrong, so she can’t get her retirement benefits, and with her sick, it’s… it’s not fair.” 

She sniffed. “My brother tried to sort it, but he said it’s too much papers. He didn’t want me to worry, but I’d rather know. I think Gran’s friend from the Floo Office might help, but I don’t know.”

Amelia let out a soft tut, her brown hair falling across her eyes as she leaned closer to Sera. Isobel only murmured, “That’s terrible,” her voice nearly lost in the shuffle as she fiddled with the corner of her sleeve. 

For a moment, the trio went quiet.

Then someone, maybe Amelia, brightened, asking about Christmas sweets, and soon the talk turned to holiday plans and silly stories. Their voices lifted a little too quickly with everyone pretending not to notice how Sera’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Sophie didn’t look up or interrupt; she only made a mental note.

Sera, the name of her grandmother, British Ministry, retirement, red tape, illness. 

She filed it all away as she did with any puzzle. Something to be solved or fixed if the puzzle had been rigged to begin with

Home was cold and bright upon Sophie and Riev’s return for the Christmas break. Every stone of Château du Lys sheened with frost.

Sophie breathed easier the moment she stepped onto Maximilian ground, with the world outside muffled and orderly again. Minette and Jacques, of the family’s house-elves, met the twins by the gates and whisked their trunks away.

Sophie straightened her robes, then her twin’s who initially refused to do so himself until she narrowed her eyes and stared at him long and hard. When they reached the front steps. Christopher greeted them with a nod. 

Riev gave their father a quick, “Merry Christmas!” then bolted straight for the kitchens, checking for his favorite sweets.

The routine before leaving for Hogwarts resumed; morning lessons, afternoon walks, Maximilian tutors slipping them back into the old rhythms. Sophie accepted it without fuss; Riev, with mild resistance and a poor attempt to charm the new etiquette tutor. 

But this Christmas break, Sophie had a task beyond the usual holiday routine. She took her meals in the château’s library as stacks of Ministry rulebooks and decrees rose around her like a fort. She started with the basics like employment law, retirement and compensation. 

The process looked straightforward in theory; submit the right forms, wait for the Ministry to process the claim, receive approval, and benefits begin. However, nothing at the British Ministry was ever as tidy as it appeared.

By her second day home, Sophie had mapped the process; what documents were required, which offices rubber-stamped them, and how appeals were handled.

By the third day however, Sophie found herself tapping her finger on the table constantly, a habit that she had developed over the years whenever she was at her wit’s end, but required to maintain her composure. 

The number of signatures needed multiplied for no clear reason. The same document had to pass through at least three different departments. Worse, some laws referenced amendments that hadn’t been updated in decades.

This was worse than Professor Flitwick’s theoretical charm models; at least those had logic. This, whatever the British called this bureaucratic nightmare, was a hydra with seven heads and zero mercy.

Riev drifted in and out of the library. He tried to help once, for nearly two hours. He sat beside her as she cross-referenced Ministry code numbers and scribbled annotations in the margins. By the time they reached the section on eligibility for partial benefits, Riev’s eyes glazed.

“How can you read this?” he groaned as he slumped over the table.

Sophie shrugged, quill tapping against her lip. “It’s like… following a winding path. If you could trace the right trail, you’d find the exit.”

“Your “path” looks like a deranged Minotaur built it,” Riev muttered while rubbing his temples. “And then set it on fire. You know what…” He stood up. “I’ll bring snacks instead.”

He left and returned twenty minutes later with a plate of pain au chocolat, a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and a scrap of parchment. It had a doodle of a stick-figure wizard fencing a hydra with a quill. 

“Don’t get eaten by bureaucracy. —Riev.”

 Below it, in smaller letters, “Seriously, sleep.”

Sophie smiled, the expression so faint it almost went unnoticed. Riev repeated the ritual every day; sometimes snacks with a joke, sometimes just, “Don’t let the books win.”

On the fifth night, long after dinner, Sophie remained in the library again where fire burned low, and her breath plumed in the cold. She had four Ministry tomes open, while notes were layered in spidery writing across three sheets.

She felt father before she saw him as she caught the faint scent of winter and ink. His quiet steady tread, calm and deliberate, always came before the judgment.

He paused behind her chair and remained silent.

Sophie didn’t look up from her notes. “Good evening, Father.”

Christopher surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing. “Is this part of your Hogwarts curriculum?”

Sophie considered lying, saying it was for an extra-credit project. But the truth pressed against her throat like ice. Why shouldn’t she say it was for someone else? Why did it feel so exposed to admit she cared?

She slid her quill into the crease of a book. “It’s for a classmate’s grandmother. She worked at the Ministry for years, but now they can’t process her retirement. All due to missing paperwork and some bureaucratic error.”

Christopher folded his arms. “Did you find a solution?”

Sophie didn’t hesitate. “Yes… In theory. But the current system requires at least six signatures from four different departments, and the approval process can take months.” Her brows furrowed. “I could suggest this, but it would drag on. I’m looking for a way to speed up the process.”

Christopher studied her. “Is this classmate your friend?”

Sophie paused then shook her head. “No. I just don’t like how inefficient the Ministry is. It inconveniences people.”

Christopher’s stern features softened for an instant; a brief blink and a small nod. He moved to the far shelves, scanning the titles with practiced ease. Moments later,  he returned with two heavy tomes.

ICW procedural law and an obscure guide on international magical arbitration.

“These might help,” he said, setting them beside her. “Sometimes, ICW precedent can be invoked in cases involving Ministry labor rights. If her contract with the Ministry predates certain amendments, the ICW can pressure the Ministry to expedite processing.”

Sophie’s eyes brightened; it was the closest she came to delight. She flipped to the relevant chapter, her lips moving silently as she read. “I think this will work.”

Christopher pulled a chair beside her.  Quietly, he reached over and brushed a stray page marker back into place. No words; but in that small, deliberate gesture, she felt the weight of approval. 

It took them until past midnight, but they found it; a clause buried in the ICW-Ministry labor accord. If certain documents were provided, the process could be compelled under international law, and Sera’s grandmother’s benefits could be released on an emergency basis.

Sophie drafted the letters herself. She triple-checked every sentence, attached the correct citations, and wrote the instructions for Sera’s family in clear, careful print. Christopher reviewed the documents, making several corrections. 

She revised her drafts after reading his annotations and quietly filed them away in her mind. Father wasn’t the type to accept affections, but she could thank him for his help by learning from his corrections and writing a better revision. 

Once all documents had been reviewed and revised, Christopher signed the accompanying cover letters, adding the Maximilian seal, one that would nudge the right desks, if anyone cared to notice.

They sent everything by owl; one set to the British Ministry, one to the ICW, and one anonymous set of instructions addressed to Sera’s family, with a list of the forms they needed and the most efficient order in which to submit them. 

When the last envelope vanished into the night, Sophie leaned back, exhausted but satisfied. Christopher pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. 

It brought Sophie back to the time she had stood still in the Ardennes cold with his words in her pocket. Do not forget who you are. Or whose name you carry.

Now, months later, in the library’s dim firelight, he passed her another kind of instruction. But this time, not a command.

A ghost of a smile almost crossed her lips.

After Christmas break, Sera returned to Hogwarts lighter. Sophie saw it first in the way she bounced into the dorm, chattering about her gran and how someone, though no one in the family knew who, had sent them a list; how her brother’s friend at the Ministry had fast-tracked everything and the paperwork had come through two days after New Year. 

Sera’s eyes were bright with relief, and her thanks poured out in small, easy bursts. Her grandmother, it turned out, would be all right, at least for now.

Sophie listened quietly, and said nothing. The others made guesses; maybe it was Amelia’s aunt, or Isobel’s cousin, or sheer luck. Sera shrugged, not bothered by the mystery. She just seemed grateful.

Sophie watched the others smile, watched Sera laugh, and felt something small and careful settle inside her. 

Not pride, exactly. 

Just the quiet knowledge that she’d done what needed doing.

She didn’t smile. But the knot between her ribs loosened by a fraction.

The Sorting Hat had once asked whether she would let herself be seen. She hadn’t known then.

She still wasn’t sure. 

But maybe, sometimes, she could be useful without disappearing entirely.

During dinner, Riev grinned at Sera’s happiness and passed Sophie a sugar quill under the table as a reward for surviving another Christmas of legal tomes and her progress in understanding people outside of diplomacy and politics, no matter how small the progress may be.

For all his flaws, her brother was not afraid to be seen. She still remembered warning him over breakfast in their first week about not walking in with that Muggleborn Gryffindor girl.

“Be careful,” she had told him, her voice low and clipped. “House rules.”

He had only grinned and said something absurd about diplomacy. He hadn’t listened then. He probably never would.

And honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to now.

In the end, she filed everything away; it was a problem solved, and another little inefficiency erased. 

Sophie returned to her routine.

She was still the Ice Queen, after all. But she had chosen to let the world run a little smoother for it.

END OF CHAPTER 

Chapter Text

RIEV

Spring at Hogwarts apparently came late.

More often, the last patches of frost lingered under the hedges long after the crocuses pushed up. For Riev, that meant that the greenhouses were still cold enough to see his breath, but the scent of wet earth and new roots were growing stronger and lingered in his sleeves.

He liked it best early; just right before most students came out. Herbology was the only part of Hogwarts that asked nothing from him but patience and gentle hands.

He had been kneeling over a pot of valerian with his fingers deep in the dirt when the door swung open. Warm light spilled across the flagstones as someone’s quick footsteps padded between the benches.

Riev glanced up and squinted through the glassy light and saw a girl coming down the aisle. 

Definitely not a first-year, he thought, not with how tall she was compared to the other girls in the same year as his. Plus, she would’ve stood out like a sore thumb with her loose uniform and that shock of hair dyed pink. Or was it purple? It looked like it had been purple yesterday. 

The girl paused when she spotted him. She cocked head, like she’d heard something half‑forgotten. She tapped her thumb absent-mindedly against the strap of her bag. Riev noted the chipped purple polish that caught the light.

“You,” she said with a raised brow. “That first year with the funny accent.”

Riev dusted his hands on his trousers. He gave a lopsided smile. “I’d rather be known for my wit and charm. But sure, I can work with ‘funny accent.’”

She snorted. Then she moved around him to scan the shelves. “What’s a Slytherin doing here? Don’t you lot prefer the dungeons?”

“Well,” Riev replied as his hands gestured at the plants around him. “Just like the rest of them, I need sunlight every now and then. Plus, they’re better company. Less posturing.”

She grinned. “They weren’t kidding. You do have a smart mouth.”

“It’s a gift.” Riev sighed hard and shrugged. “A highly under-appreciated one at that. But where are my manners?” He bowed with a flourish. “Veles Riev Maximilian. Friends call me ‘Riev.’ To my family, I’m called ‘the disappointment.’”

The girl laughed. “Tonks.” 

Riev arched a brow. “Tonks…?”

“Just Tonks.”

Riev tilted his head. “Nice to meet you, Just Tonks.”

She shook her head. Her pink hair fell over one eye. “Cute.” 

Returning to the reason why she came here in the first place, Tonks inspected the rows of pots. Her eyes squinted at each of the tags. “Seen a squat blue pot with a red stripe? With a spiky little bush in it and lots of white flowers. I need the blossoms, for a N.E.W.T.s Potion. if I don’t hand it in by Friday...” 

Her face grimaced like she drank a really nasty potion. “Snape’ll hang me in the dungeons… or probably feed me to the grindylows.”

Riev perked up. “N.E.W.T.s?”

Tonks nodded. “Advanced classes. Sixth and seventh year. You’ll get there if you survive.”

He groaned at the image of Snape’s ever constant judgmental glare. Like a Maximilian tutor, he’d probably loom behind him as he mocked all the ways he ruined a simple concoction. “So I have to suffer through Potions for seven years?”

“Only if you get an Outstanding on your O.W.L.s. Your big exam by the way. Fifth year.” The corners of her mouth twitched as her eyes narrowed. “If you can’t stand Snape now, you definitely don’t wanna see him in exam season.”

Riev grinned. “Who knew getting a mediocre grade could be a survival strategy.”

Tonks paused her hand on a fat terracotta pot. She glanced back at him. “Depends. What do you wanna do after graduation?”

Riev opened his mouth, ready with a joke or a clever remark; but his breath caught. He almost blurted out one of his many practiced answers. ‘Diplomat’ or ‘Auror’ or ‘Ministry-something’. 

But the words just sat there dry in his mouth.

He was supposed to want something big. The Maximilian legacy meant–no, not just meant–it demanded ICW posts, high chairs and important council meetings that supposedly shaped the wizarding world. This… This were things that were meant for his sister; someone who could quote treaties and family trees by heart.

Riev, well, he wasn’t like Sophie. 

He liked things that he could help or simply watch things change. Like plants. At least they didn’t care if you were ambitious, only that you listen.

“A wine tester,” he said with a crooked grin. However, the joke felt… off. 

He looked down and tried again. “Or, if that fails, probably become my sister’s perfect alibi… or something.” 

Tonks raised an eyebrow. She fixed him with a long silent stare. “You’ve no idea, do you?”

Yeah, today was not his day.

“I’m eleven.” His response came out too quickly. “I’ve got a couple more years to figure it out.”

Tonks returned to searching for her plant. Once she finally located her flowerpot halfway down the bench, she breathed in a deep sigh. “Thank Merlin you’re not dead.” Honestly, she looked like she would’ve kissed the plant if not for present company. 

Instead,Tonks lifted it carefully and brushed soil from the rim. She turned back to Riev. “Well, hope you figure it out before fifth year. Trust me, you do not wanna cram it all in just one year.”

Riev nodded. “Got it.”

He absolutely did not. He just ignored the odd little twist in his chest.

“See you around, Maximilian.” With a brief wave, she left with her boots squeaking on the stones.

Now, the greenhouse was quiet again. 

Riev watched the valerian and the way its leaves shifted toward the pale sunlight. Not exactly the strongest or most glamorous plant, but it had its own work to do. 

He cupped a cluster of white flowers. He felt the hum of life through the stem. Professor Sprout once said during his first Herbology class that he had good hands.

Riev smiled at the memory. 

As he brushed dirt from his nails, his mind drifted back to Tonks’s question. 

He had no answer; only that he didn’t want to be what everyone expected. He wanted to tend and make something live.

No time to ponder here further, however. When Riev checked the time, he only had ten minutes before the start of Transfiguration class.And Professor McGonagall might turn him into a teacup if he entered her class late.

Riev wiped the last smudge of soil from his sleeves and set the greenhouse in order before slipping out. 

The walk up to the castle was quiet. And not the pleasant kind his sister left for him when they walked side-by-side. 

There was only the slap of his shoes on flagstone and the distant snap of a spell misfiring somewhere in the courtyard. The air seemed to carry this cold edge that seeped into his sleeves.

However, as he entered, laughter tumbled through the hallway. Riev moved through the crowd with his usual tilt of the chin, followed by a nod to the right person at the right time. It was muscle memory now; friendly, open and vague. 

Just enough to be liked. 

Sophie cut past him in the corridor with her arms braced around a stack of books so tall he wondered if she could even see over them. 

“Need help?” he called out.

“I can handle this.” She barely broke her stride. Her eyes barely flicked him a glance as she moved briskly around the corner. 

She always carried her weight evenly the same way as father. Like how she’d been trained for by the ever demanding tutors Riev also had to endure. 

Plans, obligations and that bloody invisible ledger of Maximilian expectations. None of these seemed to throw her off-balance.

How in bloody Merlin do you do it, Soph?

Riev stopped beside a window and watched her disappear into the crowd. His hand found a loose pebble on the sill and rolled it between his fingers. His knuckles whitened for a moment before he slipped it into his pocket. 

Beyond the glass, the sky was pale and cloudless; the kind of empty that made his chest feel heavier.

He’d never really had a plan. He just kept moving and hoping for the best. Meanwhile, his sister always seemed to know exactly where she was headed. When he tried to imagine his own future, it never really took any shape, as if he was tracing a map drawn with invisible ink.

Over the next couple of days, he filled the silence with jokes and quick stories, because it came easy. But he always felt like a spectator when people shared dreams and plans, or arguing over which O.W.L.s they’d take. 

He tried on their ambitions like Auror or curse-breaker, or even a dragonologist; but every one hung awkwardly with sleeves too long.

On most days, it was easier to pretend it didn’t matter. Eleven was too young to worry, right? If he kept moving and kept laughing, maybe the answer would eventually show up on its own. But there were times late at night, while staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed, he’d circle back to the same place. He wanted freedom, but he couldn’t say what he wanted it for.

During one quiet weekend by the Black Lake, Riev sat with Cedric. The grass prickled the backs of his knees as flat stones spread between them. 

Cedric was good at bouncing stones onto the water; three or four skips in neat little arcs. Meanwhile, Riev’s splashed out after one, or if lucky enough, sometimes two. Still, he kept picking through the pile as his thumb searched for that perfect, weighty shape.

“So,” Riev said lightly, “met a sixth year in the greenhouse. Tonks. Hair like she lost a bet with a rainbow, kept changing colors. You know her?”

Cedric grinned as he rolled a stone between his fingers. “Tonks? Yeah. Hufflepuff. Can’t miss her. Good at Transfiguration. Everyone knows her.”

“She’s alright,” Riev replied while turning a pebble over in his palm. “Needed her flowerpot for a N.E.W.T.s project. Made it sound like Snape would throw her in the lake if she didn’t find it.”

Cedric let a stone fly. Four clean skips. “Sixth years are obsessed with N.E.W.T.s. I try not to think about it.”

“She said I should already know what I want.” Riev lobbed a pebble; it hopped once, then sank. He frowned at the water as though he could will the stone back out.

Cedric squinted into the sunlight with his brows drawn. He let his stone fly cleanly with three skips.

“I get that,” he said. “Everyone talks like there’s a map. Like you’re supposed to pick a destination and start walking. I don’t even know if I want a map. What if I pick wrong? What if it’s a path I can’t stand?”

Riev looked sideways at him. “You always seem like you’ve got it figured out.”

Cedric snorted softly and tossed another stone. “Only on a broom. Up there, I don’t have to think. Just react. But here?” He shook his head. “I’m good at a few things. But I don’t know if that’s the same as wanting to do them forever. Some days I think I’ll end up working at a broom shop. Other days… I wonder if I’ll end up nowhere.”

The honesty caught Riev off guard. He picked up a stone and thumbed its edge before letting it fall back into the grass.

“When she asked me what I wanted to be,” he said. “And all I could think was, ‘not what they want me to be.’ But that’s not a job title, is it?”

Cedric stayed silent and simply waited.

“I think…” Riev pressed a knuckle to his mouth then lowered his hand. “Sometimes I think I’d be happy just fixing things. Not spells or anything flashy. Something real. Something that needs care and doesn’t talk back.”

Cedric looked over with his head tilted. “Sounds like more of a map than you think.”

Riev snorted. “Maybe. Or it’s just a list of things I’m not terrible at.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Cedric said. “Figuring out what you don’t want? That’s half the battle already.”

There was a beat of silence that was only broken by a splash from Riev’s latest stone. It didn’t skip; just a single, full-bodied plop that rippled outwards and loud in the hush that followed.

“I could always be a comedian,” Riev said. “First wizarding stand-up. Tour Europe. Get booed in five languages.”

Cedric grinned. “Sure, be the only act that brings his own heckling plants.”

“I’d call the show ‘The Breakdown Sessions.’ Half comedy, half therapy.”

“Start working on your jokes though, or the Ministry might declare it a crime.”

“Azkabanned, for terrible humor?” He grinned. “The perfect badge of honor.”

Cedric chuckled as he leaned back on his elbows beside him; his gaze tilted to the sky. “Whatever you end up doing, just make sure it’s yours. Not theirs.”

Riev glanced over. The sun warmed his face, but a chill pressed up from the earth beneath him. He stared upward, tracking the clouds as he allowed the quiet to settle.

He didn’t have a map. But at least he wasn’t the only one walking blind.

And perhaps, that was something.

The last Astronomy class of the year ran long. The tower’s stone floor still held a chill even as the rest of the castle stifled with the weight of late spring. 

With his arms folded against the parapet, Riev let his breath fog the glass of the telescope as he gazed upward. The  velvety black sky peculiar to the Highlands was clean tonight with its sharp-edged stars scattered across it; only a few thin clouds silvered past the moon.

One by one, the other students packed up. Their voices and laughter faded as they clattered down the stairs. Sophie lingered at the edge of the parapet as the world emptied out. She didn’t say anything at first, even as he felt her presence settle beside him.

“You’ll freeze here,” she said at last with her voice pitched low for the hush of the hour, “we should head back.”

Riev didn’t move. He traced the ridges of the stonework. He tipped his head back to drink in the constellations. “Just a minute. I’m trying to find Altair.”

Sophie’s head whipped around as her eyes flicked over the dark archways, most likely checking for eavesdroppers. Her tone came out sharper than intended; there was a warning stitched through the syllables. “Riev–”

He cut her off without looking away from the sky. “The star, Soph.” He rolled the word between his teeth; it felt soft and foreign, but not forbidden. Not this time. “The rule never said I couldn’t say the star’s name.”

Sophie sighed. She leaned beside him, her wool cloak brushing him as they shared an easy silence.

“Why look for it?” she spoke softly now.

Shrugging, Riev’s eyes never left the sky. “I dunno. Just… missed it. It’s always there, isn’t it? Always bright. Makes you wonder what keeps it shining, after all that distance. Like it’s burning just to be seen.”

Sophie fell silent as she studied him with that analytical stare she’d honed to a knife’s edge, weighing in his words the way she did with everything.

After a long minute, she said, “Something’s bothering you.”

Riev almost smiled. Of course she’d notice it that fast.

His fingers drummed an idle rhythm on the cold stone as the night air bit at his knuckles. “Always does.”

“About the future,” she added.

He huffed a short and flat laugh. “Managed to pick that up, did you?”

“You’re bad at hiding your tells,” she said. Her tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact. “I saw you pause when your roommate mentioned becoming a curse-breaker over breakfast.” 

“How is that–”

“--Your grin. It was that kind you do when you’re thinking about something else.”

Riev looked away as his gaze fell to the gleam of the lake far below. “Could be thinking about sphinxes. Wondering if I could out-riddle a riddler.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “You also gripped your quill too tight in Transfiguration when Professor McGonagall told you to take your studies seriously. Especially when she brought up graduation.”

He tipped his head back and groaned. “Merlin’s bloody socks, you’re worse than Father’s peregrine. And that thing could see me sneaking biscuits from three rooms away.”

Sophie lifted one brow, slow and deliberate. She didn’t blink and just let the silence hang between them.

“Tonks asked what I wanted to be.” Riev hesitated. “I almost said something clever, but… I just know it isn’t what they want.”

He looked down at his thumb that brushed a scrape on his knuckle. “Sometimes I think I’d be happy fixing things. Plants or people maybe. Quiet work. Something that helps.”

Sophie remained silent; her profile edged in moonlight as the night wind stirred the stones.

“I look at you,” Riev continued, “and you… you always look like you have a plan. Like you know where you’re headed, or at least you don’t mind following the map they gave you. Me? I can’t even picture what my own map looks like. All I know is…” His hand reached up to push back his hair. “I don’t want whatever they want me to be. What I want…” He paused and considered briefly. “Something that makes things… hurt less. Where I can care.”

He let the confession hang in the air. Sophie’s eyes softened, just briefly. She turned her face to the sky, scanning for the constellation, the Lyra, Riev guessed, though she would never say aloud.

After another stretch of silence, she spoke. “How do I do it? I close my eyes and picture how I want my life to look like two decades from now. Then from there, I build my plans. Whenever I’m about to do something, I ask myself, will this help me make the picture real?” 

She paused as her fingers traced something in the air; probably her  constellation. “Only when the answer is ‘yes’ do I act upon it.”

“And that includes the family’s expectations?” Riev asked.

Sophie turned to him. “Right now perhaps. What they want and what I want… they happen to align at the moment.”

He blinked. “And you’re… fine with it? Being used–”

“I am not being used.” Her lips thinned into a straight line. “I know what they want from me. But I know what I want from myself too.”

He studied her. “And what do you want?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her breath curled in the cold as her eyes tracked the sky. At last, she spoke, quiet and unflinching, “The throne.”

He barked out a laugh, the sound echoing against the stones. And people called him dramatic. “So you want to be, what, the undisputed monarch of the wizarding world?”

“Just the family’s,” she said. Yet even with the certainty in her voice, something in her eyes weighed the cost.

Riev frowned. “Sophie–”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, because of course she knew he’d try to convince her to stop whatever she had been plotting in that bloody brilliant mind of hers; even if he had no idea what it was. “As long as I still meet the family expectations, it wouldn’t matter to them if I move the pieces.”

He turned her words over. “So control then? Play the game your way.”

Sophie’s mouth quirked. “Something like that.”

He got it more than she probably realized. He could understand wanting to be the one holding the chain, even if he didn’t have the stomach for it himself. He didn’t want power, not really. 

He wanted somewhere he could breathe; where fixing things, like plants or people, was enough. Where gentleness wasn’t mistaken for weakness.

The wind picked up, and the torches guttered. Riev’s thoughts drifted to the greenhouse; to the smell of wet earth and the patience of things growing unseen.

“I wish I knew what that looked like for me,” he admitted with his voice small in the vast dark. “All I know is I want it to be my choice.”

Sophie just stood beside him, and the silence, like always, wasn’t empty; but the space she made when she knew the words weren’t ready yet.

When she spoke, her voice came out steady but soft. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He nodded. The words didn’t fix anything, but they anchored him.

The two of them stood together, gazing up at the constellations; their namesakes shining quietly overhead. 

Eventually, Sophie nudged his arm. “Come on. Before Filch accuses us of breaking curfew.”

They started down the spiral stairs; their respective footsteps were muffled by centuries of dust and use. Halfway down, Sophie’s hand brushed the back of Riev’s; it was just a light, deliberate touch. 

A reminder. 

I’m with you, whatever you choose.

He didn’t pull away.

Down in the castle’s warm light, Riev felt a fraction lighter. The future was still a blank, but he wasn’t facing it alone.

END  OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SNAPE

The staff room always smelled faintly of old parchment and over-brewed tea, sprinkled in by something indefinably… musty. On several occasions Flitwick tried his best charms to banish it; none of it worked.

And thus, the professors accepted it as part  of the room’s unfortunate appeal.

Half-shrouded by a bookcase, Snape sat in the far corner with his black robes blending with the shadows; his chair kept angled toward the door. 

Old necessary habits. 

Outside, the rain spattered the high windows, tracing patterns on the glass. Inside, the fire guttered low.

McGonagall shuffled through the stacks of parchment at the big table, ignoring the glasses that slipped down her nose. A faint crease lined her brow as each movement seemed heavier than the last. Beside her, Sprout brushed flecks of soil from her sleeves that left a trail of fresh earth in her wake. Flitwick, meanwhile, swung his legs atop a wobbling pile of cushions while humming a cheerful tune. Hooch tipped back in her chair, her boots caked with pitch mud and her arms folded tight. Moments later, Vector slipped inside the room as a shiver of cold air drifted behind her.

Snape ignored the low roll of voices washing over him as he reviewed a stack of fifth-year essays. Much to his expected dismay, none were worth a second reading. Most barely merited a first. He wrote a curt ‘see me’ on one and a ‘T’ mark to add insult.

The conversation inevitably turned to the end of term. 

McGonagall spoke as she pressed her fingers to her temple. “Another year nearly gone. I must admit, there’s a certain relief knowing the Weasley twins will be occupied elsewhere for the summer.”

Hooch barked a laugh. “You’ll miss them when they’re gone, Minerva.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “Miss them? After Bill, Charlie, and now Percy? The first three were manageable. Bill set a standard, Charlie chased every creature on the grounds, Percy? Not even a Prefect, and he already patrols the corridors like a Ministry clerk. But the twins…” 

She took a long deep intake of breath. “I spend half my time untangling their mischief and the other half wondering if they’re plotting to replace the staffroom tea with doxy eggs.”

Flitwick grinned as he chimed in. “They do keep things… lively.”

“Disruptive is the word you want,” Snape said as his voice sliced through the low hum of the room. “Their idea of ‘lively’ involves tampering with cauldrons and charming staircases. I won’t mourn their absence.”

Hooch’s grin sharpened. “Careful, Severus, or I’ll let slip you’ll miss them.”

He shot her a look, but she remained unfazed.

Sprout dabbed her hands on her apron. “Still, you have to admit they’ve got energy. A little too much at times…” 

Snape assumed Sprout was referring to the time the twins tested if they could turn the Mandrakes into a choir. They should’ve been expelled on the spot for that stunt, but since no one had been injured, and apparently damage to the greenhouse glasses were negligible by Dumbledore’s standards, the two were only given two month’s worth of detention.

“I suppose, I should thank Diggory for managing to temper some of their wild behaviors,” Sprout added.

McGonagall’s features softened. “He’s a good boy. Steady. Never causes trouble.”

“And he’s taken up flying as if he was born to it,” Hooch added, her eyes glinting.

Sprout nodded. “He even makes friends across Houses.” She shot Snape a pointed glance. “I’ve seen him with one of yours, Severus. Riev Maximilian. Good to see Slytherin and Hufflepuff getting along.”

Snape paused in his writing, just briefly and not enough to be obvious. “If you’d like to take him off my hands, I’d hardly object.” He slid a paper aside with deliberate care. “The boy has all the ambition of a potted fern. Barely passing my class. If it weren’t for his surname, I’d have assumed he’d wandered into the wrong House by mistake.”

Sprout’s gaze lingered. “Quite clever though.”

“Cleverness without application is wasted,” Snape replied. 

Riev Maximilian reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite place. The way he slid through life with a joke and a shrug... It irritated him more than he cared to admit. 

Hooch shook her head. “If he’s yours, Pomona, keep him off the brooms. The last time he flew, my blood pressure went up.”

Snape suppressed a smirk.

Flitwick cleared his throat. “Speaking of Maximilians, I do wish Sophie had ended up in Ravenclaw. She’s meticulous in Charms. Her essays might as well be treatises. Cross-references, independent insight… not what I expect from a first year. If I didn’t know better, I’d have suspected she’s got access to the Restricted Section already.”

Snape allowed himself a silent note of agreement. Unlike her brother, Sophie Maximilian did not waste his time, nor indulge in needless drama. She was the kind of student who made a teacher’s job less painful. 

He’d never say as much to Flitwick, or anyone else for that matter.

McGonagall peered over her spectacles, gaze narrowing on the stack of parchment. “She’s bright, certainly. But also… distant. In Transfigurations, her classmates hesitate to partner with her. I worry the girl will have difficulty making friends.”

Sprout frowned. “Shy perhaps?”

Vector, who had been silent, spoke. “It may be a Maximilian trait.”

As everyone turned to her, including Snape, who merely shifted his gaze, she continued, “When I attended a conference in Paris–oh, nearly a decade ago–a scholar told me the Maximilian family specializes in Arithmancy and certain old magics. Something about favoring logic. I suppose that can look like distance to outsiders.”

Snape nearly snorted. If that were true, Riev Maximilian clearly missed that particular family gene. 

Vector went on with a slight smirk ghosting her lips. “Of course, there are always rumors.”

“What sort?” Sprout asked.

 Vector leaned in, as though she was sharing Ministry secrets. “That the Maximilians pull the strings behind the French Ministry, the so-called ‘Invisible Hands of France.’ That their ravens are actually family members in animagus form. Oh, and those unusual eyes? More than mere pigment, perhaps even magical. Some even say the eyes are how they keep their secrets.”

Silence enveloped among the Hogwarts staff as they let the revelation settle in.

Then, Vector huffed a quiet laugh and waved a dismissive hand. “All exaggeration, I’m sure. But the scholar seemed to believe it.”

Hooch rolled her eyes. “Next, you’ll be telling us they walk through walls.”

Flitwick chuckled, but Vector fixed her gaze on Snape. “What do you think, Severus? You’re their Head.”

The room went quiet as everyone’s attention pivoted to him, as it did too often for his liking.

Snape arranged his papers while considering his next words. Obviously, most of it was rubbish; paranoid fictions for people with nothing better to do than invent conspiracies over whiskey. 

And yet… the eyes. He remembered the moments, once with each twin, when he’d tested the edges of their minds. Just surface-level Legilimency. Quick. Undetectable.

With Sophie, there was only a clear, glassy surface; akin to still water, without a hint of what moved beneath. Meanwhile, Riev was a tangle of thoughts that darted from one point to another and a rush of color and jumbled ideas that gave him more headache than clarity. But even that wildness was deliberate. He knew, because he felt the barriers guarding their thoughts when he neared the boundaries. Of course, if he wanted, he could have broken through; the barriers weren’t powerful enough, only that it would alert its owner.

But that was not for staff room discussion.

“The boy,” Snape said smoothly, “is a typical first year. Not particularly ambitious, but clever enough when pressed. The girl is capable. Cautious, yes, but disciplined. They act like children from any old family. Nothing more.”

He waited in silence; no one dared to press him further.

“She’ll be a challenge to some teachers, I imagine,” Flitwick said, returning the conversation back to the Maximilian girl.

“Competence is rarely a challenge,” Snape said. “It’s the lack thereof that wastes our time.”

There was a moment of quiet. Outside, the rain tapered off as the last drops ticked against the window ledges.

Vector set her tea down and glanced toward the fire. “You must admit, Severus, your Slytherins this year are… interesting.”

He shrugged. “Every year is interesting, in its own fashion.”

The door creaked open. A chill draft swept through as a barn owl swooped inside and dropped a plain envelope on the table in front of Snape. The seal was nothing special; there were no crests nor any identifying color. Ordinary.

Which was, of course, a warning in itself.

Snape didn’t immediately reach for the letter. He kept his face blank as he slid the envelope between a stack of essays and the old copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi he used as a paperweight. He let conversation resume, waiting for the attention to drift away from him.

McGonagall reached for her files; Sprout for her cup. Meanwhile, Flitwick started a story about an enchanted music box. Vector returned to her notes. 

Snape quietly gathered his things and slowly, he rose.

No one looked up; no one needed to. The staff were long accustomed to his wordless and abrupt departures. He swept from the room, his boots clicking against the flagstones with cloak trailing.

Snape’s private quarters was far from being comfortable, at least compared to how most would measure it.

Stone walls trapped the dungeons’ constant chill as light bled from a few guttering lamps and the low, red smolder of the fireplace. The furnishings that adorned the room were a battered desk with books stacked in uneven towers, and a single leather-worn armchair. The air tasted of damp stone, undercut by the acrid bite of potion fumes. 

To others, the place might seem bleak; but for Snape, It was its own kind of sanctuary.

He closed the door with a soft click, and set his books and parchments in a neat pile on the desk. Then he crossed to the door again. He traced his wand along the lintel. Old, layered wards hummed to life; it would take more than a nosy student to breach them now.

He returned to the desk; his eyes were immediately drawn to the envelope he’d slipped between his parchments. He did not touch it right away; instead, he took the time to align his inkpots and stow his quills. Then, he set aside a cauldron scrap he’d been mending. 

Routine first. 

It slowed the mind and kept his nerves from wounding tight. Finally, he broke the seal and slid the single sheet free. 

Avery’s handwriting. Angular, cramped and impatient.

Severus,

Word is you’ve got Maximilian heirs in your care this year. Keep an eye on them.

The ravens are watching now, but they’ll be circling soon.

Write if you see anything odd.

No signature. Typical.

Snape’s mouth twisted into something that was caught between a sneer and a smirk. Of course Avery wouldn’t say more. The purebloods loved their little games. He could almost hear Avery’s tight and anxious voice. With the Dark Lord gone now, his old circle fractured and began circling their wagons. Now, they found other ways to pass the time. 

Politics and paranoia go hand-in-hand, as always.

He tapped the letter against the desk as he considered the weight of what wasn’t said. Avery expected a report if anything “unusual” happened. Meaning, he viewed the Maximilians as a threat. Or, at the very least, a piece worth watching on whatever chessboard he still fancied himself playing.

Snape folded the letter and slipped it into a hidden compartment in his desk. He’d keep Avery close; better to be the watcher than the watched. But he would give him nothing unless it suited his own interests.

He sat as his gaze settled on another letter. This time, it was the old one with the Maximilian seal. The parchment was thick and heavy with the crest pressed deep as it shimmered when the firelight struck it just so. Sophie had wordlessly handed it to him the day after the Sorting. 

He read the letter, but this time with Avery’s warning echoing behind each line.

To the Esteemed Head of House,

Allow me to introduce my children, Sophie and Veles Riev Maximilian. They are to be considered heirs of the Maximilian line. Their lineage is both French and British, connected to the Greengrass family by blood. My own mother, Cecilia Greengrass, was a distant relative of the Greengrass family.

Their attendance at Hogwarts is a deliberate decision, made to encourage bonds between the French and British wizarding communities, and to further our family’s longstanding commitment to international cooperation. I trust that their presence at your school will foster understanding and mutual benefit, not scandal.

As Head of House, I place my trust in you to challenge and guide them. Please contact me should concerns arise.

Christopher Maximilian

Snape turned the parchment over in his hand. The script marched across the page in neat, slanted lines. He needn’t read the whole thing to see the game; the formal phrasing and careful omissions with words chosen for what they didn’t say. 

He lifted the letter to the firelight. Words shimmered; an inked postscript revealed itself.

You will find the twins are well-versed in discretion. The Maximilian family expects excellence, but will not interfere. We anticipate nothing but your honest judgment of their progress.

Snape snorted. Honest judgment. As if honesty had ever been currency in these circles. He leaned back; the chair creaked under his weight. He stared into the fire as he read the spaces between the lines.

Christopher Maximilian signaled his intent; the twins were here for politics, not scandal. That in itself was a polite promise that the family’s reputation was to be protected. He offered “trust” to the Head of House, but it was the kind that came with a ledger. He invited communication, but left the boundaries carefully vague.

Snape remembered the first day. Sophie Maximilian, with her features perfectly controlled as she stood beside her brother during the Sorting ceremony; and then Riev Maximilian, with all his restless energy as he laughed off his own stumbles. 

He thought nothing much of it at that time. Now he wondered what role were they meant to play.

His mind sifted through what little he knew. The Maximilians were an old French line, with fingers in everything from magical trade to international law. Lucius had mentioned them once in passing; the Malfoys did business with the Maximilians in magical luxury goods and rare artifacts, Gabriel Maximilian, Christopher’s predecessor, and Abraxas Malfoy often had dealings; old men with old money. Nothing sinister or surprising. Old families kept each other close.

But Avery wouldn’t write unless he thought the Maximilians were more than window-dressing. Avery wasn’t clever, but he was cautious. And that meant someone had whispered in his ear. Rumors of power or of influence, perhaps? 

Snape wondered if this was the same restless fear hounding the old Death Eaters now that their master was gone. Without the Dark Lord to serve, perhaps any powerful name would do.

He read the letter again. On the surface, nothing remarkable. A family moving its children onto the board. Nothing new. 

But, what if the ordinariness itself was the act? Eleven-year-olds trained to be invisible and undistinguished. Was that too much to believe? 

He scoffed. Excessive paranoia, perhaps, but not impossible. He’d seen children trained for worse.

His mind flicked through this school year’s memories; Sophie’s flawless essays and the way she met his gaze with the composure of someone twice her age. Riev and his utter lack of ambition, and on rare occasions, that flash of insight that revealed a different mind working underneath.

He considered if Dumbledore would care, or if he would simply file the Maximilian twins under “useful allies” as he did with so many others. There was nothing to report. Not yet. Just purebloods playing politics and testing the limits of each other’s patience.

He set both letters aside as his eyes narrowed in thought. He should write to his own contacts. Old Slytherin classmates who owed him one too many favors, among others. Perhaps a note to Evan Rosier’s sister in Versailles, and a careful query to Madame Bones at the Ministry. Of course, all worded with the same ambiguity the Maximilians prized oh so much.

He dipped his quill, the ink pooling in the silver tip as he began the first letter:

Esteemed Madame,

I would appreciate any insight regarding the current Maximilian line.  Particularly their role within the French Ministry and the ICW. Their scions attend Hogwarts this year, and I find myself in need of context for their educational background.

He wrote another one, as each tailored to its recipient. He wasn’t pressing per se; merely curious, framing the inquiry as something he needed to avoid surprises from foreign students. 

He signed them all with his usual flourish. Once the ink dried, he sealed them with Slytherin green wax. The owl carrying them would not be intercepted by any but the most determined; his wards made sure of that.

He sat back as exhaustion prickled at the edge of his thoughts. He traced the lines of Christopher’s letter again before his thumb pressed the wax seal.

What were the Maximilians planning? Were the twins in on it? Or just pawns sent across the Channel to make alliances their family could exploit later? Or was it something more subtle? 

Snape’s gut twisted. In Slytherin, nothing was ever simple.

He considered for a moment the alternative. What if the Maximilians had no scheme? Perhaps their children were simply here to learn and prove themselves as individuals.

He scoffed.

No. The world did not produce many innocents, and it certainly produced none among the old families.

He turned back to his notes and made a list in the margin.

Sophie Maximilian:

• Socially distant.
• Disciplined, possible early training.

Veles Riev Maximilian:

• No evident ambition. Or a cover?
• Socially flexible.

He tapped the page as his lips thinned. He’d keep his eyes open. Better that than be caught by pureblood games he had not seen coming.

Snape set the letters in his outgoing tray. He glanced one last time at the Maximilian seal. 

For now, he would keep an eye on the ravens. And ensure they never saw him blink.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

CHRISTOPHER

The rain had arrived early in the Ardennes  Forest. As always, it came as inevitable as a verdict, and twice as merciless. 

From the latticed window of his study, Christopher watched the ancient gardens of Château du Lys blur into a sullen watercolour; hedge and rose dissolved beneath the grey deluge. He stood unmoving as his hands clasped behind his back, the line of his shoulders drawn tight. 

This study, once his father’s, was a shrine to one doctrine. Indulgence was a vice for other men. Dark paneling gleamed as the leather-bound volumes neatly lined the shelves.

Christopher inhaled the scent of the room; the fragrance of vellum and the single white rose, Eleónore’s favourite, that stood in a narrow crystal vase upon the mantle. His gaze tracked the rain as it mapped erratic rivers down the glass. Summer was no sanctuary; even now, the faintest muffled echo of house-elves at work, efficient even if unseen, and the thrum of distant conversation reached him.

He turned away from the window. On the desk, correspondence lay stacked; French Ministry dispatches, a letter from a Greengrass cousin, petty grievances from various French purebloods, and various reports from those who mistook courtesy for loyalty.

Christopher’s hands, pale and perfectly clean, shifted the papers aside as his mind parsed and discarded the games of lesser men.

A minute later, he rang the small bell. No need for a raised voice. The summons would be heard and, more importantly, obeyed.

Sophie arrived quietly. Already twelve years old a few weeks ago, she had grown an inch taller since he last saw her during Christmas break. She stepped across the threshold and paused with her posture unbending and her hair braided tightly with not a single strand out of place. She moved as if every gesture had been considered and measured by rules only known to her. She wore crisp blue robes; her shoes were clean enough to reflect the study’s candlelight.

He studied her in the way an expert wandmaker examines a rare core for hidden damage. There was so much Andrea in her. Her ice-blue eyes held a quiet fire burning beneath. And yet, so very Maximilian with the way they studied her opponents weaknesses. Indeed, she was the child of his sister as much as of his upbringing.

“Sit,” he said as he gestured to the high-backed chair opposite his desk.

She obeyed without hesitation and set her notebook atop her lap. Her spine was so straight it seemed impossible she might ever bend.

He allowed a moment’s silence as the tension grew thick. Sophie, to her credit, did not flinch. Her gaze found his and held it.

“Well,” he said, “your first year at Hogwarts. Impressions?”

Sophie’s answer came immediately. “I’ve compiled my observations.” She held out the notebook, her hand steady. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting moment. He noted, with a flicker of satisfaction, the absence of tremor or hesitation.

He flipped through her notes. The pages showed her years-long dedication to diligence; names, dates, alliances were all mapped with a young tactician’s mind. Margins were lined with additional notations, such as potential weaknesses in Slytherin’s hierarchy and the shifting alliances between the houses. 

She had annotated the staff too; McGonagall was fair to a fault. Flitwick had a tendency to be overly enthusiastic. Hooch, she values natural fliers. 

He looked up with his gaze cool as winter’s dawn. “Your academic standing?”

“First in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration,” she replied with each word clipped. “High marks in History of Magic. Defense Against the Dark Arts was… adequate. The professor favored less theory.”

There was a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. Regret or annoyance? He filed it away for later analysis.

“And the other students?”

Sophie’s fingers pressed against the fabric of her skirt. “Many come from families we have spoken of. Avery’s cousin, Rosier’s niece, Travers, Montague. The expected alliances remain. Slytherin’s pecking order is maintained by blood; first years are at the bottom. Open challenge is… ill-advised.”

He tapped a page. “Any trouble?”

She shook her head. “I’ve avoided attracting attention.”

“And those I asked you to take special note of?” He let the question linger heavily in the air.

Her pause was brief, but he caught a slight tightening of her jaw. “I haven’t spoken to them. Observation seemed prudent. If a first year like myself, had made the first move, it could be construed as… presumptuous. The risk seems to outweigh any gain.”

Christopher regarded her for a long, silent moment. He recognized the logic of her approach, and she was learning the Maximilian belief of finding power in patience. Still, he wondered, did she feel the strain? Did she even understand what it meant for her? Or was she already too much his creation to question the necessity of loneliness?

He made her wait, as his father had made him. He scanned her handwriting that was a little round; it wasn’t yet the sharp script he had learned to cultivate, but close enough. She was diligent, yes, but was she ruthless enough? Would she ever be?

“You are thorough,” he said at last. “Continue as you have. Next year, begin forging connections. Quiet ones, if you wish.”

Sophie kept silent for half a heartbeat, then inclined her head. “Understood.”

“Good,” Christopher said. “Dismissed.”

He watched as a flicker of relief ghosted across her face so fleeting it was almost not there. She bowed her head and gathered her things silently and efficiently. And even as her footsteps had faded after stepping out of his study, the scent of verbena and white tea lingered.

For a brief, unguarded moment, Christopher allowed himself to feel the ache behind his sternum. There it was, the temptation to soften and grant her some measure of childhood. But the world had never allowed such luxuries for Maximilians. He could not begin that indulgence now; the cost would be too steep. 

Whether she thanked him in the future was irrelevant. Survival was all that mattered.

He drew himself upright, folding the memory away as a soldier folds away old letters. He pressed the bell again.

Riev entered akin to sunlight breaking through the clouds. Where Sophie was winter, he was midsummer. Not waiting for any invitation, he slouched into the chair with a half-bow and one leg thrown out. And with him came the sharp tang of crushed grass and cinnamon filling the room.

Christopher’s eyes swept over the ink-stained cuff, then paused at the raw scrape on Riev’s knee before it finally lingered at the crooked line of his collar. He did not speak. He simply let the silence weigh heavy between them.

“Report,” he said.

Riev grinned. “Well, I survived. Marks are decent. Professor Sprout says I’ve a gift for Herbology. Madam Hooch says I’ve an aptitude for destruction. At least when it comes to flying. Potions…” He shrugged helplessly. “Not my finest hour, but I didn’t melt the cauldron. Sophie’s the genius in that department.”

Christopher offered no answer as the silence drew tighter as it settled between them.

Undeterred, Riev pressed on. “I joined the Chess Club for a month. Lost more than I won, but it’s fun. Cedric and I throw pebbles in the lake. Also, I think I’ve learned more about British sweets than spellwork, but that’s life, isn’t it? Oh, and I heard the Gryffindor common room smells like burnt toast and unwashed socks.”

“Riev.” Christopher spoke the name with deliberate slowness. “The families. The ones I directed you to watch.”

There was a brief dimming of Riev’s cheer. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. 

Calculating, Christopher thought with mild approval. At least the boy understood the stakes of pushing his patience.

“I mean, they’re… around. Most don’t bother with first years unless you get in their way.” Riev glanced at Christopher. “And I don’t get in their way. They’re just people, you know? Some more interesting than others. There’s a second-year who thinks her father’s going to make her Minister.” He shrugged. “She’s got the lungs for it, if nothing else.”

Christopher’s expression did not shift; his gaze held steady and cold. “I asked you to observe specific students.”

There was a longer pause this time. Riev’s hand strayed to the scab and picked at it. A habit, from what Christopher remembered all too well during his son’s toddler days. It was the body’s reaction against scrutiny, and Christopher despised it. He made a mental note to address it later.

“I did. Somewhat. But they’re hard to read. They act differently when professors are around. You know how it is.”

Christopher leaned forward as his silhouette cast a long shadow over the desk. His voice was low with each word as sharp as a dagger’s point. “Names, Riev.”

For an instant, Riev met his gaze with that glint of defiance. Christopher saw Andrea in him then. That refusal to yield. However, the practical Maximilian side in him showed how quickly it vanished, slipping as quickly as it flashed.

“Traver’s distant nephew, he’s polite. Avery’s cousin is loud. Montague cheats at chess. Rosier’s niece reads a lot when she’s not dueling. Honestly, Father, most are more concerned about their shoes than anything… grander.”

The word “Father” was held like a shield and a challenge.

Christopher pressed his thumb against his temple as the beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. “And nothing else?”

Riev brightened, as if remembering a crucial detail. “The kitchens are run by house-elves that make these little cakes–”

“Riev.” Christopher’s tone cut through the boy’s bluster as final as a guillotine’s fall.

Riev only grinned. “Sorry. But really, nothing to report. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know. Swear on the family crest.”

It was masterful, this dance of half-truths and charm. This art of resistance without refusal. Andrea would have laughed if she could see it. Christopher, however, did not share the same sentiment.

He considered pressing harder. But there were limits, even here; press too hard, and the boy would slip through his fingers.

The rain drummed against the glass with a dull, relentless thrum. The walls pressed in, thick with the scent of aging parchment. Christopher drew a slow breath at the heavy air that tasted bitter on his tongue.

Knock. Knock.

Christopher glanced toward the door.

A house-elf with his voice trembling, spoke. “Master, Monsieur de Bellefort has arrived. He is waiting at the entrance hall.”

Of course. Family arrived as storms did, inconvenient and impossible to ignore. Correntin never sent a warning; he delighted in the disruption.

Christopher straightened and smoothed his robes before motioning for Riev to leave. “We will speak more later.” 

Riev rose and whistled an off-key tune as he sauntered out. Christopher’s eyes followed him as irritation sharpened to a grudging respect. The boy’s unbroken spirit might yet serve its purpose.

For a moment longer, he let the silence settle. He ran a hand across the cool wood of his desk; his fingertips traced the Maximilian crest. Then, with a final breath, he left behind the study’s quiet order and stepped out into the hallway.

Christopher paused at the threshold of the entrance hall Correntin usually arrived with an entourage, if not of actual people then purely his laughter and the faintest smell of expensive cologne. Today was no different.

Correntin Maximilien de Bellefort, his half-third cousin, the family’s public peacock, and financier of half the wizarding continent, stood near the open front doors. He wore a perfectly fitted midnight blue robes with silver embroidery catching the weak sunlight. In one hand, he held a parcel wrapped in gold ribbon; in the other, a velvet hat that spun once between his fingers.

Predictably, Riev was entirely at ease with his hands shoved in his pockets. He grinned at something Correntin had just said. 

The rapport was… infuriatingly effortless.

Riev accepted the parcel with a look of delighted surprise. “Uncle, you know I’m not supposed to have sweets in the conservatory. The niffler tried to eat the box last time.”

Correntin’s laughter was as smooth as aged brandy. “Then you must simply eat faster, mon garçon. Or hide it from the niffler. Though I’ve always said, a true Maximilian never lets a beast outwit him.”

Riev flashed a broader grin. “Challenge accepted.”

Correntin ruffled Riev’s hair affectionately and ignored the boy’s half-hearted protest. “Off you go, then. Leave your uncle to the old men’s politics.”

As Riev disappeared into the hallways, Correntin’s gaze flicked up and met Christopher’s with an unapologetic twinkle. “You look as if you’ve bitten a lemon, Christophe. Come now, he’s a child. Let him have a little joy.”

Christopher’s reply was as cold and clipped as the northern wind. “Indulgence is a luxury. One he cannot afford.”

Correntin shrugged. “Strange, coming from the man who let him choose his own name.” 

Christopher ignored the barb as he motioned toward the grand staircase. “The Council room.”

They fell in step; the echo of their shoes was a steady counterpoint to the distant drip of rain from the eaves. Correntin carried himself with practiced ease. “You keep the house too cold, cousin,” he said. “You’d think having children around would’ve added some warmth.”

Christopher did not answer. 

They passed the grand salon decorated with velvet drapes and a harpsichord idle in the corner, before turning into the corridor that led to the Council room. Here, the portraits grew older and their gazes sharper.

Christopher paused only to wave a hand at the door. It unsealed the wards with a flick of his ring. The heavy oak swung open with a faint sigh. 

Inside, the room was stark and clean, furnished with dark high-backed chairs and a polished long table. No unnecessary ornament here; just the family crest over the mantle, a battered chessboard in the window seat, and the subtle hum of defensive magic stitched through the air.

Correntin entered and paused just inside the threshold to survey the room as if he’d never seen it before. “Still as cheerful as ever.” He turned to Christopher. “No wine? Manners, Christophe.”

Christopher watched him stone-faced, as Correntin crossed to the wall cabinet and found a bottle of Clos de la Lune. He poured himself a generous glass, swirling the liquid and savoring the aroma. “You’ll forgive me for serving myself. Your elves look terrified of me. Or perhaps just of you.”

Christopher took his seat at the head of the table with fingers steepled. “You are not here for my hospitality. Why have you come?”

Correntin sipped as the humor in his eyes gave way to something keener. “Straight to business then.” 

From his robes, he pulled out a sheaf of neatly folded parchment and placed it on the table before sliding it across the polished surface. “I have news from London. The British are sniffing. More than the usual idle curiosity this time.”

Christopher flicked open the parchments as his eyes flickered over coded names, dates, and lists of discreet inquiries. “Avery, Travers, Selwyn. They’re trying to make contact.”

“Positioning themselves as rivals,” Correntin said. “Or Opportunists. They’d love to get a taste of our trade routes, or marry into the name. Both most likely. But they don’t trust outsiders. They’ll offer alliances, but keep their wands ready.”

A thin smile cut across Christopher’s face. “They’ve always preferred a cold alliance. It lets them call betrayal prudence if they lose.”

Correntin leaned in. His elbows rested on the table while delicately holding the wine glass between his fingers. “The Notts are watching too. Quietly, of course. I suspect they’re looking for a new broker in Wizengamot politics. Pragmatic, but not as subtle as Monsieur Nott imagines himself.”

Christopher’s gaze flicked to the chessboard by the window. Its white king’s pawn was nudged half a square out of place. A flaw. Perhaps a feint. Or simply oversight. He left it untouched.

He turned his gaze back to Correntin. “Keep them at arm’s length. Promise nothing, give nothing. We observe first. Britain is a house of cards; I’d prefer to know which way the wind is blowing before placing any bets.”

Correntin’s eyes glinted. “If the wind shifts, we’re positioned to take advantage. Or to disappear, should things get… untidy. Speaking of, the Hogwarts posting–” He gestured vaguely and all-encompassing. “You’re really set on this? Sending the twins into that pit?”

Briefly, Christopher thought of Sophie at six, her ink-smudged fingers and hair coming loose from its braid as she pored over a hand-drawn map with the seriousness of a general. Riev, meanwhile, was asleep beside her, his limbs flung in careless abandon while a book rested open on his chest.

He buried the memory deep before doubt could consume him.

Christopher fixed his cousin with a stare. “We require direct eyes on the ground. The children are the best options. Both British and French, and untarnished by local feuds. We cannot influence the next generation from across the Channel.”

Correntin swirled his glass, then set it down. His voice lowered. “And what if the others discover? It won’t be just the twins who’ll suffer. The entire family’s reputation–”

“They will not.” Christopher’s jaw tensed. “Bertrand had sealed Black’s magical signature. Only Maximilian remains.”

“And if it’s not the old bloods?” Correntin pressed, softly now. “If it’s the children themselves?”

For a fleeting second, Christopher felt the familiar ache of a cold splinter behind the breastbone. He pushed it aside. “They know where their loyalties lie, if that time comes. The world is a dangerous place, especially for orphans. And I am not in the habit of ceding what is mine to the false security of sentiment.”

Correntin was silent while studying his cousin over the rim of his glass. Outside, the rain drummed harder against the leaded windows.

Christopher spoke into the silence with his voice low and measured. “Have your people keep their ears to the ground. I want word if any of the British houses begin moving assets, or shifting alliances. Especially if it concerns Hogwarts or the Ministry.”

Correntin inclined his head. “And you?”

“I will reinforce our contacts at the Ministry,” he replied. “There are still enough favors owed from the First war.”

A moment passed as the family crest above them cast a long shadow across the table.

Finally, Correntin stood after draining his glass. “You know, there are those who say the Belleforts rule this family.”

Christopher didn’t so much as blink. “Let them. A good public face distracts from the hand moving the pieces.”

Correntin smiled sharply. "Well, Bellefort is always happy to play its part.”

Christopher met his gaze. “Play as you like, so long as the board remains ours.”

The tension held for a heartbeat. Then laughter bubbled up from Correntin. “Of course. I know the rules.” He turned for the door and paused just long enough to add, “Your children are remarkable, by the way. Sophie, she’ll either shine or break. And Riev, well, even you can’t shackle freedom forever.”

Christopher’s fingers tightened briefly on the armrest. He said nothing and simply watched the door close behind his cousin, leaving behind the lingering scent of wine. He sat a moment longer in the Council room as the silence settled around him. The chessboard in the window seat reflected the gray light with all pieces arranged except for the white pawn that stood out of place. Or perfectly placed, depending on who was looking.

He slipped the parchments into the secure drawer with a soft clink. The rain eased outside which left only the steady hush of water against the stone.

Christopher rose and left the room, his mind already turning through several contingencies. Whatever gathered within these walls or beyond, the Maximilians would meet it, as they always had.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Riev was being judged. 

Not by Sophie this time; she was absorbed in a notebook thick enough to serve as a murder weapon. Rather, it was the raven in the cage beside her, with its black and bottomless eyes; none of that beady, gormless nonsense you’d expect from a bird. This particular raven had a connoisseur’s stare, one that weighed him, and found him wanting.

Riev drummed his fingers on the edge of the seat as though it could convince the bird that he didn’t care, all while trying not to tally the similarities between the raven’s glare and his sister’s.

Around them, the train hummed, with overlapping voices and the clatter of trunks, all undercut by the faint, stomach-turning smell of the trolley’s questionable pies.

“Why not me?” he finally asked.

Sophie didn’t even look up. Her quill slowly scratched on the parchment. “You have to be specific.”

Riev gestured with his chin toward the raven to her, then to the bird again. “Why did you get a pet? You don’t even like animals. And neither do they like you.”

Sophie’s brow twitched. “Érebos is quiet, and he has no problem with my company.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You named your raven Érebos?”

She flipped through another page. “Primordial darkness suits him.”

He snorted. “And they call me dramatic. I’m not the one naming my pets after a Greek god.”

Sophie closed her notebook and fixed him a pointed look. “You named yourself after a Slavic god, Veles–”

“I was three–”

“--And already making very poor  permanent choices.”

“So should I’ve picked something more…” Riev gestured his hand vaguely. “Edouard or Théodore?”

“Two uncles. One sentence.” Sophie tilted her head to the side as the corners of her lips threatened to curl. “Impressive. And dangerous had they been within earshot.”

Riev shrugged. “Hence why I’m Uncle Correntin’s favorite–”

“--And Great-uncle Gaspard’s worst nightmare.”

“Yet here I stand.” Riev tipped his head to the raven as if striking a bargain. “Feathers unruffled.” 

The bird fixed him with a beady glare which he suspected to be a promise for retribution. 

“More importantly, you’re still dodging my question,” Riev said.

Sophie sighed. She flicked her wand; the door thunked shut as the air inside thickened. The Imperturbable Charm took hold. No sound in, none out. “Because,” she began. “You never gave Father a straight answer during summer.”

Riev drew back as his eyes widened in scandalized delight with one hand clutching his heart. “Because there’s nothing to give! What am I supposed to report? The thrilling tale of Avery’s cousin mining for treasure up his left nostril when he thinks no one’s looking?”

Sophie’s fingers whitened on the notebook, but her face didn’t move. “Which is exactly why he left the task of gathering information to me instead. Érebos will deliver my reports directly.”

He watched the tension creep up her wrist and the set of her jaw. Sophie, for all her self-discipline, had tells; you just needed to know where to look.

He nudged her foot with his. “What’s wrong?”

She said nothing.

He tried again, quieter this time. “Sophie–?”

She didn’t answer; she only frowned slightly, which from her was as good as shouting or a cry for help. Riev studied the way she stared at her notebook, like it might open and bite her. This was the same frown she’d worn at six while puzzling over the rules of their tutor’s “basic negotiation exercises”.

He took the notebook gently and flipped through pages filled with names, trees of alliances and half-coded notes; her strokes were sharp and narrow. Briefly, he wondered if there was a page in here for him, a column marked “Liability: Emotional,” or maybe “Potential: Defection.”

He’d seen Sophie try to connect before, which meant offering someone the correct book for an essay only for her to silently stare at them until they left; poor students rattled perhaps, but with their homework sorted. Her care had always been in a refilled ink pot or the shield charm she taught him first when they were eight.

He remembered the little tea party wars when they were seven; the lion plush with its face squashed from years of being the first to fall in every coup. He’d offered her alternatives to conquest then; banquets or marriages. And when that failed, peace treaties held together with stolen biscuits.

He carefully snapped the notebook shut. “You don’t have to do it the same way as I do.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. Ah, right there. Bloody Duchess glare. If it’d been an axe, he’d have lost his head. Miraculously, his neck remained attached… for now. 

“Father isn’t asking you to be friends with them,” he said, his voice light. “Just… avoid collecting enemies. You know, like how you collected your little plush army.”

Her glare grew sharper, and Riev could feel the guillotine dropping by another inch. He quickly added, “All I’m saying, you’re good at getting things done, right?”

Sophie nodded slowly. “Go on.”

There was a brief internal relief as he continued. “Look at it this way. If you get things done, people owe you. And you’re good at making use of favors. The more they owe, well…”

She studied him while weighing her options. “So, a network of alliances…”

“Something like that.” He shrugged. “Nobody says you have to marry the lion. Just feed him enough cake and he’ll let you annex the pantry.”

Her lips almost twitched. “That is a questionable strategy. Not to mention a terrible analogy.”

“Effective though.” He grinned. “Always had been since we were seven.”

For a moment, Sophie’s eyes softened, just a flicker before she schooled her features back to composure. 

Just as she took the notebook back and slipped it into her satchel, a knock cut across the silence. The siblings glanced up and immediately, their masks slid back into place.

The door slid open; Cedric poked his head in, his cheeks red from the train’s stuffy corridors. “Room for one more?”

“Always,” Riev said as he stretched his legs out so his favorite Hufflepuff would have to step over them. 

Cedric shot him a look and took the seat opposite Sophie. He eyed the raven’s cage carefully as he leaned forward.

“Is that a crow?” Cedric asked.

“Raven,” Sophie corrected. “He’s not friendly.”

Cedric smiled anyway. “He can’t be that bad.”

Riev grinned. “Among the family ravens, not so. Among regular birds, he’s a menace.”

Easy conversation rolled out, where Cedric shared his summer stories which included broom racing with his cousins in Devon, and a near miss with a cranky kelpie. Riev provided colorful commentary, then wildly exaggerating his own adventures 

Cedric just laughed despite the embellishment.

Érebos preened and silently judged the mortals and their social ineptitude.

Sophie simply watched and Riev knew that quiet attention; she was cataloging the jokes. To be used for later? Perhaps not, but if the day came that his dear sister starts blurting out his jokes then it would also be the day he starts taking Arithmancy lessons seriously.

Riev met his sister’s gaze, and gave her a look that said, “See? Banquets, not battles. Or, at the very least, armistices.”

She responded with a brief nod; a promise that she’d consider it. Possibly.

Outside, the countryside blurred past with green and gold. Riev let himself drift while Cedric and Sophie exchanged notes about Potions books. 

Riev had assumed Sophie’s little crisis was already tidied up as her chess pieces lined up in neat rows, and Father’s approval all but signed. He pictured a blissfully quiet school year for himself, while she plotted in silence.

Then, a week later, she summoned him to the Black Lake.

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”

The words hung in the air and drifted out over the rippled surface of the lake.

The air was sharp with early autumn. Sunlight dragged thin gold across stones as Riev stood at a pace from the water’s edge with his arms folded; one brow arched at his sister like she’d just suggested he take up acromantula-taming as a hobby.

Sophie perched cross-legged atop a flat stone, as always the perfect model for pureblood composure. Her hair was pulled so tight at her nape it might have protested while her wand rested steadily across her knee. With shoulders squared and chin set, she watched the world as if she’d written its ending and was simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Join Slytherin’s dueling team.” Her words were quick and clean as it sliced off any protest before it could form.

Riev flicked his gaze over the lake, then back to his sister. “If I’m to be dragged into extracurriculars–and Merlin forbid I am–I’d sooner join the Dittany Appreciation Society. Or perhaps the League of Kneazle Fanciers. Better yet, how about the Sleep Enthusiasts’ Guild? Someone has to represent the noble art of napping.”

Sophie didn’t so much as blink. “This is important.”

“So is my delicate and fragile well-being,” Riev said dryly. He crouched, rummaged through the silt, and pried up a flat stone, testing its edge with his thumb. “Hard to believe, I know, but I prefer my limbs remaining attached.”

Sophie’s eyebrow twitched. “Since when have you ever been delicate?”

He flipped the stone between his fingers as he shrugged. “Since you suggested I waltz into an early grave. Or, to be accurate, a practice ring packed with upper-year Slytherins desperate for a reason to hex me into next week.”

“No one’s asking you to duel Mulciber,” Sophie said.

Riev cocked his head as the corner of his lip twitched. “Is that so? Enlighten me, oh sweet sister, what’s the game?” He watched her with a practiced eye and noted the subtle tightening at the corners of her mouth and that glint in her eyes. 

Those little cogs in her head had been turning for days now. He’d seen this too often; Sophie weighing every angle as she plotted her next conquest even before the first spell landed.

“Let’s drop the pretense.” His voice dropped to a murmur meant for Maximilian schemers. “This isn’t about my non-existent raw dueling talent, is it?”

She stilled. Her gaze traced the lawn’s uneven slope before it drifted to the whisper of water lapping at the pebbled shore. The lake held its breath. Not even a ripple from the giant squid. 

When Sophie spoke again, the words slipped out in French, soft and careful. “Marcellus Selkirk. He’s joining, isn’t he?”

Riev nodded and switched to French as well. “And?”

“Keep an eye on him.”

He tossed the stone and watched it skitter twice and sink. “You wouldn’t ask for my help just to babysit Selkirk. He’s not that interesting.”

Sophie exhaled, which sounded more like the slide of a chess piece than a sigh. “No. I need access to the dueling team’s ledger. The one they use for recording matchups.”

He shot her a sideways look with lips twitching. Now that was a curious ask, even for Sophie. She could handle herself in a duel, no doubt, but the sport of it? All that Slytherin chest-thumping… it was beneath her, as far as she was concerned. And she’d only care if there were strings to pull, or weights to tip. 

Or, in this case, ledgers worth filching. 

“So,” Riev drawled, “let me get this straight. You want me to join the dueling team, use Marcellus as… what, a distraction? An inside man? All so you can get your hands on the team ledger? That’s… huh.” 

And here I thought I was the reckless twin, Riev thought.

Sophie met his eyes without blinking. “You can decline if you want.”

He barked a dry laugh. “Oh, please. We both know I never say no. You know it, I know it, even Great-great grandmother Beatrice’s portrait is rolling her eyes in the library.” He flicked a glance at her as his lips quirked. “If you asked me to charm a Hungarian Horntail, I’d probably at least ask you how sharp its teeth were first.” 

He looked out at the lake as the silence stretched. “Just do me the courtesy. Tell me the rest of your plans before I wake up as a Slytherin legend for all the wrong reasons.”

Sophie’s eyes flickered with a pause no longer than a breath. “Linette Rosier. Father asked me to build connections with her.”

Riev nodded slowly. “Third year right? British branch.”

“You actually paid attention,” Sophie said.

Riev huffed. “Hard not to when Father’s being very particular about keeping an eye on a Rosier.”

“Uncle Théodore's request,” she said.

He hummed. “Problems within the Ministry’s Bureau des Aurors, I bet.” He paused as he stared at the lake. “You know, it’d be easier if they could all just agree on who gets the Senior Auror position every five years.”

Her brows furrowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Unfortunately.” He sighed then turned his gaze back to his sister. “So how does the ledger fit into all this?”

“There’s something… off with the match-ups during last year’s practices,” Sophie said. “Mulciber’s doing, most likely. He always guards that ledger.”

Riev snorted. “Now you’re analyzing dueling matches?”

She shot him a glare. “I wouldn’t have if it happened to everyone in the team. However, the inefficiency only applies to a select few members.”

“And one of them’s Rosier,” he finished.

She nodded. “It’s just a theory. But this could be related to an old grudge the Mulcibers held against the Rosiers.”

“That one about the Sacred Twenty-Eight list?” Riev said.

“You remembered,” Sophie said.

“Like I said, hard not to.” Riev sighed. “Fine. But I have two conditions. First, Marcellus. I know he’s–”

“Loud? Obnoxious?” Sophie said.

“He just wants to prove himself.” Riev said.

“By insisting ties to the Selwyns?”

 “He could be.”

“Oh?” Sophie tilted her head to the side. “I spent half the summer tracing the Selkirk name. I’ve checked all family tree records in the library–”

“Marcellus isn’t French,” Riev said.

“French and British family trees,” Sophie continued. “Know what I found? I traced his claim to a distant Selwyn cousin–” 

“See? Selwyn ties–”

“–who was unfortunately disowned for eloping with a muggle footman, and embezzling family funds.”

Riev opened his mouth, then shut it before letting out a deep sigh. “Regardless…”

For a fleeting moment, Sophie features softened by a fraction. “Any fallout will be avoided. I’ll make sure of it.”

You always do, Riev thought. Every piece his sister moved, you’d think she was a miser guarding every last bit of galleon. Father once taught them that a Maximilian must learn the art of sacrifice, whether it be a pawn or a queen, if victory demanded it. But Sophie? She surrendered nothing without a siege at her gates and a wand at her throat.

She had never bested Father even once with this tactic. Even so…

Riev swept an elaborate bow as he switched back to English. “As you command, Your Grace. One brotherly act of espionage, coming up.” 

He straightened and smirked. “On to my second condition then. I’m about three cauldrons deep in Snape’s disapproval–”

“You always are,” Sophie said as she folded her arms.

“--and close to five by next month,” Riev finished. “Help me with my Potions essay. For the entire year.”

“Done,” she said with a low huff.

The wind shifted as it sent a ripple across the water. Riev looked up at the sun sliding low over the lake, then at the sky tinged gold. 

Slytherin’s dueling team, then. He’d play the part, whatever role Sophie needed, so long as it kept her one step ahead.

Riev and Marcellus stepped inside the Slytherin dueling room; it was exactly the kind of place that made you wish you’d worn thicker socks. 

The flagstones beneath Riev’s shoes were as cold as a Maxmilian’s heart, the walls glistening slightly with old moisture that not even centuries of magical fires could truly banish. At the far end, dueling platforms ringed with low iron balustrades rose half a foot above the rest of the stone, as spell marks scarred the edges. 

Marcellus, taller than most and blonde with a tan too golden to have come from any Scottish sun, scanned the crowd as though sizing up potential allies and enemies alike. His uniform was always a touch too crisp, and his wand hand flexed at his side as if ready for a greeting or a hex.

All around them, second and third years clustered in nervous knots. Meanwhile, fourth years lounged with ease along the stone benches, while Slytherin Prefects leaned against pillars with arms crossed as they watched nonchalantly.

Marcellus nudged him, his voice pitched low. “Still surprised you decided to join.”

Riev shrugged as his eyes swept the room. “Wasn’t planning to, but I got a letter back home. Said I need to be…” He air-quoted with his fingers. “‘More involved with school activities.’”

Marcellus snorted a bit too quickly. “I know what you mean. Father also wants me to expand my skills. Thinks I’ll end up Minister for Magic one day.”

“Minister, eh?” Riev said as his lips twitched. “I just want to survive until the holidays.”

Marcellus grinned; however, his attention snapped to the doorway. “Your sister’s trying out too?”

Riev looked over. Sophie had just slipped in with her notebook tucked under one arm as she found a spot at the edge of the crowd. Unsurprisingly, nobody came within three feet of her if they could help it. When their eyes met, she gave him a single small nod. He answered with a quick, lopsided grin.

Riev leaned back toward Marcellus. “Doubtful. Most likely she just wants to make sure I don’t embarrass the family.”

Marcellus laughed softly, but Riev could see the curiosity at war with wariness in his roommate’s eyes.

A hush swept through the room as the Slytherin dueling team entered. The crowd parted around them, giving them space the way one might avoid a particularly irritable hippogriff.

Tall and sharp-featured, Julian Mulciber led them with a deliberate calm to his stride. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes flicked over the applicants like he was counting coins rather than sizing up hopefuls. Flanking him were two fourth-year boys, Mathew and Ignatius, if Riev’s memory remembered them right; both with the cool arrogance of students who’d never been anything but pure Slytherin. A few steps behind, Linette Rosier followed. She was slight and quiet, with her head slightly bowed. She moved with a limp grace that was either the result of training or injury, and Riev noticed that when she shifted her weight, she favored her left.

The only older Slytherins in the room were Prefects. Riev leaned closer to Marcellus. “Bit odd there aren’t any sixth or seventh years on the team.”

Marcellus shrugged and whispered back, “N.E.W.T.s probably keeping them busy?”

Riev hummed. That was a nice excuse; the sort that explained everything and nothing. He’d seen enough Maximilian politics to know when an absence was deliberate.

Julian strode to the center of the room, his wand tapping the edge of the dueling platform. The murmurs died instantly.

“All right,” he said with his voice echoing. “For those who think dueling is about waving a wand and shouting fancy Latin, leave. For the rest, you’ll be tested on the basics. We want to see speed, accuracy, and control. Also combinations of defense, offense and counters. No illegal jinxes, or any attempts to sabotage your opponent. Break those rules…” A slow, dangerous smile formed on his lips. “And you’ll wish you’d never set foot in this room.”

His words fell heavy and cold; it was the kind of warning that came with a family tradition of exacting retribution.

Julian turned and beckoned Linette. “Rosier. You’re on testing.”

She hesitated a half-second as her right hand tightened on her wand. Not her dominant hand, Riev noted. 

Linette nodded to Julian and took her place at the platform’s edge.

The tryouts began.

Marcellus was called early. His spells were solid. Maybe a shade too showy in Riev’s opinion; however, his feet were never quite under him. He reacted well, but he was always a half-beat behind Linette whose movements were measured and deliberate before she disarmed him with a neat, unhurried flick.

Other applicants took their turns. One by one, Linette handled them all, deflecting, shielding, before the counter knocked them off the platform. Riev watched as she stifled the slightest hesitation when she flicked her right hand. Definitely not her wand arm.

It was after the tenth applicant when his turn came.

He stepped onto the platform. He slouched and spun his wand idly between his fingers. 

Meanwhile, Linette faced him silently with an expression you’d see on stray cats; bored but dangerous if provoked. She held her wand in her right, but the angle was slightly off. She regarded him with the faintest crease in her brow. “Fix your posture,” she said softly.

Riev smiled sheepishly. “Whoops. Sorry. I get distracted easily.”

From the side, Mathew called out, “Shouldn’t you be at the pitch, cheering for your little Hufflepuff friend?”

Riev simply grinned. “Cedric? He’ll be fine. Probably Hufflepuff’s new Seeker already.” He cut a glance to his sister who only gave a single nod.

Give them a good show.

Julian’s voice rang out. “Begin.”

They bowed with their respective wands at the ready.

Linette moved immediately. “Stupefy.” Her spell darted like a thrown knife.

Riev barely sidestepped as the spell snapped past his sleeve. He grinned and tipped his wand in a mocking half-bow. “Missed me.”

Linette’s face remained blank as her eyes tracked his feet. “Not for long.”

Merlin, she and Soph would get along, he thought.

She launched three quick successions of Expelliarmus, Petrificus, and Stupefy, all fired in tight angles and no wasted movement.

 “Protego.” Riev’s shield flared, just enough to catch the red bolt and scatter the rest. Defense is always the best offense, his tutors had drilled into him. He remembered that one long summer at Forteresse de Moret in the cliffs of Ëtretat when he and Sophie were ten and Uncle Theodore personally supervised their training, especially his. He wasn’t allowed to leave the training halls until he got his footwork right.

Merlin, he hated that summer, but at least it finally paid off.

I just need to keep her at a distance, Riev told himself. Unfortunately, Linette pressed forward, closing the distance. 

Riev flicked a Stupefy, purely for misdirection, then ducked as her Protego snapped up. “Is this just how Rosiers say hello?”

She shot him a glance as a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Try harder.”

She drove him back as he blocked another spell. His shoes scraped over stone. For once, his brain worked faster than his tongue.

Riev adjusted and feinted left, then right as he tested for a break.

Linette’s wand switched from her right hand to her left in a single, fluid motion. The Expelliarmus that followed came in hard and fast, and the snap in her movement was all muscle memory; but Riev caught her wince that was so quick it almost didn’t happen.

Her Stupefy was fired faster which forced Riev to pivot, scramble and shield nearly half a second late. Sweat trickled under his collar. She pressed relentlessly now as red and gold light flashed from her wand. 

His shields held, but they wobbled at the edges as she kept coming. She was hunting now. Her spells painted sharp lines in the air. 

Riev’s foot caught on a seam in the platform; he nearly stumbled. Her mouth quirked, in satisfaction? Or maybe just smelling the blood in the water.

“Are you done playing?” she mumbled as her bored features had finally sharpened.

He flashed her a lazy smile while ignoring the cramp building in his wrist. “Just entertaining the crowd.”

But he was on the edge now, and they both knew it. Linette’s dominant hand was a whip with every spell more accurate and punishing. 

Time to shift tactics.

Riev stumbled, and Linette’s eyes narrowed as she stepped in. That was when the corners of his lips twitched. Got you.

Riev pounced. He flicked his wand, casting a quick, low Expelliarmus aimed at her left hand. He angled just enough to force her to block awkwardly. For half a heartbeat, she hesitated and Riev caught her wince. But she recovered with her shield up just in time as it absorbed his spell. 

Linette’s eyes flashed; her wand whipped in a tight arc, casting Stupefy; it was still fast, but a microsecond slower than before. 

Riev saw it. All he had to do was pivot, duck under, and maybe counter. However, that would prolong the duel and could put further strain on Linette’s wrist. So instead, he took the hit, letting the red flash slam into his shoulder as it threw him backwards and off the platform. 

And so the curtain falls, Riev thought.

Silence filled the room. Then the cheers erupted. Students clapped, someone whistled. Someone in the back muttered, “Did you see that–?”

From the edge, Riev  caught Sophie’s almost imperceptible smile.

Marcellus was at his side in a heartbeat, helping him up. “Bloody hell, mate! That was brilliant!” He immediately began reenacting the duel, complete with wild hand gestures and sounds. 

Riev chuckled as he rubbed his shoulder.

“Thanks.” He grinned. “I’ve got practice, mostly from avoiding my problems.”

Julian approached them. He gave Riev a slow once-over, his mouth quirking in what could, in better light, have been approval.

“Not bad, Maximilian. You’re actually more than just your smart mouth.”

Riev flashed him a lazy, almost insolent smile. “So, am I in?”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.”

He turned away, leaving Riev with Marcellus, who started describing his own performance vividly. Linette slipped past them; her hand trembled ever so slightly before she tucked it into her sleeve.

Riev watched her go before replaying the duel in his mind. He wondered if he’d have lasted even that long if she’d been at full strength.

Unlikely, he thought. If she had been trained by the Rosier’s French branch–and he’d bet five galleons that she was–then she most likely received stricter training than what the Maximilian’s Moret branch offered.

Julian, along with two other members, deliberated briefly, before he stepped forward, his voice once again carrying through the hall. “Selkirk, Maximilian. You’re in. Practice is Wednesdays and Fridays. Don’t be late. Dismissed.”

Marcellus exhaled a long sigh of relief, then clapped Riev on the back. “So, where’d you learn to move like that?” he asked as they made their way out of the dueling room and into the relative warmth of the dungeon corridor.

Riev weighed how much to say. “Maximilian training,” he answered, letting the words fall as if they didn’t mean much.

Marcellus blinked with his mouth slightly open. “They train you to duel that early?”

Riev shrugged. “Not the sport exactly. Just enough for self-defense. You know, in case we need to run away.”

Half the truth. Self-defense was the tip of the iceberg. Maximilian children were trained for strategy under pressure; supposedly to learn early on how to read the game before the pieces even moved. 

Not that Marcellus would understand. Riev somewhat envied his roommate’s ignorance regarding the old family. He only saw the fine clothes and glittering jewels while Riev saw nothing but a gilded cage with only Sophie’s presence being his consolation. 

Riev changed the topic before Marcellus pried further. “Isn’t it the same for British purebloods?”

Marcellus brightened. “Ah, yeah! Of course! Father had me tutored when I was nine. You see my Stupefy earlier? My tutor drilled me on that for an entire month. Could cast it in my sleep now.”

“I can imagine,” Riev smiled.

Marcellus threw an arm around his shoulder. “Come on, let’s head to the Great Hall. Merlin, I’m starving!”

Riev let himself be steered down the corridor. Up ahead, near the bend, he caught sight of his sister. 

Their eyes met. She only blinked once before moving on. 

Nothing needed to be said. The first phase of their plan had begun. Riev squared his shoulders as the coldness of the flagstones seeped through his shoes. As for the next phase, well…

It may not turn out to be a banquet, but he’d make sure to bring the wine.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

FRED

Fred never had a lonelier Saturday. No George, Lee or even Peeves throwing chairs in the library. Days like this, the castle felt about three sizes too big. Funny how one twin missing could make a place full of ghosts feel emptier than the hallway after a Filch inspection.

George was stuck in detention, again, and this time with Lee. The punishment was courtesy of Snape, who had apparently learned his lesson last year that scheduling both Weasley twins  together in detention was a horrendous idea if you wanted the castle to stay upright.

Fred drifted through the courtyard as the toe of his shoes scuffed a loose stone. That was when he spotted Sophie, who was sitting on a bench. On her knees, she was balancing a notebook fat enough to club a troll. Her hair was styled in that no-nonsense braid with her posture straight as a fence post. Even now, she still had her cold aloofness that had gotten her dubbed the Ice Queen before she’d even finished her first term at Hogwarts.

However, what caught Fred’s eye wasn’t Sophie herself; it was the raven that perched on the back of the bench. The thing was enormous, and Merlin! Its eyes… they looked disturbingly human as it glowered at the world with the same sort of disdain that Fred’s Great-great-aunt Muriel’s portrait reserved for anyone under the age of fifty.

Maybe it was daft, but he couldn’t help himself. With hands in his pockets, he ambled over and kept a couple feet of distance between him and the bird. Merlin, imagine having your eyeball pecked out on a Saturday. George would never let him live it.

“Afternoon, Maximilian! Nice bird. Yours, or is this the only local wildlife who hasn’t snubbed you?”

Without so much as glancing up, Sophie said, “Mine.”

Fred edged closer to test the invisible perimeter of bird and girl. The raven’s head snapped toward him with its beak slightly open. Fred froze; but when the bird didn’t pluck his eye out, he continued his approach. He took a peek at Sophie’s notebook which, as expected, looked less like notes and more like a page torn from some secret ancient tome. Was that Latin? Runes? She probably wrote her Christmas wish list in code. Wouldn’t put it past her.

“Got a name?” he asked.

Sophie closed the notebook with a soft, unhurried snap. “Érebos.”

Of course she’d name it something even the Sorting Hat would need to look up. He’d bet a sickle George would just call it “Beaky.”

“Fancy,” Fred grinned. “Can he fetch?”

The raven cocked its head. Fred could’ve sworn it narrowed its eye. Do birds even do that?

Sophie stared at him blankly. “He judges.”

Fred huffed a laugh. “Handy. Could use a second opinion around here.”

He plopped down on the bench next to her; just close enough that if she really minded, she’d say. Érebos let out a low, guttural kraaw that sounded for all the world like Filch on the prowl for misbehaving students after curfew.

“He’s not fond of strangers,” Sophie said.

“Give it a week,” Fred said as he rested an elbow on the back of the bench, “we’ll be best mates.”

Érebos ruffled his feathers, and eyed Fred as if memorizing his face for a future hit list.

Sophie sighed. “What do you want, Weasley?”

Fred held up both hands. “Just making conversation. Don’t you have those down in the dungeons?”

“Depends on the company.”

“And here I thought you’d be grateful for the entertainment.” Fred grinned. “I do impressions, you know. Want to hear my Snape?”

Before she could answer, Érebos let out a louder kraaw. 

Fred winced and muttered, “Tough crowd.”

Sophie frowned. “If you’re finished–”

He wasn’t; not until he’d gotten at least a crack in her ice fortress. “Got another. What’s his favorite snack? Bread crumbs? Gryffindors?”

Sophie blinked once. “The hearts of my enemies.”

Fred snorted. “Very funny.”

She fixed him with a blank stare and tilted her head to the side. “Is it?” 

She pulled out a pouch from the inside pocket of her robes. It had runes inscribed on it and Fred thought it was one of those enchanted pouches that could fit your entire closet if you wanted to.

Fred’s brows furrowed. Wait, is she serious? He couldn’t tell if she was winding him up or genuinely terrifying. Both, maybe? Which wasn’t helping, because to his complete utter horror…

He liked that.

He watched her warily as she poured out a handful of… shiny black seeds, and offered them to the raven. Érebos snapped them up, never breaking eye contact.

“Merlin’s knickers!” Fred let out a laugh. “Is this some French humor or just yours in particular?”

And maybe this was his imagination, or did the corners of Sophie’s mouth twitch just for a second?

Once the raven finished eating, Sophie stood, tucking away her notebook inside her satchel.

“Where’re you off to?” Fred asked.

She paused, as if weighing her answer, before glancing over her shoulder. “Slytherin dueling room.”

Fred’s brows shot up. “Wait, you joined your House’s dueling team?”

“No. Riev did,” Sophie replied.

He snorted. “Can he even duel?”

“Of course he can.”

Is she bristling? Fred grinned then shook his head. “I know, sibling loyalty and all, but knowing a couple of spells won’t save him from getting hexed straight to the hospital wing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Would you like to wager on that?”

Fred’s eyes lit up. Finally, a reaction! He grinned. “All right then. If he survives the team for a year–”

“If the Slytherin team wins against Gryffindor this year–” Sophie cut in.

He barked a laugh. “Oho! Upping the stakes, are we? All right. If Gryffindor wins–which they will–you’ll have to be my Potions partner for a year.”

“And if Slytherin wins–”

“Which they won’t–”

“You’ll refrain from pulling any pranks next year.”

He pressed a hand against his chest as he gasped theatrically. “That’s just excessive.”

Sophie kept her features neutral. “So is having you as my Potions partner.”

Fred made a face. “Sure. All right.”

He could’ve sworn there was a ghost of a smile before she walked away, her raven perching on her shoulder. Fred shook his head, still grinning. 

Few hours later, he completely forgot about the wager. But not her barely-there smile. How could he not, now that he was half convinced underneath her statue-like facade lies some mischief just waiting to be discovered? He’d take that as a win, especially on a day that started so dull he’d considered pranking the Bloody Baron.

Three days later, during breakfast in the Great Hall, Fred was shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. Lee was on one side, while George on the other, as both of them plotted out possible pranks after Charms. Several feet away, Percy was giving a speech to some terrified first-years about study habits and the sanctity of the Gryffindor common room.

Fred nearly missed the subtle hush that fell as Sophie strode up the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. She had that same composed expression as always, but this time, the raven was nowhere in sight. 

She stopped in front of Fred, her hands holding four sheets of parchment.

“Weasley,” she said.

Fred blinked up. “Which one?”

George grinned. “Morning, Ice Queen.”

Sophie glared at them both; the effect was  somewhat diluted by her height despite the sharpness of her eyes. 

She handed Fred the parchments. “Your copy.”

Fred traded a glance with George then back to her. “For…?”

Sophie’s tone was cool. “Our wager.”

Lee leaned over, his eyebrows raised. “You had a bet with her?”

George gasped with hand on his chest. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Fred said sheepishly, “I didn’t think she’d take it seriously… or put it in writing.”

By now, a good third of the table was watching as whispers gradually rippled outward. Some Slytherins craned their necks, no doubt curious about what nefarious deal the Maximilian girl was striking with a Weasley.

Typical. One day he was bored stiff, the next he had half the Hall waiting to see if he could outsnake a Slytherin. No pressure, then.

Sophie raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

Fred skimmed the parchment. It was all there, from their agreed upon conditions to the consequences. She’d even inserted a penalty; if either party broke the deal, he or she shall suffer a month’s worth of uncontrollable foot and back itch. 

Fred snorted, then looked up. “Foot and back itch?”

“Insomnia could be another option…” Sophie replied.

George groaned. “Merlin’s bloody pants.”

Fred stared at Sophie, then the parchments, before glancing back to Sophie again. “I’m not signing anything written by a Slytherin.”

Sophie didn’t even flinch. “I see.” She reached for the parchments. “If you want to back out–”

He jerked his hand away, clutching the contract to his chest. “Who said I was backing out? I only said I won’t sign anything written by a Slytherin.”

Sophie gestured at his copy. “Everything we agreed on is there. No more, no less.”

Fred could now feel the eyes of every Gryffindor and Slytherins on him; maybe even a Hufflepuff or two. If he tried to wiggle out now, they’d never let him hear the end of it. The clucking would haunt him until graduation. Still… it felt like a trap, and he had the sneaking suspicion that was exactly how she wanted it.

He cleared his throat. “Three days. I’d like to read the fine print first, or I might accidentally sell my soul to your bird.”

There it was again, a barely-there twitch from the corners of her mouth. “Go ahead. Érebos wouldn’t want your soul either.”

She turned and glided back to the Slytherin table. Fred stared at the parchments in his hands with the wager spelled out in Sophie’s perfect handwriting.

George leaned in and wagged a finger. “I leave you unsupervised for one day…”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Please… We both know you wouldn’t have stopped me if you were there.”

George grinned. “You’re not wrong.”

Lee peered at the contract. “So what’s your plan?”

Fred drummed his fingers on the edge with his mind already working. He’d need help. Slytherin fine print was a dangerous thing, and if anyone could spot a trap, it’d be–

“Percy,” he murmured.

Of course, only he could untangle Maximilian’s legalese. Annoying, but brilliant. Fred huffed. Sometimes he hated how the world worked.

Fred glanced at Sophie’s back as she sat back down in the Slytherin table. She’d gotten him this round, but the game wasn’t over; especially when a game was something he just decided that he actually cared about.

PERCY

Percy sat in the corner of the Gryffindor common room with his feet propped on a battered footstool while reading his notes on Transfigurations. The fire was low, but he didn’t mind. It discouraged any temptation for anyone to interrupt him with petty nonsense, which also included a prank or dungbomb from his insufferable brothers.

Or so he thought.

First came the telltale murmur of George’s voice as it echoed into the common room. Then Fred’s laugh followed, which was a little too bright and practiced. Percy’s jaw tensed. They came into view, one after the other; Fred’s shoes were muddy while George’s tie was crooked. 

Before either of them opened their mouths, Percy said, “Go bother Charlie. I’m busy.”

George flopped into the armchair across from him and swung his legs over the side. “Evening to you too, Perce!”

“I’m trying to study.” Percy flipped a page with more force than necessary. “Some of us care about getting ahead.”

Fred sprawled on the rug with his hands behind his head. “We care about you getting ahead too.”

“That’s right,” George chimed in. “So much that we’ve got a little… project. Something you could add to your ‘good wizards’ file.”

Percy shot them a look over his glasses. “After what you did to me this summer?”

He remembered the itching powder in his sheets all too well. He had spent a week scratching in places that polite society would never mention. Even Mum hadn’t been able to talk him down from his outrage.

“Let bygones be bygones.” Fred slid a crumpled Chocolate Frog card across the carpet. “We brought offerings.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Bribery, is it?”

“Bribery.” George nodded. 

“And possibly a chance to impress Professor McGonagall,” Fred added. “We know you’re aiming for Prefect next year.”

Percy paused from his poor attempt at concentrating on his notes; still, he kept his expression perfectly neutral. “Oh, really?”

Fred leaned in as he lowered his voice. “Think of it. If you were to assist in a matter of legal importance, say… one that could potentially prevent a cross-house prank war, why, that would show you’re responsible.”

“Trustworthy even,” George added. “The sort of qualities Professors like to see in a Prefect, don’t you think?”

“Or,” Fred said. “If you’d rather we tell McGonagall you refused to help mediate a House contract, well…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Percy snapped his notebook shut as he glared at each of them. “There’s nothing to mediate.”

“On the contrary!” Fred waved four sheets of parchments. “We need an expert.” 

“Legal review, binding signatures, the works,” George said.

“You’re practically a Ministry employee already,” Fred added.

Percy glared at the parchment; it was dangled just close enough for him to read a few lines. The handwriting was sharp and tight, and he even caught some phrases that you’d more likely find in a Hogwarts’ rulebook or a Ministry decree. “Who wrote this?” he asked.

“Sophie Maximilian,” Fred replied.

That… explained a lot. Percy didn’t know much about Sophie herself, other than what his brothers shared during meals back home last summer. He also wasn’t in the habit of keeping track of younger students outside his House. But the Maximilian name… Dad once mentioned it in passing; a diplomat of sorts in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. That probably explained why Sophie knew how to write a magical contract, strangely excessive it may be for whatever she and his brothers had to agree on.

He reached for the parchments, but Fred held them just out of reach. “Swear you won’t tell Mum.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of–fine. Give it here.”

He took the documents and read them. George got up from his seat and peered over Percy’s shoulder. 

“That’s the itchy bit–” George said and pointed at another clause. “Oh, and look, a clause about prank duration!”

Percy ignored George’s commentaries and read the contents twice, then a third time. He frowned at a seemingly harmless clause tucked in near the bottom.

“In the event of a dispute regarding the interpretation of this agreement, the party initiating the dispute must provide evidence sufficient to satisfy the spirit as well as the letter of the wager. Failure to do so shall be deemed an acceptance of the opposing party’s position.”

That was… ambiguous. Slippery, in fact. It was the sort of language that seemed fair until you realized that “spirit” was undefined, and “evidence” was left open-ended. If Sophie wanted to push the issue, Fred could end up breaching the contract on a technicality; especially if she convinced a teacher or even just her Housemates that the “spirit” was violated.

Percy’s lips thinned. “Fred, did you actually read this?”

Fred shrugged. “I skimmed it.”

Percy tapped the offending clause. “This here, it’s dangerous. If you sign it as is, she could claim you broke the ‘spirit’ of the wager anytime you so much as hint at a prank, even if you haven’t technically done anything wrong.”

Fred frowned. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“It isn’t,” Percy said. “You need that revised. The spirit of the wager needs to be clearly defined, or you’re just handing her the right to make up the rules as you go along.”

Fred glanced sideways at George. “So we can change that?”

Percy nodded. “Otherwise, the first time she’s annoyed at you, well, I hope you like back itches.”

George made a face. “Can you rewrite it?”

“I can make it fair,” Percy replied. “Both sides ought to be protected. That’s the point of a contract.”

“Wait, if you can make changes,” Fred said as a slow grin formed on his lips. “Can’t you make it just a tiny bit more favorable for Gryffindor?”

“Just tilt the scales a bit,” George added. “Who’s going to know?” 

Percy glared at them. “If I start stacking the deck in your favor, Sophie will spot it immediately. She’s meticulous. Just look at these cross-references! She’ll insist on changes which could end up worse for you. If you want a fair contract, I’ll draft one. No more, no less.”

Fred grumbled. “But–”

“You’re the ones who asked me,” Percy said. “Do you want me to revise this or not?”

The twins eyed each other, and there was this nagging feeling in his gut telling him that he’d lost the moral high ground the moment he took the parchment.

“What if you just…” Fred’s hand gestured vaguely. “Nudge things a bit? Not outright cheating, but, you know, creative negotiation. Wouldn’t that show leadership? Don’t Prefects mediate on behalf of their House?”

George added, “Like set a precedent or something. Help Gryffindor. McGonagall loves initiative. Show you’re not just a stickler, but an advocate.” 

“It’ll be good for your badge,” Fred said.

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. The better, more rational part of him wanted to toss the contract back and walk away, his brothers’ plight be damned. The other part, the one that imagined McGonagall’s rare, approving nod, saw an opportunity; he could be the reason a Weasley, himself specifically, brought fairness to a House dispute.

He took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll help you negotiate.” He added when the twins’ faces lit up, “But I won’t cheat. If she insists on a particular point, you’ll need to be ready to compromise.”

Fred and George shared a high-five.

“Brilliant, Perce!” Fred grinned. “Knew we could count on you.”

George clapped Percy on the back. “You’re a hero. The unsung type. The ‘gets all the credit at the Prefect interview’ type.”

Percy ignored the praise. “Give me the night. I’ll review it and make a draft with revisions. We’ll need to meet with her to negotiate. Publicly, and with enough witnesses.”

Giddily, Fred already began plotting. “I’ll owl her. Set up a meeting, make it official.”

George snickered. “Can’t believe Fred’s wager escalated into a full-blown diplomacy.”

Percy watched as the twins scampered off as they plotted their next round of mayhem.  With a sigh, he stood up and headed back to his dorm room. His mind ran through the provisions to revise, terms to define, and loopholes to fix, should he discover more.

And maybe, just maybe, this would be the thing that tipped the scales for next year’s Prefect appointment. Surely, Professor McGonagall would see he’d brought order to Hogwarts’ madness.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SOPHIE

It was a Thursday afternoon when Sophie drifted down the second-floor corridor with her shoes soft against the flagstones. Her posture was straight with every step even. Behind her, the boys drifted in an untidy pack as their laughter trailed down the corridor. Riev bounced when he walked, as if gravity was a minor suggestion rather than the law of nature. Meanwhile, Marcellus hit each flagstone with his heels, and Cedric lingered a pace behind as he murmured placations with the patience of a saint.

“So let’s get this straight,” Riev began as he turned his attention to her. “You made a bet… with Fred Weasley.”

“Yes,” Sophie replied without breaking stride.

Marcellus’s breath hitched. Cedric’s foot scuffed the stone. Both waited for her clarification; she provided none.

Hence why Riev nudged the quiet with a little more volume. “For…?”

“Insinuating that you couldn’t duel,” Sophie replied evenly.

Marcellus almost laughed, but instead settled for snorting. “That’s it?”

“All to defend my duelist honor?” Riev placed a hand to his chest. “That’s sweet, Soph.”

She kept walking. The silence pressed in as Riev’s mouth curved slowly. She knew that he knew; that there was more to the story. And there was, just not something she could share considering their present company.

The wager had simply been meant as a cover. Fred had handed her an opportunity; she’d merely shaped it into something beneficial. If anyone wondered why she spent more time around Slytherin’s dueling team or near Linette Rosier, they’d see nothing more than a girl chasing victory in a House rivalry. No one needed to know how much she needed to get close to Linette, or how she planned to make herself useful to the people who mattered. With Fred, everything became like fireworks, and that made it easier for her plans to move in unnoticed while everyone’s distracted by the sparkling lights.

But then, in all his impulsive glory, Fred had gone and given the contract to Percy, who dissected it line by line and found the flaw she’d left unguarded. Now what should have been a simple arrangement had spiraled into an inter-House negotiation, complete with witnesses and arbiters. She had always planned for contingencies, but a Weasley-initiated diplomatic summit was not one of them.

Leave it to a Weasley, she thought as her lips thinned, to turn everything into their personal entertainment.

Cedric’s voice pulled her out from her thoughts. “Okay, but, isn’t a contract, I dunno… too much?”

Riev shrugged. “Honestly, contracts are standard back home.”

Cedric’s brows furrowed. “So, you write down… bets?”

“Agreements,” Sophie said.

Riev leaned toward Cedric and chuckled. “Family has this strange obsession over magical contracts. It might as well be our favorite pasttime, apart from headache-inducing Arithmancy calculations."

 “It’s insurance,” Sophie said as she side-glanced at her brother. 

Marcellus chimed in, ““Pureblood culture, you know? Put everything in writing, just in case. The Selwyns do that too. Father told me.”

Sophie’s lips pressed thin as she took a deep breath. Un, deux, trois… Another commentary from Marcellus and she was this close to letting his secrets slip. Her brother had likely sensed it since he gave her a half-smile and a particular look that said, hold it in, sweet sister. 

Their little procession finally reached the Great Hall, where the air was already thick with anticipation. Due to Percy’s request with Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw table had been commandeered for this negotiation and now looked more like the floor of the Wizengamot than a dining space. At the end, Fred and George lounged with ease, while Percy sat in front of a sheaf of parchment with his quill poised like a judge about to pass a sentence.

On the Gryffindor side, a small contingent had gathered; fourth and second years whose faces were painted with either boredom or the hope of a good show. At the Slytherins’ side, there were a couple of Prefects who were probably there to ensure Sophie didn’t embarrass the House, and several members of the dueling team with impassive features as they watched everything but gave nothing away. Few of Hufflepuffs drifted in at the sidelines, while Ravenclaws had turned out in force. After all, this was their table, and nothing delighted a Ravenclaw more than an entertaining performance disguised as a learning opportunity. 

Cedric pulled Riev aside and whispered, “So, what am I supposed to do?”

“Keep the peace,” Penelope, who had been standing nearby, answered. 

“Miss Clearwater.” Sophie inclined her head. “Thank you for lending us the Ravenclaw table. And for standing in as a neutral third party.”

“It wasn’t that hard to convince our Prefects,” Penelope said. “The moment Percy mentioned, “magical contract”, they agreed.”

“As long as they get to watch?” Riev said.

Penelope’s lips curled slightly, and that was her only response to that.

“You’ve done this before?” Cedric asked.

Penelope sighed; she briefly glanced over to Percy then returned to Cedric with the look of someone who’d refereed too many Quidditch matches and survived. “Not on this scale, no. Usually, just between Percy and his brothers.” She led Cedric to the table’s end where their seats awaited. 

Meanwhile, after taking a deep breath, Sophie advanced to her place across from Percy, while Riev and Marcellus took up their positions behind her, like sentinels, or perhaps just props in a larger production.

Fred leaned back as a smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you chickened out.”

Sophie met his gaze without so much as blinking. “Hardly. I simply see no reason to hurry.”

George grinned. “What, had to come up with another sneaky clause?”

Sophie paused for half a beat. “It was an oversight.” And it was true. She’d missed the ambiguity in that clause; she had been distracted perhaps by her other priorities. When Fred owled her, she’d read Percy’s comments regarding the provision thrice, and each time, the heat of irritation bubbled inside her. No, she couldn’t allow herself any outward sign of embarrassment. Lessons learned at château had been drilled into her; never dwell on a mistake, only on what comes next.

Sophie took out her parchments and aligned each page. “Shall we begin?”

Percy leaned forward, his quill at the ready. “Let’s start with the ambiguous clause, the provision regarding the ‘spirit and evidence’.”

The Ravenclaws in the audience shuffled as they opened their notebooks out; their eyes shone brightly, as if awaiting a demonstration in some ICW magical law.

“For the purposes of this agreement,” Percy began. “‘Spirit’ shall be defined as the mutual intent of both parties as understood at the time of execution, evidenced by the plain language of the wager and supported by any corroborating witness statements.” 

He pointed the tip of his quill at the next line. “Meanwhile, ‘Evidence’ shall be factual documentation or credible testimony as to whether an action or omission is in keeping with the spirit so defined.”

Sophie studied the wording thrice, as was her custom. The definition was technically sound… on paper. But it leaned, ever so slightly, toward Fred’s favor. Percy had left the “plain language” as the standard, which meant that the party who controlled the wording could always plead misunderstanding, and thus, shifting the burden of proof back to her.

She set her quill down and met Percy’s gaze. “Your definition introduces its own set of ambiguity in what constitutes ‘plain language’. If witnesses disagree, whose testimony prevails? If the spirit is mutual intent, does that mean majority opinion decides intent? That’s a numbers game, not a contract.”

Percy bristled. “What would you suggest?”

From her own parchment, Sophie read her alternative definition aloud. “‘Spirit’ shall mean the underlying objective, as agreed and stated in writing. Whereas, ‘evidence’ shall be any action, inaction, or statement demonstrably connected to the wager, with the burden of proof resting equally upon both parties to show adherence or breach. Witness statements may be used for context but are not dispositive.”

Percy’s fingers drummed the table as his mouth curled into a small frown. “But that makes witness statements essentially powerless. Also, this puts too much weight on written intent. If one side acts in bad faith, it’s almost impossible to prove.”

Sophie’s lips thinned. “Better than a popularity contest.”

From there, the debate escalated. For every hypothetical Percy raised, Sophie countered with a flaw. For every loophole Sophie closed, Percy produced another possible ambiguity.

Still standing behind Sophie, Riev began narrating. “And now, children, we see the rare sight of two aspiring bureaucrats in their native habitat…”

Marcellus muttered as he rubbed his temples, “Okay, but how many ways can you define ‘intent’ before you lose the will to live?”

Fred interjected. “I say ‘spirit’ means you can’t cheat, and ‘evidence’ means you can’t blame me for thinking outside the box.”

George grinned as he chimed in. “Let’s just say ‘spirit’ is the ghost that’ll haunt whoever loses and ‘evidence’ is whatever we make up on the spot.”

A Ravenclaw two seats down offered, “Spirit is the principle. Evidence is proof. Simple.”

On the Slytherin side, someone muttered, “Spirit’s whatever the contract says, and evidence is a decent hex.”

The commentaries multiplied. A Hufflepuff suggested everyone to just “be nice and honest.” Students around them voiced their opinions that soon multiplied, blurred, then finally dissolved into noise.

Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose as though she could block out the collective idiocy with enough pressure. Meanwhile, Cedric offered, “Why don’t you just say ‘spirit’ means ‘don’t be a git’ and ‘evidence’ means ‘get caught in the act’?”

The debate kept going in circles; and then, by some miracle, began to converge. Percy tapped his quill on the parchment. “Let’s settle with ‘spirit’ as the shared, explicit intent of the wager.”

“Acceptable,” Sophie said. “And ‘evidence’ as any action or omission, backed by one impartial witness.”

Percy nodded.

Letting out a deep sigh, Sophie’s fingers massage her temples as her head throbbed. At home, negotiations rarely included this level of background noise. Tutors expected rigor, not… whatever one called this madness. There were no Fred and George at Château du Lys who threw unnecessary commentaries. She wondered if perhaps the Maximilian family had made a mistake. 

Incorporate this in future lessons? She thought then grimaced. 

“If there’s nothing else…” She was about to move to signatures when Fred raised a hand. Her eyes narrowed at that glint in his gaze.

“Just one more,” Fred said, “I want to add one more provision.”

Percy slid a new parchment across the table. “The twins would like to include a clause regarding the enforcement of penalties. Specifically, the method for resolving disputes if the spirit or terms are challenged.”

What are you up to Weasley? Sophie reached for the parchment and read the new provision twice. On the surface, it was harmless; if the parties disagreed on whether or not there was a breach, the matter would be resolved by a majority vote of all witnesses present at the time of the alleged breach.

But after reading it the third time, the edges began to sharpen. In any dispute, the numbers favored the Gryffindors; more of them would be present at any time. 

A rigged scale disguised as fairness. Sophie almost smiled at that realization. Her gaze returned to Percy. “You’re aiming for Prefect, aren’t you? Yet here you are, proposing a clause that tilts the contract toward your brother. That’s not the kind of impartiality Professor McGonagall would expect.”

Percy’s voice tightened. “It’s only fair. Gryffindors need some defense against Slytherin tricks.”

A Gryffindor at the edge of the crowd whooped. At the Slytherin’s side, a couple of them jeered. The buzz of the hall grew louder with conversations splintering and merging.

Fred and George began talking over Percy as their voices grew loud and indistinguishable. One of them insisted that Sophie had started it all with her “sneaky clause.” 

Meanwhile, Marcellus tried to join in, but his opinion got lost beneath the rising tide of noise. 

Riev simply sighed and muttered, “Reminds me of family reunions four summers ago, just less civilized.”

Cedric began raising his voice, “All right, let’s–can we just–” but the shouts only grew louder.

Penelope then leaned closer to Cedric and whispered in his ear. Sophie wasn’t sure what it was, but Cedric gave a small nod before slipping out of the Great Hall’s side-entrance.

As the argument built, with every side now talking at once, the dull ache of Sophie’s migraine now pulsed behind her eyes. Still, she managed to counter both the Weasley twins’ accusations and Percy’s justifications. “If you want a fair contract, you can’t load the vote with your own witnesses.”

“All right then,” Fred shouted over the cacophony of voices. “Let's bring in outside witnesses! Have the Bloody Baron vote.”

“He’s biased,” George shot back. “You know he’s got a soft spot for Slytherins!”

Percy raised his voice. “Can we just–can everyone–listen for a moment?”

The sound in the Great Hall reached a fever pitch. Sophie shut her eyes as her fingers pressed on her forehead, all while weighing the costs of violence versus patience. Un, deux, trois…

At that moment, the doors at the end of the Hall slammed open. Professor McGonagall swept in as her robes cut the air like a Severing charm. Cedric trailed behind her; that was what Penelope probably instructed him. 

Good call, Sophie thought. Any longer and someone would’ve hexed someone across the hall.

McGonagall’s gaze swept the now silent room. “Would someone like to explain,” she began, “why the Great Hall currently resembles the aftermath of a goblin riot?”

All eyes turned to the Ravenclaw table. The crowd stepped back, as if the six were holding an unstable concoction.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Maximilian. Mr. Maximilian. Mr. Selkirk, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley–” she paused just as her glare landed on Percy, “and Mr. Weasley. My office. Now.”

The tension snapped, and now replaced by the low buzz of gossip. Sophie rose and gathered her parchments, before she strode from the hall. The other five boys followed suit.

Behind her, Percy, while clutching his own set of parchments, muttered under his breath. “I should’ve never agreed to this.”

 She kept her gaze forward. There was no victory here, only survival.

McGonagall’s office was as spare and cold as Sophie remembered. Afternoon sun spilled through narrow leaded windows; it was too pale to warm the room, but bright enough to cast the stacks of parchment in sharp lines. Meanwhile, lined on the walls, the old portraits seemed to hold their collective breath as the nearby clock ticked.

McGonagall transfigured other fixtures in her office into six chairs that stood lined-up in front of her desk. Sophie sat in the third from the left with her knees together as her hands folded on her skirt. Riev slouched beside her as his ankles crossed while his fingers drummed a silent rhythm against his thigh. Marcellus dropped into his seat beside Riev like he’d been forced at wandpoint; his jaw was  set, but his eyes darted between the Weasley twins. 

Meanwhile, the other set of twins were restless even as they sat at the other side of the lined chairs; Fred picked at a frayed thread on his cuff, while George spun a quill between his fingers. Percy sat down last; he took the seat between Sophie and Fred, with his posture straight while clutching the stack of parchment close to his chest.

McGonagall flicked her wand at the door which clicked softly as the locks were set in place. Then she settled at her desk and fixed them with a stare that could sand down stone. “Explain.”

The boys stared at each other, but none dared to speak yet. Meanwhile Sophie kept her gaze on the dust motes hanging in the air as the taste of chalk lingered at the back of her throat. Then she side-glanced to Percy who inhaled deeply. “Professor, you see–”

“Fred and George,” Riev cut in. “They started it.”

“Oi!” The Weasley twins exclaimed, and if not for Percy and Sophie sitting in between, they would’ve tackled Riev then and there.

McGonagall sent the twins a sharp glare. “Mr. Weasley–”

“That’s not fair!” Fred protested. “First off, it was your sister’s stupid shady clause–”

Yeah, if anyone’s being underhanded, it’s her!” George added as he leaned forward. “Besides, who even writes a magical contract for a bet?”

“Better look at yourselves in the mirror,” Marcellus fired back. “Before you start accusing Slytherins of being shady!”

“He’s right, you know,” Riev added. “Slytherins weren’t the ones sneaking into the girls’ bathroom last year–”

George brows raised. “How did you–”

Fred hissed at Riev. “Sneak–”

McGonagall glared at the Weasley twins. “You what?”

“No one was around Professor!” George raised his hands.

“We just charmed the loo to sing God Save the Queen,” Fred quickly added. “Swear on the Fat Lady’s portrait!”

As McGonagall scolded the twins for their inappropriate behavior, Riev threw a glance at Sophie and gave her a lopsided grin. He’s buying me time, she thought and responded to him with an imperceptible nod before running through her options.

Her first option was admitting the truth; after all, this was just a simple bet that had unfortunately mutated into something larger, but still relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things. However, if she confessed, apart from them getting a mild reprimand, Professor McGonagall would undoubtedly ban the wager itself. Sophie couldn’t afford that ban; not when the wager was now her alibi, the only shield she had for why she kept so close to the Slytherin dueling team, and to Linette Rosier in particular. No, the bet needed to stay in play.

Lying wasn’t even an option; Professor McGonagall would see the deceit from a mile away, and it only put them in a worse position.

Option two…

“Miss Maximilian.” McGonagall, who had raised her eyebrow, met her gaze.

Sophie inclined her head though her posture remained straight. “I take full responsibility for the commotion.”

Riev’s brows shot up, while Marcellus’s mouth gaped. Meanwhile, Fred and George exchanged a look of disbelief. Sophie met Percy’s stare as his hands remained frozen on the parchments he was still clutching tightly.

Will you play, Percy Weasley?

His silence was the answer.

She glanced back at McGonagall. “It began as a wager between myself and Mr. Weasley…” She paused as she briefly looked over to Fred. “I drafted an agreement to ensure he couldn’t back out. However, I made a mistake in one of the clauses.” 

Her hand gestured toward Percy. “Fortunately, Mr. Weasley discovered the ambiguity and suggested we negotiate the terms instead.”

McGonagall’s lips pressed to a thin line. She turned to Percy, awaiting his answer.

Taking a deep breath, Percy adjusted his glasses. “Yes. It was supposed to resolve inter-House disputes constructively. If we could make it work, I thought it might be something Prefects could recommend in the future.”

Sophie noted the slight tremor in his fingers as he gripped the parchments; it was just brief before he steadied them.

“And the audience?” McGonagall asked.

“That was my idea,” Sophie spoke before Percy could respond. “I thought if the negotiation was public, we’d have more witnesses, and it would be easier to get a neutral perspective if there was a disagreement.” She let her hands rest folded in her lap once more. “I didn’t anticipate how chaotic it would get.” 

For a long moment, McGonagall regarded her in silence. The room constricted around Sophie, while the others shrank slightly as if to make room for whatever verdict was coming. 

“Miss Maximilian,” McGonagall said. “You may have meant well, but your… experiment caused a disruption that cannot be tolerated.” She paused as she fixed each of the students there with a sharp look. “Should this incident occur again, I am holding all six of you responsible. Consider this your only warning.”

Fred opened his mouth, but Percy elbowed his side hard enough to make him wince. Sophie inclined her head to McGonagall, while the rest of the boys muttered, “yes, professor” in varying degrees of sincerity.

“Now,” McGonagall said as her hand reached out. “Show me this agreement of yours.”

The trap closes, Sophie thought. She’d expected as much. No teacher worth their salt would let the story end on words alone. Percy hesitated for half a second as his fingers clutched the parchments. He side-glanced Sophie whose gaze remained fixed on the professor while her features remained impassive. Slowly, he handed them over.

“I’ll review this,” McGonagall said as she slid the parchments inside the desk’s drawer. “If I find anything questionable, we will have another conversation.” Her glare lingered at each of them one last time before dismissing them.

The six filed out of the office. Outside, the hallway was suddenly too bright; and yet, relief soothed a dull ache behind Sophie’s eyes… which only lasted for a minute.

“I shouldn’t be surprised a Slytherin would tell on us,” Fred glared at Riev as they all walked down the hallway.

“We would’ve been in a worse position if I hadn’t.” Riev said. “I bought us time, didn’t I?”

George’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“House points deduction. Detention.” Percy frowned. “I nearly lost the chance to become a Prefect.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sophie spoke as she kept her gaze down the corridors. “Most of the blame falls onto me.”

“Not until she reads the agreement,” Percy said. “We shouldn’t have–”

“If we hadn’t,” Sophie replied, “she’d think we’re hiding something from her. That would’ve been worse. Besides, the agreement’s clean. When I wrote the first draft, I made sure no school rules would be broken.”

“She’d still tell this to Professor Snape though,” Marcellus said as he wrung the edge of his robes.

“She won’t report you.” Sophie looked over to Marcellus. “And as for Professor Snape… I can handle him.”

George whistled. “I don’t know if that’s stupidly brave or bravely stupid.”

“Wait,” Fred said. “What about the bet?”

“Technically, Professor McGonagall hasn’t forbidden us,” Sophie replied.

George whooped; Fred grinned before turning his attention to Riev and Marcellus. “Better work twice as hard. Don’t expect Gryffindor to hand you a win.”

Marcellus stuck out his tongue at the Weasley twins. Wait til Slytherin wipes the floor with you lot.”

As the four boys traded barbs, Percy walked beside Sophie and spoke, “So what’s the catch?”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Catch?”

“What do you even get from covering for us?” Percy said.

She blinked once. “Nothing.”

Percy’s brows furrowed. He opened his mouth, but he spotted Penelope nearby with her arms crossed. Whatever he was about to say had been thrown out the window as he excused himself, then drifted toward her; his brothers hadn’t even noticed him as his and Penelope’s voices vanished down the corridor. Eventually, the Weasley twins got tired of the verbal sparring and left the rest of them with Fred’s last, “see you in the Hospital wing, Maximilian!”

Of course, he’d want to have the last word.

Sophie kept her pace as they made their way down the dungeons; Marcellus fell in at her right, while Riev on her left.

For a moment, no one spoke. The school was settling in for the evening; candles guttered behind leaded glass, and voices faded to background static. Steadily, the pressure in Sophie’s temples eased away.

Riev slid his hands into his pockets. “So, what’s the plan now, Duchess?”

“Win, of course.”

Marcellus blinked as he turned to her. “What?”

She studied him briefly. “And I’ll need your help.”

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SNAPE

A letter lay open on Snape’s desk, its ink faded but the fine script unmistakably written by a Rosier. He’d received four replies this week; only Audrey’s was worth the candle wax.

Severus,

You must have grown desperate to write me. Not to mention, the British must be truly bored if the only entertainment is to speculate about the Maximilians. If you must know, even here in Versailles, they are an enigma. If you expect me to have answers, temper your hopes.

You asked about the twins. I’ll say this; they are as much a puzzle among the French as they seem to be at Hogwarts. The old rumors–yes, I heard them all. Supposedly, Correntin Maximilian’s cousin, Christopher, had a wife, Eleónore Lavigne. She died giving birth. There were whispers of poison or dark magic; some even said a jealous ex-lover was involved. Christopher had suspected foul play, so he hid the twins from public view for three years. Supposedly until the Maximilians concluded their own investigation. I’d call it melodrama, if it weren’t the Maximilians.

When the twins’ existence was finally announced, the Lavigne family nearly set Paris alight with outrage. Monsieur and Madame Lavigne had been kept ignorant, and it took a new trade agreement–very generous to the Lavignes, I hear–before they agreed to keep peace. This is why Bellefort’s their ruling branch.

Even so, the twins rarely leave Château du Lys. I’ve seen them perhaps three times at Correntin’s winter galas. The boy, Veles, was it? He’s charming, but rather dim, utterly forgettable. The girl, however, that one’s something else. One year, at the Bordeaux gala, she looked like a porcelain doll; one of those strange Victorian curiosities. Half the room tried to win her over, quizzing her about her family; she stared them down silently, not even a flicker of childish fear. I tell you Severus, it unsettled grown men. There’s something behind her eyes, so… Maximilian. If you’re wise, you’ll keep an eye on her.

I hope you find this useful, or at least diverting. Don’t expect a reply if you write again soon.

–A. Rosier

Snape set the letter aside as his fingertips grazed the parchment’s edge. He read it twice; first for ink, then for silence. Hidden. Then revealed. Not children. Assets, perhaps.

He considered Audrey’s words about Sophie. Porcelain doll. Unsettling. It matched what he’d seen; her composure and the way she faded into the background, but never lost her footing. He heard that she’d taken the blame for the Great Hall incident. No protest. Not even a flinch beneath McGonagall’s scrutiny.

His mind drifted to yesterday’s staff room. McGonagall had passed him the supposed wager–Percy Weasley’s handwriting, but Sophie’s concise wording; he read the contents in her even voice without realizing it. And despite the absurdity of the wager, the contract itself was the work of someone who’d spent their childhood around legal documents and threats disguised as promises.

Flitwick and Sprout had praised her sense of responsibility. Hooch grumbled, but even she saw the value in a student who could think past hexes and duels. 

“She’s Prefect material, wouldn’t you agree, Severus?” McGonagall had asked as the rest of the staff awaited his response.

“We’ll see,” had been the only reply Snape gave them before he left the staff room.

To be Prefect in Slytherin meant surviving more than rules; it meant surviving the House. Maximilian would fit. Too well in fact. And that was the problem. No one in this House walked away clean from a fall.

He tapped Audrey’s letter against the desk as his eyes narrowed. The staff thought they saw an orderly and helpful student. Perfect for the Prefect role. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was laying the groundwork. For Prefect or something more. After all, it was the kind of record that would look good on a Ministry application; it could also be used if one was vying for influence among the younger Slytherins. That was the usual reason among the old bloods who sought leverage, even as children.

However, there was a wrong note here, a certain dissonance he couldn’t identify. If she wanted influence, she was going about it too quietly. Also, a Prefect badge was both shield and target. Why risk it?

He checked the time; six fifteen. The duelling team had assembled over an hour ago, but wouldn’t end until seven. The first theatre of the evening. He’d seen the list weeks ago; Julian Mulciber leading this year, Rosier girl still on the roster despite her penchant for injuries, and unexpectedly, Riev Maximilian among the new members.

That was the oddest piece yet. The Maximilian boy had never shown any appetite for dueling. Clever perhaps, when it suited his whims, but he always stayed in the background. Suddenly, he was on the roster. Change of heart? Ambition awakened? Or simply following family orders?

Highly unlikely, all of it. Especially the last one. The boy didn’t seem like the type to blindly follow letters from his father. Snape knew because he’d seen the type over the years he’d taught at Hogwarts.

Only one way to find out.

Snape collected the scattered papers on his desk and locked them in the lower drawer before he stood and left his office. He swept through the corridor, his footsteps muffled on the flagstones. Down one passage, past the old serpent tapestry. The dueling chamber lay ahead. Sharp voices echoed combined with a few bursts of laughter, right before the snap of spellfire. He entered without a sound, his robes trailing the flagstones; nobody noticed him. Wands flickered, dummies toppled, curses hissed through the air. He took up his usual post by the wall with his arms crossed.

Julian Mulciber was the axis the room spun around tonight despite pouring all the attention to his ledger in hand; then again, his posture was too tight for real indifference, and the irritation in his jaw was obvious if you knew what to look for. A Mulciber’s blood was old and their temper even older, often only tempered with enough discipline to keep it just below boiling on most days.

However, Snape had little interest in him tonight. He continued surveying the room until his gaze landed on Sophie Maximilian who sat on the bench near the corner. From this angle, she was nothing but a shadow in Slytherin green, a thick notebook closed on her knees and her spine perfectly straight. Her eyes tracked her brother’s spar with Selkirk who kept correcting his own footwork and posture, then drifted sideways to Mulciber. Curiosity? No. Snape knew that look. The eyes of someone deciding how to skin a kneazle.

Snape watched quietly. Assessing the rest of the students in the room; they were jittery tonight. Even the Prefects assigned to monitor the practice flinched at stray sparks. Too many eyes on too many backs, as though they were waiting for a rope to snap at any moment.

Then Riev’s voice cut through the noise. “Julian, maybe Linette should sit out this round.” He pointed at the Rosier girl’s wrist. “She’s been favoring it since the start. No sense in making it worse.”

Silence, immediate and total. Even the page in Mulciber’s ledger stilled mid-turn. As a second-year, Riev was far too young, by unspoken Slytherin rules, to challenge a fifth-year. But the fool sounded utterly at ease, as if he were discussing Quidditch scores instead of questioning a superior.

Mulciber’s eyes narrowed before he looked over to Linette. Then slowly, he returned his attention back to Riev. “Want to take her place, Maximilian?”

“Only if it’s against you.” Riev grinned with that easy insolence that irritated Snape since the boy’s first year; even if he couldn’t figure out why.

A ripple went through the team. Then, one student finally noticed him. The rest followed like clockwork. Backs straightened, wands lowered; even Mulciber tensed. Sophie stood as well, though her movements were controlled as she inclined her head just enough to be respectful. Riev was the only one who remained entirely at ease. Linette’s eyes flicked warily to Snape.

Snape let the silence stretch as he watched the room through the thin surface of Legilimency. Anxious, expectant; most assumed he would end the match before it started. Only the Maximilian twins stayed closed off to his mental prodding, their surface thoughts still as impenetrable as a locked vault.

He raised a brow. “Well? Let’s see the match.”

Mulciber’s mouth twisted in a dangerous smile. He set the ledger down on top of the nearby table with deliberate care, before he stepped onto the platform. Riev, after a quick sideways glance at Sophie, joined him.

Snape glanced at Sophie. Her mask was almost perfect; only the smallest furrow of her brow betrayed her surprise. 

Not part of the plan then? Good. His lips curled into a ghost of a smile as he took a small, private satisfaction in having upended whatever design she’d intended.

He remained with his arms folded as the duel began. House Head duties and all; besides, he had no patience for complaints about injuries if he didn’t witness the cause himself.

Mulciber didn’t bother with showmanship. He pressed with aggressive attacks, his spells coming quick and unrelenting. Riev, despite being obviously outmatched, kept sidestepping and blocking with the occasional shield that held just long enough. The boy had no real chance to counter; Mulciber gave him nothing to work with.

The team watched in taut silence as all eyes fixed on the platform. Except Snape, whose gaze kept drifting toward the Maximilian girl. Her face was as blank as a porcelain doll. But when her eyes met his, something flickered. An internal ledger being updated. No need for him to use Legilimency. He knew that she knew he was watching her.

Their eye contact lasted only a heartbeat. Selkirk crept toward her, white-knuckled on the strap of his satchel. Sophie didn’t look at him. Just whispered something low and unrecognizable. A flick of her fingers, barely a gesture. Selkirk snapped his attention forward just as Riev narrowly dodged a Stupefy that nearly caught him in the chest.

A second later, Riev was knocked from the platform, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Mulciber’s smirk sharpened as he stepped forward with his wand still raised. “Try running less, Maximilian. Or is that all you’ve got?”

Snape expected something glib or defensive. Instead, Riev only grinned broadly as if the loss were a victory. Either the boy had been concussed, or he was playing another game entirely.

The moment hung for a beat before Mulciber sneered. “Back to the platform, Maximilian. You’re not leaving this room until you can cast a decent spell.”

Linette stepped forward. “Ravenclaw’s next week. We need Maximilian breathing if you want to win.”

Linette Rosier, Evan’s quiet niece. She normally kept her head bowed low… until now. Something worth cataloguing, Snape thought.

For a couple of seconds, Mulciber’s eyes flickered between Linette and Snape. However, the boy said nothing further; he only snatched a towel from the bench before stalking out of the room.

The tension broke. Linette offered a hand to the Maximilian boy and pulled him up. Riev rolled his shoulder, a grin still plastered on his face. Sophie stood as well. No stiffness, nor slack. Marcellus drifted over to Riev, his voice too bright as he spoke.

“Just a bruise,” Riev told his two  teammates. “Bit of stew, I’ll be fine.”

Eventually, the Maximilian twins and Selkirk left together, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. Snape lingered as his eyes swept the room. Nothing out of place; no marks, nor spells burned too deep. Even Mulciber’s ledger remained on the table beside his bag.

He left silently. Sorting the board in his mind as he tucked away details for later. This game was far from over.

Mulciber waited outside Snape’s quarters at dawn. No one did that unless they were desperate, stupid, or both. The corridor was stone-cold; the hour was too early for even the castle ghosts to wander. When Snape heard the insistent knock, he took his time unlocking the door.

Just past the doorway, he watched Mulciber’s rigid posture and the white-knuckled grip on the ledger clutched to his chest. No twitch escaped him. The jaw’s tic, the sweat blooming at the hairline, he catalogued them all. Mulciber’s tie was loose, the knot off-center; it was a minor detail, but one that would have earned rebuke from his father. 

Snape let the quiet hang before he finally said, “Well, Mulciber? I assume you’re not here to wish me a good morning.”

The ledger shook slightly from the boy’s grasp as he held it out. “Someone switched the ledger, sir. The dueling log. It’s gone. I–” He swallowed. “I only noticed last night.” His voice broke on the last word. 

Snape examined the cover. Slytherin green. The same one he’d seen before he left the dueling room. He opened it, and there lay the problem.

Blank.

He pulled out his wand and tapped a page. “Finite Incantatem.”

Nothing.

Snape glanced back at the boy as the silence spooled out. Mulciber’s breathing quickened with each ticking second. Good. Let him hang himself on his own anxiety.

A faint sneer curled Snape’s lip. “How careless. You realize, of course, the value of such records? And the consequences, if they fall into the wrong hands?”

Mulciber swallowed once more. He knew how thin his standing was in a family who lacked patience for failure. If this mistake reached them, there would be no mercy.

“Who else knew where the ledger was kept?” Snape asked with each word falling like a stone in a pond.

“Only the team, sir,” Julian replied, “Last I saw it was before my duel with Maximilian–” He hesitated as something shifted behind his eyes. “It was Rosier–”

Snape cut him off. “Rosier was watching your duel the entire time.”

“Maybe she took it after,” Julian said more feebly this time.

Snape’s brow arched. “And what makes you believe she’d be interested in it?”

Julian opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked away, his shoulders folding in on themselves. “I don’t know...”

Snape was silent again, mentally parsing out the undercurrents. Old family grudges; he’d seen them so often they were background noise by now. Mulcibers and Rosiers never truly got on, not even during the First War, despite the fiction of shared allegiance. Mulciber Senior once grumbled to Snape, in a rare moment of candor, about “the Rosier way, knife in the dark, and such.” But the details had always been vague, never important enough to merit Snape’s full attention. Now, standing in front of another Mulciber, he wondered if he’d missed something.

He shifted his weight as the full implication of Julian’s failure sank in. “I suggest you recover it. Quietly. And if you cannot…” He paused as his eyes narrowed. “Do not come back to me until you can explain exactly how it vanished from your care.”

As the threat hung in the air, Julian’s eyes widened. He nodded once, tightly, and left, leaving the faint smell of sweat. 

Snape shut the door behind him. He stood in his office for a moment, processing. The ledger was gone, the only evidence of who took it being the narrowed list of suspects; those who were present, those who were clever, and those with motive. He ran through all the names and landed on one.

Sophie Maximilian. 

The trouble with obvious, he thought, is that it’s never the whole truth. The wager with Fred Weasley was a useful smokescreen; she had placed herself in the dueling room and made her presence seem obvious in her intentions.

But one question lingered. Why?

Not long after, Snape left his quarters, moving up the stairs as the castle roused itself for the day. In the Great Hall, the usual morning chaos reigned; Hufflepuffs slumping over porridge, Ravenclaws reading with one hand while eating with the other, Gryffindors laughing too loudly. Meanwhile, the Slytherin table was quieter with the children of old families arrayed like pieces on a chessboard. None of them were innocent, but neither looked guilty either.

Later that morning, Snape handed Mulciber a detention slip. The pretext was losing the ledger. The real reason was to keep Mulciber busy and out of his way. If the boy could not be trusted to guard a ledger, he could be trusted even less to hunt down whoever had taken it. Snape required space to probe and see who would move now that the board had shifted.

By midafternoon, upon dismissing the class, Snape watched students file out, their faces pinched with fatigue or the residual panic of a botched potion. Sophie Maximilian lingered at her table,meticulously wiping a thin residue of powdered bicorn horn from her hands.

He waited for the other students to leave. “Miss Maximilian. Remain.”

She met his eyes without hesitation, and nodded. Her movements were always balanced at the edge of respect and detachment as she approached his desk.

The classroom was silent but for the faint drip of a cauldron in the back. He studied her as he would a difficult potion; every detail measured, and every reaction noted.

“The wager with Fred Weasley,” he began. “Explain.”

She answered with her voice pitched just above a whisper. “The wager concerned the Slytherin-Gryffindor dueling match. It was a means to resolve a challenge. Weasley questioned my brother’s ability, so I suggested a bet. The contract followed as a precaution.”

“Precaution?” Snape said.

Sophie nodded. “As was taught by my family. However, when the terms proved problematic, Percy Weasley and I negotiated a revision.”

Exactly as she had told McGonagall. Nothing new or incriminating. But Snape wasn’t interested in her official story. He wanted the gaps. The way her eyes did not flicker. The way her hands stayed still.

Her words sat in the air as he weighed them. She had rehearsed this plausible, thorough, and above all, safe defense. Official reason for her presence with the team, for her observation of matches and practice. If anyone asked, there it was. The story was public, even lauded in staff meetings as an example of constructive conflict resolution.

Snape leaned back. “All very proper. But it occurs to me that you seem rather invested in the dueling team’s operations more than a simple wager would require.”

A fraction of a smile, or perhaps only a shadow of one, touched her mouth. “I prefer to be thorough, Professor. The wager affects a full season. I don’t believe in blind bets.”

Snape did not react. Her answers were careful with each syllable deliberate. He had seen the type before; Slytherin students from the old blood who were trained to move beneath notice until the moment mattered.

“I see.” He casually shifted the topic. “A matter has come to my attention, you see. The dueling team’s logbook has…gone astray.” 

He watched her eyes, searching for the slightest flicker. None came. She only listened patiently. 

“It would be a shame if this matter reached the Headmaster’s attention,” he added.

“That would be unfortunate.” Sophie’s steady gaze met his. “I hope Mr. Mulciber recovers it. Inconvenience isn’t good for morale.”

Inconvenience.

Snape let the silence deepen. She was sending a message. If the matter went further, everyone would lose. Mulciber’s position was already precarious; the team could not afford any scandal. Her tone was so even that had anyone else heard those words, they’d mistake the warning for politeness.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it,” Snape said as he leaned forward. “How quickly small mishaps can grow into something larger. One wonders if that was the intention all along.”

Sophie inclined her head. “I’m sure Mr. Mulciber is taking every precaution to recover the log. I believe he understands what’s at stake.”

Snape’s lips curled. “I imagine, you think, a leader must be prepared for…unforeseen challenges. Especially one as visible as the dueling team captain.”

Sophie’s hands folded tightly in front of her. “Of course, sir. Leadership is a test. One must be prepared for scrutiny.”

He watched for nerves. Nothing but a flicker of a game recognized. She had expected him to press, and she had been ready for it.

Snape pressed further, changing his tack. “It would be unfortunate if the team’s unity were undermined by such distractions.”

“It would,” She replied. “I hope everyone involved does their part to keep the focus on training.”

He allowed himself the smallest hint of a sneer. “Slytherin has never lacked for focus, Miss Maximilian. But it does, on occasion, suffer from internal ambition.”

She met his gaze squarely. “Ambition is expected in this House. Discipline, however, seems rarer.”

Discipline. An implicit criticism of Mulciber? Or a statement of her own intentions? Hard to say. 

A thread of his Legilimency slipped across her surface thoughts, searching for a break in her composure. Nothing. Only the sense of calm water, opaque and still. No images, no stray words; she was occluding, consciously or not.

He withdrew carefully so as not to betray the attempt. “Very well. I trust you will let me know if you come across any information about the ledger’s whereabouts.”

She inclined her head again. “Of course, Professor.”

He dismissed her with a nod, and watched as she left the classroom with her back straight and footsteps even. He waited until the door closed before allowing a sharp exhale.

She was hiding something, that much was obvious. But why target Mulciber? Was it personal? Was it Maximilian business, some feud imported from across the Channel? Or was it simply an opportunity to remove a weak leader to make space for someone else?

He ran through the possibilities. Old families loved playing games within games. The dueling team had always been a training ground for Slytherin’s future power brokers. Mulciber was a safe, if uninspired, choice for captain; old enough and decently connected, despite lacking true cunning. Discredit him, and the captaincy would be open. The Maximilians did not yet have a power base in the House. Was this their opening gambit?

Snape considered interrogating Riev Maximilian next, but dismissed it almost immediately. The boy would say nothing; loyalty ran bone-deep in twins, and if Sophie was unbreakable, Riev would be worse; all deflection and no substance.

But there was someone else. Marcellus Selkirk. Snape recalled the way the boy clutched his satchel yesterday, all that nervous tension as he watched Riev’s duel with Mulciber. At the time, Snape had chalked it up to nerves; nothing more than a friend’s fear. But in retrospect, it was out of proportion. Selkirk’s anxiety was too pointed, his attention divided between the match and the people around him.

Snape’s lips curled. If Sophie Maximilian wanted the ledger and did not care to be caught, she would use someone else. Unfortunately for her, she chose someone whose nerves would betray his silence.

Snape strode out the classroom, robes snapping behind him as he stalked the corridors of the castle. Eventually, he found Selkirk emerging from the library with his satchel slung over one shoulder. The corridor was deserted as flames from the torches sputtered against the thick, late-evening dark. From the shadows, he intercepted the boy with barely a whisper of robes.

“Mr. Selkirk. A word.”

The boy froze, his eyes widening as one hand tightened on the strap.

“Open your bag,” Snape ordered.

Selkirk blinked, swallowed, and clutched the strap as if it might anchor him to the floor. “Professor, I– It’s just–”

“Now.” Snape stepped closer, using his height and the close, echoing stone to crowd the boy. It took only a beat more before Selkirk’s hands fumbled at the clasps. He opened the satchel and held it out.

Snape took it, his fingers brushing aside battered textbooks, quills, and the usual mess of a second year. Then, he found a folded parchment tucked at the bottom, wedged between his Charms book and a copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

Snape plucked it free. Selkirk panicked at once. “Sir, please! Don’t please, it’s not–”

“Quiet.” Snape unfolded the parchment, bracing for secret notes or coded messages. Instead, he found crude ink lines; a wild, bat-winged caricature of himself, nose exaggerated to monstrous proportions, swooping down on stick-figure children who screamed in looping, comic script. The children had red hair, one even with glasses. Filthy, childish work. The sort of thing he would have hexed into dust at fourteen.

“We didn’t draw it, sir! I swear, I swear!” Selkirk babbled. “Riev and I found it in the library. Someone left it in the Astronomy section. We just thought it was funny–”

Snape’s patience, frayed and thinning, finally snapped. “Spare me the excuses. You stumbled across it, did you? A tragic little archivist, is that it? Are you telling me that you and Mr. Maximilian found this–” He brandished the parchment, letting it flutter. “–and decided to keep it for posterity?”

Selkirk’s face had gone pink, then white. “No, sir. Yes, sir. I mean– I just– It’s not mine, I promise!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Where is the ledger, Selkirk? The dueling team’s logbook. I know you were in the room last night. I know what you were meant to do.”

Selkirk stiffened, but his voice, when it came, was steady through the tremor. “I don’t have it, Professor. I swear. I was supposed to– I mean, I was going to–but I didn’t, and then it was already gone.”

Snape watched him for a moment more, considering whether threat or patience would yield more results. The boy was sweating now, fists balled at his sides. 

No point in wasting more time. 

He pressed the gentlest edge of Legilimency against Selkirk’s frantic mind; easy work, the boy’s panic turning his thoughts outward, brittle and transparent.

Selkirk’s memories slid past; the chill of the dueling room and Snape watching. 

Don’t. Focus on the match. Sophie whispered.

Her finger, the briefest point toward the platform. The sound of Mulciber’s voice. Selkirk’s nerves, the sweat on his palms, the frantic awareness of Snape in the corner. Later, Selkirk’s steps echoing back into the dueling room. Julian’s bag was gone, the ledger gone. Uncertainty, confusion, genuine surprise. At lunch, the rumors that the ledger was missing; Selkirk’s worry, the way he sidled up to Riev and Sophie, both of whom answered with the same mild, confused looks. No hint of deception there, at least in Selkirk’s memory.

Snape withdrew as irritation prickled his nerves. Selkirk was a pawn; he’d been prepared for the role, but never moved. The Maximilian girl had called him off at the last moment, reading the situation with the accuracy of a seasoned tactician. But if Selkirk didn’t have the ledger–if neither twin did–then who?

Snape crumpled the parchment with one hand. “You will serve detention, Mr. Selkirk. For this.” He didn’t bother looking at the caricature again.

Selkirk opened his mouth, but one glance at Snape’s sharp glare shut him up. “Yes, sir,” he managed.

“And if I discover you have lied about the ledger,” Snape murmured as he loomed over the boy. “The consequences will be…more severe.”

“I swear, Professor. I don’t have it. I haven’t seen it. Ask anyone.”

“Go.” Snape turned his back, and Selkirk all but fled, his footsteps fading quickly into the gloom.

Alone once more, Snape stood in the corridor, surrounded by cold stone and silence. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The boy had been telling the truth, at least as far as he knew. The memories were clear; he had not touched the ledger. 

Moreover, the Maximilian girl had seen his interest, and shut the operation down before it could begin. She had cleaned her tracks, worn a mask and handed him the alibi in advance by preventing the theft in his presence. 

Elegant. Infuriatingly so.

And yet, the ledger was gone. A lead dissolving into nothing the moment he thought he had it gripped. Had Sophie Maximilian merely outmaneuvered him? Perhaps using a third party beyond his immediate sight? Or had another player entered the board while he watched the Maximilians?

Snape could tolerate defeat. Being blind to it, however, that was intolerable. He would watch again. More carefully. 

If Sophie Maximilian was this good at hiding her intentions at twelve… then five years from now, she’d be lethal. But for tonight, there was nothing left to do but wait.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SOPHIE

Sophie never believed in poetic justice. As far as she was concerned, justice had little to do with deserts and everything to do with pressure and perfect timing. She had a system. Quiet routes out of shame. Bloodless. Efficient. But that was days before a girl her age cried into her shoulder. Before the clean solutions stopped being enough.

Three days before the practice duel that would change everything, Sophie’s plans had only involved probabilities. Thinking about it, her small, careful steps were almost laughable. As she went through her plan to help Linette’s standing on the dueling team, she also considered how to smooth over Julian Mulciber’s inevitable bruised ego. She’d drafted five outcomes for him; four paths led to a soft landing. Only the fifth was the kind of fall that tore on the way down.

She had hoped not to need the last one. Sloppy. Unnecessary. However, that changed because of a single, casual cruelty.

Sophie took stock of the Slytherin common room as she entered. Post-dinner conversation hummed as the green lamplight flickered across the stone. Not long after, she spotted Julian near the fireplace as he lounged in an armchair flanked by his usual entourage. Before him rigidly stood her roommate, Isobel Cresswell, who clutched a small box wrapped in blue paper. Her blonde hair was a curtain that she kept tucking behind her ear with nervous fingers. 

Isobel presented the box to Julian, with a voice too low to catch but strained with the effort of sounding casual. 

“Well, look at that.” Julian took the box as if it might be cursed. “A ribbon and everything. How… inspired.” 

The group around him, some boys and a girl, snickered behind their hands. Isobel stammered something, then turned, clutching her satchel’s strap tight before she hurried out as if the room had caught fire behind her. 

To everyone else, it would have looked like a silly crush gone wrong. But Sophie saw the tremor in Isobel’s fingers, the way she didn’t lift her head, and how her knees buckled just before she disappeared up the stairs. The quiet recoil, the need to vanish and hope that if you curled in on yourself tightly enough, no one would see the soft pieces left inside.

Sophie sat down somewhere distant, but within range of Julian’s little circle, and pulled her Astronomy text from her satchel. She opened to a page at random as her gaze slid over the diagrams of planetary alignments. As with most people in the castle, none of them noticed her.

Julian unwrapped the box and grimaced at the sweets as if they were rat droppings. “Liquorice wands.” He sighed. “Of course. Should’ve guessed. Tragedy does come in blue wrapping.” He tossed the box over to one of his friends. “She tries at least. Desperately, perhaps. But I suppose that’s what happens when you don’t come from… certain backgrounds.”

One of his lackeys laughed. Another piped up, “You sure she’s not part troll? Look at those ankles.”

“Maybe she’s hoping you’ll get her father to pull strings for her,” the girl chimed in. “Filthy mudbloods always beg.”

As Julian let out a hollow, sharp-edged laugh, Sophie’s fingernails, ones that traced the edge of her Astronomy chart, pressed down so hard she risked tearing it.

Isobel wasn’t a muggleborn. Her father, Dirk Cresswell, was; but her mother was a half-blood. Technically, as far as the British’s strange blood distinction went, Isobel counted as a half-blood. Normally that distinction would make her invisible within Slytherin’s blood politics, unless she proved herself exceptionally useful or inconvenient. So why target her?

The answer didn’t matter. Julian had chosen Isobel as his target, and in Slytherin, that was enough.

When the laughter swelled again, Sophie closed her book with a deliberate snap and stood. Then, she left the common room without a word. 

In the hallway, the wall sconces flickered, their greenish flames leaving nothing warm behind. The second-year girls’ dormitory was quieter than the grave, save for the sound of Isobel’s muffled sobs leaking through the half-closed door. 

She hesitated for a heartbeat outside. The etiquette for these moments… knock, don’t knock? Announce yourself? 

Quietly, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was dark except for the lamp on Isobel’s nightstand. The curtains on her four-poster were mostly drawn, but Sophie heard the unsteady, stifled breathing.

“Izzy,” Sophie called.

A hitch in the silence. Isobel’s  shaky, thin voice answered, “Just–just a minute.” The curtains twitched. Her eyes, red-rimmed, darted to Sophie’s face, then away. Her hands trembled as she scrubbed at her cheeks, trying to erase the truth from her face. 

Sophie had seen this before, from Riev when they were three, in the nursery at Château du Lys, his face red and pinched after the elders told him to forget about his old name. A cold ache settled into the center of her chest as though the world was tilting.

She wanted that feeling to stop. She wanted to do something useful, not just stand there.

“It’s nothing, really,” Isobel babbled as she forced a brittle smile. “I just… Professor Snape gave me a hard time about my essay, and I lost my favorite quill. So stupid, honestly, I’ll be fine, really!”

What was she supposed to say? Sophie wasn’t good at this, never had been. The scripts people relied on, “Are you all right?” felt empty. Clearly, Isobel wasn’t all right. If she was, she wouldn’t be hiding behind bedcurtains, trying to scrape herself back together before morning.

So she went straight to the heart. “Mulciber. Did he hurt you?”

“No! Of course not!” Her response came too quickly. A defense. Not for him, for her. But why?

“Julian–he just… he said he didn’t want the gift, but I should have known better…” Her explanation unravelled before dissolving into a whimper. She pressed her fists to her eyes. “Sorry. I just have something in my eyes.”

“Izzy…” Sophie began, her voice softer than she intended.

Isobel’s walls crumbled. Her shoulders shook as fresh tears welled. Sophie stood there awkwardly, her fingers twitched as she debated whether to step closer or stay still. Careful hands. Empty words. Like the comfort forced by adults who meant well but understood nothing. What good would those do?

“He said it was just a joke, but… he made me do it… in front of everyone.” The words tumbled out in hitching sobs. “I didn’t want to, but he said–just for laughs. He… He said he’d have my father sacked from the Ministry if… if I didn’t do what he wanted. That Dad only got promoted because of bribes, and if anyone found out about Mum’s side, they’d sack her, too.” 

“He called me a Mudblood.” She hiccupped.  “He said he’d tell everyone about Sera’s brother… about what he did. And Amelia’s uncle… he knows. He said he’d make sure the Aurors looked again. Please don’t tell–” Her words dissolved into sobbing.

Sophie stayed rooted to the floor, her hands fisted at her sides. Should she reach for her? Most of the time, touching made things worse. But this… this was already the worst.

Stiffly, she inched closer to the bed, like stepping off a cliff in the dark. She perched on the edge of the mattress; close, but not touching. And to her surprise, Isobel lunged forward and buried her face in her shoulder, sobbing raw and snotty.

Sophie stiffened. For a moment, her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, then settled lightly on Isobel’s back as the latter cried and babbled about how she wasn’t a mudblood, how her father was a good man, how she couldn’t understand why Julian hated her. Each word seemed to dig deeper into Sophie’s chest, scraping raw hollows meant to remain sealed.

Still, Sophie said nothing. She wasn’t like Maman who had gentle hands and soothing words. She listened, storing every word and detail, until the facts settled into their proper places.

Eventually, Isobel’s sobs quieted as the exhaustion of misery overwhelmed whatever adrenaline was left. Sophie eased her back before tucking her under the covers. She smoothed the blonde hair from her damp cheek with the awkward gentleness of a child handling a fragile artifact.

Back at her own bed, Sophie sat with her knees drawn up, staring into the dark; the tightness in her chest coiled, hot and prickling. 

She needed to do… something. Anything. Her hand reached beneath her pillow and drew out her thick notebook containing her plans and secrets. She flipped to the page marked “Mulciber: Exit Strategy.” The work-in-progress plan had been almost charitable. After reaching for her quill and inkpot on top of her bedside table, she scratched everything out with violent strokes; except the last line, her fifth strategy. Below it she wrote, “let the bones crack when he falls.” She hadn’t wanted this. But the part of her that once left soft landings had vanished with Isobel’s sobs. Now all she wanted was the sound of something breaking that couldn’t be rebuilt.

This eased the ache in her chest, if only for a fraction.

Sophie closed the notebook, then opened the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved a fresh sheet of parchment. She wrote in sharp scripts.

Father,

Requesting details on all Cresswell employees in the British Ministry. Related to building quiet connections as discussed. Please respond at your earliest.

—S.M.

She let the ink dry, then rose and crossed to the corner where Érebos perched in his cage. She opened it, and let the raven step onto her forearm with his claws digging sharply even through her robes sleeves. She tied the letter to his leg, whispered, “Au nid du faucon”, before she sent him off into the night.

She returned to her bed, her body heavy but mind clearer. She couldn’t mend the soft places. But she could shatter the hard ones.

Sophie hated surprises. They usually meant someone hadn’t paid attention, and tonight, she couldn’t afford that. 

She, Riev and Marcellus had discussed the plan. Her brother would challenge Mulciber to duel. While everyone’s distracted, Marcellus would swipe the ledger from the table.

But as most plans operated, they rarely survived upon contact.

In the middle of practice, Professor Snape suddenly arrived in the dueling room. Worse than the interruption itself was how long he watched her like an auditor counting someone else’s debts. The longer his gaze lingered, the more carefully she kept her expression blank as her fingers steepled on her skirt while keeping her breathing even.

She could not risk anything tonight. Not with Snape watching her, and certainly not with Mulciber’s ledger lying vulnerable on the table. So when Riev flashed his infuriatingly insolent grin at Mulciber that had the latter storming out the dueling room, Sophie felt the world click back into place.

That was her opportunity. Not exactly perfect, but perfect was a myth for people who had nothing to lose. 

Sophie catalogued her next steps as she, Riev, and Marcellus left practice and made their way toward the Great Hall. She glanced sidelong at Riev, who looked back with that lopsided, blithe expression of his. For a moment, the idea flickered; send Riev instead. He was clever, quick and had a knack for getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be. But then, Isobel’s face flashed in her mind; the tremble and the way hope bled out so easily from someone soft. 

What if Mulciber caught Riev? What if he decided to handle her brother the same way he handled Isobel? Family loyalty was all well and good, but the Maximilian name couldn’t heal every wound. Sometimes, intervention came too late. Sometimes, it didn’t come at all.

Sophie halted. Both Riev and Marcellus turned around, before her brother arched an eyebrow. “Sophie?”

“Go on ahead,” Sophie said. “I need to retrieve a book from the dorm room.”

Marcellus nodded absent-mindedly, perhaps already thinking about what treats would be served tonight. However, Riev stared at her for a couple more seconds, and cocked his head slightly. A signal. Something up?

Sophie inclined her head slightly. Nothing to worry about. 

She doubled back, quick and silent, the corridors now oddly magnified by every torch guttering, and the faint scent of stone and dust. Inside, the dueling room was dim with the only light a weak glow from the floating sconces above. The familiar scent of scorched leather and old polish lingered, mixed with something faintly metallic; blood or perhaps nerves. On the nearby table, Julian’s bag sat half-zipped with the battered ledger beside it. 

Sophie crossed to the table, fingers light on the cover. No time for doubt. Quickly she slipped the ledger into her own satchel. However, as she turned, she found herself face-to-face with Linette Rosier.

Linette stood past the doorway with a bag clutched in one hand and in the other, a book that looked suspiciously like Julian’s. Her posture was unassuming, almost bored, which made her even more dangerous. 

“Maximilian,” Linette said calmly with her voice just above a whisper. “Looking for something?”

“I could ask you the same, Rosier,” Sophie said as she shifted her gaze down to the book Linette was holding. “That ledger looks familiar.”

Linette gave the faintest of smiles. “Coincidence, I’m sure.” Her gaze drifted to Sophie’s satchel. “Or maybe we’re both here for the same reason.”

Unfazed, Sophie met her stare. “Doubtful. I find duplicity a waste of time.”

“Depends on the outcome,” Linette replied.

A pause as the quiet between them stretched. Neither girl moved. Another second ticked before Linette broke the silence. “That’s Julian’s real ledger.”

“And yours is a forgery,” Sophie replied. “Care to explain?”

A faint sound cut through their standoff; footsteps, the uneven scrape of someone who wasn’t bothering to be quiet. The dueling room door, which neither had bothered to lock, now threatened to betray them both. 

“Hide.” Linette murmured briskly. “Now.”

Sophie slipped through the nearby storage room where the team kept their extra training dummies. She left the door ajar. Peering through the small crack, she watched Linette cross the room and deposited the fake ledger on the table in the real one’s place. Afterwards, she positioned herself in front of a battered training dummy with her wand held loosely in her left hand.

Julian entered moments later, his shoulders tight and lips pressed into a line. He scanned the room, and paused upon his gaze landed on Linette with her perfect dueling posture, as if mid-practice.

“Rosier,” Julian all but spat Linette’s name as he approached her. “What are you doing here?”

“Extra practice.” Linette kept her focus on the training dummy. “You keep saying my footwork’s shoddy.”

Julian snorted. “Think that’s your only problem? If you spent less time injuring your wand hand, maybe you’d actually win a match.”

Linette finally turned to Julian. “Funny how I only injure my hand when your loyal minions aim at my wrist.” She cocked her head. “Your orders, I assume?”

Julian sneered. “Thought Rosiers like knives in the back.”

Linette smiled slowly. “As much as Mulcibers liked bearing squibs.”

“Bitch–” He seized Linette by the collar, hauling her up so their faces nearly touched. 

Sophie inched forward instinctively, but halted when the door creaked. Julian turned toward the direction of the sound. Her hand covered her mouth, holding her breath, while she clutched her satchel tightly close to her chest. What was she thinking? Rush out and hex him? What good would that do? 

Patience, she told herself. Stay still.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Linette murmured, shifting Julian’s attention back to her. “Hit me. Though, I wonder…” The corners of her lips twitched. “If I scream loud enough for every ghost in the castle to hear, who would they side with? The constantly injured third-year or the fifth-year with a temper problem?”

Julian sneered. “You think I give a damn what a bunch of floating has-beens think?” Yet, even through the crack of the door, Sophie could  clearly see the slight tremor in his raised fist.

“Only if you care to keep your captaincy.” Linette replied.

Julian halted his hand mid-swing, and glanced toward the slightly opened door. 

Ghosts lurking outside, Sophie thought. And if not, there were portraits outside that could immediately report to any Hogwarts staff should they hear any disturbance in the vicinity. 

He released Linette who winced as she landed on the floor with a soft thud. He turned to Linette’s bag, upending it onto the floor, scattering books, quills, vials of ink.

Linette watched as her brows furrowed. “Is there a point to this, or are you just bored?”

“Making sure you didn’t steal anything. Why else would you stay behind?” Julian kicked at the pile as if searching for contraband.

When he found nothing, Linette smirked. “Satisfied?”

Scowling, all Jullian could do at that moment was turn and grab his bag and ledger before storming out with the door slamming in his wake.

In the silence that followed, Sophie counted slowly to ten, then slipped from the storage room. She found Linette kneeling on the floor, collecting her things. The exhaustion in the older Slytherin’s posture, the careful way she picked up each object… How long had she been putting up with Julian?

“You didn’t have to hide me,” Sophie murmured.

Linette huffed a dry laugh. “Of course I do. Julian would have had both of our heads if he’d seen us here, especially if–” She gestured at Sophie’s satchel. “–he saw what’s in there. And me with the fake.”

“You should’ve hidden with me,” Sophie said.

“I could,” Linette replied, “but then he would’ve opened the fake ledger and stomped around this room looking for it. Now, imagine if he finds us inside that cramped room…” She zipped up her bag and stood. “Anyway, since I’ve helped you avert Julian’s wrath, mind telling me why you’re stealing his precious ledger?”

Sophie considered her next words. Keep Father’s orders a secret; more so her own agenda. “Same reason why you had that counterfeit.”

Linette studied her for a moment. “You want the captaincy… for your brother.”

Ah, to be handed an alibi on a silver platter. 

Sophie tilted her head. “Something like that.”

Linette let out another dry laugh. “Ambitious. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.” She shook her head then her eyes sharpened. “Sorry but, even if Julian loses his captaincy, no one’s following your brother.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“Sure, he’s clever, but he’s still new. The others won’t follow him, especially the older members. He hasn’t bled for the team,” Linette said. “Besides, he’s too friendly with the Gryffindors. Most tolerate it because, well, you’re…” 

“French.” Sophie said. 

“Foreigners,” Linette replied. “In any case, tolerance in Slytherin doesn’t equate to trust.”

We’ve noticed, Sophie thought. Still, she nodded as though Linette passed her some sagely advice. “Regardless, Mulciber needs to step down.”

“Why so intent on removing him?” Linette asked.

“Because he’s inefficient, and…” Sophie’s lips thinned. “I’m not inclined to have Fred Weasley as my Potions partner for an entire year.”

“Right. That infamous wager.” Linette snorted. “I suppose I wouldn’t want a Weasley anywhere near me either.” Her fingers rubbed her chin for a moment before she smiled. “How about an… arrangement?”

“Go on,” Sophie said.

“I can get you that win,” Linette said. “But only if I’m captain. Help me get Julian off his little throne, and I’ll make sure Slytherin beats Gryffindor.”

So, a form of alliance. Sophie fought to keep her features impassive. Linette just made her work much easier. Still, she should put up some resistance. “And what makes you think they’ll follow you?”

“My chances are certainly higher than your brother’s,” Linette replied with a small smirk. “Besides, they only follow Julian because of that ledger. Without it, he’d just be another brute on the platform.”

“So, not his?” Sophie asked.

“It’s mine,” Linette replied. “Last year, I noted all the team member’s strengths and weaknesses, areas to improve, areas that could be exploited…”

This is why the family’s wary of the Rosiers, Sophie thought. “And how did it end up in his hands?”

Linette averted her gaze. “Because of my own stupidity.” She exhaled sharply. “Anyway, are you helping me or not?”

Sophie sighed, more show than anything else. “As long as you hold your end of the bargain.”

Linette’s mouth twitched. “Want to put that in writing?”

“No need,” Sophie replied, “I trust you wouldn’t purposefully have our team lose just to spite me.”

They shook hands, then Linette left first, the door closing behind her with a muted click. Sophie counted to thirty before stepping into the hall. The air was cooler now, and the corridors quieter. She moved silently back to the Great Hall, where Riev and Marcellus were still waiting, Marcellus was halfway through a story about Peeves while Riev pretended not to be bored. Sophie slid into her seat.

“Found your book?” Riev asked casually.

Sophie patted her satchel. “Speaking of books… Marcellus.”

Marcellus paused mid-story as he glanced over to her.

Sophie slipped a folded note to him. “Proceed with Plan B.”

Marcellus blinked. “What?”

Mercifully, Riev leaned closer to his roommate and whispered the explanation for Sophie’s instructions on the coded note. 

Sophie only half-listened to their conversation as she chewed thoughtfully. The ledger was safe, the alliance struck. Now came the next challenge.

Breaking the bones.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Riev had never been one for drama, at least not when it played out with raised voices and brittle silences among Slytherins too proud to say what they actually meant. It was even worse after practice when sweat and spell-burn sharpened every edge. The dueling chamber practically reeked of the collective tension of a dozen teenagers pretending they didn’t care who was watching. Linette sat by the wall as she calmly bandaged her left hand in smooth practiced turns while Julian paced around the room like a wolf in too-tight robes before stopping just in front of her.

When their captain spoke, his voice was quiet but still maintained that certain tautness Riev associated with a rope about to snap. “I suppose you think it’s funny.”

Linette kept her gaze on her hand. “You have to be specific, Captain.”

“The ledger,” Julian hissed in the way one might spit out a mouthful of vinegar.

She finally glanced up, and for the first time, met his gaze without so much as flinching. “I did not steal it.”

“You were the only one here the other night,” Julian shot back.

Linette’s jaw set, yet her eyes never wavered. “The ledger was on top of the table right next to your bag.”

Julian stalked over to his own bag, yanked it open, and retrieved the familiar ledger. “Except this isn’t the right one, is it?” He tossed it at Linette who winced as the ledger hit her head before it plopped down open on the floor, revealing empty pages.

Riev finally spoke up, “how about we all just calm–”

“Don’t bother, Maximilian,” Linette cut in as she stood, then turned her attention to Julian. “Would you like to check my bag, Captain? Oh, that’s right, you did that night. Spilled everything on the floor  just to make sure I didn’t take anything from the room.” She cocked her head. “And did you find anything? No, of course not. Otherwise, you would’ve dragged me straight to Professor Snape’s office for theft.”

A few of the older team members stirred. Marcellus whispered to Riev, “Never seen Rosier talk back to anyone, let alone someone like Mulciber.”

“Guess this is what they mean by letting sleeping dragons lie,” Riev murmured. It took guts to talk back to Julian, especially when your own hand looked like you’d tried to duel several Hippogriffs.

“Don’t get clever, Rosier,” Julian said as his eyes narrowed. “The only one who knew exactly where I kept it–”

“Your hiding spot is hardly a secret,” Linette said. “And besides, why are you so sure anyone wants your precious notes? Maybe it’s time to stop obsessing over the ledger and start changing our tactics. Ravenclaw’s coming up, and if the ledger had really been stolen, they’ll have seen us coming from a mile off.”

A stir ran through the assembled team. One of the older members, a fourth-year, muttered, “She’s not wrong.”

Another glanced at Julian as she shook her head but said nothing. For a heartbeat, Riev thought Julian would hex Linette. Instead, the older boy pressed his lips into a thin line and turned his glare on the rest of them. “No one’s confessing? Fine. Until that ledger’s found, nobody on this team is dueling next week. Enjoy telling your parents why you were benched.” 

As he stormed out, the rest of the team let out a collective sigh of relief. Except for Linette who simply resumed bandaging her hand. Riev sauntered over to her with his hands in his pockets. “If you keep ignoring that, you’ll need a new wand hand by next week.”

She scowled. “It’s fine. Just a sprain.”

“Uh-huh.” He reached for her left hand as she started pulling away. Her skin was warm with the swelling still angry-red around the joint.

“You know,” he said quietly, “Soph does that too. Pushes herself until she drops. Doesn’t help anyone, least of all the people who have to patch her up after.”

Linette studied him for a moment. “You sound like a mother hen.”

“So I’ve been told.” He shrugged before tightening the bandages.  Then, he squeezed her fingers gently. “There. Though, go see Pomfrey if it still hurts tomorrow.”

The corners of her lips twitched. “Whatever you say, Healer Maximilian.”

Healer Maximilian… Riev grinned. That had a nice ring to it.

The dueling room eventually emptied as the rest of the members left in groups of two or three. Riev lingered by the door for a moment as he watched Linette pack her things. 

He hoped things would calm down before bedtime. Unfortunately, the universe had a strange sense of humor.

Next morning at the library, Riev sat wedged between towers of books, eyes drifting to the dust motes catching the first, watery light. Sleep hadn’t come easy; not with Julian stomping around the dorms, muttering about traitors, and the rest of the team tiptoeing like house-elves at midnight.

Of course, this was what he got for getting dragged into internal House politics. I should’ve asked for my History of Magic essays too, Riev thought upon recalling his deal with his sister at the start of the term. Really, had he known that a ledger heist would lead to their captain going mental over his lost notes, he would’ve demanded for Sophie to write all of his essays for the next six years.

But the worst part? None of them stole it. Or rather, he almost had committed it. Well, technically, Marcellus was supposed to do the stealing while he distracted everyone, but the point remained. He was one move away from being the school’s most inept criminal. Now Mulciber was stalking the corridors like a man denied his morning coffee, and every Slytherin second year was avoiding eye contact in case they were accused next.

Riev didn’t notice Cedric until the latter slid into the seat across from him and dropped his bag with an audible thud, causing several first-years to look up.

Cedric’s brows furrowed as he studied Riev. “Merlin, you slept in the Owlery?”

“Close,” Riev grumbled. “Listen, if I go missing, check the lake, would you? I’d like to have a proper burial.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Blew up one of Snape’s cauldrons?”

“Worse.” Riev sighed. “Mulciber’s convinced someone on the team nicked his precious ledger. Half the team thinks Linette’s plotting mutiny, the other half think the captain’s losing it.”

Cedric propped his chin on one hand. “So what’s the plan? Ask around until someone confesses, or knock on every door in the castle and hope the guilty party opens up?”

“See, you’re mistaking me for Sophie,” Riev said. “She plans, I keep it afloat.”

“Listen…” Cedric leaned forward with his elbows resting on the table. “I don’t know if this helps, but… the other day, I overheard during Potions. Snape kept Sophie after class. Looked serious. Did you know?”

Riev blinked. He hadn’t. He’d assumed Snape would target Marcellus, and he had actually. His roommate had recounted the other night in a babble of nerves and overdramatic hand-wringing. But Sophie, too? His sister was a master at keeping secrets, but she wasn’t usually this secretive with him.

He filed that away, with the faint itch that meant trouble brewing.

“Anyway,” Cedric continued, “I also heard a few Hufflepuffs joking about it at breakfast. And–” He glanced around then lowered his voice even further. “They were talking about ‘Mulciber’s lost logbook’. Most of them thought it was a prank, but… there’s chatter.”

Riev gave a lopsided grin. “You helping a Slytherin, Diggory?”

“I mean, it’s entertaining.” Cedric returned the grin. “And you look like you need backup. Let’s call it ‘House Unity’.”

Riev snorted. “Or shared misery.”

Madam Pince shushed them as she passed by. Riev mouthed a “sorry” and Cedric gave a sheepish grin, before the two of them rose from their seats and began their hunt for the missing ledger.

Not long after, they found Tonks coaching three Hufflepuff third-years through the finer points of shield charms. Her hair was a shade of yellow this time, and her voice carried over the babble of morning chatter.

“Again, Jenkins! You call that a Protego? I’ve seen Flobberworms with more spine–” Tonks broke off when she spotted Riev and Cedric. “Well, if it isn’t Diggory and the Maximilian menace. What’s up, lads?”

Cedric gave a little wave.

“Nothing,” Riev shrugged. “Just wondering if you’d seen anything… unusual. You know, like… Dueling stuff.”

Tonks grinned. “You mean Mulciber’s lost playbook?”

Cedric choked back a laugh. “You know about that?”

“Know about it? Hufflepuffs have been passing around copies of his drills for two days.” She beckoned them closer as she lowered her voice. “Rumor is, some prankster dropped a page outside our common room. No signature, but it smelled like Slytherin. Here.”

She reached into her robes and produced a crumpled sheet of parchment, covered in Julian’s cramped, joyless handwriting. Tonks flicked it to him. “Next time, keep your Slytherin secrets better guarded.”

“Thanks.” Riev’s smile was a little tight. “I’ll let the captain know his strategic genius is now Hufflepuff history.”

“Do,” Tonks said as her grin sharpened. “And tell Mulciber if he wants to hex the post owls, he’ll have to queue up behind the Quidditch team.”

As the two boys retreated, the hunt continued. By noon, the trail led them up the marble staircase, and to the foot of the spiral staircase leading to the Ravenclaw common room. 

Of course, neither Riev nor Cedric could get in, but they lurked near the eagle knocker which regarded them with haughty disdain.

“What has a heart that doesn’t beat?” it intoned.

Cedric frowned. “Is it… a stone?”

“No,” the knocker replied flatly.

“Father…” Riev paused. “Or was that someone who had no heart?”

“Artichoke.” A small bespectacled Ravenclaw third-year appeared behind them. She looked them over and smiled with the smug satisfaction of a Sphinx presented with a particularly easy riddle. “Looking for something, boys?”

“Ledger,” Riev said, before Cedric could launch into a more diplomatic approach. “Slytherin’s. Went missing. We heard it might be up here.”

The Ravenclaw grinned. “What’s it worth to you?”

Riev grinned slightly. “My eternal gratitude?”

“Not good enough,” she replied then tapped a finger on her chin. “Got any dirt on Gryffindor Quidditch?”

Cedric perked up. “Overheard this from Wood. I think their new strategy involves looping high and letting Fred and George block the Bludgers until they can drop the Quaffle to Alicia Spinnet.”

The girl seemed to weigh the value of this intelligence, then nodded. “Deal.”

She ducked inside and returned a minute later with two more sheets, torn from the same ledger by the look of it. “Enjoy. And if you get a chance, tell Oliver Wood he owes me a rematch in chess.”

After Cedric agreed, the two of them retreated. Near the bottom of the staircase, they almost collided with the Weasley twins, who appeared as if summoned by the scent of trouble. Fred waved a parchment overhead.

“Lost something, Snakelets?”

Riev eyed the page. “Careful, Weasley, or someone might think you have a future in espionage.”

“Why, thank you,” George said. “We do try. Found this in a rather clever hiding spot.”

“Where?” Riev asked.

“Can’t say where,” Fred said. 

“Professional courtesy,” George added.

Cedric snorted. “You mean you nicked it from some Ravenclaw’s satchel during Charms.”

George beamed. “Your faith in us is touching.”

Meanwhile, Fred turned to Sophie who had just emerged from the stairwell with a stack of essays under her arm.

“Heard your team’s in shambles, Maximilian,” Fred called. “I suppose I win our wager early?”

Sophie gave him a look of supreme annoyance; which, to Riev, looked about as sincere as a politician’s promise. “If you’re finished gloating, Weasley, I have an essay to submit.”

She swept past, and Riev caught the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth. Fred watched her go, then tossed Riev the page.

“Don’t lose it this time, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Riev said, tucking the page into his robes. 

He was almost certain Sophie had orchestrated this entire mess for reasons he would unravel only if he lived to see thirty.

Later in the afternoon, as they wound their way back toward the library, Riev muttered, half to Cedric, half to himself, “Do you ever get the feeling the whole school is conspiring to drive you mad?”

“Technically, you lot started it,” Cedric said.

“Fair point.” Riev sighed. “Merlin, if I survive this, I’m defecting to Hufflepuff.”

“You’d last a day,” Cedric shot back. “Too many feelings. Not enough secrets.”

They turned into the library’s shadowy shelves, only to nearly collide with Charlie Weasley whose arms were full of ancient Quidditch manuals. He regarded both boys for a moment.

“Still on some wild goose chase?” Charlie asked Cedric.

Cedric blinked. “You heard?”

“Who hasn’t?” Charlie said with a small grin. “It’s not everyday that Slytherin's dirty laundry gets leaked.” He paused as his gaze softened. “You’re looking for something, yeah? Try Peeves. Contraband always ends up in his lair. You know, until Filch finds out, and then it’s anyone’s game.”

Riev raised a brow. “And where’s Peeves hiding these days?”

Charlie shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” With that, he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

After leaving the library, the two searched for Peeves, which was less an act of skill than of sheer stubbornness. The poltergeist’s latest “lair” was somewhere between the trophy room and the abandoned classroom with the leaky roof; the trail of ink stains and sugar quills marking the way. Eventually, they found him floating above a toppled suit of armor as he juggled inkpots and sang “Hoggy Warty Hogwarts” in a key best described as “painful to sentient ears.”

Riev folded his arms. “Peeves. I need something you have.”

Peeves swooped low, grinning, as ink dripped from his fingertips. “What’s this? Little Slytherin lost his toys?”

“Come on, Peeves,” Cedric said. “Mulciber’s going to explode if he doesn’t get that ledger back.”

“Explosions!” Peeves cackled. “But what’s in it for me, eh?”

Riev dug into his bag and produced two chocolate frogs and some bottle of Muggle bubble solution he’d exchanged last week with a Ravenclaw boy who liked his falcon quill. “Trade?”

Peeves eyed the offerings. “Add a dungbomb and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Cedric sighed, “We’re not walking around with dungbombs.”

“Then it’s a no-go for ol’ Peevsie!” The poltergeist was ready to vanish, but Riev called his attention.

“A week’s worth of Filch-free secret passage through the dungeons,” Riev said. “Courtesy of a certain password I overheard.”

Cedric’s brows furrowed. “That’s not–”

Riev hushed his friend.

Peeves circled above them. “Password first!”

Riev leaned in. “Mimbulus mimbletonia.”

Peeves howled with delight as he flipped through the air. “Done! But if Filch finds me, I’ll haunt your dreams, Maximilian!”

“You already do, Peeves,” Riev muttered as the poltergeist dove behind the suit of armor and reemerged with a battered, slightly damp ledger, tossing it to Cedric who handed it to Riev.

Once they retreated and out of Peeves’s earshot, Cedric grinned. “I can’t believe that worked.”

Riev opened the ledger. At first glance, it looked genuine with its notes and diagrams; it even had Julian’s loopy signature. Then he spotted it in the margins. Maximilian code, ”Find me”, along with a new set of cryptic instructions he swore were invented by men and women who seemed to think poetry was a suitable substitute for a map.

Only one person left messages in coded riddles and treated espionage like etiquette. 

Sophie. 

Unless some distant cousin decided to visit Hogwarts for a day just to steal Mulciber’s ledger for laughs, there was no doubt; this was his sister’s doing.

He didn’t say anything to Cedric, of course. Some secrets belonged only between Maximilians.

“Thanks,” Riev said as he tucked the ledger away. “I owe you.”

Cedric grinned as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Anytime. Hopefully, your captain stops terrorizing your team.”

“I hope so too,” Riev mumbled. Before the two of them parted ways, he asked his friend for one more favor. “If anyone asks if we found the ledger, tell them we haven’t.”

Cedric’s brows furrowed. “Why?’

“Because…” Riev gave a lopsided grin. “Mulciber will hang me in the dungeons if he hears this from someone else.”

Cedric blinked a couple of times as he stared at him. “But you’re returning it.”

“And in any other House, that would make sense,” Riev said slowly. “But this is Slytherin.”

Cedric shook his head as he muttered something inaudible under his breath. “Okay. I won’t tell a soul. Just survive until tomorrow’s breakfast, yeah?”

“Will do, Diggory.”

Cedric vanished into the flow of students heading for their common rooms, leaving Riev alone with the ledger tucked under his arm and a prickle of unease dancing along his scalp.

Following the coded directions, Riev slipped out of the Slytherin dorms after curfew with the recovered ledger wedged under his arm as he began his evening pilgrimage across the shadowy halls of Hogwarts.

“First clue,” he muttered as he flipped through the pages of the ledger. “Seek the unicorn in the garden when the second bell tolls–Oh, that’s just lovely, Soph.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as his mind sifted through years of Maximilian training. He headed for the tapestry two corridors from the library just as the ancient grandfather clock rang in the darkness. Hopefully, he got that one right or everything else he’d be doing from here on would just be a waste of time.

Riev checked the instructions again. “Avoid the vulture’s gaze. What’s that supposed to–” He paused and pressed himself flat against a nearby tapestry when footsteps echoed from the distance. Then it clicked. Right. Filch and Mrs. Norris; they routinely lurked in this area.

Riev held his breath and listened as Mrs. Norris’s claws clicked past. All the while, the smell of dust and mothballs filled his nostrils, which was, all things considered, preferable to detention. Once he deemed it safe, he hurried toward the castle’s west stairwell.

His sister’s next instruction, “Turn when the gryphon grins, count the stones to seven, then left at the silent suit.” This one, Riev actually understood, Merlin knew how. He crept along the dark corridor and counted quietly under his breath. Then, at the seventh stone, he turned left. A suit of armor with a missing helmet loomed. He slipped past it.

Halfway to the next clue, Riev caught a flicker of candlelight. 

Snape. Of course. His life would’ve been too easy otherwise. 

Riev pressed himself into an alcove and held his breath as his least favorite professor glided by with eyes sharp even in the gloom.

Eventually, the footsteps faded. Riev exhaled the breath he’d been holding before he darted down a side passage, skipped the next two turns as per Sophie’s, “Only fools take straight roads at night” instructions, before he finally found himself at the base of the spiral stairs beneath the old Transfiguration classroom. 

“Honestly, Soph,” Riev grumbled, “Would it kill you to just write, ‘Meet me by the old classroom. Midnight. Bring snacks.’?” He pushed the door open then slipped inside.

Sophie sat on the edge of an unused desk, her posture straight as ever as the moonlight touched the edge of her braid. She looked up slowly.

Riev threw her a mock bow. “You know, most sisters just leave a note. Preferably one without riddles.”

She arched an eyebrow as the corners of her mouth twitched. “And most brothers needn’t be reminded thrice to burn their old coded notes.”

He snorted as he leaned against the wall with the ledger held loosely at his side. “Merlin’s left toenail. What was that about ‘seek the unicorn in the garden’? And why do our ancestors hate clarity?”

“They survived five revolutions and three assassination attempts.” Sophie shrugged. “Ambiguity worked in their favor.”

“Must make bedtime stories a nightmare.” Riev sighed, then tossed her the ledger. “There. Found it. Sphinxes everywhere are weeping.”

She caught it, casually flipping it open. “Did anyone see you?”

“Nearly ran into Snape. Gave him the slip.” He gave her a half-grin. “Filch and that demonic cat of his were circling the library. You owe me.”

Sophie didn’t look up. “Hence the vulture warning.”

“Can’t you be straight for once?” Riev sighed. 

“I am.” Sophie briefly glanced up. “And the English word you are looking for is ‘straightforward’.”

“If you’re going to start teaching English,” Riev shot back. “Might as well apply at Hogwarts as a professor.”

“No thank you.” She gave a dry little huff. “The pay is terrible, I hear.”

“Explains why our last Defense professor stayed only for a year.” Riev grinned before finally changing the topic. “Marcellus was supposed to steal the ledger after dinner. That was Plan B, right?”

“Yes,” Sophie replied, “But he wasn’t meant to get his hands on it.”

He rubbed his temple. “Wait–so Plan B was just a decoy?”

Sophie nodded. “Professor Snape kept tracking me during your practice. He also saw Selkirk with me during your duel.” Her brows furrowed. “What he knows, it’s uncertain. But he’s definitely suspicious of me.”

“And by extension,” Riev said slowly as he absorbed the information. “Me and Marcellus.”

She nodded again. “Hence why I told Selkirk to return for it after dinner instead. The idea is to throw off Professor Snape when he interrogates him–”

“Which he did,” Riev said.

“And it seems he learned nothing,” Sophie said. “Otherwise, he would have called me to his office already.” 

“Wait.” Riev straightened. “So, that time before dinner, when you said you needed to retrieve a book…”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “It was the perfect opportunity. Mulciber was sulking somewhere, Professor Snape saw me leave with you, and the rest of the team had already headed for the Great Hall.”

“Wow.” He folded his arms while eyeing her. “You make it sound like second nature. ‘Just steal a House secret ledger in three easy steps.’”

Sophie didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Still, Riev pressed on. “But leaking the ledger’s contents wasn’t in the original plan. I thought we were just making small tweaks, you know, to help Linette improve her standing, and all that.”

“It still is.” Sophie’s eyes flicked upward. “But I needed the panic over the leaked contents as a cover.”

Riev’s brows furrowed. “Cover?”

Sophie nodded. “Everyone has a copy, everyone has knowledge of its contents. And that makes everyone…”

“A suspect.” Riev murmured at the realization before he shook his head. “You do realize that makes you the most dangerous twelve-year old in Britain, right?”

Her silence was more answer than denial.

He tried again, his voice softening. “Okay, but why risk yourself instead of sending me?”

Her features shifted, just for a moment, into something softer beneath the practiced mask. “Too risky.”

“Sophie–” he started, but she turned away with her spine stiffening.

“More importantly, I need your hands clean for our new plan.” She handed him a folded parchment, along with Julian’s ledger.

Riev’s brow furrowed. “Which is?”

Silence stretched for several heartbeats. 

Then, a chill ran up his spine as a small real smile formed on her lips. One that Riev had seen unsettled visiting foreign dignitaries whenever they tried cornering his sister with their prodding questions about their family. It was the sort of smile that meant the game had changed, and only she knew all the rules. 

“An execution.”

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SNAPE

The morning after Snape’s failed attempt to extract any useful information from the Selkirk boy, he had intended to track down Riev Maximilian next. But the fates—vindictive crones—had rearranged his plans again. His day was hijacked by the staff meeting where House points and minor infractions multiplied in direct inverse proportion to his patience. A ritual without merit. Hours stripped from a man’s life. Time wasted. Aggravation ensured.

By the time he escaped the next afternoon, it was only to walk straight into another meeting, one that had been scheduled weeks ago. Lucius Malfoy had been waiting in Snape’s office, already seated on the visitor’s chair with his hands resting on the serpent’s head of his cane. 

“Severus.” Lucius smiled. “Always a pleasure. I trust you received Narcissa’s owl?”

Snape nodded. “Regarding Draco attending Hogwarts, yes. I take it Durmstrang has… lost its appeal?”

A faint smirk crossed Lucius’s lips. “Let us say Narcissa’s keen for Draco to remain closer to home. Motherly concerns, you understand.”

No, he did not. Still, he said nothing. Lucius would talk regardless. 

“He will require the right guidance. I expect Slytherin House to be prepared.”

Draco Malfoy, at Hogwarts. Another year cleaning up the wreckage. Another inherited arrogance to blunt.

“It is,” Snape replied.

“Good.” Lucius’s eyes sharpened. “I hear rumors, you see. Slytherin adopting the Maximilian heirs? It would be unfortunate if Draco’s first year were marred by… unnecessary distractions.”

Snape met Lucius’s gaze. “The twins are manageable.”

“Manageable Maximilians.” Lucius’s lips quirked. “Father once had a saying, ‘Watch for the teeth when a Maximilian smiles.’ You’ll forgive me if I take the warning to heart.”

Snape permitted himself only the most minimal nod. Lucius did not need to know that “manageable” was an aspiration, not a fact. “You’ll find Slytherin’s foundation intact. I make it my business.”

“Very reassuring.” Lucius straightened his sleeves. “Narcissa will sleep better.” He rose, and after giving a brief nod, swept from the room. The meeting ended in silence. Lucius’s cane had long stopped echoing in the corridor, but his words still lingered.

Snape remained seated a moment longer as the fire in the grate reduced to a low, ashen glow. His fingers tapped once against the armrest. 

Maximilians. Draco. The ledger.

Checking his watch, he stood at last and left the office with his robes whispering behind him. Curfew had fallen. The castle would be quiet now, hopefully enough to let him think, and perhaps, find answers.

Snape slipped into the upper corridors, footsteps echoing off stone. A flicker of movement ahead. He turned sharply, but found only silence and dust. Jaw clenched, he stared into the stillness. Maximilian. He’d wager ten galleons it was the boy.

Later, he confiscated Firewhisky from a clutch of seventh-year Hufflepuffs. They pleaded ignorance. He gave them detentions. As he returned to his chambers, his thoughts spiraled back to the twins.

They were getting away with something. He could feel it in the pit of his gut, a familiar itch; the same one that once preceded the Dark Lord’s summons. 

But this one, he’d make sure not to let it fester.

The next morning, Snape arrived early to the Great Hall, intent on finding Riev before breakfast could dissolve into another day of chaos. The Hall was already busy as noise clattered off the stone. He scanned the Slytherin table, and found only Sophie Maximilian seated among her Housemates, reading a dense tome on planetary orbits with the practiced disregard of someone allergic to small talk.

He made his way down the row, letting his presence send a minor tremor along the bench. Still, the Maximilian girl kept her gaze on the book until he was almost upon her. 

“Miss Maximilian,” he said. 

She slid a marker into the book, then met his eyes with the bland patience of a student who had nothing to hide… or everything. “Professor.”

“Your brother. Where is he?”

“Riev?” She tilted her head. “I haven’t seen him yet. Perhaps with Selkirk. Neither has come down for breakfast.”

Snape studied her for any sign of guilt or even mere annoyance. Nothing. The only movement was her thumb that tapped twice on the page edge. An unconscious tell, or a deliberate lure? With her, even the smallest movements wore masks.

“I assume,” he said, “that if your brother intended to skip breakfast, you would be the first to know.”

“He doesn’t keep a schedule.” Sophie replied. “And very much values his sleep.”

“Curious, given the noise surrounding Mulciber’s… misfortunes.”

“Considering the distress Mr. Mulciber has caused in the boy’s dormitory,” Sophie said. “It could explain why my brother’s sleeping in.” She inclined her head. “But should we see each other, I’ll be sure to let him know that you’re looking for him, sir.”

Snape left her with a pointed glance and strode from the Hall. In the corridors, laughter clustered in corners. Hufflepuffs, usually content to keep their heads down, now brandished copies of Mulciber’s so-called playbook like newly discovered artefacts. A pair of third-years, pale-faced but giddy, discussed how they’d “practiced all the Slytherin’s drills last night” and that even Jenkins managed to get a spell right for once.

Near the main staircase, a knot of Ravenclaws were bent over the parchment, lips pursed in concentration. “–his whole strategy is built on predictable feints. If we can counter with a ricocheting hex here–” one murmured as he tapped the margins. “Honestly, Mulciber’s predictable.”

Another chimed in, “If this is the best Slytherin can muster, we’ll have them tripping over their own feet.”

In the courtyard, the Gryffindors had taken to reading aloud Mulciber’s strategic notes. “Ah, yes,” Fred Weasley intoned while standing on a bench, “Step one, look menacing. Step two, hope to Merlin the opposition can’t read.” 

George Weasley and Lee Jordan supplied the sound effects, earning a wave of laughter from their fellow Gryffindors. Of course these fools had found a way to distil strategic failure into comedy. It was the one spell they’d mastered without flaw.

At this point, carnage was not the word. Mulciber’s reputation was flayed to the bone. The Slytherins, especially the older ones, seethed. As Snape passed outside the Slytherin common room, he caught the tail end of a venomous remark from a seventh-year, “Mulciber should’ve hidden that ledger up his arse.”

Another seventh-year hissed, “Yeah. Everyone now thinks we’re easy prey.”

A fourth-year student said, “Isn’t Maximilian looking for it? Been running around since yesterday.”

The seventh-year snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Snape paused. He turned over the remark. Riev Maximilian… searching openly? In a den of Slytherins, the obvious answer was often the bait. But sometimes it was the truth. And the real danger? Mistaking one for the other. He frowned. Was he seeing a pattern, or conjuring one?

Snape spent the next hour circling the castle, intercepting knots of students or interrogating likely suspects. Outside the kitchens he cornered a Hufflepuff first-year, a thin, anxious thing with oversized shoes. 

The Hufflepuff flattened himself against the wall as Snape’s shadow fell over him. “Maximilian. The boy. Have you seen him?”

The student blinked up at him. “Riev, sir? Um, yes. Yesterday afternoon, near the trophy room, I think. He was… asking people about something.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“If anyone had seen the ledger. Said it had to be somewhere. Looked like he hadn’t slept in days.”

Snape studied the boy for a beat, then gave a curt nod before he swept off without another word.

A student chasing the very ledger that exposed his own House. Publicly, relentlessly. Either the Riev Maximilian was an idiot or far cleverer than he let on.

He filed this new data alongside the old. Riev’s involvement had seemed secondary; a little helper perhaps, or even a willing accomplice. But now… if he was so visibly looking for the ledger, what did that mean? A double-bluff? 

Snape found himself circling the same question. Who actually stole the ledger? Who had distributed its copies so widely? The logbook circulation had become so widespread that tracing its origin was all but impossible. Every student in the castle seemed to have a copy, if not a secondhand account of its contents. The original culprit could be almost anyone.

Unless… The Maximilian girl. Again. 

Used the chaos as cover, and make herself invisible while everyone else flailed for answers. 

Clever girl, Snape thought as he sneered. If she had orchestrated all this, he would need to be even more cautious.

By afternoon, Snape’s patience had completely vanished, and found Cedric Diggory outside the library while talking with a knot of friends.

“Diggory.”

Cedric and his friends straightened. “Sir.”

“Maximilian. Where is he?” Snape said.

Cedric blinked. “Which one?”

“Riev.” Snape snapped.

“Haven’t seen him since after lunch, Professor,” Cedric quickly replied. 

Before Snape could press further, a Slytherin Prefect hurried down the corridor, breathing hard. “Sir. It’s urgent.”

“What now?” Snape glared at the Prefect.

“The duelling team,” the Prefect replied, twisting the edge of his robe between his fingers. “Something happened.”

Snape’s jaw tightened. Always urgent. Always another fire. Always him to extinguish it.

Snape followed the Prefect with his robes billowing, as they headed down to the duelling room. Before he rounded the corner, the argument in the chamber had reached such a pitch that Snape heard it even from that distance. 

Mulciber, as always, could not keep a dispute private if his life depended on it. The fifth-year’s tone was shrill with the threat of collapse. “You don’t get to call meetings, Rosier! I’m still captain!”

“Then act like one,” came the steady voice of Linette Rosier. “Ravenclaw’s going to pick us apart if we keep using the same drills they already have copies of. We need a new strategy. Now.”

Snape entered the room with his robes billowing. Immediately, voices died as every back straightened. Mulciber, pink-faced, strained against the hands restraining him. 

Rosier met Snape’s eyes and inclined her head.

Interesting, he thought. She doesn’t flinch anymore. Back then, she’d barely meet his gaze.

He scanned the room. The Selkirk boy and the third years had planted themselves behind Rosier, while the fifth-years clustered at Mulciber's back. Fourth years scattered, but more weighted to Rosier than Mulciber. 

And still, no Riev Maximilian in sight.

The heavy silence settled for a moment before he spoke, “Care to explain why Slytherin business is now school-wide entertainment?”

His gaze landed on Mulciber, noting the desperate twitch of his jaw as his hands balled into fists.

“It’s Rosier, sir.” Mulciber might as well spat her name. “Undermining my authority. Calling meetings she has no right to. She started all this! She–” He glared at her. “She wants to run the team–”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rosier cut him off. “I called the meeting because we need to stop pretending nothing’s wrong.”

A rumble from the ranks; some muttered agreement, others sullen. 

Rosier was right about the threat, at least, Snape thought.  But her timing… suspiciously apt.

The door swung open. Riev Maximilian stumbled in, clutching a battered ledger as though it might spare him a reckoning. The hunch in his shoulders, the fumble at the clasp… These were all timed perfectly to look unthreatening. Nothing about it was accidental.

“I found it!” He called too loudly in the charged room as he raised the book in the air.

Gritting his teeth, Mulciber twisted free from his friends and lunged at Riev. “You little thief! You stole it! I’ll–”

Riev took a nervous step back, raising the logbook as if it would ward off Mulciber’s rage. Clever enough to look frightened, and maybe he was.

Snape, without so much as raising his voice, froze Mulciber mid-lunge with a flick of his wand. Immobulus. The older boy’s body locked, his arms rigid at his sides. 

Snape turned to Riev. “Maximilian. Explain yourself.”

“I–I’ve been looking for it since yesterday, sir.” Riev shrank back with his shoulders hunching. That alone was a tell. The Maximilian boy never cowered unless it benefited his position. Still, he allowed his little performance to continue.

“I thought… If we could put it back together, maybe we could fix things. I tried to repair it. See?” Riev opened the ledger, revealing a sad patchwork of pages, some stuck in upside down, others smeared in botched spell-burns. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this spell yet, but! I thought it was better than nothing.”

No Maximilian bungled subterfuge. Not unless it served a purpose. 

“I suppose you’re going to tell us you did this out of the goodness of your heart,” Snape said.

“I asked him to look for it, Professor.” Rosier stepped forward. 

Snape’s eyes snapped to her. “You did?”

Rosier nodded. “Captain’s been impossible since the ledger went missing. He threatened to bench everyone until it was found.”

“That’s a lie!” Mulciber spat from behind clenched teeth.

“It’s true, sir,” Selkirk spoke up. “Said we’d all be benched if the ledger didn’t turn up.” Other members nodded.

Snape let the moment hang, watching Mulciber seethe. Then, he stepped forward, plucking the ledger from Riev’s grasp. “I will take that. For review.” He held the battered book with practised care, already scanning the pages. A faint scribble in the margin of one of the pages. His lips nearly curled.

“Professor–” Riev began.

“It will be returned,” Snape said as he closed the book, “when I am satisfied its contents are not further compromised.”

His attention returned to Rosier. “Why send him exactly?”

“Riev gets on with the other Houses, and they’d rather talk to him than to… the rest of us.” Rosier glanced over to Mulciber as something bitter twisted in her mouth. “I hoped things would calm down once the ledger was back. But the whole castle knows our strategies now. That’s why I called the emergency meeting.”

“Drop the bullshit.” Mulciber snarled. “You just want the captaincy!”

“I don’t want the captaincy,” Rosier snapped back. “What I want is for the team to stop being the butt of every joke in the castle. I want us to win. Isn’t that what matters?”

Some of the older students, even those nominally in Mulciber’s camp, either averted their gaze or shifted uncomfortably. Outside, other Slytherin students crowded to listen as they whispered amongst each other.

The House’s pride had always been quick to splinter and hard to repair. He could see how Rosier’s words resonated; Mulciber’s obsession with his “authority” had made them vulnerable, and Rosier’s offer of pragmatic survival, however thin, was its own kind of lifeline.

But something prickled at Snape’s gut. This wasn’t just a student squabble, nor a typical bid for the captaincy. The missing ledger, the humiliating spread of tactics through the castle, the rise in Linette’s authority, and now this supposed “crisis”.

Circulating the ledger had never just been about hiding tracks. It was the setup for a deliberate and elegant shattering of Mulciber’s leadership, orchestrated to force the team, and himself, into a corner where the only reasonable solution was to elevate Rosier. Hungry for stability, the rest of the Slytherins would accept her as a replacement. He, in turn, would be “forced” to permit it, lest Slytherin collapse into complete farce. 

And all the while, the real architect had never drawn attention. Sophie Maximilian, who, if his instincts were correct, had orchestrated every piece and counter-piece, without ever letting her own hands show.

“Rosier,” Snape said through gritted teeth. “Clean up this mess. New drills, new tactics. I expect results. And if I hear another incident–” He fixed each member a sharp glare. 

“Yes, sir.” The rest of them straightened, even Riev, though he suspected the Maximilian boy did it more out of performance than actual fear.

Snape turned to Mulciber, who was still straining against his magical restraint, face blotched red. With a flick of his wand, the spell’s effect dissipated and the now ex-captain dropped onto the floor. “With me.” He gripped Mulciber by the arm, half-dragging him toward the exit. 

The Slytherin crowd outside parted in silence, a dozen pairs of eyes flickering either at each other or between Snape and Mulciber. He turned toward them. “Disperse, all of you. Unless you want to spend the rest of your miserable year in detention.”

The corridor began to clear. Students melted away in pairs and trios, unwilling to draw further notice.

As Snape and Mulciber turned around the corner, he caught a flash of pale blue from the far side of the crowd; a pair of glacial eyes fixed on Julian. Sophie Maximilian stood motionless as her lips slowly curled. No teeth. Just the smile of a predator who’d already devoured her prey before the crowd even realized the beast had arrived.

Her gaze shifted, and briefly, their eyes met. Snape paused, just long enough to let her see him holding the battered ledger as it caught the torchlight. 

Her smile faltered when she narrowed eyes flicked to the ledger in his hand.

Was that fear? For a flaw in her little scheme?

The corners of Snape’s mouth twitched. She was still twelve, and even a Maximilian’s poise cracked when the wrong person held the final piece.

Then, swept by the dispersing crowd, she disappeared.

As the corridor emptied, Snape glanced down at the ledger in his hand, thumbing through the patchwork pages. The scribbles in the margins, coded most likely. But more importantly, the handwriting. Neat. Sharp. Sophie Maximilian’s.

Clever, but not infallible.

He continued leading Mulciber to his office as he allowed himself a faint curl at the corner of his mouth.

Snape waited in his office as the clock inched past seven with each second marked by the gentle scrape of the minute hand.. The dungeons had quieted after dinner; the stone corridors outside his door muffled by tapestries and the press of cold, subterranean air. He’d left the ledger on the desk, an unremarkable book except for the incriminating handwriting in its margins.

Earlier that evening, he’d watched the Maximilian girl pick at her roast parsnips in the Great Hall, her eyes lowered while her brother launched a halfhearted attempt at conversation before drifting away. When he’d stopped by the Slytherin table, she had calmly closed her book. 

“See me in my office after dinner, Miss Maximilian,” he had told her in a tone that brooked no argument. He had cited her last essay before he left.

Now, as the knock finally came, he let the silence stretch before bidding her enter. Sophie stepped into the pool of candlelight with her usual even steps. With her spine straight, she carried her satchel in one hand as she stood in front of his desk with the kind of poise bred into children who had learned early how to hide their panic.

“Sit.” He gestured to the chair before lowering himself behind the desk.

She perched at the edge with hands folded as her gaze settled on the ledger before raising her eyes to meet his. For a long moment he did nothing but look at her. Would her nerves show? Doubtful. She wouldn’t have come this far if they had.

“Miss Maximilian,” he began quietly. “You know why you’re here.”

She met his gaze. “You mentioned my last essay, sir.”

“Did I? Perhaps I did.” His mouth curled. “But we both know the matter at hand is more pressing than misplaced commas.” Sliding the book toward her, his fingers rested on the cover. “Care to explain?”

“Mulciber’s dueling log, sir,” Sophie replied.

“Playing the fool is your brother’s expertise, not yours.” He opened the book to the page where notes crowded the margins. “Curious to find your handwriting here of all places.”

Sophie stayed silent as she kept her gaze on the annotated margins.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do you deny it?”

“No, sir.” Her glacial-blue met his black eyes.

“Elaborate.”

“I found it in the courtyard,” Sophie replied, “Someone left it on a bench. I added corrections, then left it there.”

“Corrections.” He gave a derisive snort. “Interesting that your ‘corrections’ are written in codes I’m sure only you and your brother understand. I suppose you’ll also claim that Mr. Mulciber can decode this as well.”

“I had hoped, sir,” she replied calmly. No twitch of a muscle, nor sweat on the brow.

“You’re aware that meddling with another student’s property is a punishable offense,” Snape said.

“I did not remove it from his possession,” she replied. “Nor did I hide it. I annotated the pages. Collaboration improves tactics, does it not?”

He leaned back as his jaw clenched. “The entire castle now knows Slytherin’s dueling drills. The team’s reputation is in tatters. You expect me to believe you had no hand in this?”

“No more than anyone else who’s handled that book. It was out of Mr. Mulciber’s control for days, sir.” Sophie tilted her head. “If the team’s reputation suffers, perhaps the blame should rest with those who failed to secure it.”

He smiled thinly. Push blame up the ladder. Typical. Was she planning to waste time until he gave up?

The silence dragged until it verged on cruelty. Then, Snape stood and reached to the high cabinet behind him, drawing out a small vial before he settled it on the desk. “Do you know what this is?”

Sophie’s eyes flickered to the clear, viscous liquid inside the vial. “Veritaserum, sir.”

“Three drops…” He leaned forward. “And every secret comes tumbling out. Tell me, Miss Maximilian, should I fetch you a glass of water, or will you finally end this charade?”

Steadily, she met his eyes, then glanced again at the open ledger. 

He arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Ministry approval is required for the use of Veritaserum on students,” she said calmly as her gaze remained fixed on him. “Section twelve of the Magical Substances Regulation Act. Use without proper authorization is punishable by a fine of five thousand galleons and five years in Azkaban. Minimum.”

“Hiding behind the law, are we?” A thin, cold sneer twisted his mouth. “I wonder which weighs heavier, my hypothetical imprisonment, or your family’s reputation, should your secrets come to light?”

There was a long moment where neither moved as their eyes locked. Then, Sophie lowered her head as she reached into her satchel with slow deliberation. A second later, she withdrew a sheaf of stacked and clipped parchment, and handed it across the desk.

“And what is this?” Snape asked.

“A report,” Sophie replied. “You may find it of interest.”

He reached for it as his eyes narrowed. The first page contained a detailed recording of intimidation and harassment. Julian Mulciber’s name was written plainly, the target; Isobel Cresswell. Dates, locations, threats, evidence of a systematic campaign to humiliate and isolate her.

He read, "threatened to have her father sacked if she did not comply; repeated use of the slur “mudblood”; coerced into completing his essays despite year difference; public derision in the common room; threatened reprisals against friends if she confided in others."

Something old and unwelcome twisted his chest. James Potter’s sharp laughter as Sirius Black’s hex tripped him in front of a crowd. The taste of stone and blood from a dozen falls.  He remembered the hollow dread when teachers saw but looked away, and even the Slytherins only watched and learned.

Snape’s grip tightened on the parchment, his nails pressing half-moons into the edge. He snapped the memory shut. No point letting the past turn his head. 

“Touching.” He sneered as his attention returned to the Maximilian girl. “Champion of the downtrodden, are we? Acting like a Gryffindor–”

“Please read the rest, Professor,” Sophie said evenly. “Sentimentality had nothing to do with it.”

He turned the page. The dossier changed tone; a briefing worthy of a minor Ministry analyst. Isobel Cresswell, muggleborn. Father, Dirk Cresswell, who worked in the Goblin Liaison Office; Mother, Analise Lewis, half-blood, employed in the Department of Magical Transportation. The mother, though British, traced her family line to the Romano family of southern Italy. Curse-breakers. Obscure, but respected. Isobel herself was “sponsored” by the Romano family, who noted her rare sensitivity to cursed artifacts. The family considered her a “prospective asset.”

He flipped to the third page with his brow furrowing. The next paragraph highlighted a notable connection; a member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, Francesca Palmer, owed the Romano family a life debt for saving her only son from a particularly malignant curse two years prior. 

Sophie’s final note at the bottom of the third page, “The Romano family consider her an investment. Any threat to her standing will be seen as a threat to that investment.”

Snape stopped reading for a moment as his mind raced. If the Romano family got wind of any threat to their protégée, if they so much as whispered to the right ears in Italy–no, in Britain–the bureaucratic aftermath would land on his desk first, then Dumbledore’s, then perhaps the Ministry’s. A headache, at best. A diplomatic crisis, at worst. And Slytherin, already a House under constant scrutiny, would be flayed in the process.

“How do I know any of this is true?” His eyes narrowed at Sophie. “I’m expected to take the word of a twelve-year-old and a few sheets of parchment?”

“Send a letter to my father. Or to the Ministry. They will confirm the details. Or you may verify with the Romano family directly.” Sophie’s hand gestured toward the parchment. “I included addresses on the back page.”

The efficiency of it. She had anticipated every objection.

He considered for a long moment, tapping the parchment once against his desk. If this was true, she had handed him the solution to a problem before he could even identify it. If false… No. The Maximilian patriarch, for all his arrogance, would not fabricate knowledge regarding the Romano curse-breakers. Not with the Board and Ministry as potential witnesses.

“Convenient, isn’t it?” He murmured. “You save your skin and your House’s reputation in one neat maneuver.”

Sophie’s lips twitched at the corners. “I’m told efficiency is a Slytherin virtue.”

He glared, searching her face for any hint of smugness or triumph, and only found that glacial calm.

“Let us set aside the Cresswell matter for now.” He folded the parchments and slid them to the edge of the desk. “You disrupted the team. Humiliated Mulciber, then let Rosier step into the breach. Did you plan it all along? Was Rosier always your intended replacement?”

Sophie shook her head. “I actually intended for Riev to take the captaincy. Miss Rosier’s move was… unexpected.”

Snape scoffed. “You expect me to believe you’ve lost interest now?”

“I have no interest in who leads,” Sophie replied. “My only goal was to remove Julian Mulciber’s… influence.”

The answers were plausible… too plausible. Perfectly tailored to appear unthreatening and conceal just enough truth. She could have orchestrated the entire debacle; she could have simply adapted as the winds changed. He would never know. Not unless she slipped.

He parsed her confession and weighed it against the cost of action. Technically, she had not broken any rules. In fact, she had offered him the means to avert a far greater disaster of a Board scandal and an international incident. If he punished her for this, the Maximilians could make public that he had only saved his position thanks to the foresight of a twelve-year-old. 

The Daily Prophet would have a field day. He could picture the headline already. “Slytherin Head of House Saved by Second-Year’s Cunning.” 

I’d sooner face a dragon.

Snape straightened as he fixed her with his coldest stare. “You will not pull another stunt like this. Not while you are under my watch. Do you understand me?”

Sophie inclined her head. “Yes, sir.”

He studied her one last time, searching for anything he might use to regain the advantage. But she had left him nothing. He turned around. “Go.”

Sophie stood slowly, gathered her satchel, and exited with the same measured steps she had entered. 

Over his shoulder, he watched her go. Punishment would achieve nothing; she was already two steps ahead. No, this one would need careful handling.

Clever. Controlled. Dangerous if left untethered.

He had seen that particular stillness years ago, when ambition had been the only shield against humiliation. 

Better to keep her close. For precaution.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

FRED

December air had bitten sharp enough to wake the dead. 

No more goal hoops or even Oliver Wood’s shouting himself hoarse about formations at the Quidditch field. Just a raised platform set dead center atop the turf and squared off with pale, humming barriers that made the air look like glass someone had breathed on. Runes glowed faintly at each corner where Hufflepuff volunteers had staked the wards. The grass underfoot crackled where frost still clung in the shaded edges of the stands.

Madam Pomfrey had parked herself to one side of the field beneath a striped awning, her trolley lined with potions, salves and bandages. As today’s participants passed by, she gave each of them that look that said, “I am not impressed by your life choices,” which, to be fair, covered ninety percent of the student body.

Spectators filled the stands as House banners layered the railings; blue and bronze snapped crisply, while green and silver sulked in a knot on the far right. Ravenclaws had turned out in numbers. Even Hufflepuffs were lively with their scarves tight around their necks. 

Fred and George had claimed a slat of railing three rows up from the barrier and turned it into a betting stand with a table “borrowed” from the Charms corridor and a ledger liberated from Percy’s school supplies. A hand-painted sign, LEE JORDAN MEMORIAL BOOKMAKERS, hung crooked above their heads. The odds chalked below told their own story.

RAVENCLAW TO WIN: 1–4

DRAW: 5–1

SLYTHERIN TO WIN (HAHA): 12–1

A little optimistic on the last bit, true. But optimism paid for Honeydukes so who wouldn’t dare?

Coins clinked in jars as students queued in a ragged line with cold noses while calling out bets over each other. Mostly Ravenclaw, a few Hufflepuff, and a clutch of Gryffindor who were here for the laughs. Meanwhile, Slytherins drifted past without stopping, their faces tight. Couldn’t tell if it was shame or fury; probably both.

Lee was down at the commentator’s desk, testing his sonorus, the amplified “HELLO-lo-lo” bouncing off the barriers and back. He had a scarf looped twice round his neck and a quill jammed behind one ear like he was born for this. He’d nicked one of Flitwick’s little brass bells and was making it ring when he thought no one was looking.

“Two galleons, Ravenclaw,” a fifth-year announced.

“Name?” Fred said with his quill raised.

“Bradshaw.”

“Lovely choice, Bradshaw.” George took the coins. “You’ll be telling your grandchildren your tactical genius paid for your sugar quills.”

His twin wasn’t wrong. About eighty percent of the coins clinking were headed to the blue jar, compared to the green jar that looked like a sad salad.

Sophie appeared in the stream of bodies wearing her usual braids and blue-black robes, while her expression remained ironed flat. She moved straight through noise like it was beneath her notice and made for the gap beside their table.

“Afternoon, Your Iceness,” Fred said brightly. “We’re offering a special today; half-off sympathy if Slytherin loses by more than embarrassment.”

She stopped and looked at him without so much as blinking. The raven wasn’t on her shoulder; pity, really. He liked the bird. It judged him, and everyone else’s bad choices today.

“Sorry. That was rude,” Fred continued. “It’s not embarrassment if it’s predictable.”

George leaned on the table. “Or we can go with the classic. Odds on Julian Mulciber tripping over his own strategy.”

“High,” Fred said cheerfully. “Very high.”

Sophie’s gaze slid from Fred to the chalkboard, then back, without bothering to dignify either twin with words.

“Come on,” Fred prodded. “Ravenclaw. Good choice. We take galleons, sickles…” 

“Signed vows to stop hexing the Prefects…” George added. “Anything, really.”

She set a small pouch on the planks. No jingle, only thudded, like what proper rich people’s coins did. Fred opened it with theatrical care and counted fast as the cold bit his fingertips.

“One, two, three… five–Oh, look Georgie, Santa came early!” He stacked the galleons. “Didn’t think your House believed in charity.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes.

“Ravenclaw?” George said as he reached to tip the coins into the blue jar.

“Slytherin,” Sophie said.

Dead silence. Then the twins threw their heads back and guffawed.

“Oh, that’s cute,” Fred said. “House pride. Or is it pity money? For morale.”

“Hush money,” George suggested. “To keep Lee from announcing the ledger thing again.”

“Put it down,” Sophie said evenly.

Fred dropped the coins in the sad green jar. “Five galleons on Slytherin. Brave… or something.”

She reached into her sleeve and set down three more. Eight now in total.

“You know,” Fred said as he leaned in, “most people hedge their bets with facts. Like… your de facto captain is a third year who spends half her week in the Hospital Wing.”

“Facts,” Sophie said slowly, “are rarely the whole story. And Ravenclaw’s weakness is thinking they are.”

George oof’d at that, like she’d jabbed him with a quill and still ended up grinning. “All right then, oh Holy Majesty of Snow, what do you know we don’t?”

She tilted her head the barest fraction. “That you talk more than you think.”

“Guilty.” Fred grinned.

“Write my name.” She tapped the ledger. “Clearly.”

Fred wrote her name with theatrical elegant penmanship. SOPHIE MAXIMILIAN - SLYTHERIN TO WIN - 8 G. Then underlined it, twice, like a threat. “Hope you kept receipt.”

“Do you issue those?” she asked dryly.

“For you? We’ll embroider it.”

“Save your needlework. Better yet, save your breath.”

“Can’t,” George said. “Fogs up in this weather.”

Her eyes flicked to George. Was she assessing or amused? Then her gaze shifted past them toward the platform. “Good luck with your arithmetic," she said, which was either an insult or a curse, before she walked back into the crowd, her dark braids vanishing among a knot of green-and-silver scarves near the front of the Slytherin block.

“I’ve never met anyone who’s that competitive,” George said as he watched her go.

“That’s why she sleeps in the dungeons,” Fred said. “Keeps the blood cold.”

“Reckon she bets eight because she knows something,” George said.

“Or..” Fred rolled a galleon between finger and thumb. “She hates us more than she hates losing.”

The stream of students parted briefly, and through it came Riev with Marcellus at his shoulder. Riev had his tousled shoulder-length hair all wrong for the weather while wearing that same lopsided smile. Meanwhile, Marcellus looked like he’d slept in a bramble after losing a fight.

“Break a leg,” George called, grinning. “Preferably not yours.”

Marcellus bristled. “Do you ever shut up?”

“No,” Fred said. “We tried once, got a rash.”

Riev slid in before his roommate blew a gasket. “Hi,” he said, like they were at a picnic. “Please ignore him.”

“Hard with that face,” George said.

“It was a bad night.” Riev rocked back on his heels as he glanced up. “Are we sure the barriers are actually barriers? Asking for my dignity.”

“We’ve been told they stop stray spells,” Fred said solemnly. “Emotional damage still gets through.”

Marcellus huffed. “You know she’d wipe the floor of you lot. Captain–”

“Oh yes,” Fred said brightly. “We heard. Slytherin’s de facto captain. Tiny, injured and angry at the world. Inspiring stuff.”

Marcellus’s eyes flashed. “She’s–”

“–Very good,” Riev cut in smoothly, before he gave Marcellus a sideways look that landed like an elbow. “Don’t waste your breath; it’s cold. We’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” Marcellus repeated. “You said that when you set your sleeve on fire.”

“Still have both arms,” Riev said. “Besides, I only plan to survive. Ambition, and all that.”

“Ambition would be not losing.” Marcellus bit the word then stormed off.

“Wow.” George whistled. “Way to throw your own House under the Knight Bus.”

Riev shrugged. “I’m realistic.”

“Your sister just gave us eight galleons on Slytherin,” Fred said while wagging the ledger. “Care to explain the family delusion?”

Riev pressed a palm to his chest. “Sisterly support. It’s touching, really.”

“Touching,” George echoed.

Just then, a shadow fell over Riev’s shoulder. Cedric, cheeks pink from the walk down and the cold both, grinned at him. “Ready?”

“No,” Riev said. “I asked Pomfrey to lay out extra bandages in my shape.”

Cedric snorted. “She’d tell you to walk it off.”

“She’ll tell me to stop wasting her time.” Riev grinned. “Which I intend to do by not bleeding.”

Fred tipped the ledger toward Cedric. “Speaking of plans, put your honour where your mouth is.”

Cedric dug into his robe pockets and turned them out empty. “I’m a poor, honest lad.”

“Lad, yes,” George said. “Honest, debatable.”

Two first-years slipped up to the table then, blue and bronze scarves bright against their black robes. The one in front had neat dark hair and a freckled nose. The other had curly reddish-blonde hair.

“Ravenclaw, please.” The dark-haired one handed him five sickles.

Fred held the quill up. “Names?”

“Cho Chang,” she said, then glanced up over her shoulder, at Cedric as it happened, who was directly behind her now, all broad, completely wholesome and cursed with a face that looked trustworthy in any light. She blinked. “Oh, sorry. Were you–?”

Cedric reddened a shade deeper that had nothing to do with the weather. “No! You go ahead.”

George bit his lip while stifling a laugh.

The other girl sniffed. “Marietta Edgecombe.” She pushed another five Sickles across like they were dares.

“Cho and Marietta,” Fred said as he wrote with a flourish. “Five Sickles each on the birds. Good luck; you have the entire school behind you, and the laws of probability.”

Frantically, Cedric rummaged through all his available pockets. He produced three Sickles from somewhere near his robes’ lining. “Ravenclaw please.”

Cho spared Cedric a small quick smile before her friend tugged her back into the crowd. 

From their perch behind the table, the twins had a perfect view of Cedric watching the two Ravenclaw leave. Fred waggled his eyebrows at the smittened little badger.

“Shut it,” Cedric said as his ears went slightly scarlet.

“Didn’t say anything,” Fred said. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Diggory, how could you?”  Riev’s mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Betraying me for the eyes of a stranger? After all we’ve been through. The lake. The bread rolls!”

George lost the battle with his laugh and turned it into a cough. Fred placed Cedric’s  coins inside the blue jar. “We have a man of conviction among us.”

“I didn’t say you’d lose,” Cedric told Riev. “I said I’d put three Sickles on statistics.”

“Cold,” Riev muttered, but he was grinning again. He patted Cedric’s back before turning to the twins. “Leave him alone. You’ll jinx his chances. And I need him on his best behavior for–” He paused and squinted up toward the platform. “–for later.”

“For survival,” George supplied.

“For survival.” Riev nodded. “Right. I need to go before our new captain strangles me with her good hand.”

“Sounds like leadership,” Fred said.

“Welcome to Slytherin,” Riev said over his shoulder, and ducked back into the stream of green-and-silver robes heading for the staging area.

Cedric shot them a warning look that was too mild to count as a threat before he started up the aisle. Instead of heading for the closest section, he drifted two rows up from the Ravenclaw girls and took an end seat like he hadn’t planned it. 

Fred smiled to himself. Bless his sweet Hufflepuff soul.

“You two,” Lee called from below while waving his notes. “Seal the till. We’ll be live in five minutes.”

“On it.” George charmed the jars shut inside a wooden box with a mumbled locking jinx they’d learned for… reasons. Fred slid the ledger inside his satchel, before he and his brother pushed into a gap near where Cedric had settled. Meanwhile, the two Ravenclaw first-year girls were in front were whispering between themselves.

Down on the turf, the judges had taken their places behind a long table. Professor Flitwick sat in the middle on a booster cushion with his small hands steepled as his eyes shone bright. Charlie Weasley had squeezed into a jacket that belonged on a dragon reserve instead of a panel, and was trying to look impartial while also being, well… Charlie. Tonks, whose hair a violent purple that clashed with everything in a radiant way, slouched with her chin on her fist. A Hufflepuff Prefect stood to one side, posture telegraphing “please Merlin let this go smoothly.”

Lee’s sonorus carried through the whole field sweet and smug. “GOOD AFTERNOON, HOGWARTS! Welcome, welcome to our first Inter-House Dueling Tournament match of the season, coming to you live from the repurposed–dare I say ravishing–Quidditch pitch. I’m your host with the most, Lee Jordan, here with our esteemed panel, Professor Flitwick, Charlie Weasley of dragon fame, and Nymphadora Tonks of whatever she feels like. Give them a hand!”

The sound washed up to them in layers; from Gryffindors’ noise to Ravenclaws’ smugness. Flitwick bobbed, Tonks finger-gunned the sky, while Charlie gave a little salute, catching Fred’s eye and making a face that said, “Don’t get caught.”

The Hufflepuff Prefect raised his wand. “Contestants, approach!”

Ravenclaw sent up three; two fifth-years in crisp dueling robes and one fourth-year with a face that said he’d been up all night revising feints. They stepped up onto the platform. Wands in right hands, left hands open. All textbook proper.

“I thought duels were one-on-one,” Cho told Marietta.

“Tournament’s three bouts,” Cedric said with that earnest face Fred always associated with the badgers. “Singles, doubles, trios. Usually starts with the trio round. Best two out of three.” 

Fred caught the little curious glance Cho gave Cedric who, brave soul, pretended the air had become interesting.

“Slytherin fielding–” Lee paused for effect “–Julian Mulciber, fifth year, Mathew Yaxley, fifth, and Ignatius Fawley, also fifth. A big round of applause for our… spirited snakes.”

There was applause, technically, but it limped. Slytherin’s clapping today had the sound of people clapping for rain at a funeral.

Fred leaned forward with his elbows on knees as the barriers threw back a faint hum he felt in his teeth.

“Quick reminder,” Lee rattled on, “spells permitted today are standard charms and hexes up to fifth-year level plus approved non-lethals; Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Protego, Petrificus Totalus, Impedimenta, Incarcerous, and so on. Sixth-year nonsense, transformations, permanent harm, creatures, or environmental trickery–tempting, but tragically illegal. Try it and our very calm Hufflepuff Prefect will cry… and also disqualify you.”

Snorts rolled through the seats.

The referee lifted his wand as he spoke with a steady voice. “Duelists. Bow.”

Six shoulders dipped. The formal moment was always a bit ridiculous and somehow made the hairs on Fred’s arms stand up. Everyone looked better when they bowed; it made fools into players.

“Begin!”

On Slytherin’s left flank, Mulciber planted his feet wide, his wand raised high. Of course he did. “Stupefy!” Red light lanced at rib height, hot and fast. On their right, the fifth-year Ravenclaw–Kieran Hayes, Fred thought his name was–shielded up in time, the strike spattering off his Protego like rain on a window.

On the far right, Ignatius Fawley whipped his wand sideways. “Incarcerous!” Ropes hissed toward Ravenclaw’s right flank. The fourth-year, Ashton, slipped sideways–huh, good footwork–then flicked an Impedimenta low under the arc of rope.

Mathew Yaxley, holding the centre line between his teammates, caught that one full on the thigh and swore, movements sticky for a heartbeat.

“Strong opening from Slytherin,” Lee called. “Mulciber pressing hard, Fawley running control on the right, Yaxley–ah! Caught on the knee, shakes it off, good lad.”

Cedric cupped his hands. “Watch your corners, Hayes!” The girls in front of him glanced back. He smiled sheepishly, and looked away.

Fred watched the rhythm set. If this was a play, Slytherin had a script; attack, control, and pin. Mulciber swept left to right, always anchoring on the same foot. Yaxley played battering ram. Ignatius tried to bind then stun, bind then stun, as if repetition made a trick clever.

The problem was, Ravenclaw, and the rest of the castle, had already read the whole bloody story. They started angling spells not at chests but at hands. A Rictusempra skated under Yaxley’s guard and tickled his wrist hard enough to loosen his grip; his next Expelliarmus went off-line and bright, harmless.

Mulciber barked something Fred couldn’t hear over the barrier’s hum. He pivoted toward the middle, before casting “Impedimenta–Stupefy!” in quick succession. The fourth-year caught the red flash on his shield. In that half-beat opening, the second Ravenclaw fifth-year, Valerie, snapped a Disarming Charm straight through the gap Mulciber left.

 Mulciber snarled, turned his shoulder, and caught it on the meat of his upper arm instead of the wand. Smart. Ugly.

A ripple of noise rolled through the stands, the kind that made the hairs on Fred’s neck stir.

Ignatius got a Petrificus off that slammed into the Ravenclaw fourth-year’s side. The boy locked, toppled, then hit the floor with a sound that had Madam Pomfrey sucking a breath in through her teeth. It didn’t keep him from smiling once he could breathe; fourth-years who took a Petrificus and looked pleased were fourth-years who would be dangerous soon.

“First Ravenclaw down!” Lee boomed. “But that’s one each, because–oh! Fawley’s on his back. Ignatius Fawley is Petrified, that’s going to ache.”

On the far right, ropes snapped away from Fawley as Pomfrey’s charm cut them clean. She already had a potion in hand at the edge of the barrier.

Mulciber pressed; he had to. “Expelliarmus! Stupefy!” He drove at Kieran hard enough to force a stumble. Yaxley moved to cover and took a Rictusempra that sent his elbow jerking. The laugh that burst out of him was unwanted and violent. He shoved it down and pumped out a hex that overshot and ricocheted, thudding against the barrier.

“They’re predictable,” Cho said to Marietta, barely above a whisper; she sounded almost apologetic about being right.

With Fawley out and Yaxley sloppy, Ravenclaw tightened the noose. They split Mulciber, one high, the other low, and started feeding him off-rhythm shots. Feint, pause, then strike at the wrist; shield, step, bind the ankle. He took a bind and snapped it; a Stupefy barely grazing his arm, then saw the second Stunning spell and drifted back to avoid. But, he didn’t see the Impedimenta that undercut his heel.

Mathew Yaxley tried to bull through the gap with a shouted “Stupefy!” and a step straight into a slick of ice-like slow the Ravenclaw fifth-year had snuck in close to the floor. 

Yaxley’s foot slid on the leftward ice slick. Losing his balance, he windmilled. The platform edge came up to meet him like fate. He went over backwards with a sound that got halfway to a swear and didn’t make it. The barrier cushioned the drop. It still hurt to watch.

“One Slytherin off the platform!” Lee hollered. “And we’re–oof! Two-on-one.”

“That’s illegal!” a Slytherin yelled. Other Slytherins joined in.

“Legal at this level if you didn’t make it a skating rink,” a Ravenclaw spectator shouted back as he waved a thick rulebook. Typical of them.

Julian’s jaw clenched hard as he doubled down. He threw curses with more power and less thought. The Ravenclaws played catch and release. Shield, angle, then return. Shield, disengage, then push to the right.

The Expelliarmus snapped toward him, clean as a string pulled taut. Mulciber’s eyes widened.

Too late.

He twisted away from the line instead of into it. The wand spun, clacked once on the platform, kissed the barrier, and slid into the frozen grass.

Silence hung for a beat like breath held. Then the stands broke.

Ravenclaws went up like a tide with cheers layering on cheers. Gryffindors added noise because noise felt good, while Hufflepuffs clapped like decent people. Slytherins made small, unhappy sounds and sagged in on itself. In the row below, two older Slytherins spoke in sharp whispers.

“Should have hidden that bloody book in his throat.”

“Should have been better at the first place.”

Mulciber stood there with chest heaving, as he stared at his empty hand. The Hufflepuff Prefect raised his wand. “Ravenclaw takes the first round!”

Lee rang Flitwick’s bell like a madman. “And that’s one to the birds! Props to our snakes for a spirited attempt, but the blue brains had the read on them from beat three.”

Fred slung himself back in his seat and blew out a long breath through his teeth. That was almost too easy on the numbers. Ravenclaw only needed one more. They had singles and doubles to go, well Slytherin at least. 

He glanced to where Sophie stood at the rail where she’d migrated mid-round, her hands folded and face turned toward the platform. Not even sulking like the rest of her Housemates.

Fred edged sideways along the plank, stepping over George’s knees to reach her. “Eight galleons is a lot of money to watch evaporate.”

She turned very slowly as her gaze clicked onto him. For half a heartbeat, maybe, something like a smile ghosted there and was gone. Far from anything warm. It was… something else. Ominous, if he had to name it.

“The game just started,” she said.

He snorted. “Did you watch the same three-on-three I did?”

She reached into her sleeve again and set down two more galleons on the narrow rail between them.

“Ten,” she said.

Fred looked down at the coins, then her hand, and finally, her face. He was used to people bluffing like idiots. He was used to confidence that lived in the mouth. This wasn’t that. A cold pebble settled somewhere under his ribs.

“You’re mad,” he said lightly. “Or you know something.”

“Perhaps both.” She tipped her head. “Do you need a receipt?”

He took the galleons, because he wasn’t a fool, and swallowed the joke that wanted out. “No. I’ll remember.”

“I’m sure.”

She turned back to the field as the referee raised his wand for the next bout. Down on the turf, Lee spun his quill and filled the quiet with his voice like he’d been born with an echo.

“Round two,” he boomed, “one-on-one! Ravenclaw sends its captain. Fifth year, give it up for Adrian Pritchard!”

Blue-and-bronze went up proudly. Pritchard had that Ravenclaw look; clean robes and tidy hair, with eyes already measuring angles.

“And facing him,” Lee’s grin ran audible through the Sonorus, “Slytherin’s new captain, third year, Linette Rosier!”

The reaction from green-and-silver came more of a ripple of, oh Merlin, all right then. A few whistled. A few “go on”s that sounded like prayers. Linette stepped onto the platform without looking at anyone. Right hand on her wand; left wrapped neat in white bandage from wrist to thumb and tucked in against her ribs.

“Your captain’s got a parcel for a hand,” Fred said as he angled himself toward Sophie. “You sure you don’t want to sub in a healthy fifth-year? Maybe one who can count to ten on both hands?”

Sophie turned that slow, chilly look on him. “Meaning?”

He tipped his chin at the Slytherin block. “Meaning your lot looks like they’re here for a wake. And Mr. Pritchard there reads like a boy who’s memorized the textbook and added footnotes.”

Sophie glanced over her House impassively. “No one really knows the Rosier family, do they?”

Fred opened his mouth, then Lee’s bell trilled just as Pritchard and Rosier bowed. He shut it again. Later.

“Duelists ready?” the Hufflepuff referee called as the wind tugged at his scarf. “Begin!”

Pritchard didn’t waste time. “Stupefy!” Red light cut a straight line at sternum level. Rosier’s Protego snapped up perfectly, and shattered the spell clean without any flourish. She stepped sideways as if she were dodging a puddle. The bandaged hand stayed pinned to her ribs.

“Ravenclaw captain opens strong,” Lee narrated quickly. “Good form. Slytherin captain with textbook defense, very tidy. Oh! Note that footwork.”

Pritchard chained, “Impedimenta! Incarcerous!” The slowing spell rolled, followed by hissing ropes. Linette let the first spell brush her boot, and slid behind a shield the width of a dinner plate, angling it so the ropes kissed its edge and slithered away, like she’d done this before.

“Merlin,” George murmured, “she’s not even breathing hard–whoa!”

Pritchard tilted an Expelliarmus through her guard on a nasty little delay and it skimmed her shoulder, close enough to raise gooseflesh. The barrier caught the overspill and shivered.

“Good read from Ravenclaw!” Lee crowed. “Pritchard’s got the beat. He’s seen the drills–cheers to whoever did that!”

A few students laughed too loud. Slytherin didn’t.

Linette kept giving ground as Pritchard dictated the duel’s rhythm, which felt wrong. She blocked what had to be blocked and slipped what could be slipped. It was like watching a cat navigate table legs in the dark. Not even a flicker of panic; almost like she was bored. Fred found himself leaning forward as he frowned. Linette’s steps were the same length, her guard the same height; but the pauses between blocks were shrinking, just a hair. Not enough for the stands to notice, but enough for his stomach to give a small, curious twist.

“Ledger’s doing work,” Fred muttered. “He’s predicting her tells.” He wanted to believe it, but something in the way Rosier’s wand hand drifted like she was marking out territory made the certainty feel thin.

“Are you sure?” Sophie said without even looking over to him. 

On the platform, Pritchard feinted low with a jolt of Rictusempra then hammered a Stunning spell over the top, and Linette ducked both like she’d been expecting the exact pairing since breakfast. She backed near the edge, heel a foot from a fall, then stopped moving as if she’d hit an invisible line only she could see.

“Rosier’s on the ropes,” Lee called. “Literally! She’ll need to change something–”

Linette’s wand-hand… shifted? No, not that. Crossed her body in one smooth, fluid line. Fred’s eyes followed without his brain catching up. 

What–?

Now, the wand settled in her left like it had been there all morning. The bandage didn’t hamper the grip at all; it cupped the wand perfectly, like a sheath made for this exact blade.

Around them, conversation faltered. A Ravenclaw in the front row leaned forward, lips moving in a muttered count. Somewhere else, a Slytherin jabbed a finger toward the platform, as he whispered hard to the person beside them.

Fred blinked. “That’s–”

“Didn’t you know?” Sophie’s quiet voice came like she’d been waiting for this very moment. “Rosiers breed duelists. Their French branch sits inside the Bureau des Aurors for decades. Rumors say they train their children ambidextrous from six.”

Pritchard fired another Expelliarmus. Linette rotated her shoulder and let it blow past the space her wrist had just vacated. Her return was the first proper attack she’d thrown. A feather-light “Impedimenta,” not even meant to land so much as to interrupt the Ravenclaw’s next spell.

“Import,” Sophie went on as she continued to watch without blinking. “The British branch likely brought in a tutor from Versailles. For the sort of training the Ministry likes in its Aurors.”

Fred snorted. “Fancy import don’t fix an injury. She can’t–” He cut off because the Slytherin captain’s useless-looking left hand flicked, and three spells came sharp and crisp in a staggered rhythm, each one landing a heartbeat out of sync, like drumming with the wrong hand until it suddenly feels right. Pritchard’s shield stuttered, the gaps opening before he knew where to guard. The first clipped his ward, the second forced him to brace, and the third kissed his ankle which made him step crooked.

“She can’t, what?” Sophie asked, and there it was; that little smile like she’d found a coin in a couch. “Who said she was injured today?”

Fred blinked hard before the truth finally slotted into place. The bandage wasn’t protection; it was bait, dangling there for every fool who read a piece of Mulciber’s playbook, him included.

Merlin’s bloody beard.

On the platform, Linette’s bored face shifted by a hair’s breadth into a sharpened focus, as her tempo went up a notch. Her counters slipped between seams like water through cupped fingers. Her feet never crossed as her hips stayed under her. 

Cat, Fred thought helplessly. Not a house cat either. One of the lean, mean ones that had farmers swearing.

“Pritchard trying to reset. He wants his rhythm back,” Lee narrated in a rush, because, let’s be honest, the duel was speeding away from him too. “Rosier’s not letting him have it. Left-hand casting–er, actually–textbook flick! She’s cutting past–oh that’s nasty…”

Linette faked an aim at his wand arm to make him widen his guard, then took the half-second of overcorrection and slid the disarming charm through it. Not even a roar  or dramatic wind-up. Just the right line at the right time.

Pritchard’s wand popped free as if it had been eager to leave. It spun twice before it skated across the platform with a clack, and tipped off the edge, pattering into frozen grass.

The barriers hummed in the silence. Breath smoked and hung. Even the banners seemed to hold still.

It lasted long enough for Fred to decide it was actually funny before the field remembered itself. Lee’s voice returned like someone had jolted him with a pin.

“And that’s–er… Slytherin takes the round! Linette Rosier disarms the Ravenclaw captain with,yes! Very tidy technique! Put your wands together for a–yes, that’s a win!”

The first sound out of Slytherin was a sharp intake of breath, then it turned into a single, feral yell like someone had given a flock of banshees a megaphone. They stood as one, properly, for the first time all afternoon. Stomping, scarves waving, and fists thumping the rail. Someone near the front cried while still cheering. 

The Ravenclaws nearest him blinked, mouths gaping. A few even looked at their cleverest friends like someone had stolen the answer key. Somewhere behind him, someone muttered, “That wasn’t in the drills.”

“Where did the left hand come from?” 

“We didn’t see that in any copy–” 

“Did she–was she even injured?” 

He caught the tail end of someone muttering about the ledger’s missing pages, cut off sharp when another Ravenclaw glared like it was treason.

Fred stared at the platform as Pritchard, white-faced and sporting a brave little nod, went to collect his wand from the grass. Linette gave the smallest of bows to the judges before walking off like she was late for class.

“Lump sum,” Sophie said.

Fred had honestly forgotten she was within arm’s reach. He stared at her silently for a couple of seconds. “Pardon?”

“My winnings,” she replied. “Lump sum. After the match.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How does that– We all saw that stupid playbook. Everyone who can read knows what your team had planned.”

“Did they?” She tilted her head. “Or was it what they thought they knew?”

That… landed somewhere inconvenient. Fred didn’t like it… or maybe he did, a little. Merlin, he hated that he liked it.

“Still one more round,” he said, because it felt like he should say something sane. “Doubles.”

“I know.” She moved to the aisle.

“Where’re you even going?” Fred asked.

“To watch properly.” She stepped sideways past a cluster of spectators and slipped into the aisle, angling down toward the front rail.

On the field, the judges conferred. The Prefect lifted his wand to call the next pair. Fred stared at the locked box which contained the little green jar. In his head, he ran the numbers in his head. 

The wrong house. Nearly everyone. Him and George included.

The barrier hummed on. The cold chewed. Somewhere a row above and two seats over, Cedric was explaining to the two first-years how a disarm worked when the grip was wrong.

Fred settled back onto the plank as the box rested by his boot. It felt heavier than it had ten minutes ago, as if Sophie’s galleons had sunk to the bottom and were pulling the rest down with them.

Sophie’s question, “Are you sure?”, kept repeating in his mind, because honestly…

He wasn’t. Not anymore.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Riev watched the red bolt skim Linette's shoulder and thought, not for the first time, that most reputations were a little like cauldrons; they held until they cracked, and once cracked everyone pretended they'd seen the fissure all along.

Around the dueling platform, the barrier sang in a key only nerves could hear. His teammates had bunched along the touchline with shoulders tensed. No Julian among them; their recently dethroned captain had stormed off after the trio disaster. The ones left had the faces of gamblers who could neither bear to look at the dice nor look away.

After all, this was the coin toss on their reputation. Lose here and Riev could already hear the jokes in the corridors; three years of punchlines, all of them rehearsed with 'remember when the ledgers got out?' stitched in for good measure. Win, and the ledger became a bad memory and a useful myth.

More importantly, a win with Linette at point put a badge on her authority so no fifth-year could pry it off with family money and threats… Not that could work against a Rosier, but that was beside the point.

Riev clasped his hands behind his back so no one would see how badly he wanted to wring them. Then, in a motion so clean it barely counted as movement, Linette's wand changed hands. Bandage be damned.

Riev smiled despite himself. The ledger had given the castle a script, only for Linette to have it shredded, fed to a goat, and used the goat to pull her cart.

Two exchanges later, Pritchard's wand went kissing off the platform edge.

Silence landed, heavy and delicious, and then noise hit like rain on slate, loud enough that his bones felt it. Behind him, someone muttered pious praises to Saint Salazar. On his right, another wiped the tears with his scarf while crying.

As Linette returned from the platform, the team surged to swallow her with congratulations. She endured them with a slow exhale, her thumb grazing the bandage at her wrist, and a fractional twitch at the corner of her mouth. Then she walked past all of them and came to stop in front of Riev.

"Left hand." He lifted his brows. "Bold. Your wrist can't love you for it."

She rotated the joint carefully as her fingers flexed before settling. "It loves me more than it did last year. Fewer idiots aim for it now." She met his eyes. "Besides, you don't beat Pritchard on the right. Not without weeks we don't have."

"So," Riev said, "we lie."

"We performed," she said, which might as well be Slytherin for the same thing. She turned her head. "Where's Selkirk?"

Riev thumbed left. Marcellus was stretching like a man who thought flexibility could save his soul. "Didn't sleep much," Riev said. "Nerves and excitement had a baby."

"And you?"

"I'm a portrait of serenity. See?" He held up his trembling hands.

She looked at him the way one looks at a riddle that might be worth the time, then tipped her chin. "We stick to the plan."

"We stick to the plan." He nodded.

Two nights earlier, when the dueling room still smelled like singed leather and Mulciber's ruined pride, Linette had told the team she needed to speak to Riev about his shield charm. The rest of them filed out in ones and twos, grumbling about homework and stew. Marcellus lingered halfway to the door.

"Go," Riev told him. "Tell the soup I love it."

Marcellus hesitated, then nodded before he left.

Sophie had already been there since the start of today's practice. No one still noticed her when she blended the room like she had been part of the furnishings. A neat little trick only she could pull off.

When the door thudded shut, Riev hopped up onto the edge of the platform. "So, not my shoddy shields, then."

Linette's mouth twitched. "The shields are shoddy."

Riev spread his hands. "Tragic. I'll write them a condolence letter." He looked past her and at the ledger ghost still haunting the room. "This is about the team."

She nodded. "We don't have time to fix everything before Saturday. Changing drills takes weeks. They'll second-guess themselves out there."

Her eyes slotted to Sophie who approached them. "Did it have to be the whole school?"

"It's mostly Mulciber's tactics," Sophie replied. "And I salted the fields. Half-fakes between the real. Your veterans can run their old routes and still be less readable than they look on parchment."

Linette folded her arms. "You salted our confidence too."

Riev swung his legs idly. "Why not put me and Selkirk on doubles?"

Two sets of eyebrows raised as both girls looked over to him.

"We only joined this circus in September," Riev continued. "Ledger doesn't have anything worth stealing on us. Ravenclaw fancies themselves efficient; they'll want it over in two. Captain goes second. If they win the trio, they expect Pritchard to tidy up. They'll staff doubles light. Third-years, if they're sensible. Possibly the same ones who flinch when you say 'boo.'"

Linette raised an eyebrow. "And can you and Selkirk handle not dying?"

"Absolutely not," Riev said cheerfully.

Linette scowled. "Then why suggest it?"

"Because," Sophie said before he could, "he can use not dying as a weapon."

"She does read me best." Riev tipped his sister a little bow before turning his captain. "The school thinks we're meat on a hook. Their guards are down; ours are up by necessity." He tapped the platform with his heel. "Selkirk can hold a shield if you tell him when and where. He just can't read the first paragraph of a fight to save his life, but he reacts fast."

"So you read and he listens." Linette's half-lidded eyes stared at the floor as she mused. "And you, Maximilian?"

"The madman measuring angles," Riev said. "I'm a natural."

Linette traced the rim of her wand's holster for three beats before meeting his eyes. "Fine. You and Selkirk on doubles. Keep him alive; I don't care if you have to physically push him out of the crossfire."

Present returned with the sound of Slytherins at the spectator stands behaving like they'd discovered the concept of joy. Linette rolled her wrist one last time and then glanced toward the platform. The Hufflepuff Prefect was conferring with the judges.

"Selkirk," Riev called.

Marcellus came over like a wind-up tin soldier with his back straight and hands tight. He flinched when Riev slung an arm over his shoulders. "Relax."

"How," Marcellus asked through his teeth, "exactly am I supposed to relax?"

"Think of soup," Riev said. "Think of a Gryffindor dropping books. Think of Snape smiling."

The last part was probably a terrible mental image because Marcellus made a strangled sound.

Riev pulled Marcellus closer as he whispered, "Look, just remember the code. You know the drill."

"I know the drill." Marcellus swallowed. "I also know I'm going to die in front of the entire school."

"Not if you keep your Protego up where I tell you," Riev said. "You're good at the bit I'm bad at. You hear me, you move. That's it."

Marcellus nodded. A little too many times.

Their names were called. Riev's stomach did its polite little swoop, the way it always did right before the dice left his fingers. He patted Marcellus's shoulder twice before they headed toward the platform.

"Doubles!" Lee sang. "Slytherin fields Maximilian and Selkirk, both second years. Ravenclaw answers with–ah… Bates and Whitby, third years. Solid record, clever counters. This should be–er… something."

Bates and Whitby looked like boys who had been told they'd only need to clap today.

Good.

"Afternoon," Riev told them quietly as they stepped into the center of the platform. "I apologize in advance. We were only just dragged into this last night. New captain thought we'd be saved by her heroics in round two."

One of them snorted; the other tried not to. Marcellus's hands shook despite trying to hide his nerves.

Even better.

"Kindly go easy on him," Riev added with a wide grin as his head jerked toward Marcellus.

Bates gave a sympathetic little shrug. Whitby's mouth made the shape of "don't worry" and the "we won't look bad doing it" at the same time.

Perfect.

They bowed. The Prefect called begin.

Ravenclaw did what Ravenclaw was always going to do. Target the perceived threat. The first Stunning spell came for Marcellus's chest.

"Boggart!" Riev shouted at full volume, and Marcellus jumped closer to Riev like he'd been yanked on a string. The spell went past his hip and smoked in the barrier.

The Ravenclaw boys blinked. Lee, up in his box, tried to keep a straight face but failed. "And Maximilian announces, er… boggarts? That's new. Selkirk with the sensible dodge! Ravenclaw combining, that's pretty–"

"Grindylow!" Riev sang out as an Impedimenta skimmed ankle-height. Marcellus hopped diagonally back, throwing his shield low and forward, overlapping with Riev's space. A fraction too late and too thin, but enough.

Whitby kept pouring clean work at Marcellus; Bates tried to herd Riev the other way. That was fine; Riev had always been happy to be herded so long as he was the one choosing where.

He kept moving left and right while flinging spells that looked like homework done on the walk to class. "Rictusempra!" long and lazy; "Incarcerous!" late by a beat; "Expelliarmus!" a touch off the wrist.

Let them laugh.

"Maximilian perhaps has a fever," Lee narrated for the crowd. "His wandwork looks–and this is a technical term–rubbish."

Every time Riev shouted a beast, Marcellus did exactly what he needed: jumped, slid, cut the angle. "Doxy!" meant peel to his own left and throw a shield through the line of fire; "Erumpent!" meant double up at the ribs; "Murtlap!" meant let the slowing hex graze his sleeve and roll with it.

To a bystander, it sounded like a mad child compiling a menagerie. But to Riev, it was a map with good names.

"You're insane," Whitby told him between spells at Selkirk. "You know that?"

Riev beamed. "It's part of my charm."

Whitby's Petrificus came hard, straight for Marcellus.

"Kneazle!" Riev barked, and Marcellus threw his shield at the last second. The Body-Bind slapped into it and chewed an ugly crease out of the rim. Marcellus flinched but didn't break formation. He shifted half a step back toward Riev, shields overlapping again. The boy's hands were steady now; the fear had shifted into the useful kind.

"Acromantula!" Riev yelled, then sent two successive Stunning spells; one high, one at elbow height.

Bates didn't like that; he had to decide which part of his body mattered more and his wand jerked to cover the top. The low one slid.

"Now," Riev murmured, because the pattern had a seam and all he needed was a finger to pick at it. "Basilisk!"

Marcellus stepped right and sent a Petrificus that didn't try to be clever. It went exactly where the gap would be when Bates corrected for the low Stupefy.

The third-year went rigid and toppled like a felled lamp and caught by the platform.

Riev thought the whole castle had stopped breathing with him. Even Lee, who never shut up, made only a strangled noise in the box. "Selkirk–bloody hell. That–that's one Ravenclaw down! Very tidy Body-Bind–Madam Pomfrey says hi!"

Whitby's face said a number of unkind words in a language no one's mother taught them. And when Riev met the Ravenclaw's eyes, he saw the cogs turning in the third-year's head; one, that the nonsense was not nonsense at all, and two, that he'd been kind to the wrong person.

Whitby swung his wand to Riev and came hard and clean, driving him back toward the platform's edge.

Right, Riev thought. Now we stop being funny.

He threw himself sideways under a Stupefy that would have asked awkward questions of his spleen. He chose to trip, which was not to say he wanted it but that he accepted it with grace. He landed awkwardly, skidding on the floor, and came up on one knee.

From there the world looked different. Low to the ground, he saw Whitby braced forward at the centre line, weight pitched on his toes. Marcellus hovered three paces off Riev's right shoulder with his shield high. Whitby's wand tip quivered, just once; the faint, tell-tale shiver of a grip starting to slip.

Marcellus had the good instinct to shoot at Whitby; but the bad instinct to do it in straight lines. Three spells thumped Whitby's shield like a polite debt collector. The fourth ricocheted off the barrier and tried to scalp Riev in passing.

"Sorry!" Marcellus yelped.

"Never apologize to my hair. It's a menace," Riev hissed, because it sounded wise and he needed Selkirk to laugh and break the brittle edge. The boy huffed something like a giggle and squared his shoulders before stepping in closer to Riev's flank.

Whitby pressed; Stun, bind, then slow. He wanted Riev pinned. He wanted a head to put on a pike and parade.

"Augurey!" Riev called as he flung a flimsy Rictusempra to make Whitby tilt his wand; "Lethifold!" to tell Selkirk to cut the corner and cover that side; "Occamy!" to cue a narrow shield and a turn-in. The words were stupid, but the geometry was not.

A Stunning spell came and Riev rolled under it and felt the heat skimming his hair. When he came up, his palm slipped; he went down to a knee with a graceless grunt.

From the low angle he saw it all; Whitby's stance leaning too far with his elbows splayed, his eyes already chasing the next move instead of the current one. The tiniest seam.

Merlin, bless your mercy. Riev dragged air into his lungs and gave the last piece. "Fire crab!"

For once, Marcellus didn't ask why a mild, unhappy creature from warm beaches meant a beat-and-disarm.

Riev snapped a jolt at Whitby's lead knee, just enough to buckle him half a step off balance. As Whitby's weight shifted, the disarming charm threaded the gap and hit square. Whitby's wand left his hand as it spun toward the barrier, and dropped into the grass with a tick.

For a moment Riev could only hear his own heart. He lay on his back a second longer than he should have and stared at the sky, before he started laughing because the only other option was crying and that seemed gauche.

Marcellus's face appeared over him. "We did it," he said with that strangled delight in his voice. "Bloody hell. We actually did it."

"The French call this art," Riev said. He reached for Marcellus's outstretched hand as he let himself be hauled up. "This will only work once. Next time, they'll bring earplugs and dictionaries."

"I thought…" Marcellus was shaking again, his lips wobbling. "When you fell–"

"I prefer the phrase 'sudden tactical recline,'" Riev said. Then he watched the stands as he came up and bowed to the crowd with a flourish.

Slytherin sounded like they'd all found their lungs at once; the rail shook under fists that had been limp an hour ago. He caught sight of a fifth-year screaming with his face to the ceiling like he'd invented joy, and a seventh balanced on a bench bellowing about loyalty. Across the way, Ravenclaws blinked at the mess as if someone had stolen their clean script. Hufflepuffs, bless them, clapped like it was good manners. Gryffindors couldn't decide whether to laugh at Ravenclaw or mourn the galleons they'd just tossed to the twins' little blue jar.

Up in the commentators' box, Lee had stopped talking long enough to breathe, then remembered his job and declared something about strategy and lunacy.

Riev and Marcellus came down off the platform. Hands thumped their backs. A fourth-year hugged Marcellus so hard the boy wheezed. Someone grabbed Riev's head, kissed his hair, and vanished before he could object. He liked Slytherin better like this; unashamed of being happy.

Linette stood a little apart from Sophie who was beside her; the two of them were cut from the same blank cloth, both too composed to be thirteen and twelve. Linette's bandage was gone now; Sophie's braid had loosened a thread which in of itself was a statement. Sophie smoothed the crease in her skirt, which, in Maximilian, meant I permit you to exist.

"No hug?" Riev said, spreading his arms.

"I could recommend you to the Moret branch," Sophie said without a blink.

"You could also consider the Rosiers," Linette added. "The French branch sends their regards."

"No," Riev said promptly. "I don't duel for fun. Fun is a chair in the greenhouse and a professor who doesn't know I'm there."

A fifth-year clattered by with news like a brass pot. "Common room! Whole House's going down."

"What about Mulciber–" A fourth-year asked.

The fifth-year snorted. "Mulciber can sulk with the suits of armor."

"Will Snape let us?" a third-year asked, suddenly remembering they lived under an autocratic government.

"Seventh-years are negotiating," someone else said. "If not, courtyard."

"In December?" Riev said. "Nothing says celebration like frostbite."

They began to move as a group. Riev hung back while Sophie matched his step without trying. Ahead, Linette had been devoured by congratulations. Marcellus trotted nearby with the joy of a boy who had earned a nice present for Christmas.

A billow of wings. Érebos swooped and landed on Sophie's shoulder like a herald from a mildly inconvenient underworld and tapped his beak at her hair.

Riev sighed at the bird. "Hello, you delightful omen."

Sophie slipped the ribbon from the raven's leg and held the heavy envelope. Riev watched the set of her brows go from relaxed to something that had an opinion.

"This way," she murmured to Riev without looking at him before turning toward a side corridor. Nobody noticed them peel away.

They ducked into an empty classroom. The room had chalk dust in the smell as the fading sunlight pooled across the floorboards. Sophie shut the door with her heel and laid out the letter on a desk. Her fingers hovered it carefully.

"Place your bets," Riev said as he leaned his hip against a desk and tilted his head at the letter. "Three galleons on Father opening with 'well done' and then reminding us we owe the family three victories, two betrayals, and a minor holy war."

Sophie remained silent as her eyes read the contents. Her mouth curled downward. Uh-oh. A frown from his sister meant only two things; irreversible miscalculation or bad news.

"What now?" Riev asked softly.

"Council." She folded the letter in half. "With the other branches. Christmas break."

Riev let out a breath he didn't remember saving. Council meant uncles and wands that looked like smiles. It meant old business. And most importantly, it meant they would either be paraded or executed.

"What is a holiday without a room full of people who'd sell you for a better chair?" Riev sighed. "I'll bring biscuits."

"We'll need to prepare," Sophie said.

"We always do," he said and grinned at her. "On the bright side, we just engineered a win out of a ledger full of lies and a captain who hides hexes in bandages. How hard can family be?"

She gave him the look she reserves for people who should know better. "Harder."

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

CHRISTOPHER

Snow pressed against the windows, fogging the leaded panes and turning the lawn into a blank field. The Council Room held its line against the cold, with its dark, high-backed chairs waiting like patient judges. The long table kept its polish as the family crest watched from above the mantle. On the deep sill a battered chessboard sat as if someone had only stepped away to pour a drink. The air hummed with the soft ward-song that had been stitched into the plaster a century ago.

Christopher placed his hand against the northern chair. The wood had memorized the weight of his family and would hold it for another two hundred years, provided he did his work now.

It would be the twins' first time before the full Council. They had spoken to branch heads in corridors, to tutors and auditors; but never to all of it at once.

Sophie had sent her letter the night the ledger went missing, Érebos tapping at his window like a hurried clerk. She wrote as if arranging furniture. Mulciber humiliated, Rosier leveraged, Slytherin stabilized; Snape handled.

When he had read it the second time, he could imagine the arguments tonight; Valmont would sniff at process, Bellefort would praise the entertainment provided for him, Moret would count throats and resent that any wand had been borrowed from a Rosier rack instead of forged in their own.

These meetings had a habit of turning into fencing bouts disguised as family unity. He knew the tempo. Let the branches declare themselves and clatter; then, once silence settled, fix the room.

The first knock came before Gaspard de Valmont, the Head of the Maximilian's branch in Versailles, entered wearing his immaculate legal robes, and silver-blond hair combed so precisely one doubted it ever moved at all.

He gave a short incline of his head. "Christophe."

"Uncle." Christopher gestured to the right-hand chair that had been Gaspard's for twenty years. Gaspard took it without looking at it, then arranged a single folder in front of him and placed his hands to either side.

Correntin arrived from Bordeaux as if the corridor were a ballroom and the room his personal stage. A brush of cologne, discreet and expensive. Shrugging his fur-lined cloak from his shoulders, he did it with the flair of someone who knew where every eye would go. He kissed the air at either side of Christopher's face. "War," he said while smiling as he sat, "may be terrible for profits but can be excellent for trade."

"You'll make that sound respectable before midnight," Christopher said.

"I already have," Correntin replied, folding himself into the chair as if lounging were a strategy. Brown hair perfectly disobedient and eyes bright, he would be amused now, combative in twenty minutes, and ruthless at the hour.

Théodore de Moret came last of the uncles who confirmed their presence to be on time tonight. Clipped stride with his posture upright, he crossed a threshold. He inclined his head to Christopher with politeness he did not extend to the others. Then his gaze panned the room as if counting exits. The mention of Rosier would narrow those eyes, which Christopher expected tonight.

"Evening," Théodore said, but his tone said report.

"Sit," Christopher said. "We'll keep this clean."

Once the branch Heads took their places, Christopher lifted his hand and the door opened again. "Enter."

The twins crossed the threshold together. Riev entered with that careless gait he used like a weapon. Meanwhile, Sophie's steps held a straight line where there was none.

Christopher gestured a hand toward Riev. "Report." It cost him nothing and bought him three reactions he wanted.

Riev smiled. "Slytherin's glorious victory–"

Correntin laughed immediately. "Ah! I knew I backed the correct horse. Did you bow for the crowd, mon garçon?"

"I tripped," Riev said cheerfully. "With style."

Théodore's jaw hardened. "You won a school exhibition."

"A match," Riev said mildly, tipping his head toward Sophie. "With money riding on it. Which, I admit, improved my focus."

"We will not dignify gambling," Gaspard said without looking away from the twins. "Spare me the unnecessary details."

Riev sketched the afternoon the way he always did: color first, then line. Trio lost. Linette's bandage. Pritchard overconfident. Switch of hand. The disarm that embarrassed logic. Their own round–codes shouted and a boy saved, before the inevitable disruption of patterns. He built the tale quick and light and dropped his little asides like coins for Correntin, barbs for Théodore, and speed-bumps for Gaspard.

The room quieted for a heartbeat as snow pressed harder at the windows. Christopher watched each Head lean forward by fractions.

"You make chaos sound like strategy," Théodore said finally.

"Sometimes," Riev said as he glanced at Sophie, "they're the same if you do it right."

Christopher let his gaze move with the words; Théodore stiffening, Correntin brightening, Gaspard's jaw tightening. Positions declared, lines drawn. The board was already showing its shape, even if none of them would admit it yet.

Gaspard tapped a finger once on his folder. "Linette Rosier's appointment?"

"De facto," Christopher said. "Mulciber stumbled. The room needed a spine. She provided one. They will formalize after the holiday."

"As you intended?" Gaspard asked Sophie without turning his head.

"No," Sophie said. "As I allowed."

Correntin laughed again at that. "Mon dieu, she is your child, Christophe."

"She is the family's," Christopher said. His tone remained flat, but in the quiet between syllables he felt the small, dangerous spark of pride; quick, unwise, then gone.

"Now we speak of method." He nodded to Sophie who had been waiting for her turn.

"Mulciber relied on a ledger," she said. No apology for the trap. "It contained more of his drills than the team's. We introduced false notes. When it circulated, it punished him more than the others."

"You created House instability to remove a child from a school post. Humiliating him." Gaspard's lips thinned. "Men with fathers remember humiliation longer than pain. The Mulciber patriarchs have been on Avery's lists since the first war. You will invite an alliance against you and your brother should they trace this back to you."

Correntin waved a hand as if brushing ash from a cuff. "Instability draws attention. Attention can be shepherded. Avery will defend Mulciber so long as it costs him nothing. Shift the cost and he will discover his principles are flexible. He has coins with our crests stamped into them."

"Your answer to everything is a threat wrapped in a banker's smile," Théodore said. "Mulcibers may be loud and stupid, but that makes them useful. Rosiers? They are quiet and patient, which makes them dangerous."

"Yes, but Julian's a bit of a prick." Riev muttered.

"Language," Christopher said without heat.

"Sorry Father." Yet Riev's sheepish grin lacked any sincerity.

Théodore's eyes sharpened toward Sophie. "Do you trust a Rosier?" He had worn a uniform too long to pretend neutrality on this point.

"I trust interest and motivation," Sophie said. "She wants to win. We offered her a win."

"And how does Cresswell fit?" Christopher asked. There, the brief pause. Her eyes shifted by a fraction, always to the left, when she was choosing which truth to spend. And Riev, that brief glance at his sister. His son had no idea of this part of the plan.

Good to have that confirmed.

"Professor Snape was suspicious," Sophie said. "About my alibi regarding my presence in the duelling room. Then the ledger afterwards. He called me in. I needed a larger problem for him to prefer to mine. Hence, I provided one."

"By drafting a dossier," Christopher said. "On a child."

"On the harm being done to a student. Under his House," she said, and despite keeping her tone even, there was a certain strain to her voice he had never heard from her before. "He could ignore me. He could not ignore a paper trail that touches the Board."

"Snape had already cornered Marcellus, er–Selkirk. Remember, my Selwyn roommate." Riev added, quick to adapt in protecting his sister's back, as expected. "He opened his bag, luckily only found a drawing of himself as a bat. We were all very impressed by the anatomical detail."

Correntin raised an eyebrow. "And he just let him go?"

"No, he gave Marcellus detention for that work of art." Riev grinned.

"Ah, the English." Correntin snorted. "No sense of humor."

Christopher narrowed his eyes. "Correntin." His cousin merely waved a dismissive hand.

"Exposure," Gaspard said, mercifully steering the conversation back before Correntin began his own set of complaints about the British. "You documented harassment. If this becomes public you will be the story. A family with our reputation will not enjoy that paragraph once it's printed in The Daily Prophet."

"Then we control the follow-up," Correntin said. "Look at me and see a man who has spent more than two decades feeding stories to men who think they invented letters."

"We control what we can touch," Théodore said. "Some of this will move in rooms without doors."

"Which is why," Christopher said, "we do not throw our names at this. She gave Snape an answer. He had the good sense to take it. He will carry the weight we wanted him to carry." He let his gaze rest on Sophie. "And he will remember that you could have done worse."

The door swung open on the back of a mutter. Bertrand de Montreuil slipped in with his hair standing out at three enthusiastic angles, his robes scorched at the hem. "Apologies," he said to the air between chairs. "I am hours–hours–from a breakthrough. The last subject lasted nearly half a minute before the veins collapsed."

"That would be a first," Théodore murmured without turning his head.

Ignoring the comment, Bertrand's gaze landed on the twins. "Ah. Children. Good." He planted his hands on the table and leaned toward them. "Your eyes. Did either of you–any disturbances? A humming at the edges when you are angry? Unusual magical traces? Some children fracture in spectacular ways. I would very much like to see it when it happens."

"Bertrand," Christopher said. "We will have that discussion after the meeting."

Bertrand opened his mouth but closed it immediately, and subsided into a seat with the flustered compliance of a man who had never been told no and did not know what to do with the word when it arrived.

As the meeting continued, Christopher let the questioning run another five minutes; Gaspard on signatures and witnesses, Correntin on narrative arcs and who could be introduced to whom, Théodore on contingency plans if a Mulciber boy with a short wand and a longer memory brought friends. The twins kept up. Good. They were not to be indulged tonight; only measured.

"Enough," Christopher said at last, turning his gaze toward his children. "You have done your part. You're dismissed."

Riev flashed a cheeky grin, while Sophie inclined her head. They withdrew without looking over their shoulders. As he watched the door closing, he took a slow breath.

"Interesting investment," Correntin said as he leaned back. "The girl moves like a banker and a thief at once."

"More like liability," Gaspard said. "The British will sniff. They are very good at that when the scent offends their sense of themselves."

"Yet you ensured that all their records are clean." Correntin grinned.

"As is necessary," Gaspard replied sharply. "The family cannot afford the scandal." His gaze went to Théodore and then held steady.

Théodore snorted softly. "My people cleaned what needed cleaning. The old name is dead in more places than one. No one remembers what we did not permit them to remember."

"It still grieves me that we sealed Black's signature." Bertrand sighed heavily. "The eyes would have been useful. Do you know the secrets hidden behind old bloods? All the songs they sing. A dozen pathways I can't open now. And now we are surrounded by museums of the living, and you insist we keep–"

"Your other projects are well-funded," Christopher said. "Excellently. You will focus on them."

"I am." Bertrand huffed. "I am studying the responses of lesser organisms. They resist instruction."

Correntin laughed into his hand. Théodore looked as if he wanted to put the "lesser organisms" out of its misery. Gaspard massaged the bridge of his nose.

"We move on," Christopher said. "The Boy-Who-Lived."

Correntin's eyes lit up while Théodore's jaw set as if bracing for an impact he'd rather deliver than receive. Gaspard adjusted a paper by a millimeter; it stayed where it should.

"Entering next year," Christopher continued, "Hogwarts. The British will make a fuss of it. On top of our pair already there."

"The English love their little boggarts." Correntin chuckled.

"Downplay him at your peril," Théodore said without heat. "He is the only reason the Dark Lord is a story and not a government."

"Stories are governments," Correntin replied.

Bertrand tilted his head. "Another curious child," he said dreamily. "I wonder, what sings in the blood. What line lends a baby that kind of spite?"

"Victoire will be pulling the archives," Gaspard said. "Possible French ties, if any. She can also write to her British acquaintances in their Department of Mysteries."

"Since when did they share their secrets?" Théodore raised an eyebrow.

"They will pretend to know nothing," Correntin replied. "Then they will know something in a week."

"Whatever his lineage may be," Christopher said, "there are men in Britain who will take him for a symbol. Some of them are exactly the sort we prefer poor and far away. If they decide he is a Dark Lord to rally around, or even a convenient shadow to hide their own projects behind, we will see their noise bleed over the water."

"You expect another war," Correntin said lightly, despite the slight tightness in his voice.

"I expect men to repeat themselves," Christopher said. "Whether it becomes a war depends on how quickly the British remember every lesson they swear they learned nine years ago."

Christopher glanced at Théodore. "Assume spillover and refugees."

"And if they asked us to pick a side?" Théodore asked.

Gaspard lifted his chin a degree. "Neutrality protects us only if we exercise it carefully. The moment we are seen to favor one faction, the other will make us their target."

"Then we do what we have always done," Correntin said. "Sell to both and bleed for none."

"Both? We will not arm madness," Théodore glared at Correntin.

"Then we sell rope and insist we don't know what it's for," Correntin said smoothly. "Details are for the buyers' conscience."

"The rope has to pass our border first," Gaspard said. "And the men carrying it do not get to vanish in our streets."

"More importantly," Christopher said, "France refrains from picking a side in a quarrel it has no business with." He turned to his uncle. "Valmont will draft the legal posture with the Ministry. Keep them explicitly neutral. Assistance in humanitarian lanes only. Stipulate that our institutions remain outside British jurisdiction. Draft the letters for the ICW so that if London tries to drag us into someone else's theater, they trip on the paperwork."

Gaspard inclined his head. "I'll have three versions by New Year's Day."

"Bellefort." Christopher turned to Correntin. "Move the liquidity we hold in the wrong names. The ones likely to become useful hostages. Wind down exposure to any British family who imagines speeches are collateral. Quietly. If they notice, let them think we are making room for different investments."

Correntin's smile thinned. "The bank has already cooled the vaults. We can shutter London in a night without a rumor leaving the corridors. I'll prepare a charitable narrative."

Christopher's attention shifted toward Théodore. "Moret will write the contingency plans. Three layers. If British violence remains British. If it leaks into Brittany. If a man on the wrong list crosses our borders. Train a handful of Aurors who know how to end a fight without a headline."

Théodore nodded once. "I'll have my people ready."

"Bertrand," Christopher finally turned to the Montreuil Head who hid his interest behind an air of indifference. "Focus on research; no tests you cannot explain at breakfast. We cannot afford the papers looking into our activities."

"I'm always discreet," Bertrand replied, frowning.

"Not with the last three research I had to clean up," Correntin mumbled. "The French Alps can't shield them from the press."

"Moreover," Christopher continued. "If you find an artifact that will tempt a British fool to cross a border, we will lock it in a case and throw the case in a lake."

"What of Britain?" Théodore asked. "We need people there–our own."

"We are not there," Christopher said. "Officially."

"Unofficially?"

"Have three operatives who know how to stay poor. They will observe without becoming heroes. If they find a line that leads to our door, they cut it. Gently."

"The boy?" Théodore asked.

"Do not touch the boy," Christopher said. "We neither bless nor damn him. We will know who walks near him and why."

"Neutrality," Correntin said in a way where the word sounded like wine. "The only virtue that pays its rent."

Gaspard shifted the page back the millimeter he had moved it earlier. "There will be British who come to us and ask for 'support'."

"Give them our condolences," Christopher said. "And a donation to the right hospital. We protect France. If we decide to assist any particular person, it will be because the math pleases the family."

There was only silence as the wards hummed a little brighter around them.

They argued, as they always did. Correntin wanted more visibility at the Ministry; Théodore wanted less. Gaspard objected to a hypothetical communiqué of a paper that had not been printed yet. Bertrand drifted into a brief discussion with himself about whether basilisk gall respected hierarchy. Christopher let them run and pulled the lines tight just before they knotted. He did not repeat himself. He never had to in this room.

By the time the bell in the west wing tolled the hour, the shape of things had been laid: memos drafted in heads that would become instructions by dawn.

Christopher rose. The chair did not protest. Neither did the room.

"We will reconvene on the fifth day of the new year," he said. "Send the drafts by raven."

Gaspard stood; his robes did not crease. He inclined his head in a motion that would have looked like respect from any man less certain of being right. He left without further noise.

Correntin took longer; a hand on Christopher's shoulder as he murmured about a case of Pomerol he was sending as a Christmas insult. He swept out and left warmth behind him.

Théodore paused at the door. "If the Rosier girl points a wand toward us," he said, "I will expect an answer that is not an essay."

"You'll have it," Christopher said.

Théodore nodded. He left with the stride of a man who would rather fight a war than talk about one, but who would do both if commanded.

Bertrand blinked as if waking. "May I–"

"No," Christopher said.

"Unfortunate," Bertrand said, already halfway out the door.

The room exhaled when the last ward released the last signature. The hum smoothed. The snow was only snow again. Christopher placed a hand on the back of the northern chair for a heartbeat.

He turned away and left the Council Room, the corridors swallowing his footsteps as he searched the château for Sophie.

Eventually, he found her in the east study where the snow made the windows ghostly. The room had been pared down to clean shelves and a desk, a single leather chair by the window, another by the wall, and a little table with a chessboard waiting beside his daughter.

Sophie sat with her back straight as her hands rested in her lap. The wards hummed their thin thread through the timber. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked as if accounting for a debtor.

"You didn't tell the whole truth," Christopher said.

Slowly, she turned her head enough to be polite. The lamp picked up the ice in her eyes. "About what?"

"The Cresswell brief, you framed it as cover for Snape." He crossed the carpet, which did not complain. "Yet you requested those records several days before the ledger went missing."

Silence held for a count as he watched the small muscles along the jaw set and release; a thought weighed, but not discarded.

"You taught me," she said at last, "to be careful about what I tell them."

"I did." He then pulled the other chair from the wall and set it opposite hers across the chessboard. The pieces were scattered from the last game someone had abandoned mid-argument. He began to set them to rights with black to his hand. She shifted, and as he had expected, laid out white in quiet but precise motions. Kings centered, queens beside it, bishops aloof, knights crouched, rooks shouldering the corners, and finally, pawns in a clean line like peasants before a levy.

"White," he said.

She nodded. She did not ask if he wanted to change. He would have said no.

She pushed her king's pawn two squares. Simple and honest. The economy of her gesture almost made him smile; it was his own lesson staring back at him.

Christopher advanced his own pawn two, met her in the middle, left the invitation to trade. She took. He recaptured without ceremony. He developed a knight; she answered with one of her own.

"What do you gain," he asked, as he slid a bishop to challenge her center, "from protecting Cresswell?"

"Leverage," she said, moving a pawn one square instead of two. "Rosier sees we protect assets, ours or theirs. The Romanos will know we noticed. That alone unsettles Mulciber's allies."

He castled short. He preferred safety when the middle-game would be violent. "And the girl herself?"

"She is useful," Sophie said as she moved a Knight to f3, not leaping anywhere risky yet. "She notices cursed objects. Faster than anyone in the school. Keeping her upright costs us nothing, but costs others dearly if they try to topple her."

The diction was correct. He brought his queen to the center. He would trade her for position if required. He had always been willing to sell diamonds to buy a battlefield.

Sophie's fingers hesitated a fraction before pushing a bishop to c4. He watched the hesitation which did not match the sentence that followed. "And Professor Snape cannot pursue me while holding a dossier that might be read by the governors." Her gaze remained on the board. "He prefers to keep his House out of newspapers."

"What did Mulciber do," he said, "that made you decide humiliation was preferable to a smooth exit?"

Instead of answering, Sophie looked at the snow until he understood she was buying a second to choose her next words. She touched the head of her queen's knight as if to test its balance and then withdrew. For a moment he saw the child who once reached for pieces she could not yet name. He closed that door before it weakened the board between them.

"He made a habit," she said with her voice even, "of making a girl perform his jokes in front of a crowd. He threatened her father's position if she refused. He called her what he wanted to call her." She selected a different piece, and developed her other bishop.

"You could have removed him without a crowd," Christopher said, and advanced a pawn where it was certain to be taken later. Sacrifices were not romantic; they were arithmetic. "Yet you chose a public execution."

"He deserved it," she said sharply. He saw the quick check of breath akin to a practiced hand that smoothed the cloth after spilling wine. For an instant he wanted to tell her that yes, anger was allowed; that even he once raged. But a patriarch had no use for softness. Thus, the father stayed silent.

He traded his advanced pawn for space and tempo, and she took it. He swung a knight where it did not belong, on purpose. She tightened her defense, and preserved her pawns like coins in an account that had to last the winter. He leaned on her center with a rook she would have expected him to save. He did not.

They played three moves without speaking. Her style was a map of her; lines neat and pawns guarded, with trades made only when the sums pleased her. He forced a file open with a rook and a minor piece and did not mourn when one fell; the other rolled into the gap.

"You are attached," he said, as he offered a bishop to destroy her pawn chain. "To keeping your pawns alive."

"They win endings," she said, and declined the bait, shoring up with another pawn instead. The formation looked tidy; it also looked brittle.

"They do if you reach an ending," he said, and gave up the bishop anyway. The capture tore open the diagonal. Her face remained still. She recaptured, of course. No need to pretend that he had shown her something she did not see. He pushed his queen hard, and now the board sounded different: the soft clack of a plan accelerating.

"What else," he asked, and took one of her knights with his rook, knowing it would die, "does protecting Cresswell give you?"

"Nothing of sentimental value," she said, and placed her queen between his attack and her king with a neat economy that irritated and pleased him at once. "Rosier owes me one future silence. Slytherin learned they will not be rewarded for incompetence. And Professor Snape learned he is not the only one who can count."

The tone held, but the throat did not. There was strain at the word "learned" that told him what he wanted to know; this was not only arithmetic to her. He filed the fact and would return to it when he did not need the game to teach the same lesson.

He built pressure with small, ugly moves. Rook to the open file. Knight to the square nobody liked in the opening but everyone admired in the middle. A pawn advance that looked foolish until it wasn't. He let a tactic hang, visible to anyone who wanted a little blood; she refused it, and by refusing, ceded time. Time which won games.

"You could have eased him out," he said again, wanting to hear whether the word would still cut. "You didn't."

She moved a pawn one square. Neither an admission, nor a denial. "Some men," she said quietly, "only learn in front of witnesses."

He nodded once. She had chosen the crowd because the boy had chosen a crowd. Despite the years of Maximilian training, she was still human underneath it all. As the family patriarch, this should be a point of concern. But as a father, it only brought him relief. He put a rook on her second rank and let it sit there.

Almost all of her pawns were intact. They were also in her way. She saved another with a king move that would look neat in a book, and in doing it, lost the initiative. He gave a check with a knight that forced an awkward block. He traded his queen for the last of her active pieces and did not blink. She looked surprised and then her lips curled into a scowl at herself for being surprised.

"You protect your pawns," he said as he brought the second rook down the file his first had opened. "You starve your bishops. Your knights run out of squares."

"They are still mine," she said, shoring again with little walls of white. "I haven't thrown them away to look clever."

"You have spent six moves," he said almost gently, "fussing with three pawns that will never see the eighth rank."

He drove his rook to the back line. She found a tidy check and bought two moves of air. He walked his king to where the rook wanted him. He coordinated a knight and rook in a pattern every child learned and most adults forgot under pressure. When the mating net was obvious, she did not waste dignity on delaying checks. She looked at the board, found the only resource left, and used it.

It bought nothing.

"Check," he said. He could have murmured it, but chose to say it plain. Two more moves. Her king had run out of squares that weren't worse.

"Checkmate."

The word hung in the study with the snow and the thread of the wards. He let his hand rest on the rook a second and then took it away. She stared at what she had left; a king safe behind the last intact pawns, a rook pinned to a duty it could not perform, a queen taken in a trade she had not wanted to be forced to make.

The chair edged back without scrape as he stood.

"Every move on the board has a price," he said. He did not raise his voice. "Each time you protect one pawn, you may be sacrificing the whole game."

Her gaze remained glued on the chessboard. He watched the way her jaw set. He could not decide yet whether that would save her or make her dangerous to herself. Briefly, he wished he could simply be her father, teaching her pawns and knights without the weight of futures in their moves. Then he closed the thought away as he always did.

He left her with the pieces and the window with the snow still pressed against the glass, closing the door with the same care he used for everything he intended to last.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

FRED

At the Burrow, heat rolled out of the kitchen in buttery waves as cinnamon and roast chicken mixed with the sizzle of toffee, even though Mum swore it wasn't. The sitting room fire crackled and spat like it was gossiping. Fairy lights winked on threadbare tinsel while the ghoul in the attic banged a friendly pipe now and then; festive in its own terrible way.

Mum hummed in the kitchen as pans clattered and a flock of enchanted scrub-brushes marched past like they'd formed a union. Out in the shed, Dad's radio muttered static over a Celestina song while he crawled under the battered blue Ford Anglia he'd "rescued," which was a very noble word for "brought home because it looked interesting and hopefully wouldn't be noticed by the Ministry."

Upstairs, Percy had taken the armchair nearest the good lamp and turned it into a fortress of Transfiguration notes, his lips moving as he underlined something about inanimate-to-animate transformation theory. If he read any harder, the book might have to file a complaint.

Meanwhile, Ron was on the rug building a tower out of Chocolate Frog Cards with his tongue sticking out. Every time a card twitched of its own accord, he shushed it like that ever helped.

For once, neither Fred and George had weaponized the tinsel nor bewitched snow inside the house–though the latter was something the twins swore was an accident a couple of years ago. Instead, the two had colonized the low table by the sofa, their heads bent over a ledger, a ruler, and an alarming amount of quill shavings.

Fred's fingers were ink-smudged; George's hair smelled faintly of singed sugar tonight for some reason, which was unrelated but comforting nonetheless.

"–one hundred and thirty," George muttered.

"Galleons," Fred said. Maybe saying it out loud might make it smaller.

Ginny drifted in with a paper crown askew and a sprig of something she'd declared lucky stuck behind her ear. She stopped dead at the sight of them not plotting and pulled a face. "This is weird."

"No, this is peace," Percy said without looking up.

Ron flicked a glance at his twin brothers and then back at his tower. "They've been mumbling 'one hundred and thirty galleons' for ten minutes." He wobbled a card into place. "It's creepy."

Fred reached over and ruffled Ron's hair just enough to wreck the careful concentration. The tower shivered but held; small miracles. "It's called profit, little brother."

Percy lowered his book just enough to peer over. "How is it "profit" when you're one hundred galleons in debt?"

"Technically," Fred said while tapping the ledger with his quill. "I'm only fifty galleons in debt. The other fifty is George's joyous burden."

"Already down to forty-seven galleons and fifteen Sickles." George said cheerfully. "Found two galleons and five Sickles under my bed this morning."

"Progress," Fred said solemnly, then he patted his robe pocket. "And I found a Knut. So I've only got an eternity's worth of galleons left to pay."

Ginny flopped onto the arm of Percy's chair. "Whose money do you owe? And why?"

"For Accounting," George said.

"Because, Adventure," Fred said.

"More like idiocy," Percy muttered.

"Entrepreneurship," Fred countered.

Bill ducked through the door from the hallway, wind still in his hair and sand from Egypt somehow stubbornly clinging to his boots despite Mum's best scrubbing. He still had his Gringotts curse-breaker leather on as he grinned.

"Mum says dinner's nearly ready," Bill paused and took in the ledger, and the way Fred was using the ruler like a wand. "Dare I ask?"

"Bill," Fred greeted with the gravity of a man approaching a loan officer. "Brother dearest."

"Handsomest," George continued. "Most generous…"

"Might you be persuaded to lend us a couple of galleons?" Fred asked.

"A couple," Bill's brows furrowed. "What for?"

"To pay off someone," Fred said.

Bill blinked. "How much is 'someone'?"

Fred and George looked at each other, then together, spoke, "One hundred galleons."

Bill's mouth opened. Nothing happened. He closed it, then tried again. Still nothing. He looked at Percy, looking for an English translation.

"Because…" Percy sighed. "These two buffoons set twelve-to-one on Slytherin to win and their justification was–" He raised his hands as his fingers air-quoted, "–it would be funny."

"It was," Fred said.

"Hilarious even," George said.

"So who's laughing now?" Percy asked. "Because it certainly isn't you."

From the hallway came Charlie smelling of broom polish. He stopped mid-stride when the phrase "one hundred galleons" floated by. "This about that bet with the Maximilian girl?" he asked.

"The other bet." Fred held up a finger. "The first one's still unofficial. Locked in McGonagall's drawer."

"Guarded by quills," George added, "And possibly a very angry cat."

"I'd rather make that one official," Fred frowned while flipping a page. "I'll take a month of back and foot itch over bankruptcy."

Bill leaned his hip on the doorframe. "Can't you ask her to let this one slide?"

"She'll negotiate," Fred replied.

"You weren't there Bill," George added. "Terms. Witnesses." He side-glanced toward Percy. "Unless…"

Percy snapped his book shut. "I am absolutely not participating in that madness again. Not as mediator, appendix, or even for prop."

"Maybe I'll feed my soul to her bird," Fred muttered. "Might be simpler."

Ron's head popped up. "Her bird eats souls?"

Fred and George's heads turned in tandem, like weather vanes in a sudden, wonderful wind. "Oh, Ron," Fred breathed, "you've never heard of Érebos, the Devourer of Men?"

"Looks like a raven," George whispered. "But that's how it gets you."

"In the dead of night," Fred said, "one tap on the window. Tap. Tap. Tap."

Ron rolled his eyes but edged his pile of cards away from the window. "Shut up."

"It sees through you," Fred went on. "Those eyes aren't bird eyes. They're ancient eyes. It once pecked a prefect's shadow clean off."

"True story," George said gravely. "They found the shadow wandering the Astronomy Tower, sobbing."

"Stop frightening him," Percy said, scowling. "It's Christmas."

"Festive frights," Fred said.

"New tradition," George added.

"Fred." Ginny tilted her head. "Do you fancy her?"

Fred nearly knocked the nearby inkwell. "What?"

"The Maximilian girl. Sophie, right?" Ginny said in that innocent tone Fred swore was far from innocence. "Do you fancy her?"

"Rubbish. Where'd you get that idea?" Fred said all too quickly, and he internally cursed himself for it.

"You've been talking about her since last summer," Ginny said as she counted on her fingers. "At breakfast, at dinner, when you were supposed to be setting the table, when Mum asked about your classes–"

"I also talk about Riev, you know, her brother?" Fred said. "All the time even. Riev this, Riev that–"

"Usually," Ginny said, "only when you're talking about her."

George grinned. "She's right, you know."

Bill folded his arms as a small smile formed on his mouth. "Sounds like our Fred."

"It's not like that," Fred said as heat creeped up his ears. "She's just–she's so serious. It's practically a public service to poke the ice and see if it cracks. Like checking a pond before skating."

"Mm…" Charlie nodded. "Sounds like how you'd like someone."

"Moving on," Fred said, loudly. "Ideas, please, on the how-not-to-be-murdered-by-creditors plan."

"Get a job," Percy said primly.

"We have a job," George said. "Bookmaking. It's just occasionally unprofitable."

"Diversify the portfolio," Fred said. "Side hustles. We could sell–" He eyed Ron who blinked.

"No," Percy and Bill said together.

From the doorway came Mum's voice. "What is all this?" Her gaze landed on the ledger.

Fred froze. There were few sounds more capable of stilling the human heart than Molly Weasley saying "what" in that particular way. Quickly, he calculated what percentage of the truth would result in fewer trouble.

George stepped into the line of fire. "It's about his debt of gratitude." He side-glanced toward Fred. "And undying love for a girl at school."

Fred glared at him. Horrible plan, but also probably their best option as Mum's expression rearranged itself from storm to drizzle with a mildly threatening rainbow. "Fred Weasley, you are far too young to be thinking about such things." Now, she was fighting a smile. "So, who is she?"

His brain plucked frantically at the line of Gryffindor Housemates. Angelina was a perfectly respectable lie. Katie Bell, a year younger but also fine. Alicia Spinnet, available in a pinch.

"Sophie Maximilian," Ron blurted.

The smile vanished from Mum's face as if a draft had gone through. It was replaced by the kind of tightness that said her thoughts had just stepped somewhere she didn't like.

"Dinner's ready," Mum said, back to brisk and warm. "All of you, hands washed, downstairs now. And Fred–" She turned to him.

Fred plastered his most "upright wizard" face. "Yeah, Mum?"

"Studies first." She gestured toward Percy, who tried to look modest but failed because his eyes were already glowing with the satisfaction of being the example.

Ron gathered his cards, as Ginny tugged Bill's sleeve. Charlie then scooped Ginny under one arm because she moved too slowly for his liking; Percy marked his page carefully and joined his four siblings, leaving the twins behind.

George somehow pocketed the ruler while Fred gathered the ledger and his single tragic Knut. In the doorway, Fred nudged his twin with his elbow. "Maybe I should've just told her about the debt."

"She'll have our heads before dessert," George whispered.

"Yeah, but when Ron brought up Sophie, Mum looked…" Fred grimaced. "Slightly upset. Not hex-the-tree kind. Just… Mum kind."

"It's the "I'm worried about your life choices" kind." George shrugged and clapped him on the back. "Don't worry about it. At worst, Dad'll give you 'The Talk'. Birds and bees, and how not to get hexed by a French girl with a war raven before sneaking inside the conveniently empty broom closet." He waggled his brows. "You know–"

Fred swatted off his brother's hand. "Oh, very funny. You're going to hold this against me, are you?"

"Absolutely." George grinned and continued. "You'll have an awkward Christmas Eve, you'll never look Dad in the eye again, and we'll dine out on it for years."

"Brilliant." Fred groaned so hard that it bordered on a prayer. "Someone Petrify me until New Year."

"After dinner," George said as they clattered down the crooked stairs into the golden steam and noise of the kitchen. "Wouldn't want to miss Mum's roast potatoes. Even condemned men get a last meal."

At the dining table heat lifted off in ribbons as steam fogged the old windowpanes where the cold pressed back like a curious face. The chicken at the center wore a crown of rosemary; potatoes crackled under a crust of salt as carrots gleamed like they'd been polished for inspection. Mum moved through it all with her wand tucked behind one ear and a wooden spoon conducting gravy into perfect landings.

Everyone found their places by habit. Bill took the corner with the best view of everyone while Charlie shouldered in beside Ginny, who elbowed him like she'd won something. Percy set his Transfiguration book under his chair but kept a finger in it, just in case someone asked the definition of partial transfiguration between peas and pudding. Speaking of pudding, Ron built a defensive line of Yorkshire puddings along his plate's southern border. Dad finally slipped in, kissed Mum's cheek, and pretended he had not been testing a certain enchantment on the new member of the family parked outside.

Fred and George had entered last and lucky for them, the remaining seats flanked the other half of desserts.

Mum sat and clapped once. Dishes flew in civilized laps around the table. Plates filled themselves. Somewhere above–likely the ghoul in the attic–knocked once from the pipes, only to be ignored by everyone.

"Egypt, then?" Dad asked Bill cheerfully. "Any cursed closets? Bewitched treasures? I saw a marvellous Muggle engine–"

"Arthur," Mum warned fondly.

"–at the Ministry, but that's not important," he finished meekly. When Ginny opened her mouth to ask, he leaned and whispered, "Ask me later about carburettors."

Bill told a story about a tomb that tried to swallow a colleague's hat. Meanwhile, Charlie countered with a tale of a broom bucking mid–Bludger practice and only one broken wrist to show for it. Ginny argued heaven and earth that she could catch a Snitch before Ron could stack ten Chocolate Frog Cards. Percy offered that finesse was integral to both, and everyone else offered Percy a potato and silence.

All the while, Fred ate like a man racing time and debt while pretending he could outpace both with gravy. Toward the end of dinner, the last slice of treacle tart sat in its tin as he and George each angled their forks, wrists loose, as its edges lightly touched in midair.

"En garde," Fred murmured.

"Winner keeps his life," George replied.

Clink. Tap. Feint. George had better reach, but Fred was better at misdirection. He flashed his eyes left; George glanced. Fred slid right and–

The kitchen window banged open as cold slapped the room. A black shape swept in, and landed on the table between the parsnips and custards.

With its talons clicking on wood, the raven looked at Fred with the kind of unimpressed intelligence that made you check your pockets for sins. Merry Christmas to you too.

George's grip on his fork slackened. "Isn't that Beaky?"

Fred didn't take his eyes off the bird. "Don't call him that," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

"It's a better name than Ére–Ero–Eri-Bus," George said. "Beaky's honest."

The raven merely cocked its head; Fred wasn't sure if that meant it didn't care or had just written his twin down on its hit list. A ribbon was tied neatly around its leg. Fred reached slowly for the note, like he'd learned with skittish owls. The wax was stamped with a crest he'd started to recognize on sight; a raven and some kind of stylized flower. He broke the seal as the table quieted.

Weasley,

Kindly remember the amount owed. As previously stated, lump sum preferred.

–S. Maximilian

P.S. Riev is merciful. Deduct fifty galleons from the total if Gryffindor manages to lose to Hufflepuff in your next match.

Fred almost snorted at the postscript. Of course Riev would try to barter the league table for his best-mate's House. He smoothed his mouth out because six pairs of Weasley eyes were drilling holes in his face and one bird eye was making a tally of his soul.

He slid the paper sideways, under George's hand. His twin's eyes flicked down and back up as he slipped it inside his pocket.

Bill lifted his glass. "Love letter?"

Charlie leaned in. "Or rejection?"

"Shut it," Fred said too quickly, which as any Weasley could tell you was the same as admitting something.

Meanwhile, Ron had a fork in each hand while watching the raven like it might start speaking in Parseltongue. "The bird that steals shadows."

"It does not," Percy said crisply.

"Only on Thursdays," George added, ignoring Percy's glare.

Érebos–Beaky if you lacked culture or cared little for your soul–gave a dismissive clack and ruffled once, before it launched itself back through the window with a gust of cold and feathers. Of course it didn't wait for a reply. Couriers for people like Sophie didn't hang around for warm milk and a biscuit.

Mum's look hovered in the space between accusatory and worry. She nudged Dad under the table; he made an "oof" noise before dabbing at his mouth with a napkin he hadn't used.

"Fred," Dad said lightly, which meant not lightly at all. "Walk with me a moment?" He tipped his head toward the back door, where the blue nose of a certain Muggle car definitely wasn't peeking temptingly under the edge of a tarpaulin.

Ah, so… The Talk. He'd seen the warm-up signs by the window when he and George were climbing down the stairs; the little conference that lasted two beats longer than fetching someone should. Bill and Charlie caught each other's expressions as both fought not to grin. They'd done this years back and apparently found it comedic instead of traumatizing. George wore the look of a twin who was thrilled not to be called for once. Meanwhile, Percy's ears went pink and he stared very hard at his book.

Ron and Ginny, bless them, just looked mildly confused before shifting their interest back to the pudding.

Fred stood, the chair scraping on the floor, and tried very hard not to look like a condemned man mounting the scaffold for a talk about birds, bees, and unsupervised broom closets. He considered dragging George with him by the collar as precedent and moral support, but decided against it because Mum was watching and she still had a spoon.

"Back in a tick," Fred said to everyone, then followed Dad to the back door.

Night swatted the warmth away as they stepped outside. Along the garden wall, snow drifted. Dad's breath clouded when he shut the door gently. The Anglia lurked under its tarpaulin and Dad patted the bonnet with a tenderness that would get him a citation at work. Father and son then skirted the shed and tucked themselves into the lee out of the wind. No one could hear them from there unless Fred howled, which was, given the likely topic, within the realm of possibility.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets; Dad did the same. They looked at the garden for a minute like it might produce wisdom if you stared hard enough.

"About Sophie Maximilian," they said together.

Both stopped, then tried again. Dad laughed awkwardly.

"You first," Fred said. He could own the gallows. Besides, if Dad went first, maybe the word "charms", "tonics", or whatever the muggles called that balloon-thing, wouldn't show up before someone called for the gift opening.

Dad cleared his throat. "Your mother mentioned," he began in the tone of a man choosing words with tweezers, "that you might be… interested in someone at school. A girl named Sophie Maximilian?"

Fred thanked the universe that his feet found something fascinating in the snow to scuff. "She may have mentioned it."

"I understand," Dad continued, "that this is… new." Another throat cleared. "You're growing up. I remembered, well... That's neither here nor there. What I want to say is–"

He paused. The night creaked as the old wood settled in beams… or that was probably Dad's courage.

"You shouldn't get involved with someone like her."

Fred blinked. The cold did a lap of his collar and back down. "You're… not doing…" He gestured his hand vaguely. "The Talk?"

Dad's brows shot up; Fred had never seen him this mortified. "Merlin, no. It's Christmas Eve." He flapped his hand. "And if I must–and I will… eventually–I'd rather do both of you and George at once." He grimaced. "One lecture. Good heavens."

Fred laughed as relief washed over him. "Brilliant. Put it in the calendar under 'post-holiday trauma.'"

Dad blew into his hands and rubbed them. "No," he said more gently. "This is about Sophie. Or, rather, about her family."

"What's so bad about her?" Fred bristled. "We're not friends." He paused and reconsidered. "Well, we're not enemies either. I've never seen her be… you know. Like some of them. She's frosty. But she's not cruel."

"I'm not saying she's a bad person," Dad said quickly with his palms out. "Most of her family are perfectly polite."

"So what's wrong?" Fred asked.

"All I'm saying," Dad continued, "their family is the sort you must be careful of. They're the type to value people by..." He hesitated, then added, "Use. They'd think nothing of squeezing you for what you know, be it about school, your siblings, even about me. Maybe not in ways you'd notice. Just little things, like slipped out between jokes."

"Were they Death Eaters?" Fred asked bluntly.

Dad shook his head, then looked out over the garden as if he could see fifty memories layered over the snow. "Actually, one of them joined the Order for a time during the war, from what I heard. Excellent informant, still not sure how she gathered all those details. Stayed only for a couple of months but eventually left after learning she was expecting."

Fred's brows furrowed. "Doesn't seem like the bad sort if one of them fought against Death Eaters."

Dad paused. "There's a Maximilian in the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

"Their dad, yeah," Fred said. He recalled overhearing from Riev once that their dad worked with the Ministry.

"Christopher. He's always been scrupulously polite to me. Never blocked my proposals, then again, he didn't help them either. But–" Dad searched for the word. "It's like being weighed. As if he's asking what sort of screw you are and whether you fit the machine he's building."

Fred could picture him. Black hair, old-fashioned coat, eyes like Sophie's; that winter-glass blue that watched, judged and stored everything. He'd seen that look across the Great Hall when she was eyeing everyone, including the professors.

"He's not Malfoy," Dad added. "He doesn't strut or sneer. He's just–" He waggled his hand helplessly. "He sits in the same meetings as the Parkinsons and Notts but never gets their dirt on him. Your mother worries…" He softened the hard bit with a smile Fred could feel even in the dark. "We both do. We worry you'll be… used."

"I'm not a coat rack," Fred said, frowning. It sounded childish to his own ears and maybe it was, but he didn't care. "Besides, she's not–" He huffed. "Sophie's not like that."

Dad watched him over the tops of his glasses. The Anglia's tarp rustled in a small breeze.

"She's… frosty," Fred admitted. "And sharp. She looks at you like a puzzle she's tired of, but she still keeps working at it. But she's not cruel. She doesn't hex first-years just because their blood's wrong. I mean she could, but she doesn't. I know 'cause we've been poking her since first year–me and George–and we're still here."

"With shadows intact," Dad said dryly.

"On Thursdays." Fred nodded. "And Riev–her brother, remember him? He gets on with everyone. Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, even us. Even Muggleborns. And she doesn't mind. She could stop him, he listens to her. But she lets him anyway." He shrugged. Maybe defending the Ice Queen was foolish or stubborn or both, but he'd do it anyway. Why? Merlin, he had no idea, but he didn't want to be told to stop talking to her either.

Dad's eyes gentled. In the dark, it looked like the lines at the corners deepened as if they were smiling, even if his mouth wasn't. "You do seem to like her."

"I don't fancy her," Fred said, too fast again. "It's different. It's–" His hands groped at the air, searching for the words. "It's fun, winding her up. Seeing if the ice cracks. And sometimes–" He caught himself as his shoulders stiffened. "–well, it's just… interesting."

"That," Dad said, "is famously how boys begin complicated lives."

Before Fred could blurt anything truthful and ruin Christmas, Mum's voice sailed faintly across the garden. "Arthur? Fred? Pudding's almost gone!"

Dad squeezed Fred's shoulder through his jumper. "We should get back." He rubbed his hands once more, either for warmth or nerve. "And for the record–" he grimaced theatrically. "–you and George are due the… other conversation after New Year."

"Do we have to?" Fred's lips thinned.

"Unfortunately," Dad replied as his frown deepened.

Fred made a noise like a man stepping on a tack and then being asked to apologize to the tack. "Grand."

They turned back toward the house. Warmth breathed out when Dad opened the door; spices and butter and a chorus of Weasley noise greeted them. Fred paused in the threshold a second longer than he needed to, just to feel the edge between cold and heat, before following his father into the kitchen where everyone laughed and looked at him like they knew something he didn't.

He really should have told Dad about the debt, he thought as he slid into his chair again and met George's gaze. His twin lifted a brow that said, "Well?" Fred rolled his eyes and mouthed, "Later."

Then, he reached for the custard like it could drown a problem. One catastrophe per evening. He'd bank the rest for later.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Grey January sky combed itself to ribbons over the pitch, as if Hogwarts wanted to remind everyone the Christmas firelight was long behind them. The first week of term bit at noses and fingers, sleet stitching the gaps like an ill-tempered seamstress. On the Quidditch field, hoops blurred into pale halos, blessed saints of this damp religion. Scarves stiffened around their owners' necks. Brooms hissed on takeoff like kettles just before they sang.

Riev had chosen the end seat on the second tier of the Slytherin stand; fast exit, decent sightlines, and the blessing of not being wedged between someone's nasty commentary and another's elbow. As an unspoken rule by the lords of pride and old blood, Slytherins never whooped; they traded crisp remarks.

Two benches up, Sophie sat with her book closed, but a gloved finger marking a page. She looked unbothered by the sleet, which either meant she was made of sterner stuff. Or she was disguising her discomfort the way she always did. Meanwhile, Linette was two rows over with the duelling lot with their heads together and lips barely moving. Julian was conspicuously not anywhere near their cluster; either absent or sulking three sections away, which amounted to the same gift.

Lee Jordan's cheerful voice crackled through the sleet. "And for Hufflepuff, a small change in the lineup! Cox is still on the mend after that unfortunate bubbling accident in Potions, so we've got Diggory filling Seeker today."

Murmurs paddled around the stand. "He's steady," someone behind Riev said. "At least."

Riev flexed his fingers in his gloves until he'd bullied warmth back to his knuckles; surely they were meant for more than pulling strings. Maybe the kind of work he'd first thought of in the greenhouses, with dirt under nails, and plants that only asked patience.

On the field, Cedric's warmup was conservative arcs and crosswind checks. No peacocking, thank Merlin, or Riev might start praying to whoever the badgers prayed to for safety.

When Cedric banked near the Slytherin stand, Riev glanced up and gave him a broad grin and a small salute–the most he could afford to give his friend without his Housemates banning him from the common room. Cedric flashed teeth, just a quick genuine smile, and then he was a blur of yellow again in the grey.

On the ground, Madam Hooch blew her whistle which sliced clean through wind and chatter. Brooms surged like a school of fish; Quaffle to the air, Bludgers off their chains, and the Snitch a flickering blur through the field.

Slytherin chasers set to work; Hufflepuff dug in like they liked the look of hard work. Riev's eyes kept leaving the scrum to find the slim yellow blur that was Cedric threading lanes that weren't there a second ago. He neither wasted height nor effort, which only made Riev worry even harder.

Wet sleet ticked on the wood accompanied by the low, constant rush of wind and Lee's commentaries. "–and Slytherin's Captain–nice pass, mind your head! Bludger from Hopkirk. Oh, that's tidy from Hufflepuff Beaters. Diggory keeping his line, no showing off there, no sir–"

Riev's shoulders relaxed by a centimeter. The wind was a bully but not a brute. The Slytherin Beaters were in a sullen concert for once. Cedric read the currents like he'd grown up in them, as he tracked the Snitch's probable ranges the way Riev tracked people, by what they were avoiding instead of what they were announcing.

Mid-game, the pitch hit that stretch of silence where everyone waited for the narrative to decide itself. And of course, because luck had it in for him, the pitch decided to trip Cedric up.

A Slytherin Beater, who thought angles were a moral failing, took a swing two degrees wrong at a Bludger meant for a Hufflepuff Chaser. The iron spun with a cheerful malice. Cedric yanked his broom to avoid it, but the crosswind seized the chance to throw him sideways. The handle yawned, yaws turned to a wobble, and for one small treacherous second the laws of motion suggested shoulder-first was a perfectly good way to land.

Putain de merde!

Riev's stomach lurched before thought could catch it; for half a beat he was only another boy in the stands, watching his friend plummet. Then he stood without consulting his mind, just as wet ground swallowed the soft but obscene thud. He moved with one hand on the railing as he took them two at a time. By then, the crowd's noise vanished, quick and sudden. Sleet suddenly had a Sonorus charm.

A Prefect flung an arm wide at the pitch edge. "Stay back."

"I know first aid," Riev said as he tried pushing past him. "He needs it now."

The Prefect opened his mouth.

"Maximilian-trained. Basic field care." Sophie's steady voice came from the stands. When Riev glanced up, she was already watching him with that sharp look of hers, like she was weighing his competence against their reputation.

"Let him through," Linette added, and Riev was internally grateful for the second vouch from his dueling captain.

When the Prefect stepped aside, Riev ran the last few yards. Two Hufflepuffs were hovering over Cedric; all well-meaning but were getting very much in the way. Cedric was half-curled on his right side with his left forearm across his middle like he'd remembered something about protecting ribs. His breath came in quick measured slices. A few feet away, his broom lay at an accusatory angle.

"Don't move yet," Riev said loud enough to cut through muddled panic, but soft enough not to make a threat of it. He looked at one of the Hufflepuffs. "You, at his head. Thumbs on his cheekbones, fingers along the jaw. Hold him steady." He dropped to a knee on Cedric's left, where Cedric would see him first without turning. "Talk to me. Name?"

"Ced–dric," the boy ground out.

"House?" Riev asked.

"Huff… Hufflepuff."

"Your favourite Slytherin?" The joke came out smoother than the pulse in his throat; humour was quicker than fear, and easier to offer.

Cedric hesitated a fraction too long, then managed a cracked grin. "The… smart-mouth."

"Excellent taste," Riev said, and in the back of his head a knot of worry loosened three turns. People who could joke could breathe; people who could breathe could be kept.

He glanced along Cedric's pupils; reactive at least. Breathing shallow but even. Speech steady enough; good signs. Pain localized on shoulder and ribs; the body always pointed to the dragon.

"No spells," he said over his shoulder to the hovering Hufflepuffs.

"Are you daft? Look, he's in pain–" One of them said as he pulled out his wand.

"Drop that wand unless you like litigation." Riev glared at him, and frankly, even he was surprised by the sharpness of his voice.

One Hufflepuff bristled on reflex, while another nodded so quickly it rattled. "Pomfrey–" the second Hufflepuff said. "Someone's gone to get her."

"Good," Riev jerked his chin at the bristler, who straightened like a soldier caught slouching. "Find a towel, clean." If Merlin still loves us.

He unwound his own scarf. Slytherin green went from neck to sling without ceremony. He folded it into a triangle and said, "Cedric, I'm going to lift your forearm. Just two inches. Swear on Circe's balcony. Count now, hate me later."

"Hard… bargain," Cedric muttered.

"On three," Riev said. "One. Two. Three." He raised the forearm just enough to ease stress from the joint, then slid the scarf under and knotted once, just enough to limit movement.

Cedric's mouth flattened; a hiss pulled between his teeth. "Bloody hell–Riev–"

The towel arrived, blessedly clean and warm from someone's cloak. Riev rolled it tight into a neat log, and tucked it under Cedric's right ribs, not touching the sorest point, just enough to discourage a twist he'd regret. Abrasions shouted along the ribs and shoulder. Skin scraped, blood bright but not spurting at least. He covered those with another towel, just a light pressure. He draped his cloak over Cedric's legs to keep him warm without cooking the bruise.

"Breathe with me," he said audibly, because silence turned pain into a sermon. "Four in. Four out. No prizes for going faster."

Cedric's eyes fixed on Riev's mouth while matching his breathing; ragged, then steadier. "Four… in. Four–out," he echoed faintly.

Something in Riev settled at that. Trust had weight and steadied the hands it landed in.

"So," Cedric said after a couple more seconds, "that's one way to land."

"I've seen worse," Riev said. "Usually in kitchens, strangely. Don't compete."

Sleet ticked on Cedric's hair. Riev reached without thinking and wiped the wet from his eyebrow with the back of his glove to keep it from running into his eyes.

Pomfrey's arrival was a change in pressure more than a sound, with skirts snapping wet and kit in her hand. "What have we?"

Riev stood and straightened. "Right shoulder-first impact, pain at shoulder and ribs. Pulse steady, breathing shallow but even. No spells used." He tipped a chin at the towel, the sling, and lastly, his cloak. "Support only."

"Good you waited," she said in the tone of someone who would have blistered paint if he hadn't. She knelt opposite, eyes flitting from face to hands to towel roll. "Diggory, do not move unless you fancy me foul-tempered."

"Wouldn't… dream of it," Cedric breathed as a ghost of his usual grin broke through.

Pomfrey snapped a box open without looking at it. "Second pocket," she said to Riev. "Bandages. Open, not cut. Tincture with a blue band."

Riev had the pocket unbuttoned before she finished speaking, and pulled out three neat rolls of bandages. Tincture phial next, blue band with a label slightly smeared from weather; Pain-Relieving Draft. He placed them palm-up in the space she'd leave them. He stood where he didn't shadow her hands.

Her wand movement whispered a diagnostic charm as her mouth softened half a degree. "No fracture. Strain at the shoulder. Ugly contusion on the ribs. We'll live."

Cedric blew out a fraction of a laugh. Riev found his lungs releasing air he hadn't known he'd stored; it was a sharp emptying that left him a little unsteady on his knees.

"Ferula," Pomfrey murmured as a proper sling conjured into being with her flick, replacing Riev's scarf. "Paste." She smeared cool Murtlap essence that smelled of wintergreen along the purple beginning to flood under Cedric's skin. "Sip," she said, holding the tincture with a spoon's worth at his lips. "Slow. Good. Again."

Under orders, Hooch conjured a stretcher, and along with two students, hoisted Cedric on it like some daft prince who'd told a bad joke and been humoured for it. Riev kept pace at the side with Pomfrey's kit in his hands.

Sleet turned to drips and beads as they entered the castle, their footsteps echoing like a metronome.

Riev kept talking; quiet now turned worry into something carnivorous. "You like flying in this mess?"

"I like flying," Cedric said. "Full stop."

Pomfrey made a small noise that stood in for ten sentences of approval, disapproval, and "I will allow you this stupidity because it is the kind that makes you yourself." She kept checking the charm numbers with a flick of her wand, as her eyes stayed on the line that told her breath, heartbeat and pain, and how hard she'd need to glare later.

"Good hands… you've got," Cedric slurred, the words slipping like he'd forgotten half of them.

Riev looked down at his own fingers; hands better for steadying than for scheming, whatever the family expected. He remembered Tonks once laughing at him in the greenhouse, asking what he wanted to be. He hadn't known then. He still didn't know now. But this, at least, felt closer than anything he'd answered.

As they turned a landing, Sophie stood at the end of the corridor and took in Cedric on the stretcher, then his sling, before finally her gaze landed on Riev who was still carrying the kit. She gave him one crisp nod that contained an entire sentence. Do it properly. But just before she masked it, he caught the faintest tightness in her jaw; a fear quickly hidden under years of Maximilian discipline. He returned it in the language they'd learned before words did them any favors.

Upon their arrival, the Hospital Wing was warm in the way of rooms that had refused to be anything else for a century. Lamps steadied themselves to a practical brightness as the smell of antiseptic and lavender told anyone entering to behave. Beds lined up in rows, disciplined as soldiers on parade; only these had hung up their swords for now.

Madam Hooch and the two students lifted Cedric carefully onto the bed before she ushered the them out. Meanwhile, Pomfrey's hands were quick, but not rushed as she rechecked using the diagnostic spell which told her the same truths; though, she believed it only after she'd confirmed them with fingers and eyes. "Rib contusion. Shoulder strain. Abrasions, clean." Potion. Paste. Immobilization charm that settled over the shoulder like a stern aunt.

"You–" she said without looking up, which Riev now understood meant him. "Bandages. Three rolls. Gauze."

She handed him several small vials after he retrieved the items from the nearby shelves. "Hold this while I apply."

Riev noted the labels. Arnica-poppy blend; Comfrey poultice; Pepperup for later if congestion set in from weather. He catalogued the blue bands and green caps and the way her hand never lifted higher than necessary.

Water had traveled in with them and left a skidding slick on the floor. Riev murmured, 'Tergeo,' pulling the sleet into the rag before drying the stones low to the floor only when she flicked him a look that said "Now."

Riev asked before he acted; she said "All right" in the barest movement of an eyebrow. Steadily, he kept the slate as she asked, until his diligence bored her into trust. People liked to feel important, he'd been told as a boy; he was finding the better trick was keeping his hands busy in ways that mattered.

"You listen," Pomfrey said finally, less of a praise and more like an inventory. "People who listen are rarer than people who talk about helping."

Riev swallowed an unwise question. Her mouth twitched. "Later. After he's settled."

Post-dose, Cedric had that pleasant vagueness of someone whose pain had been put in a nice room and told to think about what it did. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I owe you one."

"After helping me chase a ledger through half the castle?" Riev said. "Call it even."

"There was also…" Cedric blinked and smiled crookedly. "Last year. You, misjudging the staircase."

"Lies and slander," Riev said. Still, he grinned. "Sleep."

Cedric's eyes closed as his mouth twitched once like the joke had a sequel.

At the door, Hufflepuffs hovered in anxious clumps; Pomfrey dismissed them with a hand that did not brook any argument. Then, she turned to Riev. "You may go." A half beat later, she added, "or you may put those jars back properly if your hands aren't shaking."

They weren't yet; probably later. The shakes waited for him somewhere beyond her calm voice, like wolves at the treeline, held off for now by shelves.

"Where would you like them?" he asked instead; "Where do they go?" was the question of an apprentice. He wasn't, though maybe it wouldn't be so terrible either.

"Alphabetical," she said. "My alphabetical, not the Ministry's."

"Of course," he said as if he'd been born speaking three alphabets and choosing the spiteful one on weekends.

He did the jars and then, when she didn't stop him, the bandage rolls some anonymous hand had mangled in haste. He studied the neat rows and committed her system to memory.

By the time she'd finished with Cedric's chart, her eyes had softened before waving him toward the door; Riev took the hint.

The corridors felt too wide on the way back down to the dungeons. Adrenaline backed out of his veins like a tide, leaving silt. House colours bled back into view as he reentered Slytherin's territory.

The common room dimpled into clusters of argument. Someone had already decided there'd been a foul; someone else had already written an appeal in their head. The Beater responsible was defending himself too loudly to anyone who would listen and therefore to everyone who wouldn't. "Wind took it," he said again and again. It seems the wind's currently being implicated in attempted assault.

"Pomfrey will spin it," a sixth-year sneered. "Hufflepuff lives off sympathy."

"They live off biscuits," someone else said, which was at least nearer a fact.

"Healer Maximilian!" called a voice that had laughed cruelly at Cedric's predicament. "Lovely bedside manner, do you bill?"

"Sorry, I only bandage bones," Riev said, taking the sting from his own voice before anyone else could put it there. "Egos I leave to professionals."

That bought a few laughs and one scowl. He neither corrected anyone's conclusion, nor joined any chorus. He'd chosen; people over points, again. Maybe he'd pay for it later; it didn't matter. He'd still choose it if it kept a friend breathing, even with exhaustion pressing behind his eyes.

Sophie intercepted him at the foot of the boys' stairs with the eerie timing of someone who did not so much travel in hallways as appear at the end of stories.

"He's stable?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Good." Her nod was brisk and her order sharp. "Eat." It wasn't a command so much as an acknowledgment that she knew he wouldn't think of it until he fell over. Not even an, "I'm proud of you."; not that he needed her to. They'd learned one another long enough to afford silence the job of nuance. Still, part of him wanted her to say it anyway, if only to steady the echo inside him where the fear had been.

He grinned; she'd hate it if he turned too soft on her. "As you command, Your Grace."

Riev took himself to the Great Hall only because soup tasted better under the ceiling of stars, even if said stars only mimicked the ones outside. Bread, thick crust and hot enough to insult his mouth, accompanied by leek and potato soup that did its work without fanfare. He ate like he'd been reprieved, and left while the sound of spoons and gossip cushioned the air.

Better head back to the infirmary before curfew. He could call it checking on a friend; he could also call it learning the work he meant to do.

The Hospital Wing was firelit and quiet by the time he arrived, which was to say a miracle. Outside, the sleet had softened its campaign into rain as it pattered politely at the panes. Cedric slept with his shoulder immobilized and his expression smoothed into an even younger version of itself. Riev stood for a moment. It frightened him, how close relief felt to guilt; how easily he could imagine the same bed with silence instead of breath. Gratitude was just the only weight heavy enough to pin that thought down.

"Do you need shelves done?" he asked Pomfrey, no quip in his mouth for once. She tipped her head toward a crate that looked as if it had been loaded by someone with more biceps than patience for cataloging.

He alphabetised the content by her preference. He wrapped and rewrapped, and noted, not just the labels but the way she paused between tasks; not just what she used but also when.

Patterns of care. Something his hands could learn.

Riev filed them where he kept the codes he used with Marcellus and the look Sophie gave before her execution of a plan.

When he was almost done, Cedric cracked an eye, as if his body had felt the lack of attention and wanted one last measure. "Here to check on me, Healer Maximilian?" he murmured.

"That," Riev said, "and to tell you Snape still wants the essay tomorrow."

"Your House Head's a–" Cedric broke off, his breath catching.

"Careful," Riev side-glanced toward Madam Pomfrey by the shelves. "Can't have your House lose points." Even if Snape was indeed a bloody git.

"–brilliant… dictator," Cedric's lips thinned from the effort. "Merlin's… knickers."

"Does Merlin really wear knickers?" Riev asked. "I imagine he prefers it… breezy."

"Not the mental image," Cedric muttered, frowning.

Riev chuckled. "Want me to write your homework?"

Cedric's mouth twitched. "You know Snape'll notice you wrote it. Your essays have too many commentaries."

"I can make it sound respectable," Riev said.

"You and 'respectable' shouldn't exist in the same sentence..." Cedric's eyes slid shut before Riev could answer. Riev stood a moment longer, then turned toward the door.

Pomfrey spoke without looking up from a chart. "You took direction well. Come by if you want to learn how to use those hands properly."

He nodded, and for once let the seriousness sit on his face without a joke to lighten it.

Out in the corridor, rain tapped the windows. Pomfrey's words lingered. Maybe his hands had finally found a better purpose than pushing pieces across some political chessboard. There were worse things to be than someone who kept his friends breathing.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

FRED

February put lace on the castle and called it romance.

Heart-shaped confetti drifted in slow charms down the stairwells, and suits of armor had pink ribbons knotted at their elbows. Earlier that morning, Filch had confiscated three singing cards and carried them in a grim little bundle that still crooned muffled "I've got a cauldron full of hot, strong love... And it's bubbling for you!" as he marched by. Somebody had bewitched a tapestry of Helga Hufflepuff so she waggled her eyebrows at passing couples.

By afternoon, George had been on Filch-duty, alone again–separate detentions for the whole year was the new regime after all. Filch scheduled them alternate weekend days, and today, it was George's turn to scrub trophy plaques "until I can see my own sad little face crying back at me," as he'd put it before going. Which left Fred with a ledger-shaped problem and no twin-shaped buffer.

He found Sophie at the side reading room off the library, the tall, cold window that drank the day's pale light and never warmed. Beneath the window, there was a long table accompanied by two straight-backed chairs where she occupied one with that Maximilian statue-stillness that turned a person into furniture before you noticed they were watching. Her gloved finger marked a page as Érebos perched on the chair-back with its wicked beak polished. Fred's palms were already a little damp, which was ridiculous; he'd faced down Bludgers without blinking, but Sophie with her soul-judging raven could make his stomach fold in half.

"Afternoon, Your Frostiness," Fred said casually. He set his own ledger with creases and folded corners on the table.

Érebos leaned down and nipped the ledger's corner, leaving a neat half-moon.

Fred stilled. "Message received. No funny columns."

Sophie closed the book. "Fred."

No 'Weasley.' No 'Mr.' It was nearly intimacy by her standards. Or a warning. Hard to tell when she stared at you with those glacial eyes.

"Before you say it," he said as he slid into the opposite chair. "George sends his regrets. You know. Filch, sponges, eternal suffering."

"Mr. Filch seems committed to the classics," Sophie said as Érebos clicked his beak. "I assume you'd prefer to negotiate without him."

"Depends. If you mean Filch, yes. If you mean George, I was rather counting on the way he pulls faces that makes people shave three sickles off."

Sophie's mouth almost moved. He could pretend it was a smile; he was in a pretending mood. He glanced past her shoulder out at the grounds. February already had sanded Scotland's edges to a cold, clean grey. A clutch of third-years passed the window in matching beanies someone had charmed to pulse little red hearts. Note to self: 'fix' that later.

He returned his gaze to Sophie. "First order of business," he said, tapping the ledger. "The hundred."

"One hundred galleons," Sophie said evenly. "Still outstanding."

"Shared between the noble houses of Fred and George, fifty apiece," Fred said. "As is only just in a fair and balanced society."

"Yes," she said. "The society in which you two set twelve-to-one odds against all reason and then discovered arithmetic does not bow to humour."

He put a hand to his heart. "Who could've foreseen the betrayal?"

"The universe." Sophie paused. "And perhaps, your older brother."

"Percy may or may not have mentioned it…" Fred leaned back. "All right. I am here to present a bold and generous proposal on behalf of the Weasley Cooperative."

Érebos tilted his head. Sophie folded her hands. "Proceed."

"Simple really…" He paused. "You drop it."

"Drop it," she repeated, like tasting a word to see if it had gone off.

"For benevolence's sake. We all learn a little lesson. You get that rush of angelic feeling–you know, the halo, the choir, such and such. And I get to stop waking up at night with 'one hundred' burned onto the inside of my eyelids in foot-tall letters. Win-win."

"No."

Fred waited a beat. Sometimes people heard themselves say 'no' and softened. But Sophie, she merely watched him with polite interest. He sighed and put a hand across the ledger like it was a patient. "Right. Onto terms then."

"We can discuss monthly reckonings," Sophie said. "With a rate."

"Ah, 'monthly reckonings'…" Fred took a deep breath. "I was hoping you'd be more of a 'Chocolate Frogs in the Great Hall' sort of collector."

"Compounding exists because you failed to anticipate outcomes," Sophie said. "It teaches you to anticipate."

"Excellent," Fred said. "I love learning. Here's my educational counteroffer. Fifteen sickles a month, ten years. And no compounding."

"Fifteen for one hundred and twenty months… eighteen hundred sickles," she said. "Over a hundred galleons. You would overpay."

Fred opened his mouth and then shut it again–huh–before he cleared his throat. "Well…" He tried on an airy tone. "That's the premium for tolerating my face monthly for a decade."

"Or simply poor financial planning disguised as gallantry," Sophie said. "No."

"Fine. What's your poison?"

"I prefer unreliable variables resolved before graduation. Debts wander if you let them," she said. "Four years. Thirty-six sickles per month. Plus, two percent compounded each month on whatever's left."

Érebos tapped the tabletop twice with his beak.

He stared. "Monthly."

"Yes," she said.

"We're paying for one mistake, not servicing a vault at Gringotts."

"A mistake you chose."

"But at thirty-six sickles, on top of interest…" Fred counted with his fingers. "We'd be paying until we're forty."

Sophie tilted her head. "You can also make a full payment anytime if you choose to avoid the numbers from breeding."

"Look at you, making our misery sound elegant," Fred said. He made a show of consulting the ledger, which contained mostly scribbles and underlines that meant 'panic later.' "Sorry, can't accept. The dragon's hoard has already dried up."

"And yet, that dragon has sufficient gold whenever Gryffindor wins a match," Sophie inclined her head. "Regardless, those are my terms."

"Counter-counteroffer," he said. "Your bird rents my soul."

Érebos gave a kraaw that sounded like a specific insult.

"He had plenty of souls delivered over the holidays. Gifts from the underworld." Sophie's eyes slid to the raven and back. "He declines."

"Ah," Fred said. "Seasonal stock."

She folded her hands again; the gloves squeaked quietly. "Alternatively, you may accept Riev's generous compromise and instruct your Quidditch team to lose to Hufflepuff in March. Half your debt waived."

"Riev's generous compromise," Fred repeated slowly, savouring how wrong it tasted. "Half our debt in exchange for burning our honour to warm Hufflepuff's hands?" He snorted. "No."

"The offer stands," Sophie said. "He insists I repeat it whenever you're stubborn."

"Tell him he'll have to bribe us with a lifetime supply of moral integrity, if Slytherins even have those," Fred said. "Gryffindors, absolutely, do not throw matches."

"I am aware," Sophie said. "Hence why I never relied on it."

"Speaking of Quidditch, this brings me to my magnificent double-or-nothing…" Fred leaned in; Érebos struck. No more than a tap at the back of Fred's wrist, a pinprick of heat.

Fred drew back with hand raised. "All right. Proposal from a safe distance then. So, about the double-or-nothing–"

"No," Sophie said immediately.

"You haven't heard it yet."

"I have," she said. "You will propose that if Gryffindor wins the Cup, you owe nothing; if not, you owe two hundred. All while pretending this is rational."

Fred drummed his fingers on the ledger. "How about… prank services?"

There was a brief pause. "No," she said, but the way she spoke had that little French accent that he hadn't heard her use before. A slip, maybe?

"So…" He couldn't help the grin. "That's a moral no? Or brands-and-reputation no?"

Silence, which was, with her, the sound of an admission.

"I want not to be expelled," Sophie said. "If you insist on length, we can discuss a reduction in rate with conditions."

He tilted his head. "Conditions as in…?"

"As in, your payments increase during months you spend fewer than two evenings in detention."

He laughed. "Ah, so you want to deputize McGonagall as your collections agent."

"I want you to improve," Sophie said. "Debt can teach." It sounded like a borrowed rule she'd been given rather than one she'd chosen.

"I can improve, without involving bankruptcy," Fred said. "Can't we all just… forgive and forget?"

She stared at him silently. Maybe she was reconsidering? He pushed his luck a little further. "You don't even need the galleons. It's probably just pocket change for you."

"Forgiveness would only teach you that mistakes will be cushioned by a good laugh," Sophie said with the cadence of someone else's maxim worn smooth in her mouth.

That one hit a little too close for comfort. "All right," Fred said too lightly. He let the quiet stand. "But debt makes a man tedious." He tapped the ledger again. "Look. The fifteen for ten years–"

"An absurd plan."

"–is actually us offering to overpay you. Which, if we're talking about lessons, is practically a self-imposed interest. You can tell your ghostly ancestors you extracted a premium from the Weasley twins without lifting a wand."

"My ancestors would ask why I let the debt linger beyond need," Sophie said.

"Because you're having fun." He watched her face.

For the first time, she glanced off him to the window as the skin at the mouth's corner folded very slightly, like there were a smile trying to be born and being told to wait its turn. It was absurd, the way his chest tightened like he'd won something far larger than a point in an argument.

"You mistake me," she said. "I am not enjoying this."

"You enjoy sparring with me," he said.

Another silence. Another yes.

He flipped a page in the ledger, more for effect than anything. He'd written numbers there that wandered like lost goats. "All right. What if we say twenty-five sickles monthly, six years, one percent interest. If we miss a payment, you may send your raven to peck our eyes."

Érebos snapped his beak so loud the inkpot rattled.

"See, even your bird agrees," Fred muttered.

Érebos lifted a foot and set it down.

"Unacceptable," Sophie said. "Six years is two years beyond graduation. I will not be herding Gryffindors through Ministry corridors for loose change."

"You say that like it's not a downright charming image," Fred said.

"Four years," she repeated. "Thirty-six per month. Two percent."

She considered him for a beat. "If you manage a calendar month with no detentions, the interest for that month is waived."

Fred blinked. "Mercy?"

"Incentive," she said. "And it resets with the next infraction." Her gaze didn't soften. "Miss a payment and the rate holds, but the bite is waived if you've been on time thrice. If you're late twice in a term, the waiver dies for the rest of the year."

"Tax on romance… or on money we don't have." Fred blew out a breath. "You realize we're seventeen percent made of chaos."

"I am trying," Sophie said, "to dilute you to a manageable concentration."

"And I appreciate your dedication to public safety," he said. "But two percent monthly. That's Gringotts-level usury."

"Then pay faster when you can. Use your–" She gestured, a little circle that encompassed the ghost of their stand during the dueling tournament and the ledger that had undone him. "Enterprises."

"No tie-in clauses," he said instantly. "You don't get a cut."

"I am not asking for a cut." She did something that contained a sigh somewhere if you listened closely. "I am telling you how to behave like adults without being asked to enjoy it."

"Adults?" Fred snorted. "I'm twelve."

"So am I."

"You are… twenty years ago–" He paused as Sophie fixed him a look that could make anyone question their life choices.

Best to change tack.

Fred narrowed one eye. "Let me ask you a very serious question."

"Go on," she said evenly; he noticed that she couldn't help humoring him when he did that voice.

"If I were to give Érebos a small knitted jumper, would he wear it?"

Érebos slid one foot forward and set it on the ledger.

"He would attempt to eat whoever tried," Sophie said.

Fred watched Érebos's claw flex against the ledger. The ink quivered in its pot.

The library's main clock tolled a quarter-hour; the sound came up through the floor like a polite knock. Érebos answered the chime with three measured clicks. Somewhere behind the stacks, someone coughed and tried to turn it into a laugh and failed. The world went on doing February things while he tried to keep his head above arithmetic.

"You have until the end of the month," Sophie said without looking at the clock. "After that, terms harden."

"Like your heart," he said lightly.

"Like arithmetic," she said.

"Where's Riev anyway?" he asked. Annoyance aside, he liked the Slytherin disaster; also, Riev had been easier to read than his sister since day one. "I half expected him to tell us all to be friends and then make me forget how we got into this mess."

"With the duelling team," Sophie said. "If not there, he's with Madam Pomfrey."

"Of course he is." Fred snorted a laugh. "He's collecting badges. Healer, duellist, menace."

"He's useful," Sophie said, and that word was nearly as good as 'beloved.' "And busy."

"So, no Riev to chaperone." Fred leaned back and put his hands behind his head with an easy grin he'd perfected on people who didn't know him. "Just you and me. Ten sickles monthly. Final offer."

"Denied," she said. "You're not even pretending to take this seriously."

"I am," he said. "I'm seriously poor."

She looked at him for a heartbeat longer than she usually allowed. He watched her eyes–ice, yes, but living; the kind that moved mountains if you gave it time. "The terms stand," she said, but there wasn't triumph in it; only something like patience and its meaner twin, endurance.

"All right," he said softly. "You want a thing from me that isn't a coin."

"Restraint," she said. "And common sense."

For a second, the library's chill climbed his wrist; the ink stilled. He set his thumb on the ledger's edge.

"You have plans," Sophie said. "They are just..."

"Creative," he finished.

"Crooked," she corrected.

"Fine," he said as he sat forward. "Let's do this like a proper contract. You name your rate, I name the calendar, we sign in blood–"

"No blood," she said at once.

"–dull ink," he corrected, "and if we miss a month, you get to pick the colour of the hair we wake up with for a week."

Her mouth twitched towards a smile. "Orange would suit you." She paused and eyed his hair. "Or perhaps lilac. Spotted."

He huffed. "Cruel."

They haggled another ten minutes; now, it was a game, and he liked how quick she was when she wasn't pretending to be a glacier. The quill's scratch filled the gap; ink pooled. Sophie's gloved finger tapped once on the wood.

They tried to bury pride in fine print and then found it sticking out like a Weasley at a Malfoy dinner. In the end, they had nothing new. The hundred stood and the dragon snorted, while the raven preened.

"We will revisit," Sophie said. "First week of March. Bring a schedule I can sign."

"Homework," he said cheerfully with an edge at the last syllable.

"A plan," she corrected. "Try not to breed new debts before then."

"I make no promises," he said then stood. "It's Valentine's. Love is in the air. So are bad decisions."

"I'm allergic to both." Sophie gathered her things the way soldiers pack. Books squared; gloves smoothed. Érebos stepped from the ledger to her shoulder. As it settled, a black feather drifted down and landed on the ledger. Fred brushed at it, then stopped and left it where it fell.

"Until next time," he said.

"Until next time," she said, then hesitated for half a breath, before adding, almost too quietly, "don't be late." The glove at her wrist smoothed twice before she left.

A reply rose, easy and wicked, but he swallowed it and only nodded. He left by the door into the corridors. By then, the castle was doing its evening stretch; candles bled themselves into the night as portraits pulled shawls tight. Peeves sat on a banister blowing heart-shaped soap bubbles at couples trying not to be noticed. Fred popped three on his way by and told himself it was a public service.

By the time he climbed through the portrait hole, the Gryffindor common room had collected itself into nested circles of warmth. First-years lay belly-down playing Exploding Snap with the careful zeal of dynamiters. Angelina and Alicia had a quill between them and the look of girls planning a mutiny. Someone had hung paper hearts across the mantel and someone else had scrawled "NO" across them with a charcoal stub.

Ah, home sweet home. Not the Burrow, but close.

George had staked out two chairs near the fire and claimed them with one long leg draped over the other like a fence. He lifted his head when Fred came in and gave him the once-over.

"You look disgustingly pleased," George said. "Tell me she forgave our sins and we are reborn as free men."

"We still owe Sophie one hundred galleons," Fred said cheerfully as he dropped into the other chair; the springs groaned. He laced his fingers behind his neck. "All of them. Entirely intact."

George squinted. "Then why do you look like you've just pilfered all the confiscated contraband from Filch's cabinet?" His gaze dropped to the ledger and caught the black line of a feather sticking out between the pages.

"Because," Fred said, propping his heels on the little table nearby, "the negotiation isn't dead. She didn't slam a door. Just left it ajar. That's all a salesman needs."

"A salesman," George echoed. "That what you are now. Going to get a briefcase? Hat with a card in it? 'Fred Weasley Solutions.'"

"More like 'Fred Weasley: How can I make this your problem,'" Fred said. He let the quiet sit for a second, looking at the fire making a fuss of old logs. "Also," he added, "she didn't tell me to sod off."

George grinned. "So… when's the date?"

Fred snorted. "What date? I said 'she didn't tell me to sod off.'"

"Which might as well be a declaration of love from her," George said. "And here's you, walking in like winning the House Cup even when we're still neck-deep in debt."

Fred wanted to deny it with the same easy grin, but the words stuck a fraction too long in his throat before he forced the shrug. "Before you suggest I'm in love with Soph-u-lé the Ice Tyrant–"

"Suggest? Never." George placed a hand to his chest. "Imply? Most likely."

"I'm not," Fred said as steadily as he could make it sound convincing to stop George from insisting it. "I simply enjoy sparring with a brain that can set rates like a Gringotts goblin."

George's grin widened. "Right, and it's not 'cause you've got an excuse to talk to her again."

"Absolutely not," Fred said quickly. "I'm happy I have an excuse not to pay one hundred galleons tonight."

"Mm." George nodded. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Fred said, "I'm going to draft an installment proposal that doesn't end with us in lilac hair."

"Lilac?" George raised an eyebrow. "We could make that look good."

"Spotted," Fred added.

George grimaced. "That's evil."

"She is," Fred said, but the corners of his lips still twitched. The good kind, the fun kind, he thought.

George leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "All right then, my brave negotiator. What now?"

"Now…" Fred pulled out the ledger. "We draft a product that pays for the installment."

George leaned forward. "Saturday stall in the courtyard. Five sickles a pop."

Fred felt his spine unknot a click. "Name's everything," he mused. "Valentine's Emergency Line." A small grin crossed his lips. "Better than paying the Valentine's tax."

George plucked the ledger from Fred, took an abandoned quill and inkpot nearby, then began sketching a heart that exploded into a star when he tapped it. "First up. Faint-Heart Confetti. Wears off in a minute."

"Good. Then Anti-Lovesick Nose; peppermint pinch for tragic romantics. Side effect, they sneeze hearts." Fred grinned. "And Singing Shut-Up Sweets. Thirty seconds of blessed silence; user hums off-key after. Fair trade."

"Bundle it," George said. "Call it The Break-Up and Make-Up Pack."

"Right. Add Snap-Back Hearts for unsolicited declarations," Fred said, flicking a look at the mantel where 'NO' dripped across paper hearts. "They return to sender with attitude."

"Pocket Puff Firecrackers for flair," George added. "No scorch. Just pop and glitter. Desk-safe."

They looked at the list. It looked back like it already wanted shelves.

"All right," George said softly. "Debt's just a number."

Fred flipped to a clean page of the ledger. The black feather remained where it settled between the pages, making a neat shadow across their sums. Instead of moving it, he just wrote around it.

The twins shook on their new plan with ink smudging at the knuckles, and bent over the page like two arsonists planning a very small but very pretty fire.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SNAPE

January made the dungeons sweat. The Black lake cooled the stone; corridors narrowed.

Slytherin adjusted. Badly.

Mulciber's fall from captaincy had not broken the House. It had loosened something far more dangerous.

The assumption of untouchability.

The ledger had done its work. Rosier ran drills that did not humiliate, and Mulciber discovered what gravity felt like when no one held the rope.

And he hated the ordinary ground beneath him. So, he picked Isobel Cresswell– small in voice and pedigree. Her father's name appeared in minutes; her blood did not. Alone in a corridor between classes and curfew, she became the kind of problem boys like Julian knew how to solve.

Snape saw the beginnings because he made it his business to see them after reading through Cresswell's dossier last term. He would round a corner and become silence itself while Cresswell hugged her books a fraction closer to her ribs. But her eyes flicked once sharply, daring herself to look straight at Julian before she lowered them again.

Mulciber, in turn, leaned beside a sconce, fifteen and already practiced. A remark about "mud–" cut off by Snape's glance when he passed by. The slow territorial game followed; block half a stair, claim space at a table, take a quill and splinter one feather at a time, or lean on the bench-lip so her bag slid off the edge before she could sit.

Public rescue breeds martyrs.

He knew the shape of that fire too well; the way attention hardened a bully, and a teacher's censure became proof among the graceless. He could still taste blood. Potter's crowd cheered. Lily stepped in and made it worse by caring.

Boys like Julian needed to feel themselves taller than someone. If Snape banished the stool in daylight, they would conjure one in the dark and climb twice as high.

So he watched and adjusted patrols.

A prefect turned a corner three times more often than chance would allow. A third-year who had begun to imitate older cruelty found himself abruptly moved to the far table in Potions and paired with a Hufflepuff who outscored him.

He spoke to no one about this. Words feed certain hungers. He starved them.

The Maximilian girl, however, did not share that philosophy.

Sophie Maximilian's work was barely visible and patient. Rather than baiting Julian in public, she salted his draughts. The duelling team found drill schedules changed without anyone admitting who had altered the schedule; when Julian arrived late, he discovered the platform already occupied and the rest of the team interested in watching someone else. A remark he made at breakfast about "weak wrists" followed him to Charms–tidy, anonymous script on the blackboard, then to Herbology where two fifth-years smothered laughter while looking at their notes. She didn't push. Only let him slip.

Each small humiliation cost Isobel three more quiet minutes in a corridor. Snape counted them until counting made him tired. The harder Julian tried to grip the past, the more he needed proof he could still bruise something.

By mid-February the pattern had worn itself into stone.

Enough.

If Snape could not arrest the impulse in the boy without making the impulse metastasize, he could at least harden the girl against it. Speeches or placing a hand on her head and telling her to be brave was for Gryffindor fools. No. He would teach her the only way Slytherin respects; with tools.

He shifted the syllabus, forcing them through antidotes and draughts, labelled and tested, until shortcuts vanished.

"Defense begins," he said the next Thursday, "with not dying of your own stupidity. It continues with knowing which bottle to reach for when you cannot afford a wand movement."

He saw Slytherins' shoulders coming down as their quills slowed. Hufflepuffs took notes like they were building a ladder. In the back row Isobel bent over her parchment and wrote "contraindications" three times until she spelled it correctly.

The next week, he set the tables for the second-years Slytherin and Hufflepuff, so that the right students had the wrong neighbours. The dungeon air held damp stone and nettles. Cauldrons waited. He set the room.

"Today," he said as students settled, "you will brew the Antidote to Common Poisons. The real one. Not the versions your older brothers think are funny. Standard ingredients in standard order. One lapse and you produce water that smells of rosemary and achieves the same."

He pivoted. His cloak did the rest. "In front of you. Water, finely powdered bezoar–no, Mr. Pucey, you will not substitute 'chunks'. Two mistletoe berries. And one pinch of ground unicorn horn. From Ministry-approved shavings, bottled before most of you were born; you will use less than a mote. Do not guess at your measures. I expect uniform colour, correct opacity, and no residue clinging to your stirrer. Begin."

They began. Pestle. Quill. Flame. On the Hufflepuff side, Diggory counted his clockwise stirs aloud under his breath. Cresswell's bench lay on the second row, near the aisle. Sophie sat to her left, book closed and gloved finger marking a page; to Isobel's right, Sera Clark somehow made her berries into a paste it was never meant to be. Amelia Goshawk managed her measurements like someone who feared disappointment more than pain.

Isobel's hands shook fractionally when she added the unicorn horn. She caught herself, set the spoon down, inhaled and tried again. "Steady," she whispered, almost too low to hear. The draught took it reluctantly.

However, her flame burned too low, which she did not notice. What she did notice was that the colour was too clear.

Snape did not need Legilimency to catch the intent. Sophie's breathing remained even as she reached, as if to adjust her own stirrer, but her knuckle slid under Isobel's burner and raised the flame a hair.

A small thing. But the wrong thing. The kind of assistance that, unseen, became the beginning of a dangerous dependency.

No angels in this classroom.

"Miss Maximilian," he snapped. "Remove your hand from the flame under Miss Cresswell's cauldron."

The sound in the room retracted. Slytherins looked at their work very hard. Hufflepuffs froze.

Sophie's hand left the flame. She kept her gaze on her own cauldron. "Yes, Professor."

Isobel flinched as if struck. Her quill snapped between her fingers before she realized it. "I-I didn't–she wasn't–"

"You are not required to explain Miss Maximilian's choices," Snape said without looking at her. "You are required to brew. Which you are not doing. Start again."

Isobel scraped the spoiled draught into the sink herself with her jaw set; then she reset her brewing with steady, stubborn hands. He could already picture the hour after class ended. Stone damp underfoot while a girl carried her books down a corridor where every sound rang too loud.

Snape moved his attention to Sophie. "If your classmate's antidote works, it will be hers. If it does not, it will be yours just as well."

Something in Sophie's eyes went colder. Still, she made no protest and simply inclined her head to the exact degree required by etiquette. "Understood."

"Professor," Diggory said carefully from his bench. "If Soph–Miss Maximilian wasn't–"

Sophie looked at him with a fractional shift of the head.

Cedric shut his mouth as his cheeks flushed hot. He fixed his stare on his stirrer instead.

Good. Not a fool.

Snape turned away and walked to the front. "Cresswell, since you are starting over you will remain after class until the antidote is completed."

"Yes, Professor," Isobel mumbled. Her jaw tightened, as if she had to bite the rest of the sentence back.

Snape resumed his rounds around the room. One Hufflepuff bungled the order and his cauldron collapsed into sludge. He disposed of it with disdain and moved on. The room worked. His temper sheathed itself. Isobel redid her steps deliberately, like someone stepping on uneven stones across a river. All the while, the Maximilian girl listened for once and kept her hands within her own station.

When the hour ended, he dismissed them with less fuss than they deserved. "Bottles labeled. Names spelled correctly. Leave a mess, lose your lungs."

Benches scraped; cloaks caught on chair-backs; the noise rose.

Isobel still hunched over her cauldron, pale with concentration as she coaxed the colour towards something that might pass. Her parchment lay curled at the corner where she had pressed too hard with her quill.

At the door, Clark half-turned as her hand tightened on Goshawk's sleeve. Both girls lingered. Snape's glance found them and the weight of it sent them through the door without a word.

Diggory delayed too, as his eyes went to Isobel, then to Sophie.

"Miss Maximilian," Snape said. "Remain."

Sophie inclined her head. Then her hand shifted almost invisibly; a slip of folded parchment travelled from her palm to Diggory who immediately pocketed it. Snape didn't need to guess where it would travel next; straight to her brother.

Diggory looked at him then, just once. His ears flushed red, realizing that the note had been seen. He excused himself and left.

The classroom breathed quieter with just the two Slytherin girls left. Sophie stayed seated with her hands folded, as Isobel finally bottled her potion and set it trembling on his desk. He held it up to the torchlight. The opacity was wrong as the texture clung faintly to the glass.

"Substandard," he said. "Submit another tomorrow. Correctly brewed."

Isobel pressed her lips tightly but nodded mutely. She hugged her books to her chest as if they might absorb the shame and left without raising her eyes.

Only then did Snape let the silence fall fully. He waited until the waiting became a lesson, then came around the desk and stood in front of Sophie.

"Championing the downtrodden again?"

Sophie met his eyes. "No more than you, Professor."

The reply landed with more weight than her voice gave it. Insolent? Not quite. But accurate enough to become an insult anyway.

His mouth tilted towards a smile, then refused. "Do not compare me to your posturing. I know precisely what you are doing. You measure a room, find the tender points, and press. Mulciber's temper empties itself on the nearest target. You then swoop with a handkerchief and tears in your eyes. Benevolent. Strategic. Yet today, you learned that this classroom is not your theatre."

Her lips pressed together; for a second she looked twelve, then she lifted her chin again. "She has to survive long enough to use them. Otherwise she won't." Her throat tightened on the last word, but her voice stayed even.

"And you have appointed yourself her guardian angel."

He stepped sideways. She followed.

"Angel? No. They molt," Sophie said, "And buried under that looks the same as dead."

He felt a flash of heat. "What, precisely, is the satisfaction? A hotter flame hides mistakes. It fails when it matters. You teach dependence. And you mark her."

Sophie's throat moved once as she swallowed whatever answer had been her first. When she spoke, it was ice again. "You made her start over. That makes her late. Alone in the corridors."

He knew the silence of those walks; even a shoe's scrape announced you.

Her finger tapped against her skirt though her voice remained steady. "If Julian meets her there, you will have taught her a lesson and he will teach her another."

"What would you prefer?" He let a little of the acid in. "That I escort her personally, so Mulciber can add 'Professor's pet' to his repertoire and double the number of times he whispers it? Perhaps you would like me to set you to walk at her side. I am sure that will not escalate his attention at all."

"No," Sophie said. The word was careful; she placed it like a chess piece. But her knuckles whitened on her skirt as if she knew she'd just stepped close to trouble. "But drowning doesn't teach. It kills."

"Spare me the nursery analogies." He took a breath through his nose, counted four beats, then let it out. "I grew up in this House. I know very well how drowning works."

Something flickered behind the glacial composure, then vanished. "So did I," she said. "In a room where names mattered more than breath."

"Then you should know. You cannot shield people forever. And every time you try, you announce to the room exactly where to aim."

A clever child, he kept this thought to himself. But that kind of cleverness bred corpses as easily as graduates.

"Not shielding. Buying her an inch of time," Sophie said quietly. Her shoulders stayed level, though her breath caught once, quick and shallow. "You intend to build her armor. Fine. But if you insist she learn it while arrows land, some of us will hold a shield while you hammer."

Something in her words snagged an old thread; the dungeon tilted and he tasted blood.

Shield and fire save no one; they only draw better shots.

"You will not interfere in my classroom." He flattened his voice as he leaned forward. "Touch another cauldron again and I will see to it that the entire House knows you cannot be trusted with a spoon, let alone a wand."

Sophie's throat moved as if she'd swallowed words she couldn't afford to say. When she spoke, her voice was level again.

"Proving yourself right leaves her in the corridor."

He went cold in a way that had nothing to do with the dungeon. That line–Merlin, that line. She did not know what she had just stepped on. The words were too spare, and yet too sharp. They lodged the way a splinter did; small, but impossible to forget.

He had been cut like this before. Fire then, ice now. Fewer words, sharper wounds.

"Get out," he snapped. "And if you interpose yourself again between my method and my student, you will discover there are worse fates for hands than losing them."

She inclined her head once, the exact bow required to exit the presence of a superior who had ceased to deserve her politeness. "Yes, Professor." She gathered her things and left. The door clicked.

He let the room breathe for a count of ten.

Then he did what he had always done with injuries that refused treatment.

He shelved it. Label. Lake. The one he did not name burned most of all–a coal he had tried to freeze and only ever carried smouldering. The way he had insisted on not being saved because being saved felt like losing twice. Sophie's words skittered along the same nerve and threatened to light it.

He shoved it away with the same violence he used to extinguish a cauldron that caught fire out of stupidity. Then, he turned back to his desk. Ink. Syllabus. He drew up the next sequence; a practicum on tampered phials; a note to give detention the next time Mulciber stepped an inch out of line…

Proving yourself right leaves her in the corridor.

…a reminder to assign Cresswell an essay on stabilizers in antidotes and make her show her work. He would arrange for a prefect to pass the corridor outside the library–narrow walls with the torches failing by mid-evening–at the right time without telling them why.

Above, the weather shifted. He sharpened a quill and let the scrape of knife on feather try to drown out the echo.

SOPHIE

Outside the Potions classroom, the walls sweated as a draught hissed through the corridor.

Sophie stood for three steady breaths with her hand still on the door, then took it away. Clinging to the wood like a child would change nothing.

You cannot shield people forever.

Setting her shoulders, she started walking down the corridors, just to keep the heat in her chest from blooming into something she refused to name.

Father had said it differently last Christmas break; over a chessboard with his black king calm behind a screen of pawns he was willing to spend.

You've spent moves over pawns that will never see the eighth rank, he'd told her then as she had watched his knight carve through the files she'd tried so carefully to preserve. Efficiently. Relentlessly.

But Isobel wasn't a pawn. She was a girl who had clung with damp hands to Sophie's robe and sobbed into her shoulder until her throat tore itself into hiccups. Every time Julian's name passed down the common room, that memory pushed its way up under Sophie's ribs; a tight, uncooperative knot.

Uselessness lived there. Intolerable.

"Sophie!"

The call clipped at Sophie's back. She looked over her shoulder before she turned, schooling her face into that polite absence that made most people stop asking questions. Sera and Amelia were coming down the corridor toward her, hair frizzed from the shift between cold and the dungeon's damp. Sera's scarf was crooked while Amelia's perfectly straight. Both of them looked as if they had rehearsed this and hated rehearsals.

Sophie inclined her head by a fraction as she waited where she stood. "Is something wrong?"

"Can we talk?" Amelia said. "About Izzy."

"Where is she?" The words slipped out too quickly.

Sera's eyes flickered. "Back in our room. She went to bed early. Said she wasn't feeling well."

"I see…" Sophie's mind surmised choke points and places a boy would choose if he wanted a door at his back and a target within his reach. Not tonight, at least.

"You know, she left dinner before pudding." Sera's fingers fidgeted. "She didn't even touch the potatoes. You know she always–"

Amelia placed a hand on Sera's shoulder before turning her gaze back to Sophie. "Is something going on with her? She's been–" She flapped a hand in a gesture that tried to catch the right word and missed. "Different. Since last term."

"We asked," Sera said. "She says she's stressed about Potions."

"Today you helped her, and we thought…" Amelia's voice trailed off briefly. "Maybe you know something."

Three seconds passed. Sophie filled them by setting her back against the cool wall.

She remembered. The promise whispered in a curtain-dim bed, pleading, "Don't tell. He said he'd make sure Dad–he'd make sure Sera, Amelia–" Sophie had said yes; it had been the only answer that didn't shatter the brittle pride left in Isobel's voice.

Sophie never broke promises. And she had no plans of starting now; she would simply bend the truth, a coin of fact spent to buy a lie. Though Professor Snape had forbidden her interference, he had not forbidden her from reassigning roles.

Sophie placed the next sentence where it would do the least harm. "She mentioned a few things." True enough to pass. "She wanted to try for the duelling team last term."

"She wanted to compete?" Amelia asked.

"No. To learn defensive spells," Sophie replied. "Since her father works at the Ministry, he argues with people often." Her gaze rested on Sera; her grandmother had worked at the Ministry so she knew this all too well. "She thought if she learned a few spells," she continued, "so she wouldn't worry him. In case of any… trouble."

Sera blinked. "But, why didn't she tell us?"

"She thought it was silly." Sophie replied. "And she didn't want to bother you when you had essays."

"Since when is Izzy afraid of bothering us?" Amelia's tone sharpened. "Besides, History of Magic's her thing. Why would she suddenly care about shields?"

Because the corridor teaches faster than a book, she thought as her face stayed mild.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "You know more."

"I know what she told me." Sophie kept the cadence level. "And I promised her not to tell anyone." Only the part she'd forgive me for. "She didn't want to be a cause for worry. I would prefer you not tell her that I did."

"Fine." Sera sighed. "We won't. But what should we do? We can't keep… waiting for her to stop saying she's fine."

You cannot shield people forever, Snape's voice repeated in her mind.

But Sophie had no intention of trying this time. "I'll ask my brother to speak to Rosier."

Their mouths gaped. "You can get Miss Rosier to teach us." Sera said it like Sophie had offered her a unicorn and a Gringotts vault.

Sophie nodded. "One session. Basic defensive forms. For Izzy. You can come, if you like."

"We'll take it," Amelia said quickly. "Merlin. Yes."

"So long as you refrain from mentioning to her what I told you," Sophie said.

"Okay." Amelia's lips thinned. "We'll keep our mouths shut."

Sera nodded as her hair fell into her eyes. "Thank you."

Sophie inclined her head. "I'll send word." She stepped sideways so they could pass without thinking they had been dismissed. They went, their warmth following them down the corridor.

Useful. Relief. A lie braced with ribs of truth would stand a week. Long enough. It softened hard thoughts. But it also made people careless. She would speak to them again before this turned into something they thought was a secret club.

Snape had crowed about angels. She wasn't one, but an alchemist; crafting the base from powder and spellwork.

Father's sentence wore a different coat. "Every move has a price." Buying Isobel a lesson was different from buying her a lifetime. She could not afford her both, only time and an exit.

Exit.

She filed the word next to action. Smoke like Fumos clung in the throat–no, too obvious; Filch would smell it before it cleared. She remembered coughing black grit once, half-blind in the common room when a prank powder from a first-year had gone wrong. Never again. Better something quick, pocket-sized. A blinding crack, like the Muggle-flare she had once seen somewhere in the streets of Paris–light that dazed, not suffocated. And if it screamed as well, stone would carry the sound farther than lungs could. In a stairwell, survival was not triumph but retreat.

Fred Weasley.

If anyone had something small enough to burn a corridor clear, it would be him. He already loathed Mulciber, and she could make it worth his while to keep Izzy breathing without ever telling him why. Fred would be insufferable for a month, but that was another price she could pay. She should send him an owl.

But first, Riev.

Sophie turned her feet toward the hospital wing. The castle climbed toward light, stone easing to plaster and the air losing its iron scent to clean linen and bitter tea. Inside the infirmary, cabinets along the wall held ordered rows. Phials banded blue, green and black; jars of paste; the faded labels of poultices that had been correct for two generations. The fire on the hearth spoke in a steady tongue.

Riev sat in a chair near the cabinets with his ankles crossed and a book open on his knee. His hair had dried into its usual disobedience. When the door closed, he looked up and grinned tightly as if he had been waiting for her and only her for the last ten minutes.

"Cedric dropped by with your note." He flipped to the next page, though she knew well enough that his attention was far from the book's contents. "And I thought, 'Perfect! I get to try this lovely charm on your fingers.'" He lifted the book to show the page title, On the Reconstruction of Soft Tissue After Hex Trauma.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the page before she thought better of it. She lifted both hands instead and flexed her fingers. "Sorry to disappoint. I'll let you know when Professor Snape goes through with his threat."

"I'd rather he doesn't." Riev's lips thinned. He slid a ribbon into the book, set it on the nearby table, and leaned forward. "Madam Pomfrey's in the greenhouse with Professor Sprout," he said. "Ingredient audit. Ten minutes if we're lucky. Less if I tell you something interesting and you argue."

"Not tonight. This will be quick." She took the chair opposite and folded her gloves once with her thumb on the seam.

"I need a favor."

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Chairs made for docile victims.

Riev flicked his wand; a back leg elongated, curved, and locked. Another swish, and the seat thickened, grain swelling as if the wood drew breath. In a few strokes the chair became a waist-high dummy with rounded trunk, crude shoulder lines, and a scuffed "head" that would shortly meet its fate as a target.

"Unusual," Linette said without looking up from her own transfiguration. Her version was neater–typical Rosiers, they tidied even their violence. The chair's rungs braided themselves into a spine with embarrassingly good posture. "Your sister asking me to train second-years off-roster."

"You say that like you have hobbies that aren't duelling or glaring," Riev said.

"I read," Linette replied.

"Yes. Duelling tactics." Riev grinned. He set the dummy's base with a tap so it wouldn't skate on the stone.

In the unused classroom that smelt of chalk and shelved dust, light puddled across the floor from a tall window. To Riev, it looked like the panes were holding winter at bay.

Linette's mouth twitched. "So they're her friends?"

"For Sophie, 'friends' is a word that only nods in corridors." He rolled his sleeve back and sighted along his wand, squinting at the dummy's "head." "She'll solve a problem because its existence offends her. If some people are protected in the process…" He shrugged. "Well, she won't throw a tantrum about it."

Linette studied him briefly then hummed. "Regardless, I'm here because you asked."

Almost sweet, coming from her.

Of course, Riev knew better. He had asked Sophie during the holiday–after the council meeting where their uncles bickered about profit and family survival–why Isobel Cresswell was suddenly a concern with a dossier attached. Sophie had passed him the pages without commentary.

Once he had read the dates and the threats dressed as jokes, he understood then why she'd abandoned their first, kinder plan. Maximilians preferred clean exits. What Sophie did to Mulciber had been public and humiliating. Not her usual, which meant something had torn a seam in her practiced indifference, and something warm and unacceptable had seeped through.

Good. Consider him signed up.

Because for once, the move wasn't only for the circling ravens. It was for a girl who didn't play the old bloods' games but was still getting ground under the boot of someone who did. And Sophie had chosen to stop watching and start breaking.

The door opened a cautious hand's width, then a full swing. Amelia and Sera stepped in first, their nerves masked as briskness. Isobel followed, but only because there was nowhere else to stand that didn't require an explanation.

"Come on, Izzy," Sera said in the tone of someone coaxing a cat down from a cupboard. "Once in a lifetime. Captain herself."

Amelia, already halfway to the front, dipped her head to Linette. "Thank you for taking the time."

Linette blinked, then side-eyed Riev.

"Don't look at me." Riev grinned. "Ravenclaw match turned you into a Slytherin celebrity."

To his surprise and delight, her cheeks actually colored; faint and the sort of blush he'd mock her for later if he cared little for his innards.

Linette smoothed it away and faced the girls. "Wands," she said. "We start with grip. Warm-ups after. You can't hold your spine if you can't hold your wand."

They obeyed; Linette's voice made obedience seem like wisdom.

A knock came at the door. Two short, one long, two short–the quiet pattern when you didn't want the corridor to know your business.

"Excuse me," Riev said. Linette's eyebrow asked if he'd be long. He shook his head and slipped out.

Marcellus leaned against the wall, hair a little crooked, tie not even trying. "You look like you're hiding a dragon egg."

"Only a small one." Riev pulled the door close. "Where's Julian?"

"Common room said he left for Hogsmeade." Marcellus's voice lowered. "He took Yaxley with him. Won't be back until later."

"Excellent." Riev exhaled. "The castle deserves a few quiet hours."

Marcellus craned his neck toward the door. "What are you doing in there?"

Riev hesitated for the length of a heartbeat. Marcellus wasn't brave or smart enough to be dangerous on purpose; he was, however, useful when pointed. And his shields were good. Something the girls needed today. "Captain's running a one-off," Riev murmured. "Basics. Don't faint."

Marcellus's eyebrows shot up. "Rosier? Teaching who?"

"Clark, Cresswell and Goshawk." The third struck home. Light kindled in his friend's eyes.

Oh, Selkirk.

"I can help," Marcellus said too quickly, then coughed to slow himself. "With shields. If Captain wants."

"She will say no, then yes." Riev clapped him on the shoulder and pushed the door. "Try not to trip over your tongue."

Linette had been checking wrist angles when she turned at the sound. Her eyes narrowed upon spotting Marcellus.

Riev closed the door and held up both hands. "Extra hands," he said. "Selkirk can hold a shield in a hurricane."

"No." Linette said, then sighed. "Fine. Show them. Against three Expelliarmus in rapid succession." She turned to the three second-year girls. "Do not give him the dignity of sparing him."

Marcellus, to his credit, tried not to look at Amelia, which was for the best or his shields would falter and Linette would toss him out the room. The first two disarms hit his compact shield like hail on slate. The third skated and stung his knuckles.

"Again," Linette said, and they did.

By the fourth pass, Marcellus made the small angle change Riev had been waiting for; three spells hit cleanly and dropped like stones against a wall.

"Better than last term." Linette said without smiling, which was, for her, a praise.

While Marcellus made himself useful, Riev moved to the edge of the room. Isobel followed instruction well, but obedience isn't a skill. Right now, her stance was acceptable. Adequate until pressure; then the stance would fold. Her wand trembled once. Nerves? There was also her grip. More than clumsy; clamped at the thumb joint.

Perhaps compensating for another kind of pain? And she kept dragging her sleeve down over and over, a little tell of someone convinced if they hid the hurt it would stop existing.

Wait. That grip again. Linette had held it in September during their first duel. Julian and his lackey's favorite method of keeping Linette from using her left hand.

Linette tracked the same details. When their eyes met, he gave the smallest shake of his head. Not here. Later. She inclined hers, and added one extra exercise to the sequence; one that targeted Julian's favorite angle–a backhanded flick at the wrist that hurled a hex just off time. Without naming Julian, she showed the counter twice slowly, then faster the third time. She had them copy it until the motion lived in bone.

An hour slid by in the way useful hours do. Hands reddened as shoes scuffed lines into the stones. Sera cheered too loudly the first time Isobel's disarming spell flew true; Amelia smiled when her shield held against a three-count battering. Sera's successive Stunning spells finally broke Marcellus's shield.

Linette called a halt. The girls lowered their wands by degrees. Riev flicked his wand; the dummies collapsed back into chairs with relieved groans.

"Thank you," Amelia said. Sera echoed it, fuller.

"Don't mention it," Linette said dryly. "Literally. I don't teach outside the team." She paused, as though weighing something. "If you're interested," she added, "tryouts open next year. Third-years can be reserves."

More statement than invitation. Riev had learned there was a way to stand that made you hard to push.

By then Julian would be in sixth, dragged toward N.E.W.T.s with all the grace of a rusted carriage. The team capped at fifth-year; Linette entrenched herself more each week. Riev could already see it; fourth-years this term, fifth-years next, still remembering Julian's shame. If Sera, Amelia and Isobel stood on that platform, Julian's sphere shrank to nothing.

But next year could not protect a wrist today.

Isobel rubbed at her wrist under her sleeve; she probably thought she was subtle about it.

Seeing this, a small spark of anger caught and held as the thought crossed his mind. Quiet injuries live on in rooms no one else notices.

"Done for today," he said. "You've got enough to practice without spraining anything you'll need for writing."

Marcellus exhaled as he rotated his wrist. "Yeah, I need a break after the beating my shields got."

"Speaking of breaks," Riev said. "Have you seen the Weasley twins' stall? They've been terrorizing the courtyard with pink things."

Sera's mouth thinned. "Those lures last week were ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, yes," Amelia said, but a reluctant smile threatened to curl. "But the little hearts that squeaked when you squeezed them–"

"Oh! I've seen those!" Marcellus nodded with more enthusiasm than the subject demanded. "They've new items today. Or so I heard."

Sera raised an eyebrow.

Linette gave him the side-eye of someone internally dying from second-hand embarrassment.

"Want to check it out?" Marcellus said, attempting nonchalance. Riev nearly groaned.

Amelia glanced at Sera who pursed her lips then sighed. "Fine. But if they try to sell us exploding chocolates, we leave."

Isobel shifted back. "I-I have essays to finish." She started a retreat.

"Cresswell." Linette spoke.

Isobel froze.

"Wrist," Linette said. "Infirmary, first."

Isobel stiffened. "It's fine."

"Don't worry." Riev stepped in. "Infirmary's most likely empty today. Madam Pomfrey's doing potions inventory with Snape. And no one wants to be between those two and a list." He smiled to Isobel. "I can bandage it for now, without the lecture that comes with a Pomfrey visit."

"I–really, it's–"

"Better now than later," Linette added with a tone that brooked no argument.

Sera and Amelia looked between Isobel and Riev. Then, at last, Sera jabbed a finger at Riev. "No funny business."

"I would never." Riev placed a hand to his chest. "My reputation is on the line here."

"Good you know," Amelia said cheerfully, and tugged Sera toward the door. Marcellus fell in on Amelia's other side with the very upright gait of a boy trying to look neither eager nor arrogant. Riev resisted the urge to heckle; his friend had enough courage to come in and hold a shield. That merited a little peace.

Linette tipped her chin to Riev.

"Where are you off to?" Riev asked.

"Tactics," she replied as she gathered her things. "Gryffindor next month."

"Try not to enjoy yourself," Riev said.

She made a noise that might have been a laugh and slipped out.

The door clicked behind them. The room was suddenly larger with only two in it. Isobel stood very straight in the center of it, sleeves pulled down as her gaze stayed on the floorboards.

"All right," Riev said lightly. "Let's go."

He opened the door and waited until she chose to move. She did after a breath, and fell into step a half-pace behind him. He took the corridor that avoided the portraits most likely to gossip and the suits of armor that enjoyed commentary.

Arriving at the Hospital wing, the infirmary breathed that clean, stern smell of soap. And thank Merlin, the room was blessedly empty.

"Sit." Riev waved Isobel toward the nearest bed, before crossing to the second shelf, labeled with a narrow tape in Pomfrey's tidy hand, where she kept things she didn't mind him touching. The third shelf downward had wards that hummed like a nettled hive if you so much as breathed on it.

"Does Madam Pomfrey let you… rummage?" Isobel asked.

"Only here." He tilted a tin and squinted at the label. Arnica paste, blue band. Good. "Everything else is warded to the teeth." He plucked out another tin, with a green band this time, and a neat wrapped roll of bandage.

He drew a chair beside the bed and sat, then held out his hand. "Let me see."

Isobel's gaze dropped to her hand. Her fingers worried the cuff as if it might grow another inch and hide her from the world. "Did… Sophie tell you?"

"Sophie tells me many things." He cocked his head. "You'll have to narrow it down."

"What Julian's been doing," she murmured. "Why else–why else would you get Miss Rosier to teach us? You don't just ask the captain for favors."

He said nothing. What would Sophie want him to disclose? "For the record," he said finally, "Your wandwork gave it away. Wrong grip, which is what people do when they're protecting a wrist. Linette did it before."

Isobel blinked. "She did?"

Riev nodded. "When certain friends of the ex-captain thought it was clever to aim at joints."

His open hand remained between them, waiting patiently. After a heartbeat, Isobel placed her own in it. He turned her wrist with care, as if the bones might be offended by haste. He rolled her sleeve back one inch at a time.

Bruising ghosts at the heel of the hand, yellow fading toward green. Swelling down, but not gone. The tendons told a little story to anyone who listened with fingers.

"Any duels lately?" he asked.

She hesitated, then nodded once. "Couple nights ago. I left Potions late. On my way to the Great Hall, I… he was in the corridor."

Of course he was. Some boys could smell a vulnerable hour.

"What happened?"

She frowned, trying to sift memory through nerves. "He said something–always does. And I… snapped–it was a long day and Professor Snape made me start over. And I think I said something that hit a nerve–I don't remember what–but he drew his wand. I drew mine, but he was faster and disarmed me, and then–" She broke off. Her throat worked. "There was a spell and… everything went woolly… and hurting."

"Hurting how?" Riev asked carefully.

Isobel's hands trembled. "Like… I was on fire. And… everything went muffled. I could hear myself clenching my teeth more than the corridor." She shook her head, as though willing away the memory.

Riev's hands remained steady; it was a small point of pride and a useful lie to the body. Inside, a cold anger lit and sat behind his ribs like a domestic fire he would tend quietly for years if he had to.

Cruciatus.

The old books called it Sortilège Doloris. He'd only read it in footnotes and the corners of old books that never went on school lists. Maximilian tutors lowered their voices for it and went philosophical about why pain is an unreliable witness. He had filed it under "Bad Ideas the Arrogant Think Inspires Loyalty." But a fifth-year, raging and stupid, could easily have lifted the name out of his father's cabinet and tried it on like a coat that didn't belong to him.

"Do you know what spell it was?" he asked calmly, as though assessing a symptom.

She shook her head. "He ran after."

Riev breathed once, then let it out. Unforgivables… Putain.

But without a witness besides the victim and the boy's panic, you had little beyond a shiver and the suspicion of a curse no sane professor would bring to a Board. A clever coward–which was what Julian was–would deny, cry "Stinging Hex," and collect a month of detention like a badge. Then he'd learn precisely how long he could hold the line before authority stirred.

"All right." He reached for the bandage. "I'm going to wrap this. Nothing too tight." He unwound the roll, slid a folded square of gauze over the worst of the bruising, and began to bind; figure-eight, looping across the palm and around the wrist.

"You're going to rest it as best you can," he said as he held her gaze. "In the meantime, keep to Sera and Amelia when you can."

"I don't want to use them as shields." Her voice sharpened around the word. "If he targets them–"

"If he wanted to, he would've months ago." He trimmed the bandage and smoothed the end down with a charm. "You know, Julian's terrible at three-on-one. Linette ran that drill three weeks ago. Lost to a trio of third-years. One of them couldn't hit the side of a dragon even if you spelled the dragon to stay still."

A small, involuntary laugh escaped her lips; he smiled at that.

Setting the bandage roll aside, he glanced at her sleeve again. "May I?" He gestured to the forearm.

She gave a small nod.

He pushed the fabric further back carefully. The skin looked unremarkable; no livid marks or mottling, but when he tapped along the ulnar bone with two fingers, she flinched.

"I see," he said softly. "There's a salve that helps when skin thinks any touch is a slap." He reached for the tin with the green band this time, and clicked it open. Wintergreen and something bitter rose up. He scooped a little onto his fingertips. "This'll numb the top layer. Not a fix, but it tells nerves to stop complaining." He smoothed it along her forearm in even strokes, never pressing at the tender spots. "Use it wherever it's… loud."

"Thank you…" She paused. "Could you… could you tell Sophie, thank you, too? For…" She swallowed. "Not telling them."

"Them?"

"Amelia and Sera." She stared at the bedspread. "I don't know how to talk to her–Sophie. After… last term." A quick grimace that was eight parts mortified to two parts grateful. "It was disgusting. I got her sleeve all–"

"Trust me," Riev's lips quirked. "She's used to snot. I left them on her sleeves when I was three–not my finest moment–but she never stopped me. Just brought extra handkerchiefs next time."

He capped the tin, wiped his fingers clean, and stood. "Anyway, I'll walk you back."

"You don't have to," she blurted. "I mean–"

"I'm headed that way." He shrugged. "Also, my ancestors will haunt me if I can't be bothered to escort a lady to the courtyard."

That earned him a look that was almost a smile. She nodded. He tidied the shelf, aligning the bandage rolls and returning the salve to the exact square of scuffed wood where Pomfrey liked it to live, before they left the Hospital wing.

The courtyard had thawed just enough to be fog and slush and a market of ridiculous ideas. The twins had colonized a corner with a table that looked one cough away from collapse; on it stood a forest of tin trays, paper parcels, and objects that begged to be banned.

Today's wares were not the ghastly Valentine bundles of last week but rather, something new. Pellet-sized things in glass vials, labels written in George's neat hand.

"Step right up, ladies, gentlemen, and Ravenclaws who are pretending not to be interested," Fred sang, flourishing something that looked like a handful of river pebbles.

"New and improved Howling Pellets!" George added. "Shriek like a banshee when thrown. Or hiss like Professor Snape if disdain's your weapon."

Sophie's marks all over it. Mischief dressed up as a sensible kit–exactly her kind of mischief. Bless you, sweet sister.

Sera and Amelia had staked a claim by the table. Sera looked deeply suspicious of all things pink and labeled; meanwhile, Amelia was biting a smile behind her knuckles. Marcellus stood between them, trying to look like he belonged beside Amelia.

Isobel slowed. "Thank you," she said to Riev. "For… walking me."

"Anytime." He smiled then turned to leave.

From the cloister's shadow, Sophie watched as if she could will herself into the stone.

He had three options. First, announce himself loudly and make her roll her eyes; second, sneak up and risk an elbow to his ribs; or third, behave like a decent brother.

For his safety, just this once, he chose the third.

"You know," he said as he drew up, "if you're going to lurk like Snape, you'll have to perfect the glide."

She didn't bother to look at him. "How did it go?"

"Straight to the point," he muttered and sighed. "Fine. For one session, all things considered." Across the yard, the twins held court at their table. "They aren't duellists, and Linette didn't try to make them. Only showed them where to hit Julian's wrist and buy them three seconds."

Sophie's chin dipped, satisfied but not pleased. Her eyes tracked the stall; George flicking a pellet off his fingernail, Fred pattering about "Madam-Hooch-in-a-Box, two Sickles extra for the scolding variant."

"And what did that cost?" Riev asked.

"Waived thirty galleons," she said, as if she were reporting a crop yield.

He turned. "You agreed to that?"

"I expected him to ask for all of it," she said mildly. "But he insisted on thirty. I suspect he prefers a reason to pester me until he graduates."

Riev smiled. "Sure that's the reason?"

"Of course." She frowned, finally flicking him a glance. "What else would it be?"

He hummed. No need to explain romance to his sister in a public courtyard. Not if he wanted to stay alive.

"Professor Snape altered the Prefect patrols," Sophie said, shifting the topic. "Broader routes, quieter corridors. The official reason is to deter unruly Slytherins from embarrassing the House."

"Good." He kept his voice level. "She'll need them. Julian's… escalated."

She went still beside him; a tiny freeze invisible to anyone who hadn't spent a childhood reading the weather in her jawline. "What did you notice?" she asked quietly.

Riev checked the angle of the cloister and the distance to the nearest eavesdropper. Then, he stepped half a pace closer, put his shoulder against the stone, and stared at the Weasleys' show as if discussing prices. "Sortilège Doloris," he whispered.

Her eyes snapped to his face. "Proof?"

"Prior Incantato could drag the last spell off his wand," Riev mused. "But only the last."

Sophie rubbed her chin. "If he casts Lumos a dozen times, it will only show light, not pain."

"Or he swaps the wand entirely." Riev tipped his chin toward the castle's exit. "He already went to Hogsmeade with Yaxley; snap the old stick, owl a replacement, and we're left with Izzy's word and nothing to point at." His mouth thinned. "If we push now, he pleads Stinging Hex, learns the ceiling height, and paints a bigger target on her back."

Sophie's gloved fingers flexed against her satchel. "Then we don't chase him where he's quickest," she said. "We close the doors he runs through instead."

"Meaning?"

Her gaze moved over the courtyard. "He likes quiet corners. We make those loud at the right moment. He likes time to tidy after himself. We take the time away."

"A tall order," Riev said. "How do we even bait him?"

"Izzy."

He paused then snapped his head toward her. "You're not thinking–"

"She's his target," Sophie said, "but it doesn't necessarily have to be her." She turned from the courtyard and began walking down the corridor.

Is she planning… no, Merlin no. She can't be serious. "Sophie–" Riev called her but she'd slipped into the crowd with the same talent she used for vanishing blame.

Riev swallowed.

Putain de merde.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

SOPHIE

A steady hush seeped through the dormitory walls and green velvet of the bed curtains. Sophie sat cross-legged on her mattress with the notebook open across her knees. At the top of the page she had written, without flourish, 'Remove Mulciber from the board.'

However, expulsion required proof or scandal–preferably both. Proof went to adults; scandal, to a crowd.

For the past two weeks, she had options written and crossed out hard enough to dent the parchment. Polyjuice, though inefficient. It demanded time, a stolen hair, and ingredients she could not source without either owing Uncle Bertrand with an 'examination' of her eyes, or explaining herself to her father. The former was tiresome; the latter was… unwise. Last week, father had reminded her, through a letter, that her duty was to "keep the board, not comfort the pawns."

She had not bothered to respond to him; the word pawn covered anything soft and, to his mind, disposable. He could not understand that stability had a cost measured in small lives, only the numbers that reached the ledger's far column.

At least the castle had granted a reprieve. Julian had "broken" his wand in Hogsmeade; his story in the common room had been a performance of injured innocence. Of course, both her and Riev saw past this farce. Burn the weapon, and the residue would only grow harder to trace. Though, no wand meant Isobel could breathe for a few weeks. But it also meant Julian had those few weeks to rehearse his rage.

The door banged open against the latch. Sera's voice cut into the room. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Following Sera, Isobel's answer tangled itself in her throat. "Sera–please! Give it back–"

Without looking up, Sophie wrote one more line–bait?–then closed the notebook and slid it under her pillow. Only then did she look up just as Isobel, blotchy and small in the doorway, reached for the parchment Sera held aloft.

Sera stepped back as she lifted it out of reach while stepping further inside. Meanwhile, Amelia closed the door and threw the bolt with the heel of her hand.

"You'd go to him. Alone." Sera clutched the parchment tightly. "If this hadn't–"

"Sera, please," Isobel said, her breath catching. "I was trying to–"

"Protect us?" Sera snapped. "By keeping secrets so he could corner you?"

"We're supposed to be friends." Amelia moved between them, her voice low but unyielding. "If we can't face this together, we'll break apart."

Sera's mouth twisted; then she saw Sophie and the twist found a target. She jabbed the hand with the parchment toward the bed. "And you! You lied to us."

Isobel flinched. "No–Sophie promised. I asked her not to–"

Sera ignored Isobel and snapped at Sophie. "You told us she wanted extra Defense because of Ministry work in her family."

"I told you as much as I could," Sophie said calmly, her hands still on her lap. "Which is why Rosier taught you Basic Duelling."

"You could have done more." Amelia's mouth flattened. "Told a professor. Someone–"

"And what would you expect in return?" Sophie asked. "Detention. Twenty points. Perhaps a letter home. Would that stop him?"

There was also Professor Snape's redirected Prefect routes and the way he had quietly fed Auror-grade antidotes into his lessons, but she kept that detail to herself; his tools worked because nobody knew they were tools.

"We can't just let him go on." Amelia folded her arms. "Three years is a long time to live ducking corners."

Sera nodded, jaw set. "My brother works in Magical Law. There has to be a decree or something. We could–someone could make a complaint that actually sticks."

"Don't." Isobel made a small, wounded sound. "He said he'd have your brother sacked." She turned to Amelia. "And your uncle too. He said he'd dig and dig until he found something to ruin them. I can't–"

"They haven't done anything," Sera shot back. "He can't–"

"It does not matter," Sophie cut in. "His father sits on the Wizengamot. Julian does not need an actual crime, only an allegation. Your families would spend a year proving a negative while Julian gets bored and finds a new toy."

"This isn't fair." Sera let out a frustrated noise. Amelia's lips trembled as she stared at the floor.

At that moment, Sophie hated the word pawn. They were good girls and untrained for this kind of cruel games by old families. That uncomfortable ache settled again in her chest as the silence stood for a breath.

Unacceptable.

Sophie's gaze dropped to the notebook under her pillow. The plan that wasn't done. While Riev and Marcellus could be counted on, two boys with decent reflexes and better nerves were not enough. Linette had already paid one favor. She would not be pressed for a second so soon.

But these three, Rosier had put a spine in their stance and a target in their eye. No need to win a duel, only tip it to where she needed the pieces to be.

Sophie held out a hand. "Give me that."

Sera blinked. "What?"

"That note," Sophie said.

Sera crossed the room and set the parchment in Sophie's palm like something that might bite.

Sophie unfolded it with two fingers. The script was all angles and impatience.

Meet me. Second corridor off the Trophy Room. Two nights from now. Come alone. Or else.

Sloppy. A threat works best as a choice.

"Two days…" Sophie refolded the parchment once more. A door that could open if she was fast enough.

Good. Time to lay string across stone.

Amelia leaned against the post at the foot of the bed. "We don't have to go."

"You're right," Sophie said. "You don't have to."

Sera's eyes narrowed. "If you're going to tell us to stay out of it, you can save your breath. Not after what he did to Izzy–"

"I'm aware." Sophie set the parchment on her blanket. She looked at Isobel, who hadn't moved. "He will expect you to come."

Isobel nodded slowly. "But if I don't he'll–"

"He'll escalate," Sophie finished for her. "Yes." She paused, gazing at each of her roommates. "I have an idea."

The three of them stared at her like she was a lifeline.

"First, I'll keep this," Sophie gestured at Julian's note.

"Take it," Sera said. "Frame it. I don't care."

Sophie slipped the parchment inside her pocket without breaking eye contact. There was a hole left in the plan and it needed filling now. Polyjuice was a month; they only had two days.

She glanced at Isobel's eyes, blue and wide, and then at the line of her mouth, the fold of her skirt, the little tells people never thought were tells. Blonde shoulder-length hair, but can be imitated with a simple haircut and dye–much easier to create than a Polyjuice. Blue eyes, not the same as her glacial ones, but blue enough that a simple glamour charm could dim her own eyes' color. Pale skin similar enough to hers. All that was left was the contour of Isobel's face.

Small relief flickered. She could carry the risk; better a counterfeit target than Julian cornering the real thing. For once, a solution that didn't demand rare ingredients or months of preparation. Father would have dismissed it, but it was hers to wield.

"Second," Sophie continued. "Do any of you have makeup?"

FRED

The parchment had been sulking for months.

Inside the Gryffindor's cozy, occasionally sock-stale dormitory, Fred and George had colonized the rug between their trunks with inkpots, quills and an extremely stubborn bit of old parchment nicked from Filch's cabinet the year before. The parchment had that look about it; properly blank but smug with secrets that made Fred's fingers itch.

"Try 'Revelio' again," George said while his wand tip hovered over the parchment.

"Revelio," Fred intoned, for the tenth time. The parchment did nothing except look back as innocent as Percy's exam timetable.

"I detect…" George sniffed in an exaggerated way. "Absolutely nothing."

"Your nose has been off since Mum burnt the nutmeg biscuits in '88," Fred said. He leaned closer, squinting, like the right sort of squint might wring ink from paper. "Right. Last round. We give it the classics."

They'd been at this for over a year in fits and starts, slotted in between free time when they weren't charming staircases or teaching Mandrakes to sing. Sometimes, if you whispered to it just so, the parchment scratched an answer in a tart hand.

Mr Prongs would like to inform the Untidy Little Thief that he is wasting his adolescence.

Last month it had opined that Mr. Moony preferred not to speak to people who couldn't spell "incantation," which had sent George into a sulk and the dictionary.

They'd tried heat, cold lemon juice, a drop of Fred's blood–dramatic, ineffective and made George gag–three different Revealing charms in Latin, faux-Latin and sassy Latin, a Muggle trick Dad had described once when they were seven, and when all else failed, tried an off-key lullaby.

Still, nothing opened it properly. But Fred could feel it. It called to their better natures–or their worse, depending on who you asked–like a staircase begging to be slid down bannister-first.

"All right," Fred said, flipping the parchment over and back. "By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Daft Scribbles–"

"Very official," George said.

"–I command thee, Unblankify!"

The parchment, in its long tradition of over a year, ignored them. Again.

Fred cleared his throat, adopted his poshest Percy voice, "I, Fred Weasley, solemnly intend to behave."

"Liar." George snorted.

Fred grinned and let the Percy melt out of his voice. "Fine. I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The parchment shivered.

Both of them froze. Thin, spidery ink bloomed outwards, etching a tidy, self-satisfied script.

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

Are proud to present

THE MARAUDERS MAP.

Fred felt a laugh break out of him before he could stop it. "Oh, you beautiful snooty masterpiece."

Lines unfurled; corridors, classrooms, secret passages. Little labelled dots began to pace and pause. Percy was an orderly oval in the library–of course; Peeves oozed over a stairwell; Filch prowled, with that "Argus Filch" unlovely letters stalking alone. Huh, where's Mrs. Norris–oh there she is. Patrolling another corridor.

"What'd I tell you?" George breathed. "It wanted the truth."

"Or a kindred spirit." Fred grinned.

They hunched over it, their elbows jostling while watching Hogwarts tick. It was like holding the castle's heartbeat. For once, when Fred tried his wand tip on a corner, the ink didn't hiss insults. He skimmed for professors; Snape down in the dungeons, not surprising. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall walked a neat circuit between her office and the common room.

"Find anyone interesting?" George said.

Fred slid his gaze down, out of habit more than intention, to the Slytherin common room, where his eyes passed a clutch of names he didn't care to read, then the library. Ah, there she was–Sophie Maximilian; though not for long. Her dot slid off the library's edge and struck out along a side corridor with unusual speed.

"Expecting our resident Ice Sculpture to be asleep between two reference tomes?" George poked Fred's cheek.

"More like haunt the stacks, yeah," Fred said. He tracked the dot. It still kept moving, unhurried but deliberate this time, past a junction he knew led to the Trophy Room.

Odd hour for sightseeing.

Another name appeared down a narrow side corridor not often used unless you had a reason. Fred's brows furrowed. "Huh."

"Huh?" George peered in. "What's huh–Oh."

Julian Mulciber.

The name drifted in ugly letters, moving toward the same corridors where Sophie's name was heading. Not even a chatter of dots nearby. Just those two on their way to a throat of corridor that never saw a crowd.

An old, unfriendly cold unspooled in Fred's gut. Their business deal with the Ice Queen sprung to mind.

Two weeks ago Sophie had commissioned howling pellets that screeched like banshees from them. "For Mulciber," she'd answered flatly when they prodded. Fred had laughed it off, because Slytherins held grudges like family heirlooms and it seemed a perfectly Slytherin thing to salt their own wounds. He and George had haggled and wrung thirty galleons off their debt for the trouble. She'd stared, one eyebrow up, like she couldn't decide whether to be amused or offended.

It had been funny then; but now…

"Get up," Fred said, already off the rug.

George followed. "Where are we hurrying to?"

"The Trophy Room." He jammed his wand into his sleeve and snatched the parchment. "Now."

George stood and followed. "If this is a romantic rescue–"

"Not romantic," Fred shot back as they left their dorm room.

"–I'm bringing the part where I say 'I told you so," George finished.

They didn't bother with the portrait hole niceties. The Fat Lady squawked at their backs as they sprinted for the stairs. Fred glanced at the Map at every landing, ignoring the way the corridors tried to change lengths when you were in a hurry. Sophie's dot had stopped in the second corridor off the Trophy Room. Julian's dot stopped probably ten feet from hers. Just off the first corridor, almost out of sight, Riev and Selkirk remained still. Further, tucked against the wall at a bend, three other names in a shy cluster; Isobel Cresswell, Amelia Goshawk and Sera Clark's.

"Why are they parked?" George said between breaths.

"A setup?" Fred said.

"Or disaster," George said.

"Either way," Fred continued, "it's going to be loud if we don't hurry."

They took a different turn than the Slytherins would have; Fred knew two ways to the Trophy Room and chose the one that spat you out at the opposite end of the second corridor. They pelted past an empty suit of armour that clanked, slid along a damp strip where the stones sweated in winter, and burst into the mouth of the corridor.

A wand-flare snapped the air as the corridor rang tinny with spell on shield. Julian flung hexes at the girl facing him; blonde shoulder-length hair, eyes blue but not cold, and held a Protego that angled her shield to kiss hexes off to the walls instead of taking the full hit.

Fred knew that trick. Sophie had done it once in a Defense lesson at the start of last term. There was also the set of her mouth, flat and unimpressed. He had seen that expression; he'd memorized it after seeing it carved on her face since last year.

George glanced his way. Fred nodded as they both raised their wands together. "Expelliarmus!"

Sophie–or the blonde version of her–snapped her wrist, her shield flaring back and batting their spells without even looking behind her. George hissed as one of their own spells ricocheted off a suit of armor and fizzled by his ear.

"She thinks we're aiming at her," Fred muttered. He opened his mouth to shout her name–

–and Julian's voice sliced through. "Crucio!"

Sophie had flared her shield wide to catch spells from behind–too wide to withstand the incoming Unforgivable. The Protego spiderwebbed and burst, the bolt hitting her in the chest.

Her scream clawed the corridor clean of everything else; the draft, the smell of polish from the Trophy Room, even the tick of water down a crack.

For a heartbeat, Fred forgot he had hands.

No. Sophie Maximilian didn't scream; and yet there it was, high and shattering, cut off as quickly as it came. Then she dropped, her wand slipping from her fingers before clicking against the stone.

"Stupefy!" Clark's voice cracked from the side passage. Her red bolt whisked past where Sophie had been standing and Julian rolled quickly, letting it sear nothing but air.

"Wrist!" someone hissed from the shadow–Goshawk?

Another red bolt shot low at that bend of bone instead of Julian's wand. It hit; his wand jerked, flipped and arced end-over-end before it clattered across the stones toward the trio in hiding. Cresswell, wand still pointed at Julian, reached out and caught it with her free hand.

Mulciber lunged for the wand on the floor–Sophie's.

Without thinking, Fred slammed into Julian from behind and they both hit stone, scraping the back of Fred's hand. Julian twisted and elbowed backwards, catching Fred in the ribs.

"Bloody hell!" Something hot and furious gnawed at Fred; he gave it teeth. He bit into the meat of Julian's shoulder through the robe, hard enough that his jaw ached.

Julian howled. "Son of a–"

"Hold still!" George slammed his weight onto Julian's legs like a falling trunk.

Julian bucked; the twins swore louder.

At the distance, a pellet went off, the sound scraping like a kettle shrieking. The corridor magnified it until Fred felt it in his teeth. Whoever threw it didn't matter.

Just let every prefect with a pulse descend.

In the corner of Fred's eye, he saw Riev already on his knees beside Sophie.

"Merde, Soph." His hand hovered over her. "Tu m'avais promis d'esquiver. Pourquoi tu ne l'as pas fait–" He smoothed damp hair back from her forehead, his eyes wild and searching.

Up close, Fred noticed the make-up; it was good. Even he wouldn't recognize her in this dark corridor. Moreso with the way she lay trembling in small vicious waves.

"Is she–" He started, but his voice didn't come out right. He swallowed.

"Tais-toi," Riev snapped and paused to exhale. "Sorry–just… not now." He was looking at Sophie's pupils, at her hands and the way her breath hitched.

Clark and Goshawk joined them a second later, their wands still aimed toward Julian who still kept struggling beneath the Weasley twins' combined weight.

Cresswell crouched next to Riev, Julian's wand in her grip like a snake's head she hadn't decided whether to crush.

"Madam Pomfrey," Goshawk said, and then turned to Clark. "We need to–"

Boots then hammered stone at the far end of the corridor. Prefects funneled the sound. Professor McGonagall arrived first with her robes snapping like a banner. Snape came on her side, his face carved from something colder than stone. Behind them, two more figures–Selkirk and Diggory–breathing hard; Cedric's hair was wet as if he'd run through rain.

Under Fred, Julian stilled.

"What is the meaning of–" McGonagall began, then saw Sophie before she could finish her statement. "Miss Maximilian–"

Fred's mouth got ahead of him. "Professor! She's hurt, we–Julian–"

Fierce and shaking, Clark pointed at Julian, who writhed again under Weasley twins like a particularly angry eel. "He did it."

"You started it!" Julian spat.

"We didn't!" Goshawk shouted. "You shouted–"

"Shut it!" Julian cut in.

Fred pushed the older Slytherin's head against the stone floor. "Don't lie. We all heard it."

The prefects now moved toward Sophie. Riev snapped his head up. "No, la Cruciatus la frappait–" He dragged his breath in and translated himself with effort. "The Cruciatus hit her. Don't jostle."

The corridor seemed to narrow in around the word. Both professors looked at one another and in that look ten conversations happened at once. Snape's mouth thinned; McGonagall's shoulders tightened.

Julian turned his head toward them. "It was a Stinging Hex."

"We all heard 'Crucio.'" George pressed all of his weight on Julian. "Don't call us deaf, you bloody–"

"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said, her lips thinning as her eyes narrowed.

Cresswell held out the wand she'd caught earlier to McGonagall with both hands. "Mulciber's, Professor."

Julian's gaze darted to the empty space where his wand had been, the bravado in his jaw faltering before he clenched it back into place.

"Thank you, Miss Cresswell," McGonagall said after she took the wand and slid it up her sleeve. Then she flicked her own wand at a nearby side table; it unfolded into a stretcher with a sound like a sigh.

Snape came to where Sophie lay with measured steps. "Hold her head," he murmured, and Riev's hands were there without needing further instruction. Snape's wand traced a small controlled geometry over Sophie's sternum. He raised his left hand with palm out, and the stretcher slid itself nearer with a scrape.

"On my count," Snape said. "One. Two." The levitation wasn't a first-year charm. It lifted her in an invisible sheet as if the air had hands when it settled her onto the stretcher. Her lashes fluttered once and stopped. Riev's mouth pressed itself into a line.

Two prefects stepped forward and took the stretcher's handles. Riev rose with them, ready to follow.

"Mr. Maximilian," McGonagall called. "Come with me."

"But–" Riev protested.

"You'll be no help to Pomfrey in this state," Snape said sharply. "Be useful elsewhere."

Git, Fred thought.

"She'll be seen to," McGonagall told Riev before she cut toward the rest of them. "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Miss Cresswell, Miss Goshawk, and Miss Clark. With me as well. We will sort this in my office."

Approaching Riev, Cedric touched his sleeve as the stretcher slid past them. "We'll stay until Pomfrey takes her."

Selkirk bobbed his head frantically.

Riev's throat worked. He nodded once. "If she wakes–"

"I'll tell her you were impossible," Cedric said. That earned a bleak blink that might have almost been a smile if the world had been different.

Meanwhile, Fred and George let Julian go only when other prefects approached them and braided magical restraints around Julian's wrists and elbows. As he was dragged up, Julian spat at the floor and missed the twins' boots.

"I will have Mr Mulciber placed somewhere secure," Snape said then flicked his fingers as the Prefects marched Julian off, bound and glowering.

"Come," McGonagall said as she turned toward the brighter corridor.

Fred's feet felt like they belonged to someone else as he fell into step. He looked back–couldn't help it–and caught the stretcher at the other end of the corridor with Cedric's steadying hand on its edge and Marcellus hovering on the other side of the stretcher.

He swallowed. The pellet's dying howl guttered, and the corridor felt too quiet. He could still hear the echo of her scream in his bones.

She'll be fine, he told himself–not for the first time, nor the last. She's Sophie the Ice Tyrant. She'd be up tomorrow and glaring at him and George for their shoddy aim.

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

The portraits in Professor McGonagall's office pretended to sleep as the fire in the grate took its time and crackled the way a stern woman clears her throat.

Amelia was doing the talking. She had her hands flat on her knees and her voice kept steady in a way that said she was holding herself together by the edges. Sera sat tight and bristly beside her, ready to snap at anything with Mulciber's name on it. Isobel hunched small, eyes swollen but dry, staring at a knot in the floor as if it had answers. The Weasley twins, meanwhile, were mirror images, only their fidgets not quite synced. McGonagall listened and wrote, quill jotting their testimonies down in tidy lines.

Riev was only half-listening. Bits came and went. "Arch behind the armour." "Come alone." "He said–" "She said–" The whole chain ran past him and broke again at the same link; Sophie's scream, sharp enough to crack the air, then the way she shook afterward, small ugly tremors she wouldn't have allowed anyone to see if she'd had a choice.

The curse shouldn't have landed. That was the rule.

He had told her the plan had too many corners. He had a long list prepared.

But Sophie had simply folded the list like a napkin and put it by the plate. "I'll be careful," she'd said.

"Your 'careful' scares me," he'd told her.

"If he tries the Cruciatus, I dodge." Her promise.

Riev believed her then; he wanted to.

And then she'd screamed.

He could still feel it in his molars. For a moment he'd been ten and under someone's hand again, and all his good jokes had run away.

Maybe she took it on purpose, said a cruel little voice. One scream cheaper than twelve months of being ignored.

He hated that it sounded like her.

"Mr. Maximilian?" McGonagall's voice had cut through his thoughts. The others looked at him as well.

Riev blinked. "Sorry, Professor," he said, and even to his own ear he sounded like a man just waking. "Was thinking about Soph."

A tight line at the corner of McGonagall's mouth eased. "Miss Maximilian is with Madam Pomfrey. She will be taken care of." She let that sit a heartbeat, as if laying a hand on his shoulder at a distance.

Taken care of. Pomfrey would put the trembling in a jar, label it neat, and call it solved. The part with the Board and the names and the fathers on desks, however...

"I will repeat the question," McGonagall continued, "What, precisely, were you all doing in that corridor?"

Riev eyed three girls who had decided to stand with each other even if they shook while doing it. Then, he shifted to the two redheads who had tripped over their own heroics. It was just him now. He picked through the story for the pieces that would survive daylight, and set them on the table, one at a time.

"Izzy received a note from Mulciber," he said. "He told her to come alone. Sophie decided it had to stop. So she went instead."

McGonagall's mouth tightened. "And the disguise?"

"She thought if he believed he was cornering Izzy and then found out she could defend herself, he'd pick a different hobby," Riev replied.

McGonagall's eyes cooled a fraction at 'hobby.' Good. Let the word sink its teeth. Her eyes flicked once to Isobel and back. "And Miss Cresswell agreed to this?"

"I told Sophie she didn't have to," Isobel answered quickly. "But she said she had an idea and could make Mulciber stop."

"We were backup, Professor," Riev said as he gestured toward his fellow Slytherins. Best to control the story before Isobel could say anything detrimental. "Mulciber's on the dueling team. Sophie asked us to stand by quietly. If anything went wrong, we were to disarm him and run."

All three girls nodded when McGonagall glanced their way, before returning to him. She watched his face a second, that cat's-weighing look. She found what she needed or chose to; he couldn't tell which. She turned her head to the Weasleys.

"And you two?" Her tone carried a teaspoon of vinegar. "What were you doing there?"

Riev looked at the twins. It wasn't the first time something red had run across a plan and smeared it. They were alert the way kneazles are alert around canary cages. Especially Fred, who wore guilt like a borrowed jumper too tight at the seams.

"We were passing," Fred said, airy as honesty with its hands up.

George nodded. "We thought, well, Sophie's… Sophie. But Mulciber's a bloody–er, an awful git. No offense to gits."

Riev's hands wanted to do something unhelpful like punch their jaws. "Your arrival made it worse. She had to widen her shield when you fired from behind."

Not the whole truth.

If Sophie had left the back open, she could have moved the instant the Unforgivable left Julian's mouth… but here, she had to guard both front and back at once, allowing the curse to slide through the seam.

Fred's jaw set as he looked at the floorboards. Riev thought he was a prick for liking that, but he liked it anyway.

Pain likes company. The small, shabby truth.

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall cut across before the twins' mouths could invent a defense that would embarrass everyone. "Next time, fetch a prefect. Or a professor. Do not decide to join a duel, however well-meant."

"Yes, Professor," the twins said together, heads lowered.

"And," she added, "so that we are all clear: Unforgivable Curses are not blocked by shields. Not by Protego. Not by any spell." Her gaze went back to Riev for a sliver of a second. "Avoiding the curse is the only defense."

Yes. He knew; he had told Sophie that. Hearing it from McGonagall did not help. He still wanted to bruise each of the twins, to punch the gap where the plan had torn. He wanted, at that moment, a lot of childish things–Maximilian reputation be damned.

"Understood," he said instead. What else was there to say?

McGonagall let her words settle, then asked, "Did any of you know Mr. Mulciber was capable of casting an Unforgivable?"

Sera and Amelia shook their heads.

Isobel meanwhile, she looked sick. "He did something to me." Her voice wobbled, as her eyes stared at the floor. "A couple of weeks ago. In a corridor. It… hurt. It wasn't like a hex I knew–"

McGonagall's quill snapped in two between her fingers. "That is not a hex, Miss Cresswell. That is torture. In my school." All eyes were on the broken quill now as she exhaled and set it aside before reaching for a new quill. "Continue."

Isobel swallowed as she gave a small nod. "When Sophie–when she screamed, it sounded the same. But I didn't know what it was… that." She glanced at Riev. "When you bandaged me weeks ago, did you… notice something?"

McGonagall's gaze went from Isobel to Riev like a wand changing targets. "Mr. Maximilian?"

Swallowing broken glass would've been preferable at that moment. He kept his gaze toward McGonagall; he didn't have space for the apology Isobel deserved. Lying to her in front of her own fear was like stepping on your own foot so someone else could keep their balance.

"I thought it was a nasty Stinging hex," he said. It wasn't difficult for his eyes to invent fear; just the thought of the small tremors from Sophie's body was enough. "Maybe the nastier sort his lot liked to test. I didn't think anyone at school–" The sentence broke where it needed to, "–would know that curse. I've only heard about them from tutors. You know, 'Here's a thing you never touch' lessons."

The portraits above them had stopped pretending to sleep. One old witch actually tsked.

"I assure you," McGonagall addressed each of them. "Mr. Mulciber's wand will be examined. If the last spell registered is the Cruciatus, the consequences will be… commensurate."

Expulsion, she meant. And a father who would rattle the Wizengamot like a box of Exploding Snap packs. 'Commensurate' was a neat word for the inevitable storm.

"Who examines it?" Fred asked, then corrected his tone under one eyebrow raised from their House Head. "Professor."

"The Headmaster can perform Prior Incantato," she said. "And I can as well. If there is any doubt, the Ministry will send an Auror."

The three girls let go of something all at once. He saw it in their shoulders, a small collapse that wasn't surrender. Relief wore thin in rooms like this, but it was something warm in the hand for once.

Riev would have liked to feel it too. Instead he counted the next rooms in the hallway. The way the Board writes letters, and whose uncle drinks with whom. The part where Sophie woke and told him whether she had stepped into the lightning by choice. He needed her awake; only she made the world explain itself.

McGonagall asked more. When had it started? Second year, Isobel said, with the small shame of not having told sooner sitting in the bow of every sentence.

"Why did you not come to a professor?" McGonagall asked, and for once her voice frayed a little.

"He said he'd have my father sacked," Isobel said. "And Sera's brother, and Amelia's uncle too. He said he'd dig until he found something. He said he had time."

Sera nodded with her chin set like she'd clamped it there. "He would have gone looking even if there was nothing to find."

"Or he could invent something," Amelia said.

McGonagall's mouth thinned again, then she smoothed it with practice. "You should have come to me."

"Yes, Professor," the three girls mumbled.

She kept them a while longer, asking small questions for detail-gathering. Which arch, what time, the wand flick, who shouted first… Riev answered the parts he could answer without opening the drawer that had too much inside.

At last, McGonagall stood. The portraits blinked, probably scandalized that a scene had ended without anyone being turned into a hedgehog. "Miss Cresswell. Miss Goshawk. Miss Clark," she said, her voice went kinder by a degree. "If you need to leave Slytherin House for a time while we sort this, I will arrange it. If you choose to remain, you do not walk alone. Do you understand me?"

They nodded too fast again.

She turned to the two unusually silent redheads. "Good. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, back to Gryffindor. I will escort you." She shifted her attention back to Riev and the three girls. "Slytherin students, to your common room. If Professor Snape has questions, he will ask them in the morning."

Thank Merlin, 'morning' exists, Riev thought.

They filed out with the kind of quiet that belongs in chapels. The corridor tonight at least was polite about its drafts as their shoes made thin sounds on stone. Isobel's voice came first. "We should see her."

"It's past curfew," Amelia said. "Professor McGonagall said straight to the dorm."

"I know," Isobel said softly. "I just–"

"First thing in the morning," Sera cut in. "Before breakfast maybe? If not, straight after."

Isobel nodded. "We should bring something."

"Chocolate?" Sera said.

"Madam Pomfrey will confiscate it," Amelia said. "If she's on potions."

Isobel looked over her shoulder at Riev. "What does she even like?"

Riev tapped his chin as if he was consulting an authoritative inner text. Not that he was. He was watching three girls make room at a table his sister had never believed she'd be invited to. First year, Sophie had treated roommates like furniture; catalogued, dusted around, occasionally used to reach a high shelf. Now they were asking about her preferences. Progress, bought at a bad price.

"She isn't mad for sweets," he said. "But she likes the tea at breakfast. The good one. She'll never say it out loud, of course. Thinks people will ruin it if she does."

"Tea, then," Amelia said. "We bring tea."

"And we sit until Pomfrey chases us," Sera added.

Isobel nodded. "Maybe some toast too."

They reached the damp chill of the dungeons. The wall that opens for passwords was patiently a wall. Riev slowed when he spotted someone leaning in the shadow of the corner with hands in pockets and shoulders hunched.

Cedric.

Of course he'd be the sort to stand where no Prefect would approve, eyes near the door like a dog outside a shop. Riev liked him for it more than was good for either of them.

"Go in," Riev told the girls. "Two minutes."

They gave Cedric the quick measuring looks girls gave boys, and went past with nods. The wall sighed open and took them.

Cedric stepped out of the shadow with his Hufflepuff face on, as his hand reached for Riev's shoulder. It was a steadying weight, the kind a man can lean into. "You really like that 'I slept in the owlery' look, don't you?"

Riev huffed a soft laugh. Leave it to Diggory to lighten his mood. "Thought badgers live closer to the kitchens, not the dungeons. And, isn't it past curfew?"

"Since when did you care about curfew?" Cedric's gaze softened. "Just checking up on you."

Riev grinned slightly. "That's sweet. Thank you, Mother."

Cedric shook his head. "And, I figured I might as well give you some updates. About Sophie."

"How's she?" Riev asked too quickly.

"Pomfrey caught me trying to peek inside the infirmary; she said Sophie's sleeping soundly," Cedric replied. "And if the tremors stop by morning, she can be discharged."

"With instructions, no doubt." Riev sighed. "Which my sweet sister will ignore."

"Go to bed," Cedric said, which sounded a lot like an order. "If you turn up in the morning looking like that, she'll feed you to that bird of hers."

"She tried already, last Christmas," Riev replied. "Érebos hated the taste of care and warmth. Bad for his diet." He patted Cedric's hand. "Anyway, you better head back. If you get caught down here I'll have to pretend I don't know you and that would be emotionally taxing."

Cedric's hand squeezed once more, then fell before he left. At the corner he half turned back, like he wanted to say something, but then didn't. Instead, he continued walking.

Riev watched him go until the dark took him. He stood there for another heartbeat and let his eyes soften, just once, because no one was there to write it down. Then he told the wall the word it wanted and ducked through as the stone swung aside.

SNAPE

Next morning, in the Potions Master's office, McGonagall's report lay square on Snape's desk with clean margins and brisk handwriting. Two pages; she would have made it one if she could have.

Snape flattened the curl at the corner with one finger and moved his eyes line by line.

Note delivered to Cresswell. Rendezvous. Sophie Maximilian's disguise. Backup in the side passage. Weasleys appearing "to assist." Then, the Cruciatus. Prior Incantato to be performed in the Headmaster's presence today, as protocol. Student witnesses interviewed and Pensieve memories to be collected today.

Then at the bottom, a note regarding Mulciber's harassment of Cresswell since September–a fact that he had already been made aware of by the Maximilian girl, but now something she had decided was worth making public.

He set the paper down and rested his fingertips beside it until they stilled. Raging was a bad apprentice. It smashed tools. The quiet counterpart did better work.

Snape had told Sophie Maximilian not to interfere. He remembered the exact angle of her chin when she said that drowning did not teach. And now, here they were; a public curse in a school corridor, a tether line thrown to the Ministry, and half the Board certain to discover their dignities within the hour.

"If you interpose yourself again between my method and my student, you will discover there are worse fates for hands than losing them," he had told her weeks ago and now had half a mind of going through that threat. But what would that achieve apart from another patriarch aiming a wand at his throat?

Snape reached for Cadmus Mulciber's letter before he could reach for a vial to throw and shatter at the nearest wall. The Mulciber patriarch had written what passed for a letter among men who felt their names were a legal instrument.

Severus,

I acknowledge your note.

My son denies any wrongdoing. He was attacked by a mob of students. I expect you to ensure his safety and that the school follows procedure. Any "investigation" must be handled by the Headmaster and the Board, not by rival families with grudges. I will be at the castle on the day of the investigation.

C. Mulciber

Snape's mouth thinned. How predictable. Denial followed by procedure from a man with lawyers who thought burying crimes in procedure erased the stain.

He set aside Cadmus's letter and reached for Avery's next. The other letter was thinner, its contents written in Avery's cramped angular handwriting.

Severus,

You were right to put it in my ear first. I'll keep the Ministry quiet until the Headmaster has what he needs. In the meantime, no headlines that cost galleons.

You know Cadmus will shout, that's how he is. I'll calm him. But do not let the French turn this into their little theatre. The Board expects stability.

–A.

The letter was the same voice as the letter last June; keep an eye on the ravens. Avery bled principle where profit pinched. "No headlines that cost galleons." That was the whole creed.

Snape folded both letters and slid them beneath McGonagall's report. He leaned back against the chair.

The desk, suddenly, felt crowded. Cadmus pushed from one side, while Avery from another. Over his shoulder, there was also Dumbledore who "advised" him to keep them friendly and watched. And in the center of the table was a fifth-year who had a taste for an Unforgivable and a twelve-year-old who had a taste for control.

It shredded the strategy he had been patient enough to maintain; no public rescues or headlines that bred martyrs and copycats. Prefect routes bent. Potions rotated to teach antidotes a year early. Detentions rearranged to keep prey out of their predators' reach.

His safeguards still failed.

Snape picked up Minerva's report again, and read the line a second time. "Miss Maximilian disguised herself as Miss Cresswell…"

She had chosen to be the target.

He closed his eyes for a beat, then dismissed the sentimental thought before it could unnerve him. No, she had not chosen to be the target out of altruism; she had wanted the string.

Did she know the boy could cast it? The thought came and stayed, and he followed it to its edge. The ledger debacle that ended in Julian's dethronement. She had already shown herself willing to seed lies into a room to control its temperature. "Disguised herself as Miss Cresswell," as if the hair and the eyes were a mere detail. Never that child. Everything was signal in her hands.

If she suspected the boy had moved beyond schoolyard hexes–if she had reason to believe he would use an Unforgivable–her play was not to "discourage." It was to put him in a situation he could not explain away, with evidence that would not lie under the Headmaster's wand. Evidence that, once present, would drag the Ministry through his doors.

Logical, but Snape hated every ounce of it.

More so that he had not considered that Mulciber would attempt the bloody curse. The boy had cruelty, yes, but he had not shown ambition for lawbreaking.

A fifth-year should not have known what that spell felt like in his throat. The thought tightened something in him he refused to name.

Snape slid the report and letters into a drawer which he locked with wards that would break his wrist first before it broke for anyone else. Then he stood and left the office and made his way to the Hospital Wing.

He arrived at the castle's infirmary which smelled faintly of comfrey and boiled linen. Pomfrey was not at her desk; the tea on the tray near the matron's chair had not yet breathed steam. Breakfast would have her elsewhere.

Good.

On the third bed from the end, the Maximilian girl sat with her back straight. Blonde hair still, but her eyes had returned to their habitual glacial blue. No tremor in the hands as she held a parchment. At the end of her bedstead stood a peregrine falcon–Maximilians and their birds–with slate back and stooped head.

The falcon turned its gaze to him; Sophie looked up at the movement then lowered her lashes and spoke to the bird in French. He caught "vite" and "au nid," then the falcon took the note and went with a clean gust out the high window.

"Professor," she said politely as if this were any ordinary morning and he had come to check her homework.

He shut the door with deliberate care and layered it with three wards; one to keep sound, another to discourage entry, and the last to make anyone approaching suddenly remember an errand in the opposite direction. When the final runic curve settled, he turned.

"Drop it."

She tilted her head by a fraction. "Drop what, sir?"

"That wide-eyed routine." He sneered. "And do not waste my time on the version of events written for people who enjoy slogans."

She held his eyes. "I would prefer not to invent a version of events at all."

Children who could hold a gaze irritated him on principle but still interested him despite himself.

"Yet Mulciber had been disarmed within seconds," he said. "Your little group in the side passage had been organized. 'Wrist,' I believe Miss Goshawk shouted. And the howling pellet to guarantee an audience." His eyes narrowed. "You wanted witnesses. And a wand you could hang him with."

"I wanted eyes if things went wrong," she answered.

"And your hair?"

She lifted a hand and touched a blunt edge as if to remind herself it was still there. "To mistake me for the right target long enough to read his stance."

"And your eyes?" he said.

"Wore off," she said. "Advanced glamour lasts longer. Sadly, I am twelve."

"So, rather than bringing your evidence to a professor," he said, "you decided to construct it and made a crime public in my corridors because you think my method was not fast enough for your taste."

"Which method–"

"Spare me your charade." He let the pause sit a fraction too long. "Did you know he could cast it?"

"No."

He watched her face, then the tiny muscles at the temple before finally moving to her throat. Nothing he could use. "You expect me to believe you did not consider the worst case."

"Only for him to be as stupid as his record," she said.

She was lying; Snape could not prove it but he felt it in the way she held his gaze. "You would not pass up the opportunity to teach him a lesson."

"'Lesson' implies he could learn–"

He slashed his hand in the air. "You chose the hour when prefects travel that route and the trophy cases that carry sound."

"I chose where the odds were better," she replied.

"How did you intend to 'discourage' him, then?" he asked. "Lecture him? Or did you plan to let the school believe Cresswell had grown a spine by miracle, and hope his attention strayed."

"Hope is–" she stopped, then corrected herself, "unreliable."

"Then incrimination it is– And do not insult me with false innocence," he snapped. "You wanted a wand that said the word the Board cannot ignore."

She simply stared. If she was lying, she had trained past her years; but if it had been the truth–no. The day a Maximilian learned honesty would be the day Gryffindors learned bravery did not equate to stupidity.

"Consider this," Snape said. "Two days from now, you will have the Board–most of whom owe their spines to Malfoy–sitting as if they were judges because you preferred to play strategist."

Her mouth almost tightened, before she stopped herself. "If I had told you beforehand, would you have permitted it?"

"No."

"There we are," she said softly. "We would be in the same corridor. Only with Cresswell."

"And your solution," he countered. "was to make yourself the face the Board will enjoy tearing apart. Do you think your name will carry you? Apart from Francesca Palmer, no Governor is yours. Avery sits as the Ministry's face on that Board. Lucius Malfoy keeps the rest leashed. And as far as they're concerned, you're a foreigner–"

"–I have British ties–"

"–not enough for them to see past the image of a French upstart," Snape cut in. "The old British families will feel no patriotic obligation to rescue a girl who walks into a duel with a disguise. They will make a speech about standards, and then make a decision that suits the Prophet's headlines."

Her gaze slanted to the window. Then she looked back, and no longer sounded like a child. "Monsieur Avery and Monsieur Malfoy hold notes in lucrative Maximilian businesses." she said. "I am often told that pride has a price. So does spite."

He bared his teeth in something that was not a smile. "Your patriarchs hold that leverage, not you. And I doubt your father will thank you for forcing him to explain his children to men who count favors for sport."

Her chin dipped by a degree that might have been agreement or simple acknowledgment that she had heard him. It mattered little to him which; he was right either way.

"Every question will pivot on what you intended," he said. "And every man around that table will bend your intent until it becomes a stick to beat someone he dislikes. Mulciber's father already bleats about mobs. Do you imagine he will tire of that story? No sobbing from your friends will soften him or the Governors."

She said nothing, but her silence never meant surrender; only calculation.

"It's not just you they'll investigate," he continued. "They'll turn their heads to measure how much they can charge your father for the privilege of letting you remain unscathed." He let the words harden. "And for what? For a piece on a chessboard you could have moved with one conversation and one signature."

Still silent, but she watched him. He waited.

When she spoke, it was the soft voice she used when she meant to look respectful while pointing out something ugly. "Do you know when he used it on her?"

He scowled. "Irrelevant."

"Is it?" She tilted her head. "You should know when. After Potions. Remember the day you had her redo her antidote? She stayed late, and ended up walking in the corridors. Alone."

He had left her there.

The room lost a degree of heat no fire corrected. Cresswell's hush and her rebrewed draught that clung to glass, Maximilian's hand pulling at the burner, his rebuke followed by an order, start over and do it properly. His thoughts back then, escorts hang targets on you. But now, the other lesson had been delivered in the corridor for which he had made exactly the space.

"She might have preferred," Sophie added, "being called 'Professor's pet' to being taught… something else."

He looked at her. She was a child. She had no right to be correct in that way.

"So you knew." His jaw clenched.

"No," she said at once. "Miss Cresswell only said 'everything hurt'."

"But you suspected," he pressed.

"I had an inkling," she corrected. "It was neither concrete nor enough to speak in front of a professor and accuse a boy of that. Had I been wrong, I would have made her life worse. Had I been right but had no proof, all the same." Her shoulders lifted slightly. "So I did the plan that needed the least proof."

Snape went very still as the memory from his classroom returned at its own insistence–Maximilian's voice when she had stood in front of him and said, with offensive simplicity, "Proving yourself right leaves her in the corridor." At the time he had filed the line under insolence. Now it began to behave like a mechanism, where the crank turned, and the gears reached other gears.

If one wished, with ill will and a Board to feed, one could assemble the following; the Head of Slytherin knew of a pattern of bullying. Yet he chose a method that demanded privacy to protect the victim from public cost. And in that privacy, the bully graduated to a curse the school could not ignore. The friends assembled a decoy and a trap. The House Head failed to prevent the escalation.

And the cherry on top? The press would muddle a nuanced method into "negligence." The children dismissed as young minds who did not know better.

Lucius could rescue him from such an accusation with a lifted eyebrow, yes. Avery could reframe the minutes so the "boy with the unwise surname" became a regrettable fluke. But both rescues were ropes with prices. And the Headmaster would prefer he kept his neck free of those knots.

So would he.

His eyes narrowed at the silent girl watching him now with that unsettling porcelain doll expression. She wasn't threatening him outright; she hadn't even said the line aloud. Her timing did it for her, which was worsened by her calmness.

He could deliver any number of cutting remarks. They would satisfy the lowest parts of him even if it accomplished nothing.

"Do you like making enemies?" he asked dryly.

"I prefer making problems smaller," she said. Then, with a flicker of satisfaction too quick for a child to hide, "Sometimes that reminds people they were my enemy before I finished."

She considered him for three slow seconds. He braced for the argument. Instead she said, "Would you like a deal, Professor?"

His first impulse was to strip the audacity from her bones. Then another thought walked in, unwelcome. Prohibitions are elastic; arrangements are binding. Maximilian preferred her own control to anyone else's. If he wanted to keep this sort of ugliness away from the Ministry's gullet, he could do better than hope she obeyed his orders.

His lips flattened. "Before I even consider your terms, a condition."

She stayed silent, which was a sign that she needed his help. Good.

"No more half-truths," he continued. "No more plans I only hear about from a Prefect's report." She opened her mouth but he cut her off. "If you are going to manipulate a room that contains my House, you will tell me everything first."

She held his gaze a long moment, long enough that he considered she might turn stubborn purely for the sport of it. Then she inclined her head.

"I accept."

END OF CHAPTER

Chapter Text

RIEV

Riev slipped into the Great Hall with the rest of the late Slytherins and took his usual seat halfway down the table where he could see both the staff dais and the doors. The benches were already crowded with cold breaths and warm porridge. Under the rafters, the owls circled in a lazy holding pattern, as if waiting for permission to Bombarda the castle.

Today, Slytherin House had the decency to pretend they weren't staring as the benches creaked with conversations delivered at the volume that meant they wanted to be overheard without being accused of it.

"…said he tried it – actually said it–"

"–Unforgivable? Don't be ridiculous, he's not–"

"–you didn't see the Prefects drag him, did you–"

"–he offended some Gallic household because he mispronounced croissant."

Riev let the voices wash past. Not surprising that the Prefects who'd bound Mulciber had long mouths; if they'd said nothing, the ropes around Julian's wrists would have done the talking.

Useful how ignorance invented better rumours than truth ever could. On top of the ledger debacle and the dueling tournament that had left Julian with debts in the House. Stack those up with this new scandal, well… Even Slytherins understood the difference between garden-variety cruelty and something that drew the Governors' attention.

Let them. All of it would help when the Board decided to pretend they were a court.

His toast cooled while he reached for the jam when something heavier than an owl landed beside his plate with the self-assurance of a bird that knew the best perches at every Maximilian estate. It was one of Father's peregrine falcons, which meant subtlety could wait but speed could not.

The peregrine cocked its head, which Riev recognized as the winged thief who'd robbed him blind back home every time he tried to stash a treat under a napkin.

Riev's eyes narrowed. "You're not nicking the breakfast."

The falcon blinked, as if to say, 'Watch me, human.'

As he untied the letter, the falcon snatched the remaining toast from his plate before it launched itself back up toward the high windows.

A sound between a protest and a laugh came out, unbidden. "Bon appétit to you too," he told the empty space. "Bring me back a crumb." The smile lingered only a moment before the letter's weight pulled it down.

Riev cracked the seal. The letter was brief and unreadable to anyone else – Maximilian cipher nested around a personal shift only he and Sophie knew.

Received Deputy Headmistress' account. Dueling incident. Sophie and Mulciber.

A briefing on my desk by morning. No flourishes. I want the story you told no one.

That was all. No "how is your sister?" Or "was she hurt?" Not even "we will handle it from here."

Riev tore the letter into neat, insultingly careful strips and stacked them by size, then paused as it dawned on him what he'd just done. He sighed before feeding the shredded letter into his pocket. Fire would have been dramatic, but pockets were quieter.

He shouldn't be surprised Father hadn't asked after Sophie. Surprise required prior existence of kindness. Still, he wished, just once, that Father would ask after his own daughter – adopted he and his sister might be – like she mattered beyond the plan. And even if concern was buried somewhere deep in Father's bones, it wasn't a concern for a person so much as for optics. As a rule, Maximilians never stood on the centre stage. Shadow was their home with hands on invisible strings. But now, because the plan had changed when Sophie was hit by a curse, she was suddenly the story, not the author. All eyes – students, professors, Governors – were on her, and Riev could already imagine the frown settling over Father's features as he considered his next ten moves.

Extracting them from Hogwarts would be one solution. Elegant on paper; pull them back across the Channel, place them into the Beauxbatons timetable instead, and hang them up like portraits in the right corridors.

The thought sat cold under his ribs.

There, everyone knew what 'Maximilian' meant; every look measured what you could cost or save. In Britain, the looks had been blessedly… provincial. "Old French purebloods," as if that were a single small animal with predictable habits.

Riev would rather be irritating curiosities instead of presentations. And Sophie was better off practicing being a person here, while he could be lazy on purpose and be taken at his word.

Speaking of Sophie… Riev was halfway through his pumpkin juice when he remembered that he should have been in the Hospital Wing first thing in the morning. He'd set his feet that way, but then there had been a cool hand over his mind, then he'd found himself walking down the stairs toward the Great Hall with the thought of toast sitting patiently where concern should have been.

Riev hated how easy it was to lean into it.

He glanced up at the staff's table. Madam Pomfrey was finishing her tea, her mouth in its usual "stop bleeding on my floors" line.

Makes sense.

If he were a matron with a patient who'd taken Cruciatus in the chest, he'd lace the doorway with an anti-interruption charm until he returned with toast too.

At the end of their table, Sera, Amelia, and Isobel were preparing a tray with tea and toast. Amelia lined up the cups carefully. Meanwhile, Sera nudged the toast into a fan as Isobel added a sprig of mint like it mattered. He remembered first-year Sophie, in her own awkward way, sharing a table with them at the start of their first year. Riev pushed his plate back, already halfway standing to tell them to wait for Pomfrey's wards in the infirmary to come down, when Linette's voice landed over his shoulder.

"So," Linette said dryly, "I heard the Maximilians had quite a night."

Riev turned. Behind Linette, Marcellus hovered with the air of a boy who wanted to beam and apologize at the same time.

Riev arched an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for a gossip."

Linette snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. He's the one who told me." She jerked a thumb at Marcellus who smiled like a dog caught with the excellent sausage.

"The whole House's talking," Marcellus said. "I figured I should point out the bits they got wrong."

"Which bits exactly?" Riev asked with a raised brow.

Marcellus glanced away. Linette cut in, "He did a whole reenactment this morning about how Sophie blocked every spell Julian threw at her."

"I was defending her." Marcellus pouted. "Someone said Sophie looks delicate. I didn't want them getting the wrong idea."

"Ah," Riev said. What else was there to say?

If Marcellus had been doing imitations, then so had half the House, and the story was out and travelled across the channel to all five branches of the family. He could picture Father now, sitting in the study with a frown while glaring quietly at the ten-page letter from Great-uncle Gaspard regarding the legal consequences of the twins' activities.

"Is it true?" Linette asked, cutting through Riev's inner thoughts.

Riev blinked. "Which?'

"About Julian," Linette replied, "that he used… that curse?"

Riev had a joke ready, but her face told him not to waste it. So instead, he gave her a small nod.

Her mouth thinned. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" Riev said.

"You and your sister, to be precise," Linette said.

Every head in reach of the question turned away as one, which told Riev how many were listening. He shifted his gaze toward the staff's table where Pomfrey had just set her cup down and was now standing to leave. His attention drifted back to Marcellus and Linette.

"What else is there to do?" He shrugged. "Professor McGonagall already has his wand and six statements. The grown-ups can earn their galleons."

One of Linette's eyebrows arched. "Since when do you listen to authority?"

"I listen to you, captain," he said with a small grin, then reached for the cup and finished his pumpkin juice. "If you're curious about procedures, ask Sophie. It's her favourite topic."

Linette looked at him for three seconds, probably debating whether it was worth the effort to press him. "I have class," she said finally. "Don't be stupid." She turned and left.

"Never," Riev said to the empty space where she had stood. He set the cup down, clapped Marcellus on the shoulder when the boy drifted back past him, and stood. "Eat," he told Marcellus.

"Where're you off to?" Marcellus asked.

"Hospital Wing." Riev waved a hand without looking back. "See you later at Charms."

The corridors between the Hall and the Hospital Wing had the not-quite-warmth of morning stone. On the way, Riev passed by a tapestry with a ridiculous boar hunting the same knight across the same field. As he turned a corner, Linette emerged from an alcove like a cat from under a chair.

"Do you and my sister share a syllabus?" Riev asked. "Pop out of the wall then ask for my secrets. Not even paying for consulting fees?"

Her eyes did a quick sweep of the corridor. "You didn't answer me properly," she said. "What are you going to do?"

"You're very invested," he said. "Worried about your dueling record?"

"Worried about having a team," she said evenly. "If Julian only gets a wrist slap for this, every House during tournaments will wonder if we're going to pull a Ki–" She cut off the name like the word itself cost points. "Look. Optics aren't about truth. And I intend to apply to the Aurors after graduation. I don't want 'tolerates Dark wizards' on the very pretty parchment I need people to respect."

"Pragmatic." Riev grinned a little despite himself. "You and Sophie should have tea more often."

She narrowed her eyes. "How long are you going to dodge the question?"

"I wasn't dodging." He sighed. "I'm going to see my sister. You can come and ask her."

She watched him for a breath then nodded. "Fine."

They reached the Hospital Wing. Inside, the air smelled like comfrey and recently boiled linen. On the third bed from the end, Sophie sat with her hands folded around a cup. Sera, Amelia, and Isobel were arranged near the foot. Sophie sat upright, her hair still blonde from last night, but there was a softness to her shoulders only Riev recognized and would feel the relief sit heavy in his chest; a looseness that meant, for the moment, "I am safe."

Riev's hand released the fist he hadn't noticed.

Madam Pomfrey stood with the small basket of bottles. "–this one for nerve pain," she said. "One teaspoon, after supper. This," she tapped a squat jar, "for the aches, rubbed in along the sternum and shoulders. If the tremor persists, come straight to me. No improvisation."

"Yes, Madam. Thank you," Sophie nodded, and it wasn't her "I will follow the bare minimum" tone. Riev made a mental note to learn from Madam Pomfrey on how to get his sweet sister to use that tone more often should he start giving sensible advice.

"Miss Cresswell." Pomfrey's gaze flicked to Isobel. "Same regimen, smaller doses. If anything pricks or burns, see me at once. Don't decide to be brave."

Isobel nodded as pink creeped up her throat while looking at the basket.

Pomfrey finally spotted Riev as if she had planned it. "Maximilian." She pointed at the cupboard along the far wall. "Third shelf. Extra salves and the draughts for lingering effects from the curse. Both girls will need it for a few days. If you need more, come see me. No improvisation, understood?"

Riev nodded, doing his best impression of the Matron's little helper. Then he went to the cupboard and found the draughts by smell before he did by label. All the while, he felt Linette's curious gaze on his back, as well as Sophie's.

Pomfrey finished her lecture, forced Sophie to take one last sip of something vile but effective, then shooed them with her hand and a final reminder. "Miss Maximilian, remember, you are not immortal."

"Madam," Sophie said with a small tip of her head that could have passed for a bow.

They stepped into the corridor together. For a few beats, nobody said anything. Then Amelia glanced at Sophie. "So, why did Professor Snape visit you?"

Riev turned his head. "Snape?"

Sera nodded. "Yeah. He had just stepped out of the infirmary when we arrived."

Maybe Snape had placed the wards earlier? Riev mused as he glanced over to Sophie.

"He needed my testimony and the memory for the Pensieve," Sophie replied smoothly.

A lie, or at least, half-truth, Riev thought. Sophie lied before in the name of protection. Was she protecting Snape, or a new plan?

"Have you seen my wand?" Sophie asked suddenly, as though the presence of their House Head earlier was an irrelevant detail. "I'd like my black hair back."

Amelia shook her head. "Things got chaotic when the professors and prefects arrived."

"And we went straight to bed after leaving Professor McGonagall's office," Sera added.

"It's probably where it fell," Riev said. "People only use that corridor to avoid other people."

Sophie nodded. "Go on ahead," she told the girls. "I'll fetch it."

"We can–" Isobel began.

"I'll be quick," Sophie said. "You'll be late for Charms."

"I'll help." Linette stepped forward. "Two pairs of eyes are faster."

Sera and Amelia glanced at each other, then curiously at Linette. Sophie tilted her head slightly.

Riev stepped in before anyone could make it strange. "Captain's recruiting," he said brightly. "Apparently, Marcellus had reenacted the Sophian Shield Dance in the common room earlier and Linette here had seen it all, so now, she's decided to capture new talent before the Gryffindor match next week."

Linette shot him a look but didn't contradict him.

Sophie's eyes met his; he gave her the little lopsided grin. 'Trust me, sweet sister.' She let out a very small breath – her way of saying, 'Fine. I'll play your game, for now.'

Sophie nodded to Linette. "Let's go then."

They turned and went the other way together. Linette fell into step half a pace off Sophie's shoulder. Riev watched them for a breath, the two small cold figures going to retrieve a stick that matched the temper of one of them perfectly.

Amelia tugged his sleeve. "We should go."

"Charms waits for no one," Riev said. He let his grin return; it was easier to wear now that Sophie's back was to him and straight.

He glanced once over his shoulder toward the turn Sophie and Linette had taken. He wondered briefly what kind of bargain those two would strike. Then he put the thought down and followed the girls toward Charms class, where for an hour the only curses that mattered were the ones Professor Flitwick approved.

FRED

Fred slung his bag over one shoulder and cut across the landing toward Charms.

Earlier that morning before he and George had left for the Great Hall, Fred had checked the Map; one last look, he told himself. Sophie Maximilian, a neat little label moving from the Hospital Wing doors with three other neat labels that matched her roommates. Riev's name followed a little ahead with Rosier, Slytherin's duelling captain and bandaged murder menace – well, not after the Ravenclaw match last term but not the point.

Discharged then. Good.

Fred had tucked the Map back inside their trunk. Best not to wave it where Filch or Snape can sniff.

There hadn't been any need either; if Sophie had left the Hospital Wing, that meant she'd turn up in Charms.

Except she didn't.

Riev came in with the three girls, none of whom was Sophie. Fred spent thirty seconds blinking at the door like he could will her into existing, before finally elbowing George. His twin gave him that sympathetic wince that meant, "Well, that's awkward," and also, "You're on your own, because Professor Flitwick had just hopped up onto his stack of books and called for wands out."

Before he sat, Fred caught Riev on the way by and pitched his voice low. "Where's Sophie?"

Riev looked like Fred had insulted his ancestors on purpose. "Don't talk to me," was what Riev's thinned lips told him.

Flitwick clapped his hands for silence, and Riev sat somewhere far away from Fred who let out a sigh as a part of him wished he hadn't promised George they'd leave the Map hidden for a week. The parchment was probably already calling him stupid from their trunk.

During the entire lesson, he tried his best not to jump every time the door creaked. When class ended, there was still no sign of Sophie. By lunch, Fred forced himself to eat; he wasn't going to start for the Frost Tyrant even if he still hadn't seen her all morning.

There was History of Magic, at least, right after lunch. Good news was that Sophie's usual Slytherin friends – are friends even in her vocabulary? – weren't in the same class; he'd be free to talk to her without interruption. Speaking of talking, another good news, Binns never cared if you held a conversation in his class so long as you did it below the frequency of the dead. So it would be easy for Fred to talk to the Ice Queen during class while avoiding additional detentions altogether. Shame though, George had been shoved into the other History time slot at the start of their second year – Professor McGonagall's personal gift to minimize twin-powered disruptions. This left Fred flying solo for today's attempt to coax the dragon, not his favourite way of doing things but he'd managed worse without backup.

Fred slipped inside the classroom where the room smelled of old chalk. He scratched his itchy nose. At the front, Binns's desk waited.

He immediately spotted the dark bob of Sophie Maximilian's hair as she took a seat down the middle. Her hair was back to black, thank Merlin. But instead of the tight braid, it remained shoulder-length, and clipped back with a simple pin. In hindsight, the blonde last night had looked off on her; this one suited her better, and made her look twelve instead of twenty-two.

Observation. For prank purposes, obviously, Fred told his brain when his siblings' teasing last Christmas replayed in his head.

Two rows in, Angelina and Alicia raised their eyebrows as he walked past, even when he'd normally take the desk beside theirs.

Fred waggled a hand at them as if to say, "Yes, yes, I'm abandoning you for a snake pit, don't cry."

Alicia muttered to Angelina something that sounded like, "He's left his brain with George again," and Angelina rolled her eyes to the ceiling in a plea to Quidditch gods everywhere.

Fred slid into the empty chair beside Sophie before someone else could claim it and dropped his bag.

"Afternoon, Your Iciness." Fred grinned.

Slowly, Sophie turned her head just enough to cut him with a sideways look, the kind that could've frosted a summer lake.

"Weasley."

He'd been glared at by professors, prefects, gobstones, and once an angry flobberworm with ideas above its station. He'd grant that Sophie's glare did nice work, normally, but with the shoulder-length hair and clip, the whole attempt landed somewhere between "intimidating" and "adorably offended."

"Bold choice with the hair. I'll miss the blonde though. Brought out your inner tyrant. This is less… coup d'état, more homework's done early."

She blinked once then turned away and uncapped her ink.

Fred opened his mouth but Binns drifted through the blackboard and began speaking like dust had a voice. "Today we shall continue with the International Warlock Convention of 1289…"

The parchment on Sophie's desk was blank for two heartbeats before she started writing in neat lines. Fred tried waiting, but only lasted as long as Binns took to say "1289" a second time. He leaned nearer and cleared his throat.

But Sophie didn't turn.

He tapped his quill, knowing the sound carried in the dead air.

Still… Nothing.

He tried a quiet "Psst."

Silence. Only Binns and scratching quills.

Fred exhaled. All right, then.

He pulled a clean parchment toward him and began a note. If you were going to apologize to an ice dragon, you might as well show respect for the craft.

In his best imitation of proper script, he wrote…

To Her Frostiest Majesty, the Empress of Glaciers and Academic Excellence,

I, Fred Weasley, do humbly present one (1) apology, hand-forged, certified non-explosive and idiot-scented, for the events of last night wherein my mouth, wand, and better judgement failed to coordinate.

Enclosed please find a voucher for one (1) hour of voluntary test-dummy duty for any non-lethal hex of your choosing; a promise to read two pages of History of Magic without complaining; and a very good doodle of me being trampled by a small but fierce dragon.

He added the dragon with a triangular head, stubby horns and smoke labelled "Regret," then a tiny Fred underfoot with "X" for eyes and "S" for a mouth.

Masterpiece.

He folded the corner and gently pushed the note onto the edge of her parchment.

Sophie didn't look; he gave it one more nudge. She sighed then drew the paper to her side and read it in a glance that couldn't possibly have been long enough to admire his art.

Then, she wrote in the margin with her ruthless neatness, "Apology not accepted."

Fred couldn't even summon the will to be offended. It was the most her thing she could have written. He tapped his quill again, thought, and scribbled, "Negotiate?"

She ignored his parchment in favor of writing on her own notes. Two sentences later in Binns's endless paragraph, she finally wrote back, "No."

Fred chewed the end of his quill. Sometimes you meet a wall that encourages you to be even more daring. Would this particular Weasley headbutt the wall? Of course. Fred wasn't Percy. He wrote below her last reply, "I'll let your raven nibble on my soul."

Her hand paused for a second as her eyes skimmed the line. Then, she wrote, "I'm note-taking."

Progress! Well, not exactly a yes, but it wasn't a no either. More like a door left unlocked.

Fred grinned as he sat back and decided to behave for ten whole minutes, but only made it four. Still, he stopped poking her for the time being. On a fresh parchment, he sketched a self-shutting joke box, among other product ideas – better than listening to Binns.

Two paper planes skimmed his elbow. "Practice at five. Try not to die of frostbite," from Angelina; "Still breathing?" from Alicia. He sent back, "Seasoned polar explorer. All fingers attached."

A minute later, Alicia's return plane landed in front of him. "Sorry, can't spare Beater to the Cause of your dodgy wooing gambit."

Not you too. Fred's lips thinned as he side-glanced toward Sophie who was surprisingly still engrossed on taking notes despite the rest of the class – be it Gryffindor or Slytherins – were already dozing off.

He scribbled his reply quickly then tossed back. "Wooing? Really Spinnet? And don't listen to George. This is for that 'incident' last night."

Neither Alicia, nor Angelina sent flying messages after that. They heard the story too; everyone knew by lunch, and half of them improved it. In one version, Mulciber whispered the Cruciatus into a trophy case to warm up. Sophie then caught it using a teaspoon, before he and George arrived on a hippogriff named Charles the Third. No idea who donated Charles, or how a hippogriff ended up inside the castle. Still, excellent touch.

Fred had tried to steer the rumour mill toward the sturdy fact of Sophie Maximilian duelling Julian Mulciber because he'd been bullying her roommate; she held her own until he pulled an Unforgivable and hit her with it. But who would want the truth when the other story had a hippogriff?

At least the stories kept the important bits; someone used an Unforgivable, at school. The words 'Unforgivable' and 'at school' would have parents sharpening quills; by Sunday, they'd start writing letters to Dumbledore, the Ministry, or even the Prophet.

When Binns finally ran out of steam – no one had known he could – chairs scraped. Sophie was up and moving before Fred had finished stuffing his quill back in its case. He fumbled, nearly dropped his bag, and sprinted after her.

"Fred!" Angelina called over the noise. "Five o'clock!"

"I'll be there!" he shot back, half-turning and nearly tripping over a classmate's satchel. Alicia leaned in toward Angelina and said something that made Angelina shake her head and grin without teeth.

Fred didn't catch it; he had a Slytherin to annoy into forgiving him.

Sophie took the first right, then the second left into a little alcove with no portraits. The kind of nook that had two uses; snogging or conspiracies. Fred was certain it was for the latter.

"Sophie–" He panted from the run.

She stopped at the outer edge of the shadow and turned, arms crossed. "Well?"

"Look…" He had rehearsed three openings but in the moment, he forgot all of them. "I'm sorry, I am. For last night. For–" His hands gestured uselessly, as if he could arrange the air to explain itself. "We were trying to help. We saw you, and Mulciber, and you were already… holding your own, and we thought–"

"Intent isn't enough." She kept her voice low.

Brilliant. He was on the ethics syllabus.

"Your interference cost me a clean disposal," she added.

'Disposal' made him picture a Slytherin bin. He gaped. "How– What does that even–"

"If you hadn't shown up," she went on, "I would have irritated him to the point he cast the Cruciatus."

"Wait, so you knew?" The words jumped out before he could stop himself.

A beat's hesitation, almost no wider than a blink. "... I suspected."

"Then why didn't you tell the professors?"

She looked at him like he'd suggested they put out a fire with butterbeer. "Would you?"

He opened his mouth and shut it. He would have hexed Julian first, then kicked his shin, and maybe, just maybe, told McGonagall afterwards, if he was feeling generous. But that would make sense if it were him, Gryffindor and all. But Sophie? She might as well be the poster child of her House.

Then again, Slytherins had Snape for their House Head, and the prick's probably chummy with Mulciber's dad. So he couldn't blame Sophie.

Fred raked a hand through his hair. "You could've told me."

"Why?" she asked, her brow arching. "This is internal Slytherin business."

"Because–" He stopped as George and Ginny and Bill's voices whispered in his head.

You fancy her.

No. Fred Weasley absolutely did not fancy the Ice Queen. He was doing this, because… because…

"Because Mulciber's a prick," he blurted out. "And I've been wanting an excuse to hex him since September."

There. Plausible reason.

Except, the look she gave him had so much disbelief packed into it that Fred second-guessed the logic of his statement.

Sophie breathed through her nose, slow and measured. "Had you not shown up," she said, "I would have dodged the curse – yes, I know one does not block Unforgivables." She flicked a hand, a curt little shape in the air. "My roommates would have then moved, and we would have disarmed him. That had been the plan, until you and your brother stepped in to ruin it."

"We weren't–" Fred stopped himself again. No point in arguing. Still, if Sophie knew about the curse, then last night, at McGonagall's office, were her roommates lying?

"Did they know?" He heard his own voice and realized he was trying not to sound like he was cornering a cat. "Your roommates. About the Unforgivable?"

"No." Sophie replied immediately. "I had no concrete proof, and I am not in the habit of spreading unverified gossip."

"What if you'd been wrong?" he asked. "What if Mulciber is just your run-of-the-mill prick?"

"Then I would have signaled Selkirk to throw the howling pellet," she answered. "We disarm him in front of an audience of Prefects. Most of them would mistake me for Isobel at a glance. Another humiliating defeat for him to be disarmed by a second-year he'd been harassing since September."

She looked past him to the empty corridor, then back, now with the anger arranged perfectly behind her eyes. "More importantly," she said, her voice soft and almost gentle which somehow worsened it for him, "I would have remained merely a witness. Whether he used the curse or not, I could have stood aside and let evidence do its work." Her lips thinned. "But your interference made me the centrepiece and the most useful distraction for a Board who will enjoy picking motives out of my bones. Afterward, they will make speeches about standards. And the headline will forget the boy who used a curse no school should hear."

Fred shut his eyes for half a second. "My Expellarmus was meant for–"

"It doesn't matter." She slashed her hand across the air between them. "I could not allow you to disarm him then. It defeats the trap. Either I get him to use the curse or I disarm him myself."

The corridor swallowed a small silence. Sophie was breathing in slow measure now, her lips moving just enough. Counting, Fred guessed, but not in English; the rhythm was wrong. He had never seen her this angry. He'd seen her wield sharp words, or hold still until other people squirmed. But this was a crack in the glaze, and he wanted to fidget.

He raked a hand through his hair and tried again. "I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes before releasing a breath like someone setting down a heavy case. "My roommates told me… what you and your brother did when Mulciber went for my wand… ' She paused. "That you tackled him…"

"And bit him," Fred added. "Shoulder… Hope I left a mark."

"It was… useful," Sophie said, which probably translated to something close to gratitude. "The wand core is imported, you see. Father had ours commissioned in Paris. A replacement would be months, at best."

He whistled, silently. One Maximilian wand probably cost as much as a small village. For once, he kept his mouth shut; if the wand mattered to her, he wouldn't smear it with jokes.

"So…" She held out a hand, flat and open between them. "May I please have it back?"

He stared at her hand, then at her. "I don't have it."

The furrow returned to her brow. "What do you mean you don't have it? Did you not keep Mulciber from taking it?"

"We did," he said quickly. "But me and George– we were busy pinning him down. Then prefects and professors– And then McGonagall hauled us to her office and did the whole 'tell me precisely what happened' bit."

Her eyes narrowed in a way that had sent first-years fleeing. He held up both hands with his palms out. "Why would I hide your wand? And don't say it's because we're poor–"

"I wasn't going to," she cut in.

"Then why think I'd take it?"

"Because," she replied, "I already asked the Prefects and the Professors earlier. None of them had seen it." She drew in a breath that looked like it tried to scrape the inside of her ribs. "So I assumed…" She halted, then began to pace a straight line in a cramped space, like she'd trained herself to walk efficiently even in closets.

The floor felt like it drop a half-inch. He pictured the corridor again, the way spells scorch the air, the way noise distorts memory. Sophie's hair with the wrong color. Fred on Julian's back, teeth biting his shoulder.

Where was her wand after that?

"If it wasn't you," she said, her eyes toward the empty corridor, "then who?"

END OF CHAPTER