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Chapter Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

（ rhysand x oc x azriel）

STORY START DATE  july 25, 2025

STORY END DATE  tbd

PUBLISHED DATE  august 2, 2025

Eighteen-year-old Mira Potter has spent her entire life fighting. Having lost her parents, godfathers, friends, and mentors, the defeat of her enemy has been the most bittersweet moment in her life. As of now, she wants to live. Learn how to truly live. Together, with her closest friends, her sole focus is to finish her final [repeated] year at Hogwarts and enjoy her life, but also trying to manage her inner-self.

They all thought the prophecy was fulfilled. They celebrated her. A symbol. A hero. The Girl-Who-Lived. But just when she and her group thought they could rest—when the war was over, and they could finally recover from the vast amount of death and tragedy they had survived—the magic did not let h̶e̶r̶ them rest. 

Just as they rebuild their lives, an unknown force tore them from home to a different realm.....one where immortal [lethal] faeries wear crowns, lands are divided by seasons and power, and a realm where a war was at its peak. More destiny. More prophecy. More plot twists.

And a cold powerful fae with piercing violet eyes; with so many secrets that change the trajectory of her life.

She was the Girl-Who-Lived; the Chosen One, but she was not what she seems.

𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗪𝗔𝗥, 𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

 ❨ chapter one ❩

here's to ones that we got

cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not

'cause the drinks bring back all the memories

of everything we've been through

-- "memories" ; maroon 5

12 Grimmauld Place was a dark place to stay, if one managed to ignore the numerous dark magic items and enchantments within them—courtesy of the late Walburga Black. Around 1994-1995, this place had been the headquarters for a rebellion but contained many bittersweet memories for the people involved. Despite Mira having been named the heir to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black through her godfather's insistence, and extremely thorough precautions to ensure it would be hers, she was torn about her feelings about the house.

The First Wizarding War ended 18 years ago, with the second just recently having been concluded. After Walburga Black's death, and with both her sons imprisoned or presumed dead, the townhouse was seized by Dumbledore and was converted into a classified safehouse for members of the Order of the Phoenix—-it was hardly used, due to the organization's mass casualties in the first war. The Order was nearly decimated after that, with only a handful of members remaining, but was reconvened for a brief time up until her godfather's death.

Whenever Mira arrived on the street, the memory of the day she first arrived, escorted by the Order's Advance Guard, always surfaced uninvited in her head—a sudden pang of grief, sharp and vivid, would hit her hard. She'd remember sweet Tonks showing up in her bedroom with a smile that lit up the room, and Moody's hilarious antics that, for a short time, made her feel as if she weren't carrying the burden of saving the world on her shoulders.

She has to press her hand to her heart and force herself to inhale and exhale heavily, just at the thought of the memories in that house. She'd remember the moment where she first saw Sirius hunched in the dining room, eyes lifeless until they lit up finding her own—bright lively green, like her mother's. It was that second where she ran up to him, who lovingly embraced her in his arms and held her as if she were the most precious thing he ever had.

She had never felt so loved in her fifteen years of life. Every time she thought of this place, considered visiting, a brutal ache she felt. It was a thrust of emotion that she, despite feeling it all her life, never failed to surprise her—it never went away.

"Mira."

She jumped, the sudden sound of her name being spoken bringing her back to reality. Blinking a few times to straighten her head and swallow down the rising emotion, she turned to stare at the occupants of Gryffindor common room, all of whom were staring right back at her questionably–Neville, had been the one to call her out.

However, Ron's attention was diverted onto something else. His bright red hair was bent over the large circular table, eyes wandering—looking— over the scatter of parchment papers and quills.

Mira blinked again and apologized, grinning sheepishly as she headed back towards the group clustered together in the middle. "Oops. Sorry."

"Can we hurry this up?" Seamus groaned, rolling his eyes at his friend returning to the crowded table. "This is the last best party Hogwarts will have—the last one for us before we start another war over jobs. We have to create a legacy."

The Battle of Hogwarts occurred over a year ago (which sometimes felt unbelievable to Mira and others who were extremely involved) around the end of what was supposed to be their final year at the school. After they won the war, it was decided that the remaining time—up until the beginning of September—was to be used to rebuild Hogwarts and its protective wards. 

After conducting an internal investigation, particularly caused by the intense corruption within the Ministry, and Umbridge's abuse of students, it was concluded that the upper-years had not met the standard education required for Hogwarts graduates—mostly given some professors' refusal to teach proper Defence Against the Dark Arts education to students. Students who were in Year 7 were given the choice of completing an additional year to make up for it.

Ultimately, after a lot of persuasion by Hermione, Ron and Mira gave in. And it was worth it. For the first time in years, the trio (and others who had also joined them) enjoyed walking the halls as students. Not soldiers. 

Graduation was approaching in two weeks time. 

"A legacy?" Ginny Weasley snorted, consequently causing a tsunami of muffled laughter throughout the common room. "We just had a war inside the castle—Mira killed Voldemort in front of the Great Hall."

Seamus rolled his eyes, but a crimson layer coated his cheeks as he ignored the laughter aimed at him. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly, but avoided the stares; Mira had noticed that for a split second, his eyes glazed over with what looked like longing, but no one called it out. "A fun legacy—a good one to leave so they could remember us for our parties."

Mira understood right away. They all wanted to reclaim their youth. 

"Alright," Hermione clapped her hands and nodded as Mira joined her cross-legged on the floor. She had surprised everyone by also being very involved in the social events this year— an understandable change, given how much the war had altered survivors. Once solely focused on academics, she was now more open to enjoying life. "Let's finish this. This has to be the best Gryffindor party Hogwarts has seen."

To make the Marauders proud—to honour Sirius, Remus, and her dad.

Pushing away the lingering anger that always emerged at the reminder of the betrayal of her father's closest friend, she focused on the listening to the ideas cast around the common room regarding the party they intended to create before they left this castle for the final time.  

"We can't invite the Slytherins," Ron insisted, nodding as everyone agreed with him.

Mira rolled her eyes; as much as the Gryffindors tried to avoid associating the house with bad omen, she couldn't help but agree. They were little-to-no help during the battle, and although she couldn't blame most of them being forced by their families into supporting Voldemort's army, it was still fresh on her mind—it felt too soon to forgive. "They're probably having their own party anyway." 

If not already, the tension between the Slytherins and all other houses—mostly Gryffindor, as usual—was still simmering with tension and hatred; after the Battle of Hogwarts, it had worsened severely. To Mira and many other students who had been forced to fight that day, they witnessed many Slytherins standing by, watching and aiding fellow Death Eaters as they murdered people and destroyed the castle that once was home for everyone.

Yes, they were young. Indeed, most, if not all of them were born into legacies they hadn't had a choice in partaking; they were unable to resist the pressure and expectations of their families. But they were cowards to Mira. They were cowards to the survivors who had lost loved ones. 

Mira knew she was being unreasonable—but was she? All she knew was that she was not ready to forgive them. The faces of the casualties haunted her more than reason ever could and the bitterness clung to her like aura. She knew she wasn't the only one who felt this way.

She blinked away the faces of the dead that always appeared when she thought of the past. 

And she dismissed the thought of a certain red-haired twin prankster who plagued her thoughts constantly.

The Gryffindor Common Room had never looked so full of life for a while—yes, they had thrown many parties throughout the year, particularly for their Quidditch wins, but perhaps it was because this was an end of an era, that this party felt alive.

The music was blaring throughout the room—so loud, Mira was pretty sure anyone walking past their common room could hear the noise. The Weird Sisters, plus a few muggle music records—courtesy of Hermione and other muggle-born students—had everyone bouncing on their toes, even more so through the consumption of alcohol. On the tables surrounding the walls of the common room, pushed lazily to the sides, the surfaces were lined with butter-beer, candies, and other various forms of alcohol.

A few couples swayed and snogged in the corners, some stood in tight circles gossiping and laughing, and others so completely drunk on alcohol—Ron could be seen with a bright red face and teary eyes (she wasn't sure if it was from his drink or just uncontrollable laughter), conversing with Hermione, who had tossed her head back, giggling over something he was saying. 

The sight of her closest friends infatuated with one another caused her lips to quirk up. 

To her right, a small huddle of younger Gryffindors sat, playing wizard's chess. Laughter erupted loudly from the group, watching as their friend miserably lost their king to enemy—dramatic yells and drunken whispers also rung among them. They'd wholeheartedly giggle amongst one another when a tipsy upper-year stumbled past them, drunkly singing off-key.

Mira, hand tightly grasping a cold mug of butter beer, found herself heading towards the centre of the room, where a bunch of eighth years were sprawled on the cushions, swapping stories animatedly with heavy-lidded eyes—but an infinite amount of cackling. Her cheeks hurt from smiling too much, letting herself be pulled by Hermione's extended hand and into the group of her dancing friends. 

Mira gasped, clutching Hermione's hand tightly as she twirled both of them around, wheezing with laughter—she had never seen her so drunk, so carefree. The music suddenly shifted towards something more upbeat, thus transforming the then-slow dance circle, into something more crazy.

They stopped twirling in circles, and snapped their head towards Neville, who thrust his fists into the air—accidentally dropping his empty goblet in the process—and began waving her arms rapidly in form of a dance, hips and torso moving in a way she did not want to see again. Consequently, the common room erupted into laughter; Mira and Hermione, giggling themselves, could see Ron and the rest of the boys pointing at the dancing man in question whilst doubled over guffawing.

With Neville in the middle of the impromptu dance circle, someone had magically summoned confetti in the air, prompted exaggerated screams of support to the dancer in the middle. 

Mira wasn't the only one with tears in her eyes, both out of joy and love she felt from this final moment in their childhood they were all sharing today. Hermione, who swayed on her feet, pulled her friend aside and threw her arms around her. "I missed this so much."

Mira hugged her back, wrapping her arms around her waist tightly, and grinned. "So did I. I'm not sure if I want to see Neville dancing like that again."

Hermione burst out laughing, letting her forehead rest on her friend's shoulder. "Agreed, little miss alien."

Mira rolled her eyes, the grin refusing to leave her face. The nickname clung to her for years, resulting in a lot of teasing amongst her friends and peers from other houses—it was a hard pill to swallow at first, how different she looked, but she learnt to live with it and embraced her uniqueness. It was a connection to her late godfather, after all.

The changes to her physical appearance happened not long after Sirius claimed her as his daughter through the process known as blood-adoption—a magical adoption only available in the Wizarding World. He had insisted, to make sure she was thoroughly prepared in case something happened to him, despite her reassurance that she had more than enough financial security through her father's side. 

Most importantly, he loved her like her own.

Her snow-like hair, a trait she supposedly inherited from her great-grandmother, already brought a lot of attention—it was an infamous Black trait. What caught most people off guard, though, were her eyes. Once a striking pair of emerald green, one eye had faded into a sharp grey colour. She now drew even more curiosity—because only one remained green.

No one had expected the change to be so drastic—in fact, no one expected to be a change at all. But the grey was unmistakably Black—striking and mysterious. Sometimes, when she'd catch the eye of her own reflection, it startled her: her godfather's gaze, looking right at her. She looked more Black than Potter.

She remembered the "Draco and Mira being siblings" joke immediately being the hot topic of the castle for the first few weeks—the boy spoken about was fuming.

Mira bit her lip to stop herself from snorting at the memory and took a sip of the goblet of fire-whiskey Dean had forcefully handed to her while passing by.

The party continued for a while, well into the late night. The rapidly-falling confetti had been replaced by floating candles, lit up with dim flames; the smell of fire-whiskey, butter beer, and sweat lingered in the air as younger students slowly staggered back to their dorms—some upper-years, the majority being the graduating class [both eighth and seventh years], puttered around chattering quietly or dozed off in armchairs.

Around the portrait hole, was where a boy—Nicholas, Mira thought was his name—sat, drunkly declaring himself as "The Eighth Year Guard," to prevent students from other houses from joining in. It really did not matter, as she knew the other upper-years were more than likely having their own graduation parties in their respective common rooms, but it was an amusing performance to watch.

The night had now dwindled into something more content; even Nicholas now leaned against the wall with his ankles crosses, eyes drooping. Ron and Mira sat next to each other on the carpet, legs-crossed; Hermione on her right, knees hugged to her chest, humming softly as she watched as everyone started to settle down. Hair rustled into a mess and cheeks were flushed as if they had just finished a Quidditch match—across from them sat Neville, who leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

He was definitely the contender for the most drunk tonight. Ron and Seamus exchanged amused looks, both grinning with exhaustion at the sight of their friend who had enjoyed himself rigorously just as they did. 

"Fred and George would have killed to be here," Ron mumbled, running a hand through his hair with a yawn. His eyes were glazed with sleep and intoxication, but a cheeky smirk was plastered on his face. "Can't wait to rub it in their faces when we go home."

A ripple of soft laughter escaped everyone. Ginny snorted, nodding, "They definitely would."

A comfortable silence hung in the air; with the addition of the soothing sound of the fire going, it felt almost impossible not to fall asleep—the bright orange embers casted warm shadows over the final numbers of Gryffindors who had yet to fall into the clutches of sleep. Mira smiled faintly, noticing Hermione's head occasionally falling onto her shoulder but jerking awake at the last minute's notice.

Neville suddenly stood up, a complete opposite of the tipsy, sleep-ridden young man he was a mere moment ago—Seamus visible jerked at the sudden movement that broke the once-soothing silence and yelped, "Bloody hell, Nev. Warn a bloke first."

Neville shrugged, not even bothering trying to hide his lack of care, causing tired giggles to, once again, pass through the room. He straightened his back and conjured a straight-line of empty goblets onto the table, a large bottle of fire-whiskey appearing in his hand. "I just—I think we should end this night with a toast."

Surprisingly, no one laughed. For the first time since the party began, his voice felt almost sober—serious, full of emotion. He looked down, his empty hand at his side clenched into a fist, "I think we deserve this because we made it. We survived. We beat them. Years from now, we'll be thinking about this moment."

He raised his head and met Mira's gaze, who was now wide-eyed and stiffened; he looked back down, and poured the whiskey into all of the goblets. With a wave of his wand, the goblets all glided to a hand, some hesitant with exhaustion, others grasping it tight as if it were their lifeline. 

Holding his own goblet, Neville looked at Mira again, causing everyone in the room to also instinctively stare at her. A variety of emotions lingered in the hair—the previous youthful atmosphere had not completely evaporated, instead replaced with bittersweet sentiment. Some gazed at her with glassy eyes, some with expectance, and others with quiet support.

Ron nudged her with his elbow gently, "I think it's time to make a speech."

Mira paled. "I don't know... I don't really do speeches—"

Dean, who's long frame had been sprawled across a couch, lifted his head up and winked. Although he was visibly tipsy, there was a glint of warmth in his eyes.  "There's no better way to end this night than the girl who led us here."

"We love you," Ginny whispered, a reassuring smile on her face. A wave of nods surged through the room and her eyes sparkled with what looked like encouragement.

Mira swallowed and took a deep breath; a few seconds later, she nodded and straightened. Ignoring the slight trembling in her hand, she raised her goblet, a gust of relief soaring through her when everyone mimicked her action. 

"Alright," she managed to get out, voice wavering. She paused for a brief moment, giving herself a chance to rotate her gaze at everyone in the room, lingering longer at the red-and-gold theme of the room that reflected her house. Her home. "I remember first coming to Hogwarts completely alone. I remember meeting you all, and it completely changed my life."

Her voice cracked; her jaw clenched in an effort to ignore the rising lump in her throat. "Yes, our school years were not exactly normal, but we still made it here. Even through the worst moments of our lives, we laughed, we studied, we fought, and we played Quidditch."

Some of the boys huffed a shaky laugh, all of whom had suspiciously misty eyes. It was true, despite having to survive Voldemort's many evil plans, they still played Quidditch—with true passion and unwavering competitiveness.

"We've lost a lot of people—people that we'll never forget," Mira managed to say, voice trembling more than ever and fingers clenching around the goblet tighter. "But tonight isn't just about remembering them, it's also about what we fought for."

She noticed some of her friends, glassy eyes, looking away—to the roof, to the floor, or to the empty spaces, seeking comfort where no one can see them blinking rapidly. They understood the unspoken words; they felt it here, in the halls—everywhere. 

They felt it the most when they first walked through the Great Hall after the war. The first time they walked in, all those who had been at the battle felt their mind's not focused on the Sorting Ceremony, but somewhere else. The cheers to welcome the first years was not as bright as when they had first come to Hogwarts.

They remembered how their gazes instinctively went to the floor, where tables fresh innocent new wizards and witches now sat. They saw the aftermath of the battle; they saw the lifeless bodies on the floor, embalmed in dust and blood; they saw the families sobbing over their loved ones. They realized that a place that once had been a great joy for them, was now more like a graveyard.

Lavender. Remus. Tonks. Colin — all once full of life. 

They all felt them here. The echoes of the dead. The laughter they once heard. Their steps roaming through the halls.

For Mira, however, she felt the presence of her parents—of Sirius and Remus. She'd imagine their mischievous laughter echoing through the halls, through the room they were sitting in now. The Marauders plotting more pranks. Her mother, sitting here, balancing academics and rejecting her future-husband continuously.

Mira, her mouth set in a hard line, allowed a tear to roll down her cheek. "Thank you all for your sacrifice; the bond that we all have now, I hope it lasts forever."

Her gaze swept the room once again; she wasn't the only one who had given permission to her tears to escape. Everyone understood. They didn't say anything, but the look they gave her said everything: Until the very end.

"Thank you to the ones we lost," Her voice cracked again, a sob clawing it's way out of her—desperate, as if it had been waiting to be released. She ignored the sniffling around her. "You are the reason that I'm still here."

Quickly wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks, she raised her goblet higher and brought it to the middle — everyone followed. They all rose from where they were seating, brought their goblets to the middle, where they clinked quietly, but also loudly, in the air. 

"To the Class of 1999."

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter two ❩

"we're only getting older baby

and i've been thinking about it lately

does it ever drive you crazy

just how fast the night changes?"

-- "night changes" ; one direction

—— MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Department of Magical Education & Workforce Recruitment

Level 3, British Ministry of Magic Headquarters

Whitehall, London, England

To: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — Class of 1999

Dear Graduate,

If you are receiving this letter, allow us to offer our sincere congratulations on completing your formal magical education at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, particularly under circumstances unlike any other in our nation's history. Your perseverance and bravery stands as a testament to the resilience of our community and will forever be remembered.

This academic year was a first for many, with our first double cohort class: the return of former Seventh Years who made the decision to finish their education, side-by-side with this year's true Seventh Years. 

As we continue to rebuild following the conclusion of the Second Wizarding War, the Ministry has taken great care in ensuring there are professional placements and pathways for our very large graduating class. Although this letter is oriented specifically for those who have chosen to pursue a career within the Ministry, which is not obligatory, this message is a reminder that career declaration is mandatory within the next few crucial months. 

Please see the attached documents, which include important instructions and the next options available for you.

Back in Hogsmeade a few days after graduation (they don't think they'll ever stop coming back), they all claimed a booth in a cozy corner inside Florean Fortescue's ice-cream shop.  They sat together, slouched in chairs, sprawled against one another, relaxed—but also slightly strained. Despite a comfortable chill lingering in the parlour, with the addition of a snug silence, there was a nagging tension in the air. 

Their half-melted sundaes were left forgotten and melting in front of them. 

The real world was setting in now, and Mira wasn't the only one reading the parchment paper in her hands with furrowed eyebrows. 

"As a recent graduate, you are required to complete the Hogwarts Graduate Career Form Ninety Nine-B, no later than the end of August," Ron read aloud, breaking the silence. He frowned at the formal tone of the parchment, looking up at Hermione with wide eyes. "Blimey, you'd think they've forgotten we're only eighteen."

Luna, who had also become a close friend of Mira's, murmured into her vanilla ice-cream cone. "It kind of makes sense. I think there were more Death Eaters in the departments than actual Ministry officials—" 

"—They need to rebuild, everything," Hermione nodded, finishing her sentence. "And, there is almost double the normal graduating class."

Mira stayed silent, ignoring the conversation and focusing solely on reading the list of available positions in the Ministry—she wasn't too worried. She knew who she was. She didn't mean to be so over-confident, but it would be impossible for her to not get her top choice. In fact, she'd probably be able to go into any field she wanted.

However, her gaze instinctively landed on the law enforcement section.

Aurorial Appraisal Program (also known as the Auror Recruitment Program)

- 3 year long training required

- 5 N.E.W.T.S of no less than "Exceeded Expectations"

- Highly competitive and in-demand; for graduates with a passion for Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms

Mira hummed unconsciously, sending Ron a smirk when he licked a drop of ice-cream melting off the side of his cone. "I'm still set on Aurorial Appraisal. You?"

Before he could reply, Hermione squinted her eyes and tilted her head. There was something close to worry about the way she peered at her, as if she needed saving—Mira knew her thoughts had drifted to the times where she jolted awake, drenched in sweat, for months after the battle. "Mira, are you sure? You haven't even looked at anything else. Maybe a job in something less violent is better for you. Now that the war is over, there's really no need for you to handle it anymore."

Luna, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, nodded; she smiled joyfully—oblivious to the sudden drop in mood—as if something had just occurred to her. "You can join me in the Magical Archives. Protecting our past is just as interesting."

Ron snorted before he could stop himself, causing sickly sweet ice cream drops to stain his shirt. It was obvious what caused that reaction. She's such a Ravenclaw.

Ginny's head whipped towards her brother and smacked him on the back of his head; glaring at him with such intensity, it said more than words ever could. Stop being a twat.

Luna, ever so calm, spoke quietly, "Sometimes, it's not just the people that need protection. Our books and records do as well. I can remember how it helped us before the battle began."

Everyone knew what she was insinuating, but no one dared to utter the word. Horcruxes. She was right. Information on that topic was so difficult to get, especially considering the professors didn't even dare to speak of it—history is indeed very useful, and dangerous if fallen into the wrong hands.

Mira shrugged, avoiding her gaze. She knew they all meant well, but she had grown tired and embarrassed of the constant fussing. "Fighting is the only thing I'm good at."

Yes, she did meet the requirements to apply for the program (barely), not like it mattered for her anyway, but fighting was all she's ever known. She was, quite literally, born for it. (Sirius and her father were both Aurors, despite their time spent in those positions being unfairly short-lived.) She knew she could've done something quieter, safer; she actually loved history and knew that she'd enjoy Luna's career suggestion. But she couldn't just sit still and watch crime occur, while not being allowed to do anything about it—at least not again.

The Ministry had failed her terribly. Since the day Cedric was killed by Voldemort, when no one believed he had returned and instead turned against her, she felt a burden, of having to keep evil at bay upon her shoulders and her's only.

There was this feeling that no one can do it properly except her.

"What's so wrong with becoming an Auror?" Dean came to defend her decision, eyes darting back to his own letter. He ignored the sharp look Hermione sent his way. "It's not like she'll be alone. It says Aurors are in-demand.  I think the whole lot of us are going to be flooding the Auror applications."

"Agreed," said Ron, earning glares from both his sister and girlfriend. He rolled his eyes. "There are squadrons. None of us will be alone. The Aurors travel by teams."

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes for a beat, deep in thought. Mira knew she was thinking about the war, the run that they were on for several months, and.... Bellatrix Lestrange—everything that came with her.

Mira watched Hermione's jaw clench, the crease between her eyebrows deepening; her fingers whitening due to her harsh hold on the paper she held. Bellatrix's cackles; the feeling of a sharp knife carving into her skin; her scream echoing throughout the dark mansion—it was known by just the trio that it was what haunted her the most.  

Mira's perspective on Bellatrix was quite.... haunting—the murder of Sirius was the worst moment throughout the war. But she didn't want to think about that right now, another pang of grief hitting her, of the memory of his devastated face when the killing curse struck him. 

"Just promise me you'll look at other options," Hermione finally spoke, slowly taking a look at all her friends around the table; her usual analytical gaze turned into something more protective.

"I will," Mira replied solemnly, stomach churning at the thought of what they went through. In an attempt to distract her mind from revisiting the events, her fingers skimmed some of the many Ministry career options on the parchment: Magical Theory Researcher [Department of Mysteries; requires invitations and preliminary assessments], St. Mungo's Healing Program, Magical Creatures Carer and Regulator, Hogwarts Teaching Apprenticeship....

She paused and looked again at a certain listing: Magical Theory Researcher - Department of Mysteries [requires invitations and preliminary assessments]. 

Her eyes could not move away; it was obviously highlighting the fact that it was inside the Department of Mysteries. It was another dangerous, highly sought after research position—understandable, considering the unexplainable dark Veil that Sirius had died in. Mira, for obvious reasons, never wanted to step foot near that department again. It was a hard no for her.

Now that she thought more of it, she wasn't exactly sure if she even wanted to do something—at least for now. Maybe what she needed was a break. But for the Girl-Who-Lived, who defeated the dark wizard twice, it was impossible. 

The fame only got worse after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. She remembered how Dumbledore immediately shoved her in front of the cameras, not bothered in the slightest that she had just lost her godfather. Since then, it seemed like the entire Wizarding World were desperate for even the smallest piece of information on her life—and entitled.

Blimey, there were so many reporters crowding her whenever she went out—in fact, there were quite a few currently outside where they sat trying to covertly get some gossip—even journalists from the Magical Congress of the United States of America travelled here for her. 

Ironic, wasn't it? The American Magical Congress, sending journalists — she had no doubt there were spies mixed in too — to get intelligence on her, but she does not recall ever seeing them in battle. There was a small chance that if Voldemort did win, he would not have restricted his reign just to the Britain, yet they still decided not help at all.

Ultimately, there was another added burden of being the hero. The people will refuse to let her sit by and do nothing. 

There was a heavy silence; slightly awkward, but more-so full of relief as everyone wanted to avoid thinking of.....well, everything sad.

Then Neville shifted awkwardly in his seat, coughing intentionally. "I, uh... was offered for a Hogwarts Teaching Apprenticeship with Professor Sprout—she says I might actually do well if I don't embarrass myself in front of the students."

Heartily chuckles burst out from everyone, finally breaking the solemn mood.

Ron and Dean simultaneously snorted, grins slyly appearing on their faces. Dean slapped him on the back, "Good for you, Neville."

Luna beamed, "That would be perfect for you!"

A very visible blush surfaced on Neville's cheeks, and he stammered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Thank you. I've already started preparing for it."

"Preparing?" Hermione raised an eyebrow and scoffed playfully, the previous tension within her gone. "We just graduated a few days ago, Neville..."

The conversation deviated to something more light-hearted, with everyone taking turns to tease the scarlet-coloured boy. 

"Should I call you Professor Longbottom now?" Ginny teased, biting her lip to stifle her laughter at the sight of her friend covering his face with embarrassment. She dramatically flipped her stunning hair back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'd definitely send my kids to Hogwarts if you were teaching Herbology."

A groan escaped Neville.

Mira chuckled, warmth blooming in her chest at seeing her friend progress so much throughout the years. She compared the scared little boy she first met on the train, losing his frog every other day, to the man who defiantly spoke against Voldemort during the battle. 

For a while, she just watched her friends laugh amongst one another—Ron battling to clean up the melting ice cream with drops rapidly dripping down the cone, then his hands, and then the floor—it was definitely a sight to see. His poor girlfriend rushing from her seat, coming back with a handful of napkins within her own sticky hands, helping him clean up made them roar with laughter.

Her focus drifted into the various papers scattered in front of her; each of her friends had the same copies. They were owled to the graduates this morning. We gave you a few days to relax, but you have to make this life-altering decision as soon as possible, is what Mira felt like they should've just said straight-up instead of this unnecessary bundle of formal documents. Also, sorry that you had to fight in the war. 

Mira internally rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, fully prepared to complain about the Ministry aloud, but paused when she caught the edge of an envelope peering out between a pair of parchments. Hesitantly pulling it out, she noticed it was an old-looking envelope—unlike the Ministry's—but what caught her eye, was the maroon-coloured Hogwarts emblem on the wax seal.

She blinked, brows furrowing as she stared at the dark-inked letters of her name scrawled on it. Mira Potter-Black.

As she began to carefully open it, she could see Hermione's curious stare settle on the envelope. She raised an eyebrow questionably; Luna would occasionally glance at the envelope mid-conversation, pretending to not notice.

Mira met her gaze and shrugged. She opened it and began to read.

Dear Miss Potter-Black,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you, along with your friends, are not overwhelmed with the ridiculous amount of bureaucratic nonsense the Ministry is feeding you. Although, in your particular case, I imagine you are.

First and foremost, allow me to say how proud I am of you; your assistance in the reconstruction of Hogwarts, particularly in lifting the morale of your fellow students, was no small feat—neither was returning to the castle fresh after battle, and so soon after the losses. I have spoken to you many times throughout your final year here at Hogwarts, but I will never fail to acknowledge how you have faced everything with a kind of strength and bravery that many twice your age cannot muster.

You have truly excelled. James and Lily would be unbelievably proud of the young woman you have become.

Now, while I hoped to have left you to your well-deserved peace, there is another matter that I feel should be brought to your attention. I have recently been informed that you have not been made aware of it yet, astonishingly so, and I believe you should hear it from someone who has your best interests at heart.

With the world's eyes on you, it is crucial that you halt any other activities and focus on getting your affairs in order. 

Your paternal family, before your father married your mother, were a part of the organization known as the Sacred 29 —a group recognized to be "true pure-bloods," nonetheless, with very powerful influence in the Ministry. And then there is Mr. Black's blood-adoption, meaning you are the sole living heir to two of the most influential houses in Britain.

As such, you are entitled to any remaining Potter and Black family vaults, titles,  and—most notably—the ancestral seats on the Wizengamot. These are crucial to understand, as it has been unheard of for a witch, a very young one at that, to inherit more than one seat.

You have now passed the age of majority. With the current state of the Ministry, and the war's aftermath, it has left many in the political sphere restless and distrustful. Everyone is watching you, Mira. They are paying close attention to your next steps, given your age and the power you have inherited.

You should have been notified and advised about this as soon as you were able to access your father's vault. And I apologize, on behalf of myself and of Dumbledore; we both have failed to prepare you. All I can say, please be very careful with who you ally with. 

I trust that with Miss Granger by your side, you will be more than capable of navigating what lies ahead. Still, should you need guidance—or simply wish to talk—my door remains open.

I suggest you visit Gringotts as soon as possible to avoid any more surprises.

Yours sincerely,

Headmistress M. McGonagall

Whatever Mira had expected from this letter, it had not been this bombshell.

During her final year at Hogwarts—ever since her fifth year—she was adamant on becoming an Auror. This meant that she had barely managed to pass her other classes, and focused solely on the courses relevant to the Aurorial Appraisal Program. Unlike her best friend, of course, who processed and comprehended everything—Mira remembers blurring out everything related to magical law and politics.

A seat—or seats—on Wizengamot.

Fuck.

Mira hadn't even noticed herself frozen—rooted to her seat. She held the letter so tightly, it felt as if it might rip any second. Her chest tightened, and for a second, it was as if things hadn't changed—as if they were still in the midst of the war.

She thought that the world wanted her to become an Auror, dedicate her life to fight dark wizards, but now there was another expectation thrown in her face. She had spent her entire life facing wizards significantly older and wiser than her—she had to fight them, for Merlin's sake—and now she is expected to accept the role and engage in politics with a bunch of pureblood supremacists who definitely hate her guts.

Nothing had prepared her for this. 

Of course, Hermione had instantly noticed her shift in mood. She watched her with something different—an observing, knowing look. "What was in the letter, Mira?"

Mira's jaw clenched, shaking her head and trying to hide her shock, but her face said it all—surprise, fear, and dread. She forced an exhausted smile, the one that visibly didn't reach her eyes, "McGonagall wrote to me."

Ron leaned forward, gaze turning from the window to his friend. "Why?"

Mira handed the letter wordlessly to Hermione, who read it silently, and dragged her hands down her face. She was exhausted, everyone could tell. It was already bad enough, with the Daily Prophet capturing photographs of her caught off-guard; obvious eye bags and pale skin available for everyone to pick over, due to the nightmares that plague her sleep constantly.

With each letter she read, Hermione brows furrowed—by the end of the letter, she was gaping, no gasp daring to escape. She sat silently, in awe, staring at her best friend, ignoring Ron taking that opportunity to snatch the letter and read it himself.

"Bloody hell," Ron managed to remark after finishing reading, eyes wide as he unconsciously passed the letter to his awaiting sister. "I don't even have the words. Merlin."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, "I don't either. More problems to solve, I guess."

Ron looked at her, not even bothering to try to hide his pity. Yes, he had ignored Mira for several weeks in their fourth year after incorrectly assuming that she entered the Triwizard Tournament purposely for fame and money, but he had learnt from that mistake. After seeing her at her lowest, especially after Sirius' death, he realized that the fame she held was not something to be envious of—it was a burden that had been placed since she was in the womb.

But this, holding a seat in Wizengamot, Britain's governing body—so young, so unprepared—was on a completely different level of responsibility. 

Neville, Dean, and Luna—the trio who had not read the letter yet—blinked back and forth between the golden trio, anxious for an explanation to their reactions to the letter.

Ginny, who had gone pale herself, turned to look at them, a sharp exhale escaping her nose. "She has a seat in Wizengamot—maybe, more than one."

Neville nearly choked on the drink he had just bought, "What?"

"Is there not an age requirement for this?" Dean whistled, observing everyone's shock-ridden expressions. "I thought you had to be—like, old to do that stuff."

"You don't, actually," Luna answered; she looked unsurprised. She turned to look at Mira, sending a small smile her way. "It's should not even be that shocking. It's just, no one remembered to tell you."

"How could no one tell her that?" Ron scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. He suddenly paused, eyes narrowed whilst pointing to himself. "How did we not know that? Dad has been working at the Ministry for ages!"

The Potter's and Black's have also been gone for a long time, Hermione spoke, sending the thought through the invisible tether to her friend's mind. She knew that the mention of her late family is—and would always be—a sensitive topic. But Malfoy is still alive, and I'd wager he probably knows.

Their mastered ability in Legilimency was also private—a secret, an unknown weapon between Hermione, Ron, and Mira. It was something they spent their final year at Hogwarts obsessively learning.  

It was Mira's idea to start with Occlumency, to protect their thoughts, even from each other, until they had unbreakable shields—she did not want another Sirius situation happening again. She had walked into that trap, because Voldemort knew exactly how to lure her; her mind was unprotected and vulnerable.

Legilimency came after. Late nights. Endless practice in the Room of Requirement. Reliving painful memories. Rebuilding trust and friendship, especially after the bridge that had opened between them when they were on the run—they definitely needed that.

The ability was also something that was intimate between the three of them; something that silently proved how close they were to one another. Mira thought of the Marauders, who were bonded together through their Animagus forms, for Remus.

Don't. Hermione reminded her, as if she had known exactly what she was thinking. Sirius was not your fault.

Mira didn't look up.

Her attention returned to the ongoing conversation. Luna was shrugging, "The Ministry might as well have had stopped functioning after Sirius died—"

Mira flinched. 

"—it was very corrupted. My father is a perfect example of how easy it is to change someone," Luna continued on, voice calm. At the mention of her father, her voice wavered for such a slight moment, it was barely noticeable. "Maybe they forgot about it, or temporarily disbanded, and now decided to reconvene?"

Hermione shook her head, finally mustering up the strength to speak out loud. "They can't just forgot about a governing council! Besides, it's been more than a year since we killed him."

"Or they just decided not to tell me," Mira said quietly. "I'm not too sure as to who the other seat-owners are, but I'm willing to bet that most, if not all of them, were Death Eaters."

Ron and Ginny nodded in agreement.

For the next several minutes, the group put out more theories—why was it that Mira Potter-Black, now the most powerful witch breathing, had no idea of her family's seats?  How was this not plastered all over the Daily Prophet?  Ron and Dean, both remaining a little optimistic, proposed that maybe Wizengamot doesn't actually exist and that it's just some dark, pure-blood supremacist cult. Ginny suggested that now that Mira had defeated the darkest wizard of the past few generations, the Ministry decided that she was too reckless to be told; she did evade the law, and hid crucial discoveries, numerous times throughout the years. Hermione having grown up heavily passionate about law, was just in disbelief. 

With more ridiculous ideas being shared, they mutually agreed to settle on the strong possibility of Mira intentionally being kept out of the dark, out of fear of her strong opposition to the usual discriminatory intentions they must have.

There was a rigid beat of silence.

"Mira, you need to go to Gringotts," Hermione blurted, hand reaching out under the table and squeezing reassuringly. A small smile flickered across her face when the others agreed with her. 

Mira felt it—an unknown feeling bubbling deep within her; like some new part of her, something buried for decades, was about to come to light. She tightened her grip on her best friend's hand, looking up and meeting all the stares of her friends.

"To Gringotts I go."

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter three ❩

"when you've been fighting for it all your life

you've been struggling to make things right

that's how a superhero learns to fly "

-- "superhero" ; the script

A day after the group convened at the ice-cream shop, the trio—and Ginny—returned to the Burrow, where she was staying. Hermione had left to go home to see her parents, leaving Mira with the Weasleys.

The Weasleys welcomed her like family, without any expectation—it had been this way since she met Ron on the platform, on the way to their first year at the school. Over time, Molly made her favourite meals, the twins gave her company as if she were family, and Arthur asked her curious questions about magical devices in her old world—Hermione, more-so, whenever she was also staying with them.

She slept in Ginny's room, curled up beneath the cozy hand-patched quilts, and listened to the familiar creaks of the house. Yet as sweet, homely, and welcoming as the Burrow was... Mira felt the truth sink deeper with every passing morning.

She had nowhere else to go. Now that she finished her time at Hogwarts, and she no longer needed to return to the horrible house she was raised in, all she had were the Weasleys. No house of her own. Despite the kindness she had been receiving here for years—as much as she wanted to stay forever—she was now an adult and needed to start building her own life.

The letter, emphasizing the importance of reclaiming the Wizengamot seats, had been stuck in her thoughts since yesterday—in everyone's thoughts. In fact, as soon as everyone had gone home, Mira was sure that they were all looking into some information to help her. 

Ron, never the subtle one, had brought it up over breakfast, muttering something about it sounding like "a lot of boring politics."  He had turned to his father and asked, "You've got one of those seats, don't you? Can't you just... do something for her?"

Mr. Weasley had been halfway through buttering his toast when Ron said it. His head snapped up so fast the knife clattered against the plate, his gaze locking on Mira as though she had just sprouted antlers. Mrs. Weasley had been sitting down, placing the tea cup she held back on the table in surprise. The colour drained from their faces in a way that had her sending her thoughts to Ron, Wow, Wizengamot seems quite.... difficult?

Ron frowned at his parents' reaction, taking a long sip of his juice. Well.... I'm pretty sure half of Voldemort's followers have a seat. I wouldn't want someone like you to be there either.

"Oh—Mira," he had managed to say, voice faltering, "I—Merlin, I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner." He set the toast down, folded his hands, and gulped. "Yes. I do have a seat. But... I was waiting until you were settled before—before pulling you into all that."

Molly slowly walked around the table with a great deal of uncertainty; she placed her tender hands on Mira's petite shoulders and turned her to face her, an uneasy smile on her face. "You are just a girl. Arthur and I—we both decided— that we wanted to let you enjoy your final year at Hogwarts properly."

Mira clenched her fists underneath the table. The urge to yell at them, for hiding such a significant responsibility from her, especially knowing she was the heir to very powerful bloodlines in Britain, was overwhelming—she should have been informed immediately after Voldemort's defeat.

When she first read the letter, she thought she hadn't known of the council at all, but then memory of her trial—after the Dementors attacked her in front of her cousin—stirred. She recalled the many robed wizards and witches who surrounded the Minister in a semicircle, all of them ready to prosecute her knowing that she had simply defended herself. If it wasn't for Dumbledore, she didn't know where she'd be..and fuck Umbridge.

She inhaled a sharp breath when she remembered the time when Sirius snuck into the Ministry, in his Animagus form, solely to comfort her before the trial—so dangerous for him, so reckless, but so Sirius. It was sudden, so instant, how just the mention of a person who she had gotten attached to so quick, can cause her to instinctively spiral. 

Before she could panic, her throat starting to clog, Ron—who had his jaw clenched, eyes set straight on her face—felt the tremor in their bond and nudged their connection; he did not send a message, but it worked well enough to pull her out of the sudden frenzy of pain she felt.

Mira blinked and realized that everyone at the table was waiting for a reply, all gazes anxiously searching her face for any sign of anger. She forced herself to relax her shoulders and sent a tight-lipped smile to the couple, acknowledging that they were the closest to parents she'd had—she remembered how she was welcomed into their homes with open arms, and a sudden rush of guilt hit her chest at feeling this way. "It's okay, I didn't mean to blame you."

She pushed down the grief and the anger. She didn't completely lie. She completely understood their intentions. After everything they went through, they just wanted Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and her to be normal—go to Hogwarts and be kids.

Mira watched as Arthur sighed in relief; a tired smiled swept over his face, but his eyes had lost the peace they held a mere moment ago. He had leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the table. Fred and George were busy, each stealing pieces of food from others' plates and discussing their newest products amongst themselves—he ignored it and settled his eyes on Mira. 

He coughed and said, "I'm sure you kids think that all you have to do in Wizengamot is sit and vote. Well, it is not just that. It's politics, amongst very dangerous people—"

Pretty sure everyone knows that already, Ron's dry voice sounded in Mira's head, causing the corner of her lips to twitch in faint amusement.

We're first-hand witnesses, Mira threw back, insinuating their time in Malfoy's dungeons. She was still half-listening to Arthur. I bet you 10 galleons that Wizengamot is mostly all those cowardly pure-blood supremacists who are now trying to pretend as if they weren't slaves to Voldemort.

Ron slapped his palm against his mouth but still failed to stifle his snort.

Ignoring his son, Arthur continued, "You have just defeated the darkest wizard of our time, have in-possession the Elder Wand, have the entire wizarding Britain following you, and have humiliated and imprisoned many wizards of pure bloodlines — they hold grudges."

Well, he did have a point. 

"My bloodline is just as much as ancient," Mira huffed, crossing her arms. She leaned back in her chair, resorting to stare at the roof. "I think they're intentionally doing this to keep me—us out. Weren't a lot of pureblood families wiped out during the first war? What are they going to do with all those empty seats, if they don't want the heirs to sit on it?"

Ginny huffed, standing up and leaving the kitchen. "Probably find a way to steal everything you inherited."

"Mira, dear," Molly started after sending her daughter a harsh glare, now sitting across from her. "You are a beautiful, young woman with no one in your family alive to teach you the ways of your house—each house, particularly more noble ones such as your father and Sirius, have more.... delicate practices. You have not been prepared for this, which is what makes it dangerous for you."

Mira bit her lip, feeling her cheeks grow warm at her previous arrogant statement. As much as she wanted to blame it on people being sexist—which most, if not all, pure-blood men were—Molly had a very strong point. Although Neville was somewhat in similar circumstances as her, he had his grandmother alive, who would probably teach him quite a lot as she, herself, had been a regent since her husband was killed—at least until he become of-age.

(She hadn't told Neville of his seat either; he had owled her this morning).

Arthur nodded, glancing at his wife. "This will make you a very big target."

There was an awkward silence that hung in the air, no one knowing what to say. He then sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, I suppose it is time now—you cannot give the seats up, no matter what. I will also start looking into things, so that we will get you prepared as soon as possible. You'd best be heading to Gringotts as soon as possible."

She had to anyway. As much as she'd rather disappear, she needed to get justice, and not just for herself—but for Sirius. She clenched her fists and forced herself to feel angry, instead of sad, at the thought of him. He had been imprisoned for more than a decade without a trial, at the mere age of 21, and she needed the people who were responsible—at least those who are still alive—to be held accountable.

Mira stood up and started gathering her dishes to take to the sink. She let a genuine smile light up her face; her previous frustration at the man was replaced with respect and an emotional appreciation, as it felt to her as if he had deemed her like another one of his children—he was determined to help her succeed "I agree. I do intend to go today. I'm just waiting on Hermione."

"I can go with you, if you'd like," Fred's voice suddenly broke in, teasing. He was leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the corner of his mouth tugged upward in that lazy, arrogant grin—a smile which never failed to cause butterflies in her stomach.

And—Merlin help her—he was absolutely towering over her now. His build had shifted over the years; still lean, but with the kind of muscle that came from Quidditch and war. His grin widened when she sent an unserious glare in retaliation.

She sharply turned her entire body away from him, trying to hide the heat prickling at the back of her neck. Fred's low, easy laugh followed her, entirely unbothered; she tried her best to hide the sudden shudder that overcame her. She avoided the gazes of Ron and Molly, who's gazes darted back and forth between them, eyebrows raised, which then eased into knowing smirks.

Oh, Mira.... Ron's pestering voice shoved itself inside her head, causing her to set her dirty dishes down perhaps a little too quickly.

As she walked back to Ginny's room, making sure no one was watching her, she couldn't stop the wide cheeky smile from gracing her features.

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.

Hermione had appeared about an hour after that slightly-awkward conversation in the kitchen. She apparated them to Diagon Alley. 

And it was hot. So terribly warm, that despite having been standing in the sun for a few minutes, Mira's clothes clung to her in the sweltering heat. There was no chilly breeze to counter the extreme weather that flushed both their skins. 

She hated it. She hated the sun; who didn't?

It had been almost a year since they last came here; it was right before the beginning of their final year at Hogwarts, after the war, where they returned to replenish their coins for the next year. The trio had mutually agreed to go together, which they did hesitantly, out of fear of the repercussions of what they had done in order to retrieve the Horcrux from the vault.

They really did not have anything to worry about, as a few weeks after the war was settled, the Ministry had ordered a full pardon for all the destruction they caused in the bank. But that did not allow the goblins to forget.

And you using an Unforgivable on one of the goblins?  Hermione briefly glanced at her friend, an eyebrow raised. Although she couldn't get past her mind shield—amongst the three of them, Mira was the strongest Occlumens—she always knew what she was thinking.

(She'd slip up sometimes, though it was quite rare, whenever her emotions were heightened. When she does, Hermione and Ron never let her forget it).

Mira sent a pointed look and narrowed her eyes jokingly. What about you pretending to be Lestrange to get into the vault?

Without looking back at her friend, Hermione shrugged, letting out an unbothered giggle. Not even close to what you did.

The two then settled into a comfortable silence, both intentionally taking their sweet time on the way there.  Mira rolled her eyes, watching Hermione wave and smile at familiar faces—natural and easy. When people's gazes would inevitably shift onto Mira, their mouths opening in awe, she would nod and try to smile. She didn't even realize her fingers were ghosting her side, curling around the shape of her wand—it still felt weird, her hand now clutched around an unfamiliar wand, not the one she had spent almost a decade with. 

She spent too many years waiting for somebody to suddenly jump out and attack her. Her shoulders would tense anytime she would spot or hear whispers about her—especially the kids, when their eyes would widen like saucers, Mira would feel so uncomfortable... then pissed when she'd have to begrudgingly sign autographs, having to ignore Ron, Dean, and Neville snickering behind her.

Hermione casually slowed down, allowing Mira to walk side-by-side with her.

They had a little more time before the looming marble steps of the bank would be in their sight, so she decided to distract herself with the thoughts of a certain tall, muscular prankster with a mischievous grin that always managed to quicken her pulse. Mira could feel Hermione's smouldering gaze on the side of her face, analyzing the sudden grin that had popped up on her face.

Just as Hermione parted her mouth to question her sudden rise in mood, she stopped when the enormous bronze doors to the bank appeared in their view. The two exchanged looks; it may or may not have been just them, but the multi-story, white marble building seemed more imposing than the last time they had visited. They could see glimpses of the goblins interacting with customers, and the shiny golden chandeliers through the brief moments when someone came and went. 

They did cause significant damage... perhaps they had changed the structure when they were rebuilding to avoid a situation like that again?

Hermione huffed. For a split second, there was uneasy glint in her eyes, but a determined look replaced it almost immediately. "Let's just get this over with."

She made to the steps before Mira could blink, which had her scurrying behind her quickly so that they could walk in together.

As they stepped in, the soft clink of coins being exchanged echoed throughout the marble-encased building. Rows of goblins, sat on extended platforms, worked behind their desks—they all sneered at their customers, wrinkling their noses in disgust whenever a witch would get too close with them.

It felt as if as soon as they stepped in, a number of unoccupied goblins' gazes honed in on them—on Mira, mostly. It took a lot of their strength not to flinch and to keep their chins held high; it was for a long few seconds where their stares remained interlocked, no one daring to make a move to look away.

Undisguised hatred danced in their eyes—their goblin facial features made them seem even more terrifying. The flash of their sharp teeth, or fangs, had almost been enough to make her step backwards.

Well, now we know they still hate us. Mira's lips didn't move and her eyes were still trained on one of the goblins. She felt one of their gazes flicker to the faded scar engraved on the slight right of her forehead.

Hermione didn't reply, as she, as well, refused to remove her eyes from a goblin a few feet in front of them. Instead of prolonging the staring contest, or whatever this was, she began walking towards the high desk, silently commanding Mira through her mind for her to follow.

As they approached a goblin dressed in a dark blue tuxedo, his dark, slanted eyes—they looked almost completely black—peered down at them, narrowing at Hermione, in particular, in unhidden disgust. The girl raised an eyebrow in return, refusing to let an ounce of the fear she felt show as it would only please the goblin.

Maybe we should have apologized again, Mira coughed. Acting like this only makes us look even more evil. We did release the dragon, which wasn't even bad, and destroyed their bank. And I also Imperius'd one of them.

Hermione ignored her. Just tell him what we need to do we can leave.

Mira felt her breath hitch, then coughed, causing the goblin to shift his lifeless eyes upon her. 

"I require a complete blood inheritance test," Mira spoke softly. Her voice had trembled a bit at first, but she had managed to level it—it was agreed that the results obtained by them today would be completely secret. After the discussion at the ice-cream shop, almost the entirety of the group had a feeling as if there will be more surprises.

The goblin studied her face for a long, unnerving moment. "This is a bank."

Hermione tilted her head, quiet confidence exuding her. The lie slipped out smoothly, "We realized that she had forgotten the key to her vault just when we arrived." 

Again, the goblin did not speak for a short time. Until he finally sighed, and asked, turning to look at Mira. "What is your name?"

Mira internally rolled her eyes. He damn well knew who she was.

"Mira Potter-Black." She stated, crossing her arms over her chest; her mind buzzed with uncertainty and anxiousness of the possible outcomes of the test. There was so much relying on this: information of her heritage and crucial information of her inheritance. Excluding the entire Wizengamot situation, she really needed a place to live.

"To be granted access to your vault, you will need a blood test as proof of identity since you lack a key," The goblin stated, his voice sharp and cold just as they were known for. His long, gnarly finger pressing down on a button embedded on his desk. "I will request a complete blood test."

Mira nodded, "Thank you."

The goblin did not look at them again. "Take a seat by the doors."

Hermione and Mira did not hesitate to follow his instructions, with each of them exhaling heavily as they sat, away from the burning stares of the creatures.

Almost immediately, a different goblin approached them, with a name tag on his suit, labelled Svish, wearing an expensive-looking, polished dark-green robe. Without a word, they were led through a narrow hall to a private room. 

It seemed as if Hermione's unflinching phase had been paused, as the girl's brown eyes looked around, dissecting every inch of the unfamiliar section of the bank. None of them had been in this part of the bank before—it was the opposite to where the vaults were located.

Inside, a heavy white table sat in the middle, with runes carved deep into its surface (it had Hermione scoping it out curiously). Runes were an obvious sign of ancient magic; it was also the most unknown part of magic that the wizarding world lacked information on.  In the middle of the table, sat another wall made of the same stone—large and horizontal—with a small hole, big enough to fit a hand, at the bottom where the two connected. It was a barrier between the goblin and the customer's side.

Svish stood on a platform on the other end, and for a few seconds, all they could hear was the sound of him sorting things around—Mira swore she heard the sound of parchment paper. Then suddenly, his clawed hands peered out of the hole, one clutching a silver dagger that gleamed brightly with the room's dimmed light. "I will take your blood now."

With one look at Hermione's impatient expression, hesitantly, Mira obeyed the goblin's silent instruction and placed her pale hand in the goblin's empty one. He grabbed it and took it behind the small wall, where she couldn't see.

All she knew next was, a sudden flash of pain in her palm; instinctively, she tried to snatch it back, but the goblin held a firm grip—she felt his talons digging into her arm. When she felt a wet liquid oozing out of her palm, she knew it was blood exiting the wound.

I thought they take only a little blood. Mira grimaced, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Hermione turned away from the paintings she was gawking at and stared at her with an uncertain expression. None of them dared to speak aloud. They do only take a little.

Then why do I feel like... it's a lot of blood?

"Are you done?" Instead of replying to her friend, Hermione questioned Svish harshly, biting her lip. It had been a while and the goblin had yet to speak or give her friend her hand back. Worried thoughts gnawed them, leaving little room for anything else.

All at once, when the feeling of claws clutched around her hand disappeared, she immediately pulled it back, only to see that her hand was completely fine. No scar. No blood—not even dried blood. Mira and Hermione both looked blankly at it, but before they could say anything, the divider on the table disappeared to reveal Svish.

"I healed it," Svish stated, uncaring as if it was nothing. 

"What took so long?" Mira finally managed to ask, staring at him with thinly veiled suspicious; she tried to think of why he had taken so much blood. "You are not allowed to take my blood without my written consent. The results should have appeared with only a few drops."

"Your results will be handed to you shortly," Another goblin had suddenly materialized from behind Svish, causing both girls to jump. This one narrowed his eyes at Mira, mouth slightly parted. His blackened eyes searched hers, flickered between her and her friend with something close to suspicion.

It looked as if Svish had called him here and he did not know why.

Hermione glanced between the new goblin and Svish—who also gave Mira a sidelong stare— and squinted her eyes in frustration. "Are you going to answer—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Svish waved a hand to silence her. He then placed a tiny glass vial on the table in front of them. "—your blood is unusual, Miss Potter-Black."

As the new goblin's eyes hit the vial, it appeared to be widened with raw awe as he observed, what was supposed to be, Mira's blood in the clear glass vial. Shock rooted him to the spot.

With a slight pause at the harsh sound of the vial being placed so roughly, Hermione and Mira instantly crouched down to peer closer at the vial and they felt their hearts drop—it was not like anything they have ever seen.

In the vial, crimson red strands of blood floated, threading amongst shining magical filaments of silver—almost like light—shimmering like stars. Their mouths fell agape, watching as the floating silver slowly consuming the red, like it was something alive.

What the fuck.

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter four ❩

"wish we could turn back time,

to the good old days,

when our mama sang us to sleep,

but now we're stressed out"

-- "stressed out" ; twenty one pilots

Hermione and Mira could not look away from the glass vial—from the silvery threads woven amongst her blood.

"That....can't be normal," Hermione managed, brows knitted in confusion. 

"It is not," Svish said flatly, hands clasped behind his back. His dark, beady eyes remained locked on the swirling strands of liquid, evidently trying to hide the fact that he was just as confused. 

Mira snapped, having enough of the goblin's vague replies. "Then what is it then?"

There was a pause, both goblins' eyes fixing on Mira, no annoyance visible at her impatience. Svish slowly picked the vial up, tilting it ever so slightly. "....It is.....," he paused, then continued, tone still unreadable. ".....Unknown to us, Miss Black..." 

Mira and Hermione's eyes narrowed. They both were sharing the same thought. He had to have been lying, wasn't he? How was it possible?

"You're lying!" Mira accused him, voice edged with disbelief. "Blimey, I think everyone knows blood's meant to be red, not.....sparkly silver!"

Svish's mouth twitched. It was not in amusement, anyone could tell, but was a look someone wore when boundaries were starting to be pushed—they were definitely treading on dangerous grounds. The goblins already harboured little admiration of her—it was obvious that they did not forgot her part in the destruction of their bank during the war (not caring that they were pardoned by the Minister himself) and goblins were infamously known for their foul moods and grudges.

"Regrettably, I do not speak in false pretences, Miss Black." Svish gritted out, still unnervingly calm; every syllable was deliberate, as if he were talking to young children. The goblin's hardened gaze did not stray from Mira's multicoloured eyes.

I think he's offended, Hermione's voice snapped in Mira's mind. It's difficult to believe, but accusing a goblin of lying is absolutely daft, Mira.

Mira gripped the hem of her frayed shirt in anger. Don't tell me they don't deserve it, 'Mione.

..Mira...just—we aren't in a place to say anything right now.  

Mira, feeling anger simmering within her, didn't bother to reply in fear of losing control. The most infuriating part of going to the bank was having to speak with these goblins, who only spoke in what seemed like riddles.

Perhaps sensing the tension dominating the air, the other goblin's gazed flicked briefly at the door beside them, that lead to the area where they kept their centuries-old records on the Britain's wizards and witches. He finally spoke, each word measured like a coin. "Miss Black. Your blood is quite... remarkable. If you wish, I shall make inquiries with Archivists—"

"No!" The single word that had abruptly came out of Hermione cracked through the air before he could finish his words—the goblins had even jumped, both pair of eyes sliding to meet hers in unison. They blinked, as if her sudden interruption was unexpected; as if they had expected the pair to agree.

Hermione felt it. She knew that they weren't telling the truth at all.

Mira spun to look at her sharply, eyes blazing—her friend had just been scolding her seconds before. Furrowing her eyebrows in a mixture of disbelief and rage, she turned to look back at the goblins, this time, being unable to resist the anger consuming her. She was frustrated with being kept in the dark—absolutely angry with being treated as if she weren't entitled to know the things that concerned her very existence!

"Remarkable?" She seethed, taking a slow step forward. "Is that all you have to say?" 

Mira felt Hermione's hand close around her wrist, nails—intentionally sharper than usual—pressing into her skin. She was roughly pulled towards her, shoulder-to-shoulder, as a silent warning.

I've got it, Mira. Hermione hissed in her mind. No witch in their right minds would find something like this and hand it to the goblins. They're smarter than you think. If you consent to this, they will be free to use your blood for anything. And the Ministry can see everything. 

Of course, legally they could not. But this was the British Ministry—full of wealthy Death Eaters who, Merlin knows just how much, have bought off most employees. So, in a way, yes they would be able to find anything on her—Mira Potter-Black, as she failed to predict due to the tiny amount of naivety she had left after the war, was still a high-value target for many.

It was another reason why Arthur hadn't told her of the seats. Mira had met these certain infamous pure-blood families, who would love to have her head after she humiliated and testified against them, but she hadn't truly met them. In Wizengamot, she actually had to converse, make allies.... exchange words without violence.

Before Mira could reply, she continued, ranting. Both the girls' glazed stares were fixed on one another, actively ignoring the goblins' puzzled expressions. The implications of this is... massive, Mira. If they said they don't know, do you really want to trust them with.... this?

They're goblins. They have to keep it a secret; they have no other choice, Hermione. Mira swallowed her frustration.

 Hermione bit her lip. I know.... which is why we should keep it to just the goblins. Goodness, Mira. This is bad—very very strange—"

—How do you know they're lying, though? 

Hermione stiffened, her lips forming into a mute 'O' for a brief second. Her teeth punctured into her lip harder, drawing blood. 'Cause Mira... this is your blood. It would be impossible for them not to know why it looks that way because your mum or dad must've had this in their blood as well. That would mean...they've had—what, almost thirty years to find answers?

The words slammed into her like ice-cold water, she was correct. James and Lily had both started their time at Hogwarts 28 years ago, so she must have inherited this from one of them, right? The goblins were both staring at Mira now, no sign of hostility or desperation in their faces. Svish shifted his gazes between the two, watching with furrowed eyebrows until slowly, his mouth gaped for a split second before recovering quick.

"You both...have mastered Legilimency." Svish drawled slowly, almost hesitantly breaking the long silence that had taken over the room. His narrow eyes slid to the inheritance report he held—it was visible that he had taken an interest in that. Goblins craved everything of value—they liked to record it, and in his mind, other than the situation of Mira's blood, this discovery was very valuable.

He was met with stares threatening to shift into glares.

Mira, breaking the prolonged stare at her friend, turned to look at the goblin. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Hermione's sharp reply. "No, we have not." 

Her denial was quick and clipped, making it sound rehearsed and extremely obvious of the underlying tension beneath it.

Something in Svish's expression told her that did not believe her. He grinned, exposing a row of sharp canine-like teeth. "Miss Granger," he said at last, eyes flicking briefly to Mira's multicoloured irises, "it would be most unwise for such a... notable talent to be kept from our records."

The silence after his words stretched painfully long. Mira glanced between the two goblins and Hermione, unease creeping up her spine. Trying to change the topic now, hm?...

Clearly, the goblins were just as much as clueless than they were almost 30 years ago, if James or Lily had the same abnormalities in their blood. 

If they even had it. Out of pure denial of what they had seen in the vial, Hermione and Mira were just acting off the basis of assuming that one of her parents had the peculiar blood. But in any case, the goblins refused to admit it, in a very obvious attempt to sway Mira into allowing them to keep her blood sample. If they still could not find the answer to the strange silver threads, and were unable to for nearly three decades, what did they want with hers? 

So, Hermione came to two possible conclusions: they were either lying, or had other dark intentions—which wouldn't be a surprise at all. 

Hermione's patience finally crumbled. Her voice snapped, sharp and cutting through the tense atmosphere: "Do what you want, just show us the inheritance report."

There's no point in staying here any longer. They're trying to trick you. Hermione, thin-lipped, ran a hand through her hair as the goblin begrudgingly did not argue—despite the flicker of disdain passing through his face at the impolite command—and pushed the various parchments toward them with clawed fingertips. After visiting your vault, we will just have to find our own answers then—before the Ministry finds out.

Mira was unable to make eye contact with anyone, noticing the secret, protective meaning underneath Hermione's words. If the Ministry would find out, she would be subjected to even more curiosity—endless committees, meetings, and experiments. Would the world switch up on her..would they ignore all the sacrifices she made to save them, purely because of the abnormality in her blood?

Just like they did with Remus—with werewolves. 

Anxiously pulling the report forward, Mira leaned over with Hermione, their heads close as their eyes scanned the curling ink. Pushing away the page about her financial and estate assets aside, her sole focus was on her lineage information she were to inherit.

COMPLETE BLOOD INHERITANCE REPORT, iss ued under Gringotts Wizarding Bank, 1999.

Birth Name (per Gringotts Bloodline Records): UNKNOWN

Legal Name per Ministry Records: Mira Evans Potter-Black ( undergone magical and legal blood-adoption process)

Date of Birth: 31 July 1980

 

Parentage: James Fleamont Potter and Lilian Thyen Potter (née Evans)

 

Paternal Lineage [Legitimate]: James Fleamont Potter, pure-blood, of Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter & House of Peverell

Status: deceased, killed 31 October 1981, age 21

Vault(s): Vault #687, Vault #688 (Peverell)

Wizengamot Seat(s): 2

 

Paternal Lineage [Blood-Adoption]:  Sirius Orion Black, pure-blood, of Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

Status: deceased, killed 18 June 1996, age 36

Vault(s): Vault #711

Wizengamot Seat(s): 1

 

Maternal Lineage: Lilian Thyen Potter (née Evans), recorded as muggle-born

Status: deceased, killed 31 October 1981, age 21

Vault(s):  Vault #714

ANOMALY DETECTED. FURTHER INQUIRY REQUIRED.

They realized that there was a lot for them to discuss once they returned to the Burrow.

The Wizengamot situation had pushed itself to the bottom of her list; it was now the smallest of her many, many problems. As soon as Mira read the strange information written on the document, she knew that she had been quite literally, been sucked into another problem.

And it looked like that both of them seemed to have felt the way, as they exchanged looks, unintentionally halting their analysis of the test results not even a quarter percent through.

Hermione, who had been looking over her shoulder to analyze the document, blinked repeatedly in shock. They had expected to find more information on Wizengamot, and they admitted themselves that there may be more to it that may surprise them, but this parchment was odd—in a bad way. She spoke aloud, not bothering to hide the uneasiness in her voice. "Why does it say your birth name is unknown?"

Mira's voice was stuck in her throat, not just at the strange words written on a legal document, feeling waves of acid well up in her belly. How is it that they don't know my name? Why does it say that?

I—I'm not quite sure. Her friend blinked again, as if she were trying to hide the brewing anxiousness.

Hermione, turning to look at the goblins, awaited an explanation. At first glance, one could say that the friends were being dramatic, slightly panicking over something that could easily be fixed. However, considering what they had gone through, the absolute deranged and unbelievable things they had to fight through, this was not something to take light at all.

This was Mira Potter, after-all—the Chosen One. Everything could go wrong.

Below the information on her mother's lineage, there were several jot notes scribbled below it—in bright, red ink, as if the goblins had not even bothered to make the document look professional. They could only read the first sentence, with the remaining sprawled in a strange ancient goblin language.

"Unknown name....Anomaly detected," Mira read aloud, brows furrowing as her eyes grew impossibly wide. She couldn't even be bothered to ask anymore; there were too many surprises, that should not even exist.

Hermione's eyes scanned every line twice, her lips moving as if she had to reread the same sentence several times for it to settle in. "That makes no sense," she said in disbelief. "Your dad's side we could expect—Potters, Peverells, and even the Blacks, because of Sirius. But your mum's line? Lily Potter was muggle-born. She has no magical ancestry, just like me."

Hermione skimmed over the document again, her lips pressing thin. She glanced at the goblins, studying them with a critical squint. "If this is all you've managed after nearly three decades, then you're not telling us something." Goblins were extraordinary with records. It is impossible to have abnormalities in magic. 

Mira can feel every ounce of confusion her friend was feeling—the same friend she had known for almost a decade. They had figured her personality out by now, the one that had helped them massively throughout the war—and in Mira's own education. Particularly being someone who did not grow up with magic, Hermione had always hated blind spots, hated when the rules of the wizarding world refused to fit into the order she could understand. 

Hermione's was stubborn; she refused to believe the fact that she couldn't require all the knowledge in the world. She had to know everything. And this... this was a direct conflict to everything she knew.

Svish's face did not flicker, but another goblin—one they've known for quite a long time—walked through the doorway. It looked like he was aware of what was occurring in this room, but he did not care and spoke. "I can assure you we have tried to look into this."

That calm reply made Hermione's temper flare visibly—her cheeks flushed, her brows drawn tight. Eyes widening in alarm at the sight of the Head Goblin entering the room, Mira reached forward suddenly and lifted the tiny glass vial containing the silvery drops of her blood. Svish's hand twitched at the motion but he didn't stop her—he couldn't.

She pocketed it immediately.

Hermione caught the faintest flicker of irritation across the other two goblins' face, like someone watching a priceless relic walk out of his vault. But the Head Goblin, however, only smirked. "I can assure you, both, that you will not find any answers elsewhere. This has been a mystery for quite some time now; should you come back, we will still take pleasure in helping you."

Mira and Hermione suddenly felt an urge to leave. No matter the amount of questions asked, they were not to be answered—they would not know if the goblins were genuine regarding the absence of information, or if they were lying. 

Mira ran a trembling hand through her rough, white locks—she felt her chest growing tight.

"Are you absolutely sure that you don't have any more information on this?" Hermione asked the goblins quietly—exhaustedly.

All three goblins shook their head. The girls, both anxious, had instantly realized that they were left with more questions than answers. 

Hermione's eyes flicked once more over the parchment, then to Mira. The younger witch had gone pale beneath the dim lights of the room, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of those words was pressing down on her chest. They had both felt a sudden jolt of weariness..of anxiety that they had not felt since the war. They both were thinking the same thing: was this going to be another problem? 

Hermione let out a weary sigh. She knew Mira's tells: the rapid blinking of the eyes, the subtle way she swung on her heels, and the awkward—infamous Potter—smile. The bloodshot eyes from the war were still there, but now, a hint of hollowness was visible.

Mira was exhausted. 

The unknown goblin—either being aware the solemn mood in the room, or ignoring it—reached into a drawer and produced a rectangular box, coated with velvet, placing it on the table. He did not open it.

"The heirlooms of your houses," Svish finally muttered, claw pointing towards the box. "House Black. House Potter. House Peverell. They are bound by ancient magic to recognize the direct heir's blood. To refuse them would be... unwise," he drawled at the end, each word deliberate.

Hermione's sharp inhale was audible. Blimey, I read about these in History of Magic; they're very common in pure-blood families. I completely forgot about them!

Mira blinked, eyes heavy and unfocused. She did not make a move to take it. She asked, wearily, "Do we have to go through these now?" 

The Head Goblin parted his lips to speak, but closed them after critically analyzing her face; the usual sharpness in his eyes was replaced by what looked like pity for a split second before being replaced with his usual incomprehensible expression.

"I would recommend that," The Head Goblin began, a dreadful grin working it's way up onto his face. "However, we can provide a detailed list on the instructions..for a cost."

Hermione's mouth pinched tightly, keeping a stern gaze on the goblin as Mira casually grabbed a handful of galleons from her pocket and placed it into the goblin's outstretched hands without any words.

For the first time in their visit, the goblins looked pleased.

At last, Svish slid another sheet across the desk. “Everything you need to know about the rings,” he said, clipped and short. 

"There are various magical enchantments within them," The Head Goblin added, eyes fixed on the box with what almost looked like greed. "I highly suggest adding them to your person as soon as possible, to prevent them from being stolen. There are many who would do anything to possess them."

Hermione and Mira both went still at the words, which slid off his tongue like a warning—one that sounded disturbingly close to a threat. A sudden stab of anxiety hit their guts; they were definitely involved in something now.

Hermione cleared her throat, composing herself by straightening her shoulders. She spoke quietly, now clutching the box to her chest—voice trembling with a mixture of suppressed anger and fear. 

"Let's start with Lily's vault, first."

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter five ❩

"you're such a strange girl"

-- "the perfect girl" ; mareux

Lily Evans was a muggle-born witch; she was born and raised in an ordinary muggle family, without any knowledge of the existence of the wizarding world until her letter had arrived. It had only been a month before term started when she discovered magic even existed at all, yet in that short span of time, she had swallowed anything she could find. 

But Mira would never know her.

The friends who had known her mother intimately were killed in the same war that had claimed Lily herself. Thus, Mira heard the same few scraps of memories many times—most of them from Slughorn—and pieced together the fragments of her life to form an opinion as to who she was.  There were rare memories that Sirius had been willing to share before, but it was mainly Remus who'd occasionally speak about her fondly—but they were all gone, now.

Snape, too. In fact, Mira was pretty sure that he had known her mother so much better than anyone else. She had been oblivious to their...complicated relationship—and that he even knew her during one of their failed Legilimency lessons. He refused to acknowledge Lily until the final moments of his life. And Mira, being occupied with defeating Voldemort, had not thought of storing all of his memories so later, she could peacefully watch how her mother grew up—before the war, before the bloodshed, and before her daughter had been conceived to end her mother's life before it truly began.

Just like Hermione she was, Mira thought, glancing at her friend as the goblins led them towards the lift. The tension in her face hadn't gone away since the goblins had revealed the blood vial and inheritance results.

Mira didn't think she'd ever stop imagining her mum; borrowed and recycled memories conjured out of what came out of Sirius, Remus, and other survivors of the first war. She needed her more than ever—a mother, not a friend—to hold her in her arms whenever she woke up from the nightmares that plagued her dreams just as much as they did when awake. 

Her throat tightened. With the discovery of the strange blood she had soaring through her veins, and the strange lineage records of her mother, there was no doubt that this originated from her maternal side—whatever Mira will discover, Lily had gone through.

Although, they both were not sure if Lily had discovered the truth behind this—pushed into war, marriage, pregnancy, and hiding as soon as she had left Hogwarts. Dead, before her brain could fully develop—before she even had the chance to explore adulthood.

There's no chance in hell that Petunia will know anything. If she did, she wouldn't tell me anything. Mira's lips pressed into a thin line, shaking her head as the group stepped onto the cart that lead to the vaults.

Hermione tensed at the mention of the woman—the same one who had, out of pure spite and jealousy of her sister's magic, abused and isolated her orphaned child. She gritted her teeth and a sudden grunt of annoyance escaped her lips. Of course, she won't. Don't expect anything from her—from them.

All friends of Mira's—her true family, by everything but blood—had a special hatred for the woman, her husband, and their bully of a child. Mira had kept the circumstances of her childhood a secret her entire life, especially her cupboard. The only reason they had found out was when Petunia had sent her a letter, non-subtly asking for money—it seemed as if she had just realized that her late brother-in-law was, in fact, a very wealthy man.

Ron had proceeded to rip the letter and shove a chocolate frog in her face.

The black cart jolted hard to the side, forcing Hermione to grab onto Mira's wrist to steady her. Svish, who was driving, said nothing; didn't so much as glance back at the pair. They descended deeper, the rails curving sharply as the shadows grew thicker, the air colder.

Hermione hugged herself; her eyes were tightly shut, trying to avoid looking at the  beneath her. Her hair, as always, was a storm of thick brown curls; the rush of wind tossed strands around her face, catching her mouth and lashes. She shoved them back impatiently, but one hand inevitably gripped onto her friend's sleeve.

Mira, in contrast, stared ahead unnervingly still without blinking—her pale hair, almost luminous amongst the dark and flicker of the torches, whipped across her face almost weightlessly, as if it were natural. With her gaze partially hidden by her flowing locks and her face sharply defined by dancing flames, she appeared completely at home among the darkness. It was as though the night was not just brushing against her but flowing alongside her, as if she were a star amongst the pitch-black sky.

Although she did not speak, or sent her friend a telepathic message, Hermione felt as if she weren't look at a young traumatized teenager anymore—she looked more like a mythical being evoked by darkness itself. Powerful.

Mira's voice in her mind briefly distracted her from the terrifying view below her; the abnormally wide tracks that the cart was being driven on revealed a gaping hole in the middle—completely, utterly terrifying; she did not dare to look down twice. 'Mione...Why is my mum's vault so far down?

She, briefly, turned her head to the side, squinting her eyes to  look at her friend through the whipping wind as they headed closer to the vault. 

Hermione raised her brows and sarcastically replied in her head; through the noise of the cart, a bitter laugh escape her lips. Your mum was muggle-born, Mira, so really, her vault shouldn't be this deep. I heard that the deeper the vaults are, the more security measures it has—mostly to guard the fortunes of ancient pureblood families. But... given what we've discovered today, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised.

The cart rattled violently as they turned into a darker tunnel. They were beginning to slow down, and the screeching jolt of the cart stopping, causing them to jerk forward, indicated they had arrived to the vault. The sparks that had bursted briefly from the rails died against the ominous stone of the platform.

Mira blinked. This was deeper than her father's vault, and he was a pureblood with centuries of lineage behind him.

"Vault Seven Hundred Fourteen," Svish announced, voice clipped. He did not even glance back at the pair before he hopped out of the cart, landing in front of the vault—however, not with the ease of a creature who had walked amongst these vaults for god knows how many times.

Mira stepped out of the cart, the boots clattering against the stone creating an echo. She nearly stumbled into Svish, who had shockingly paused before the vault doors. His clawed fingers hovered just above his pocket, as if he was frightened to take the key to unlock it.

Behind her, Hermione remained frozen in the cart, one palm pressed against her chest as she dragged in shallow, uneven breaths.

Mira turned, raising a brow. Her white hair — thin strands unusually in-place despite the heavy wind they had to endure — shifted as she teased, "Hermione.. are you going to move, or do you fancy staying here 'til Christmas?"

Hermione glared, still pale and breathing heavily. "Give me a second, would you? I don't remember the cart being so... terrifying."

That's because you haven't been this below before. Mira stifled a snort, to which her friend rolled her eyes.

There was a reason that Ron and Mira were the most...athletic within their trio. Hermione had refused to touch a broom since their first lesson back when they first met. She preferred to support her boyfriend and best-friend from the sidelines; maybe occasionally shifting her attention to a book or two.

It took an impatient look from Mira before Hermione huffed, finally clambering out with trembling legs. She landed not-so gracefully next to her friend, her fingers instinctively clutched her sleeve, tightly as if her life depended on it. Although, the post-ride fear had, seemingly, almost entirely evaporated as her brown eyes landed on the looming vault doors directly in front of them—her breath hitched lightly.

It was not the normal smooth bronze and gold facaded doors that they'd seen on other levels, all of which were intricately carved to convey luxury despite the contents of the vault. Instead, the Evans vault looked menacing—carved from a very dark stone..or perhaps steel? Maybe obsidian? It was also sculpted with runes none of them recognized.

Some of the stone had cracked in them, although it was impossible to tell the cause of it. Long and short jagged indentations were marked deep into the doors, as though something, or someone, had attempted to claw its way into it; the gouges looked to be almost like an animal's claws..or maybe, a sword—a very strong one, at that, as it seemed to everyone that the vault seemed to emit a sense of rawness...broken and tangled ancient power.

Mira had thought for a moment, that the vault could be decaying; if the doors were rotted or crumbling like abandoned structures do. But there were no vines, no moss, or any signs of reclamation. It was expected though, since the vault was enchanted and situated in the most protected area on the planet—judging by the physical stability of the doors, however, it looked as if it had gone through many bottles and it was magic that was keeping it alive.

The dim light from the torches only made it vault door look more.. ruined. 

"What happened... to this vault?" Hermione asked quietly, stepping closer to study the strange runes on the door. Before he could reply, she answered her own question, "Attacked, wasn't it? Someone tried to break in."

So much for Gringotts being an unbreakable bank. Hermione's wry voice slipped into her head. If we count Nicolas Flamel's stone, isn't this the third time something like this has happened?

Mira felt her lips twitch but said nothing, eyes refusing to stray from the wounds of her vault. She would have laughed if this weren't a matter of her own vault—her mum's.

Svish hesitated, but turned around to face the girls. "I have been told that the door remembers," he said finally, his voice low. "We have attempted to find an answer and we have tried to replace the doors for the sake of the bank's...reputation. But, as I believe you witches have also realized, we do not know what..occurred."

Finally, an answer. Somewhat, at least. It only further strengthened their suspicions of the goblins knowing a lot more than they were telling them.

Mira frowned, eyes darting towards the black marks. "And who told you this?"

The goblin's dark eyes flicked to hers briefly before moving back to the door; his hand reached into the pocket in his vest, producing a small, but older key that looked to be of the same material as the door."This vault should not exist. It has been here for a much longer time than you think."

The witches exchanged glances, a gnawing question hanging between them—they both had forgotten to ask the most important question. 

Hermione was the first to muster her voice. "How long, exactly, has this vault here?"

Svish's clawed hand tightened on the key, now dangling at his side. "Goblins live longer than witches—we walk these halls for centuries." He paused, as though he was weighing his words before he spoke, and as if the mere thought unsettled him. "yet, this vault has been here before my time."

Mira felt her stomach coil, eyes widening. She was sure Hermione felt just as weirded out as her, judging by the sickly pale colour on her face. 

At first glance, anyone could tell that Svish was one of the younger ones at the bank, despite having been working there for decades. 

At a minimum of 50 years, this vault was here—Hermione jumped to a conclusion—and definitely longer than that. 

"Perhaps it belonged to your mum's ancestors, Mira," Hermione offered aloud, though the words sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. She was grappling onto logic as much as she could. But almost immediately, she shook her head, frowning harder. "No—that doesn't make sense. That wouldn't explain why your mum was the only one who can access it. If this had been in her family for generations, others would've—"

She cut herself off, inhaling suddenly as soon as she realized that no rational or logic could explain whatever they had found today.. But, the simplest explanation could be that Lily Potter was not who the world thought her to be.

She glanced at Mira, who stood tensely by her side. 

He caught his breath, as if deliberating whether he should speak or not. But he continued, "I can assure you, Mrs. Potter felt just as troubled. A muggle-born witch should not have.. this." He drawled out the end with what almost sounded like bitterness.

Mira swallowed hard, her throat tight, but before she could speak, Svish turned his sharp gaze on her. He looked at her properly, for the first time without disdain since the war. His black eyes looked lifeless, reflecting something unknown, something almost... watchful.

"It is a shame," Svish said softly, his voice dropping into something quieter, something nearly reluctant, "that she passed so young."

The silence, accompanied with the strange mix of false sympathy and an undercurrent of something else in this tone, lingered in the air—deliberate and tense. Mira had stiffened at the sound of his voice, not sure whether he was mocking her mother's death or merely frustrated and bitter at the unsolved mystery; Lily had definitely known about this strange vault..the question was whether she had discovered the truth or not. 

If she did, all those secrets had been buried with her in her grave—too late for her daughter to know, as she had only just came across the existence of this vault...and the blood.

Just as he opened his mouth to say more, all eyes darted to Hermione lifting a thin, manicured finger toward the ruined door. 

Svish's reaction was instant.

The hiss that tore from him was vicious, closer to an animal's with his sharp teeth bared. "Do. Not. Touch, Miss Granger!"

Hermione jerked back as if she had been burnt, hands immediately falling to her sides—even Mira had flinched, both at the unnatural intensity of his voice, and at the sheer anger and threatening included in it.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Mira's gaze slid back to the door, her stomach twisting as her mind pieced together the implications: 

The claw marks.  

Svish's reaction to Hermione attempting to touch the door.

The overall damage done to the door.

She looked at Hermione, who had gone pale, the same realization reflected in her wide eyes. The conclusion seemed unavoidable: someone had tried to break into this vault before. And if Svish was so intent on keeping them away from the door...didn't that mean...

The goblins tried to go in.

"...You've tried, haven't you?" Mira's voice came out softer than she intended; her attempt to hide the shakiness in her voice had failed immediately. "The goblins... you—you tried to force it open, didn't you?"

Svish's head snapped so quickly towards her, he must've had whiplash—the usual blank mask that he wore had slipped into an expression indicating unfathomable fury. For a goblin to be accused of something like this... she knew it was the worst of all insults. 

"That," he spat angrily, the most emotion he had ever shown in his words, "would be a violation of Gringotts law."

Hermione swallowed, unable to shake the unease pooling in her chest. "And yet," she spoke, almost to herself, "something tried." She didn't know if she should believe them.

"...Yes. Something did," was all he bothered to say to her before turning to Mira and dropping the key onto her unsteady hand. "The vault recognizes blood. No other can open—or make an attempt to unlock—this vault."

"So, if I had touched it..." Hermione trailed off, her voice wobbling just enough to betray nerves.

"It would have harmed you," Svish said at last, giving the smallest of nods. The anger has disappeared, replaced with eerie certainty. "Yes. The contents of this vault is protected solely for the blood it was made for. To anyone else... there would most likely be consequences."

Heat rushed through Mira even as the icy cold of the underground prickled against her skin. She glanced at the lifeless runes along the scarred stone, and for the first time felt the weight of what Svish was saying settle properly.

The vault knows its blood.

The thought made her anxious. She wasn't even certain who she was beyond "Mira Potter." Her entire life, she was just that, with an extra emphasis on "The Girl-Who-Lived," and "The Chosen One"—she realized that she would be recognized with these titles for the remainder of her life. But this vault—her mum's vault—was built to recognize her bloodline only.

Hermione's voice whispered across their connection, quiet and uneasy this time: Well. At least now we know I'm not welcome. Brilliant.

Mira might have smiled if her chest didn't feel so heavy.

Blood wards were usually used to protect family manors—an extra measure for security. It was to make sure that only family members, and approved friends, were able to enter and go, without having to worry about intruders. To protect a vault, however.. that is very unusual.

Her boots echoed on the wet stone floor as she approached the door, ignoring the goblin's piercing eyes flickering between her back and the lock. With each step, the faint hum beneath her feet grew stronger — it travelled up her legs and arms, causing a shiver to run down her spine... it was like something vast and buried was stirred faintly in recognition.

Mira slid the key into the slot.

A faint, resonant click sounded, and all three individuals held their breath.

Hermione instinctively stepped forward, close enough to her friend, but far enough from the vault's blood wards.

The vault slit open.

As Mira pulled the heavy door, shadows pooled unnaturally along the floor, stretching long and thin as though escaped the vault by some silent command—both strangely solacing and uncomfortable—towards her. She had let go of the door handle out of a sudden, a sudden breath escaping her lips in shock, as the small shadows circled her body.

Behind her, Hermione gasped. 

Mira swallowed, the shadows curling lazily around her shoulders. They weren't real — they never were — but ever since the war, her dreams had left her with lingering fragments she couldn't shake.

Sometimes, when she woke in the dead of night, she swore she could see things moving at the edges of her room. Shadows twisting unnaturally....shapes forming where they shouldn't. On occasion, those "shadows" would shape into forms of her dead loved ones—she could recall waking up, the morning after a particularly difficult day, to her father staring down at her. But before he could speak, he had disappeared when she had screamed and tumbled out of bed.

Most of the time, though, they whispered, though she could never quite catch the words—only softly, low and old, like echoes.

Nightmares, she told herself. Just nightmares. Everyone had them after the war. 

Just like whatever this was that had come out of the vault.

A hallucination.

Mira ignored the way Svish's eyes had gone wide, the first real crack in his composure, and the metallic groan of the vault door as it wrenched itself open wider. The sound wasn't neat or clean, with no sounds of the typical goblin machinery. It was strained, almost agonized, like a monster being forced awake after centuries of sleep.

The seam split wider and wider, until what it revealed made her falter.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

She felt her brows furrow. At first glance, the contents of the vault looked like any other at Gringotts: neat stacks of Gold-Galleons and Sickles, and messy trays of heaped bronze Knuts—mounds of gold coins were the first thing she saw. It looked just like her father's vault.

That's...it?  Hermione spoke incredulously through the bond; behind her, she threw her hands in the air in irritation. Honestly, after all that fuss.

Mira stepped inside cautiously, lips twitching when she heard her friend's huff at frustration of not being able to go in with her. The moment she crossed into the vault, the invisible ward bent around her like water parting. The shadows continued to curl around her feet, yet the first thing she noticed was how wrong—but also right—everything felt.

She walked further in—every step she took felt like a risk. The air in here, felt different—thicker, somehow heavier, as if strong magic settled into this stone and had isolated itself here. 

Her gaze swept around the chamber.

There was another space, in the corner, that was more... personal. With a bit of relief blooming in her chest at the thought of having her mother's personal belongings, her eyes locked onto a small wooden trunk, frayed and used, tucked against the wall; it was her mother's Hogwarts trunk. 

She felt her feet carry her there before she could realize—she crouched down, her pale fingertips instinctively tracing the letters carved onto the wood: L.E. It hadn't even registered to her that her hands were trembling, before she pulled it back and held it to her chest.

Mira swallowed against the pang of longing and grief that rose in her throat. There would be another time to view the contents of the trunk in private...not when she was being carefully watched by a suspicious cunning goblin.

She would return.

Her gaze moved to some of the items next to the trunk: a neatly folded cloak, covered in a layer of dust, that no one had worn in decades, and a large cardboard box labelled: Textbooks. She felt her throat tightened, eyes blurring with tears—this felt too human...too real—proof that her mother had been a real person at one point in time.

Her mum had left most of her things here.

Not stored, not abandoned. Left intentionally.

Mira stood frozen in the quiet weight of it. Her mother hadn't packed these things away as one would trinkets meant to be forgotten. She had left them behind because she'd known that her daughter would cherish these items. 

Somewhere, deep down, when they went into hiding, Lily Evans Potter had known she wouldn't be making it out alive.

Mira shut her eyes briefly, forcing a steady breath past the ache threatening to lodge in her chest.

Mira. Hermione's gentle voice popped into her head—of course, she had also spotted the belongings in the corner that looked so warm compared to the cold, harsh environment of the vaults. I know it hurts.. just..remember I'm here, okay? Always.

Blinking back the tears once more, Mira turned her head towards the vault door and forced a smile; she ignored the beady eyes of the goblin, who's gaze still hadn't strayed from her.

Mira slowly stood up from her crouched position near the trunk and forced to keep herself moving, deeper into the vault where shadows pressed thicker. She had stopped in her tracks, suddenly, when pitch-black darkness surrounded her, thick and opaque, consuming the vault around her until she couldn't see more than a foot ahead—it happened so quickly, that her eyes darted around maniacally, looking for escape.

The temperature had also dropped sharply, and with the weight of the darkness around her, she felt like she was being pulled in a certain direction. The shadows, who usually flew so frantically around her, now stood still, shaped into what looked like human beings....and they stood at her—stared at her.

Although she had only taken a few steps from her mother's trunk, it felt like she had just stepped into a morgue—.

—Gazing into the black silhouettes of the dead.

However, as messed up it may be, the fear eventually dulled as she stood there for what felt like hours.  The shadows stood in their spots in front of her, but she could not tell their intentions.... yet something deep inside her—the same something that made her chest ache with familiarity—pulled her closer.

The sound of Hermione's fearful voice slipped into her mind once again. Mira? Where did you go? We can't see you!

What are you talking about? I'm right here, Mira replied, frozen; her hands were starting to become icy. A chill froze her to her spot, however, when something else caught her attention.

Her mouth went dry, when she realized what stood in front of her.

MIRA!

She flinched at the sound of her friend's franctic yell in her head, and let out a shaky exhale. Looking away from the second door for a brief moment, she turned around to face where Hermione and Svish stood.

She could see them clearly, but somehow, they could not see her.

 I'm alright, Hermione. I'm not sure why you can't see me, Mira explained, ignoring the strange tingling sensations of the darkness around her—it had caught her off guard before, however, it felt awfully comforting now. Before her friend could reply with another one of her protective, nervous remarks, she continued, but listen to me...

There's another vault inside.

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter six ❩

"you're on your own, kid

you always have been"

-- "you're on your own, kid" ; taylor swift

A vault being interconnected with another vault was...weird. 

The second door contrasted the other one purely for its appearance. For starters, it was somewhat luxurious and elegant—as if had been preserved by time. Unlike the other one, which looked as if it had gone through several wars, boring claws, marks, and strange indents as if something, or someone, had tried to break in—or out.

That is, only, if the goblin was to be believed of his claim of not trying to go in. But then again.... it was getting harder to dismiss him, due to the blood-wards protecting the vault. But perhaps they experimented with it? He had told them that no vault, in Gringotts history, has had blood wards protection before.

Besides that fact, this vault had no keyhole. Not even a padlock. There was no way to open it.

"Wh—" Mira heard Hermione cut herself off.

Even amongst the strange darkness surrounding her, Mira's shoulder's sagged with relief. Good, I don't want him to know.

What do you mean, there's another vault in there?  Hermione's voice echoed sharply in her head, like a screech.

I—Mira didn't know what to say as she was solely focused on not tearing her gaze away from the human-like figures in front of her. I don't know, Hermione. It's just there.

She slowly pressed her palm flat onto the door.. or at least she thought was it. The surface was frigid. Cold. Even worse, it was so dingy in the area she couldn't even see her own hand.  It was hard to tell whether she was touching the icy walls of the vault, or the exterior of the second mysterious door. 

The thick darkness that had pooled around her body was unmistakably humming of something ancient. Judging by the unknown feeling stirring within her, the previous comfort and warmth it held—particularly the addition of the faceless shadow people—had replaced itself with an unsettling premonition. 

The previous comforting shadows that were dancing and swirled around her, almost as if they were full of joy, had also vanished.

Mira's breath caught in her throat. Out of a sudden, she felt as if fear—claustrophobia—was clawing its way up her through—more-so due to the figures in front of her. The empty darkness felt suffocating, almost. 

With her trembling hand, she pulled her wand out of her pocket. She hissed, "Lumos."

Nothing.

"Lumos." She tried again, more urgently, trying to cast light in the suffocating darkness. "Lumos!"

Not even a spark.

Mira scoffed. The Elder Wand.....what a load of rubbish.

When the spell failed, unconsciously, she felt herself take a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes darted around the room, pupils dilated, searching for an escape route.

And to her relief, nothing moved.

But the uneasiness didn't unravel. It grew worse. 

In fact, she felt herself grow unnaturally still with terror—blurring out her friend's growing anxiousness in her mind—when slowly, the shadows in front of her disappeared one-by-one until there was only one remaining.

It stood a few steps in front of her...abnormally taller and sturdier than the others. It looked so much more human. Every hair across her body stood on end...every instinct screaming at her to run away, but something in the shadow's presence felt... protective...but also unwavering in the sense of composure.

The figure shifted, taking on the structure of a man—broad shoulders cut from shadow, features indistinct but unmistakably human in outline. And it was tall... very tall. If she were to step closer, she was sure the top of her head would just barely skim its shoulder.

Mira's chest tightened. She wanted to run away, back outside the vault where her friend was waiting for her, but something in the figure made her hesitate. Despite the eerie cold surrounding her, the shadow radiated... warmth. But, oddly, a bit of anger.

"You mustn't be afraid," the shadow murmured, its voice strained, as if it were trying to maintain a sense of gentleness for her—for her sake only. But it sounded on edge and impatient, almost barely held back. It was the kind of tone that came from someone who had been waiting far too long and was starting to lose control.

"You can speak?" Mira hissed, shock rippling through her body. She took another step back, her hand whitening due to the forceful grip she had on her wand.

"I have waited eons. The door remains closed, but your time—" The hoarse voice caught, as if it had noticed the girl's tense, battle-ready position. 

It paused.

"You do not understand?" It asked, answering it's own question by shaking its head. The intensity of its voice made her shiver. "No... of course you don't." There was sorrow, irritation, and almost what sounded like exhaustion, that made Mira hesitate, despite her fear.

Despite the shadow-man itself being completely still, the shadows around it moved slowly and carefully, not daring to move toward her....almost as if it was there own way of dispelling her fears. Yet his whole frame seemed poised between patience and the urge to demand, a thread kept from snapping only by her obvious mixed tension.

"You mustn't run," the shadow-man said, pushing warmth into every syllable, trying to wrap his command in comfort. "Please. I am not here to harm you. But you must listen—and very carefully." The last two words caused her to shudder. 

The shadow was otherworldly. If Mira had been more of a studious girl, she would be wholly sure that nothing like this has ever existed before...a shadow—lifeless with no physical appearance, but nevertheless, speaking as if it once was full of life. Since it didn't have a face, it only further confirmed her suspicions of this—spirit—being something linked to the abnormal blood running through her veins.  

Mira fought to steady her breath; she wasn't sure whether to take the risk of staying due to her curiosity, over her safety. "Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling. "What are you?"

A pause. The shadow seemed to sigh. "You will know eventually, child," it replied. A reluctant, old pain coated his words. "Just know I'm here because you're here. And because the vault will not open....not for a while."

It's frustration turned into disappointment when she didn't reply; her gaze flickered between the shadows swirling around it and the pitch-black area where its face was supposed to be. But when it spoke again, it was softer, almost pleading: "Do not be afraid of the shadows. These are your allies, and with the darkness, they will help you tremendously."

Mira's fear didn't vanish, but it shifted, turning into a tight, uncertain curiosity. Although, a knot of uncertainty tightened in her chest—she had a bad feeling about this, despite the shadow-man radiating no signs of physical danger.

Mira stared blankly at the incomprehensible being in front of her. "Help me with what?" The final word she had hissed, due to the sudden upsurge in memories building up in her— recollections that she had long swore to herself to forget.

This git was starting to remind her a lot of Dumbledore.

Before she could say anything more, a small object tumbled from the shadow-man's hand onto the floor, glimmering faintly even in the darkness.

"Take that," it said, voice cloaked in longing but slightly rising in intensity. "It's time you had it."

Mira reached down, fingers skimming the edge of the cold item—a ring, made out of material she did not recognize. Well, more like a band...it was unadorned and plain, if it weren't for the glimmering material. She looked up at the faceless shadow, wide-eyed.

"Take it," The shadow urged, desperation edging its tone. "and place it on your finger."

She paused for a moment, looking back at the strange ring—almost lifeless, it was. "What is this? I've already had enough rings." She thought of the rings that the goblins gave her... she had to check them out once she returned to the Burrow.

It stared at her, head slightly tilted. If it wasn't faceless, she would have guess it hesitated.

"What is this?" Mira spat, gesturing at the little shadows curling around it. "And why do I need these shadows?" She felt a panic growing in her gut, the same type of anxiety she had felt during the many times Voldemort tried to kill her. It was the same alarm that rung in her head whenever something bad was going to happen.

The last time she felt this way was during the final battle, when she peered into the Pensieve and found out the full prophecy—that she was born to sacrifice herself. When she learnt that Dumbledore had known everything since the beginning, yet still kept it to himself.... to this day, she has mixed feelings about it.

That day, Mira remembered the overwhelming sense of terror...when she realized that after all she went through, premature death was inevitable. When she stood in that forest, the thought of abandoning her wand and surrendering to Voldemort filled her with the deepest fear she had ever experienced. Even though she had "wanted to die" many times, it dawned on her when she was close to death, that life suddenly become the most valuable gift imaginable.

"I'm sorry, Miraethys," The shadow finally said, although there wasn't much sympathy in its voice. Still, no answer to her questions.

When she looked up from the ring, the shadow was gone.

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚

A strange haze fell over her as they walked out of Gringotts. This time, it was easier to ignore the wide-eye stares aimed at her as they passed by—easier to ignore the young children rushing up to her for autographs. Mira's sole focus was down on her trainers, avoiding the bustling crowds as they walked up the cobbled alley and towards the Leaky Cauldron, where their mates were waiting for them. 

Fortunately, the heat wasn't as bad as it was this morning. However, the relief of avoiding the blistering sun didn't last so long because as soon as Mira ran out of that vault, she was bombarded with questions from Hermione. 

"—Are you sure it was a shadow?" Hermione frantically questioned again, face unusually pale. This was the third time she asked this question. 

"Yes. A talking one." Mira sharply nodded, promptly resulting in a familiar throbbing sensation near her scar—bloody hell, she had a really tough day today. Instinctively, her hand went to her scar, pressing forcefully in an attempt to dull the pain. 

"And it called you....?" Hermione trailed off, too focused on her own theories to notice. The name the shadow-man had called her was strange...so different that it had removed itself from her memory a mere minute later. All she could remember was that it was some variation of her name. 

Mira snorted and shrugged, "Beats me. It was weird." 

Hermione shot her an annoyed look, faltering for a second when she noted that Mira did not look up. She sighed, "We're just about there now."

They stopped right in front of the shabby-looking pub; to others, it would seem dirty and dark, but it gave off a nostalgic energy—she had a feeling that many students once lingered here, having drinks with their closest peers. Judging by the similar fond smile and glazed eyes on Hermione's face, she felt the same way. They both walked in and a bell announced their arrival.

At a round table near the fire, marked with scratches, Ron and Neville nursed Dragon Scales, and Luna, legs tucked up on a chair that looked as if it were hanging on by a splinter, rested her chin on her knees. Dean Thomas leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted from whatever he had been up to today, slowly taking sips from his Brandy. The moment they heard the bell ding, every head snapped up.

"Oi, you're back!" Ron called, grinning, getting up to drag two chairs from an empty table. "Thought you'd been abducted by the goblins as revenge or something."

Luna looked up from whatever she was reading and smiled. "You both look like you've seen a Wrackspurt."

"That's one way of putting it. We've got a fair bit to tell." Hermione huffed and sat on the closest chair to Ron. Her attempt at acting unfazed crumbled when he leaned over and planted a passionate kiss on her cheek. In spite of themselves, they both flushed and shifted back to their own seats, pretending as though it never happened. The effort was thoroughly undone by Luna's beaming; she looked positively over the moon, which made Hermione stifle a grin, face growing redder by the second.

Dean scoffed and made a show of gagging. "Merlin's balls, get a room, will you?" He groaned dramatically, earning a smirk from the boys, and eye-rolls from the girls.

"Honestly, Dean," Hermione said, trying for sternness but unable to hide the flush in her cheeks. "We've been together ages now. You lot should be used to it."

"Yeah, mate," Ron added, hands clasped behind his head cockily, "We've done worse."

Hermione's head whipped towards her partner. "Ronald!"

Neville grinned into his drink, unable to resist the chuckles, and Dean threw his head back and wholeheartedly laughed. 

Mira, however, instead of joining the group, strolled towards the bar, feeling a large wave of exhaustion hitting her. She had barely managed to push through the stumbling, drunk patrons, and gripped the worn wooden counter tightly—her thoughts were scattered everywhere, and she found herself having to read the same words several times as she skimmed through the menu for drinks available.

Something strong for me. Hermione's voice popped in her mind. Well, it looked like they shared the same taste for today, then.

"Two Pure Malt Whiskeys, please..." Her voice was quiet, flat—she was quick to pick the particular brand, remembering the depressing frequency of Sirius drinking it during his short-lived time stuck in his house. "If you have it." She tried to add a smile at the end, in case any journalists were lurking around. 

Tom, the old barman, with timeworn skin and unsteady limbs, nodded. He grinned, showcasing crooked and blackened teeth, mixed with a fair amount of missing ones. "Of course, Ms. Potter." His eyes sparkled as he replied. The man looked quite frightening, but Mira had known him to be a kind man—quick to yield just by a mere threat, though.

As he set to create their drinks, Mira took the shadow's ring out of her pocket and examined it closely in the dim light. The ring was still very cold, and when she turned it over slowly, the ring shimmered like sparkling starlight—she almost flinched at the intensity of the brightness. It lured her the same way the vault did..the same way those shadows swirling in the darkness did.. There was a strange weight to it, something deep and heavier—it felt like a tiny thread pulling at her, as if that ring were her lifeline.

The pull of the ring felt so familiar—in a bad way... In a way Mira never wanted to visit again. It reminded her of destiny. Of being tied to fate she could not escape from.

Mira drew back from the ring, as if she had been slapped, at the sound of the glasses being placed on the table in front of her. She quickly pocketed the ring, ignoring the warmth pulsing through it, and grabbed the two glasses after murmuring a quick thanks. 

After a shaky breath, she returned to the table, setting down the drinks—Hermione had snatched her glass in a blink of an eye and downed a quarter of it. The atmosphere seemed to shrink around them, quieting.

Oh, so it seemed Hermione had told them already. That was fast. She gestured to her, "Mira, you tell them what happened in the vault."

"There was... something waiting for us. Not a person, not even a creature—more like a shadow that could speak. It wasn't just dark, it felt old, ancient magic. It gave me this ring." She held it out for them to see, then tucked it safely in her palm.

They all leaned over to peer at it, but no one moved to touch it. 

"And the blood?" Dean asked in disbelief, finally having finished downing drink and leaning over the table at the witch.

"...I know it sounds mad, but my blood was silver." Mira said. "—Actually silver."

The table fell silent for a long moment.

Neville looked bewildered. "Silver blood? You're certain? As far as I know, only unicorns have silver blood. For a witch.... as far as I know, that's unheard of"

Ron shot him a wide-eyed glance, but nevertheless tried to joke. "I mean... proper silver? You're not part unicorn, are you?"

He yelped when he was swiftly elbowed.

Hermione's defensive side took over; it seemed that Mira was not the only one who was reminded of the Triwizard Tournament, when everyone refused to believe that Voldemort returned. "It's true. Even the goblins were surprised—and it was glowing."

Ron grimaced, "Glowing?"

Hermione was deep in thought, then shook her head. "We need to be careful, Mira. Don't try the ring on just yet, not until we know what it actually does."

"I don't plan on it." Mira gulped, feeling overwhelmed with the thought of doing exactly what the strange shadow told her to do... what would happen?

Dean frowned, still trying to wrap his head around the shadows. Even Luna had closed her book, looking quite shocked. "So this shadow just handed you a ring and told you to put it on? Like some mad cursed dream?"

Mira nodded and mumbled almost bitterly. "It spoke just like us, though. I don't know how to feel about that."

Luna looked absolutely fascinated. "That's extraordinary, Mira. Silver blood in a witch is very unheard of! When I start training at the Magical Archives, I can look into it for you, if you'd like. There might be something in the Department of Mysteries that can explain both the blood and the shadow."

Hermione also looked hopeful at the thought of finding some logic behind today's discoveries, but suddenly recoiled. "Luna.... The Department of Mysteries?"

Ron let out a sarcastic sigh, offering Mira a half-hearted nudge. "If there's any trouble brewing, it's always got to be you, hasn't it?"

Mira managed a weak smile, shrugging. She knew he meant well, but it stopped humouring her a while ago; replaced with pure guilt at the thought of dragging her friends into another deadly situation. She then sighed, straightening, and looked at Luna. She already knew the answer, but wanted to change the subject. "So you've decided to go with Magical Archives then?"

She ignored the concerned look he sent her way. You alright?

Mira thought about it for a minute. Should she lie and tell him she's alright to prevent them all from getting more involved in all this? Or should she be honest? I will be once I find some answers. That shadow almost scared the bloody magic out of me.

We will, don't worry.

"Yes!" Luna's face brightened with the youthful excitement of beginning a new chapter of her life—it brought both of them out of their mental conversation. "I sent an owl as soon as we'd gotten that letter from the Ministry. My practise training will begin soon...I'm terribly excited, but also quite nervous. We don't even have summer holidays anymore." 

It was quiet for a moment—a somber atmosphere suddenly clouded over the table. She then murmured quietly, but loud enough so everyone could hear, "It feels awfully strange to grow up."

They all hummed in agreement. How very true that was...

Dean arched an eyebrow, looking confused. "Wait... I thought the Department of Mysteries was only available for the researchers..." He mocked, "Invitations and preliminary assessments, they said. How do magical archivers have access to that?"

A blush coated her cheeks, but a small mysterious smile appeared on her lips. She twirled the ends of her icy-white hair—similar to Mira's—and her eyes went glazed, as if she were lost in her thoughts. She agreed, "It is very peculiar, isn't it? But the Ministry granted me access. Because of the battle—that night we went in search of the prophecy...I was there. So they let me help with both archives record-keeping and a bit of part-time research in the Department."

"That's actually very impressive," said Neville, mouth slightly gaping. "Bloody hell."

"—I didn't know you were interested in research like that." Hermione cut in, almost piercingly. Ron, sipping out of his pint, laid an arm on her shoulder. Mira had no doubt they were silently communicating in their minds.

Really, Hermione?  Mira sent down her mind, but was ignored. It was easy to tell how she was feeling, despite the shields around her mind. Hermione's biggest flaw has always been there... wanting to be the smartest person in the room that everyone would rely on. She always didn't manage well whenever someone would measure up to her level; it was always obvious judging by the shift in her body language. Despite being fully devoted to the field of international and diplomatic magical relations, research was something she heavily considered—and was outstanding at.

Mira didn't think much of it because she had a feeling it was due to her muggle-born lineage. Yes, Hermione always defended herself and other muggle-born witches defiantly, but she could always read her face: a perception of inferiority compared to others. Would that explain her obsession with knowledge?

A pause. Mira wasn't sure if Luna had noticed the sharpness in Hermione's voice—if she did, she didn't say anything. "My mother was interested in a lot of magic... that went further than spells." She paused again, circling her thumb around the rim of her pint of Butterbeer, lost in thought. "She always said there was more to it."

"More to it?" Hermione blurted, less bitter than her previous question. Dean grimaced, eyes flickering back and forth between the two witches, as if he had a sense on the underlying tension.

Luna blinked, as if she had snapped back from where ever she had lost herself in and shrugged. "She always said things.. though it was her curiosity that got her...."

Killed, was the unspoken word. She trailed off, but everyone knew. It was easily forgotten how recent she had lost her mother—it was the same year Mira started Hogwarts.

Mira had enough. She didn't want to hear more of this. Especially anything regarding the Department of Mysteries.

She rose slowly from her seat, the scrape of the chair loud against the rough ground, and let out an falsified tired sigh. She exaggerated her movements, stretching out her arms and twisting side to side. All heads turned to look at her.

"I....." She almost paused at the unmoving gazes at her; it was annoying how Hermione and Ron could read her like a book. Seriously, her Occlumency was useless when it came to them. "I dunno about you all, but I'm knackered."

Ron automatically stood up and Hermione hurried to collect her bag, that contained all of the house rings the goblins had given her today. The others followed suit, all preparing to return to their respective homes for the night.

“No,” she said gently, cutting through the noise as everyone paused in confusion. “I—I’m not coming to the Burrow tonight.

Hermione didn't need to speak; her look of concern said everything. Ron was the one who questioned her, both with worry and disbelief. Since the day they met, she had never declined to stay at The Burrow...in fact, she usually looked quite forward to it. “What are you on about? It's your home, and—”

The stress pressed into her from all sides: the strained silence after Luna spoke, the shared grief over the loss of their mothers, and the strange mystery of today's discoveries. Her thoughts kept flitting back to the vial, the unnatural silver blood, and the shadow in the vault. Every blink seemed to bring a harsh flash of memory: the glint of metal, blood against stone, the echo of things taken and lost.

Now that she thought of it... would this situation, especially the blood, get the Department of Mysteries involved?   

Mira shook her head, forcing a soft, tired smile. “It’s not that I don’t… It’s just that I need somewhere to think. Properly. I need to be on my own for a bit.” Her throat tightened. “I’m going to Sirius'. Just for tonight.”

Hermione’s worry deepened, her voice urgent. “Are you sure?” 

The inheritance test had shown that her father had an ancestral home where he grew up.... where Sirius had lived as well for a brief period of time. Seeing the official parchment confirming its existence and her ownership was an unexpected relief for Mira. It'll be my new home, she decided instantly. She'd have to visit as soon as possible. It had been unoccupied for more than twenty years, and she knew it would need extensive repairs before it could be considered livable again. Other than that, whenever she wanted to be alone, she had no place to go.... and Grimmauld Place remained the only option.

The most dreaded place to be when she was spiralling, seeped with echoes of the dead.

“I know,” Mira answered, voice barely above a whisper. Images of war... and the shadows pushed itself to the front of her mind.... she felt her stomach churning, no relief despite the deep breaths she took. “Just for tonight. Please.”

"You can come to mine, if you'd like," Neville pitched in, sensing the worry coming from Mira's two closest friends. He smiled. "Gran would love to have you there." 

"No, no.. It's really alright," Mira replied sheepishly.. then she shrugged. "I.. really just need to be by myself for a day—I also may be meeting with Kingsley soon.... about Wizengamot."

Hermione and Ron's gazes did not stray from her face, eyes searching her for any signs of unstableness. Hesitantly, Hermione placed her bag in front of her. "You can look through these while you're there."

There was an awkward silence that shifted amongst them, leaving Mira feeling awkward at the unnecessary attention. She yanked it towards her and slung it over her shoulder.... 

And with that, she sent a tentative, abashed smile and stumbled out of the pub, ignoring the heavy weight of four pairs of eyes burning into her back. 

The cold night air hit her like a wave and a shiver ran through her. How long had they been in there for?

Before she apparated, she paused mid-step... and her heart lurched for a brief second.

An unnerving, prickling sense told her there were 5 pairs of eyes watching her. 

Miraethys....

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter seven ❩

"places, places, get in your places

throw on your dress & put on your dollfaces

everyone thinks that we're perfect

please don't let them look through the curtains"

--- "dollhouse" ; melanie martinez

Mira had never entered the place so quickly—so swiftly. She anxiously shifted her feet, repeatedly looking over her shoulder as she waited for the house to reveal itself between the other two neighbouring homes. The dim streetlights weren't doing their intended roles well, leaving countless blind spots where shadows pooled in small blankets of darkness. She clutched her wand so tightly, her knuckles whitened. As soon as the battered front door appeared, she hurriedly entered and slammed the door shut behind her; she did not care that whatever had been following her, could have been mere inches away from hitting her with a spell.

Mad-Eye would be furious, if he were here.

There was no shrieking from the portrait, however. The usual tirade of frantic curses about blood-traitors and family dishonour was absent from Walburga Black was absent; Mira suspected it was the Black blood running through her veins—caused by the blood-adoption— that had something to do with it.

She stood with her back on the front of the door for a few minutes, breathing heavily. She waited until her breath was even again, the sudden rush of adrenaline slowing in her body at the realization that someone—or something—was following her. The creaks and groans of the aged home only worsened the paranoia.

The house was protected by wards. She reminded herself, repeating the words in her head. The summer after the battle, Kingsley and Arthur patched up the wards at her request; a necessary precaution done due to the fact that Death Eaters had, at one point, invaded. Yet, knowing this, she still held her wand like her life depended on it.

It's okay. It's fine. You're thinking of Voldemort again.

The whisper of her name (or at least a version of it) was what really got her. She already felt like a fool for so quickly locking herself into the house for—the most probable explanation would be a hallucination—but the shadow-man still lurked in her mind, relentless...and the smaller shadows that oddly surrounded them both.

Before she knew it, the bag fell off her shoulder and landed on the threadbare carpet harshly; the sound echoed throughout the empty house and she grimaced, knowing full well there were very valuable rings in them.

Mira finally pushed herself away from the front door she'd been leaning on as the racing in her heart began to slow down. With a huff, she grasped the strap of the bag and lugged it towards the drawing room—the same room where the trio slept in the early days to hide from the Ministry.

She stopped at the threshold of the room, her hand ghosting along the doorknob. The strong wards outside, aided by the Minister of Magic himself, promised her safety, but inside Grimmauld Place the air was thick with emptiness and sorrow—a kind of chill that had nothing to do with the old house itself.

The halls that once had the most noble pure-bloods roaming around were now heavy with silence, despite Mira, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna having cleaned the place itself. It did shine with a great change compared to the dusty mess it was... now restored to the grand house it used to be—Sirius would have loved to see it.

In spite of knowing she was probably imagining the danger, the house felt so empty—in a creepy way, haunted by loss—that Mira's fear nearly kept her rooted by the door. It was only as she forced herself to step forward, remembering that it was impossible for anyone to be here, that she found the courage to enter.

She sank into the chair that had once been Sirius', gently placing the bag on the floor by her feet. The loud sigh that escaped her almost resembled that of a century-old man coming home from a long day of work....and Mira was currently unemployed.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a few moments; tension was written all over her face as she tried to quiet her chaotic thoughts. Her eyes felt droopy, though she wasn't sure if it was because of pure exhaustion or the constant stress. She didn't dare close her eyes—the large shadow would materialize, opening its mouth to speak, before she'd jump and arise.

What was wrong with her?

With another exasperated sigh—too heavy, too burdened for someone so young—Mira reached into her bag and pulled out the rectangular box containing the rings, and the parchment with the details on each ring.

The first one that caught her eye was the Peverell ring; she had to look twice at it. It was built almost exactly like the infamous ring that had doomed Dumbledore to death: Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Except the resurrection stone that had been ensnared within it, was now locked elsewhere—inside the golden snitch that was gifted to her. After the war, the snitch had been turned into a necklace of some sort...that now rested against her skin.

She never took it off.

The resemblance was uncanny. However, the Peverell ring was a luxurious glimmering gold, strikingly different to the tarnished and cursed Horcrux worn by Dumbledore. This one deemed nobility, with the Deathly Hallows coat-of-arms shining so bright, she had to squint to examine it properly. It was as if it were recently forged out of gold, despite the fact that the ring hadn't been worn in centuries.

This ring was the sun, indicating nobility and light, while the Gaunt's ring was the moon, burdened and cursed.

A sudden thought struck Mira, and a hesitant but pleased smirk curled on the corner of her lips. Could this be the true Peverell ring? Gaunt's ring had been obsessed over. Marvolo Gaunt, who had been known to be selfish and arrogant, had clung to it as his proof of greatness. She could almost hear his voice, pompous and sneering, proclaiming it the deathly badge of Slytherin and Peverell alike.

"What a prat," Mira murmured to herself, the lip that had twitched slightly in amusement immediately dropping at the thought of Voldemort's father. A prickle of fury shot through her, gone before it registered—though she was sure it was mixed with the indefinite grief that came with the thought of the man who ruined her life.

Feverishly, before she'd started getting emotional again, she sat the ring back in the box, where the next to draw her attention was the ring of the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The same ring that belonged to the past wizards and witches that once lived in the house she sat in now.

Unlike the Peverell ring's brilliance, this one was heavy and severe. The thick silver band, so manly as if it were only made for a man to wear, had a dark onyx stone plastered on it, with the Black family crest etched so finely. Mira wondered who wore it last. It matched perfectly to what she had learned of Sirius's family: their prestige status, wealth, and pureblood views. In fact, his family were publicly known for vigorously guarding their blood purity—they were feared by most, but highly respected by other pureblood families.

She traced the cool lines with her thumb, feeling the same chill she'd felt when she first stepped into this house. Despite their open disdain for muggle-born beings like her best friend, Mira could not help but feel awe at the elegance of the ring. This family had almost entirely been wiped out, with no one left to carry on their name.

Just like her family: the Potter's. Except Mira had decided that whenever she'd get married, her husband would take her last name instead of the usual. The House of Potter was just as ancient and noble as the Black's, except their reputations weren't stained by cruelty or prejudice—James Potter and his predecessors were remembered for their humility and magical ingenuity.

Absent-mindedly, she turned the ring in her hand; the inside of the band caught her eye. She leaned forward from where she was slouched in the chair, squinting her eyes to read the text engraved in the silver:

Toujours Pur. Always Pure.

Of course, the family's proud motto had to be engraved in it.... hidden out of the sight, but still there nonetheless. They were truly a very dedicated family; Mira bit back a smile at the thought of their strange obsession with blood-purity.

Mira set the ring down beside the others in the box, and beside it, still unopened, was the Potter ring—it's warm gold calling quietly to her, untouched. Her fingertips had only brushed against the surface of the ring before she paused, slowly retreating her hand as she felt her chest tighten with the grief of setting her gaze upon the ring that had once been upon her father's finger.

The grief of what could have been, with her family, tugged at her heart, unrelenting. She let out a shallow breath, unintentionally allowing the day's stressful events to return forcefully into her mind. She was exhausted—far beyond the lack of sleep. And the bloody house always made it worse...she shouldn't have come here.

She hadn't even realized her eyes had fluttered shut until she jolted awake, her body braced for a fight until she reminded herself that she was safe. There was no strange shadow-man here. No Voldemort. No Death Eaters. It was the lack of people in the room that made her feel further paranoid...not to mention the strange panic she had felt a little while ago, suspecting someone was following her coming home from the pub. She figured that it was a mixture of the meeting with the shadow-man and the paranoia she had acquired from her time on the run that caused it.

Silent and steady, Mira rose and made her way to the guest bedroom. She closed the box with the rings inside and held it to her chest with her free arm. Her eyes were sharp despite the fatigue and her wand was drawn with her grip never loosening—all more-so habits than she'd learnt from the war than skills.

The corridor stretched before her, long and cold, with the somber weight of history and death pressing tight. The eeriness that overcame her in this hallway was a feeling she thought she would never get used to. The weight of the day's discoveries pressed down on her; her sole focus was on the mysterious shadow—nevermind the blood, at this point—because she had never seen such a thing before.

She was sure that Hermione was most likely throwing herself into books to look for an explanation to everything.

As Mira ascended the stairs, the ancient floorboards groaned and creaked beneath her—it was the one thing they could not get rid of by themselves. She had considered hiring a professional to fix the noises that caused most of the disturbing atmosphere in the house, but she decided not to because she knew she would rarely stay here.

Caught up in her thoughts, she wisely ignored the portraits of older Black ancestors hanging in enchanted frames above her. She didn't have to be a genius to know that they, like Walburga, were probably going mad at the sight of a half-blood roaming around their home as if it were her's—which it now was, funny enough. Some glared at her, their critical eyes roaming up and down her figure, whilst some muttered curses under their breath.

Mira continued moving up the stairs, briskly avoiding the floor with Sirius and Regulus' rooms.

She wasn't ready to face the scattered remnants of his defiant youth—the posters of bikini-clad women, the photographs with the Marauders, and the rebellious Gryffindor banners. All of which had a Permanent Sticking Charm casted upon them by the young, resistant Black...it was something that the older Sirius proudly told her about—a sentimental memory that was not too painful for him to share.

Instead, Mira had been sleeping in the guest room. She eased the door open, stepped in, and closed it behind her as fast as she was able to. There were extra protection wards she had set in the room...precautions for her safety whilst sleeping—and her valuables. Thus, she felt her shoulders finally sag, some stress leaving her body temporarily.

The room was small, but doable. It was mostly impersonal, with the exception of a few of her clothes hanging in the wooden wardrobe near the window and a few of her treasured framed photographs she took everywhere. The bed was magnificent though...if she weren't plagued by nightmares or creeped out by the house whenever she slept here, she could only guess how good the sleep would be. She didn't want to waste her time decorating when she'd made up her mind of living somewhere else.

Mira, without any care, climbed onto the middle of the bed and plopped on her back. She reached for the pile of blankets at the foot of the bed—despite the summer air and heat lingering outside, the house was cold and icy most of the time...almost as if it reflected the unfortunate lack of its kin within it. She basically bundled herself in it, pulling the dark fabric to her chin just as she did to shield herself when she was a child—although she was now lucky to have a good one, and not a worn piece of scrap.

She clung to it. As if it were protecting her—if only for a while.

It was a habit prolonging the facade of safety. Whenever she needed her parents the most, burying herself in the coziest quilts felt comforting. It was also the easiest solution, instead of having to muster up the courage to talk to someone—despite receiving so much love and care from the Weasleys.

At the thought of her lack of family, another anguished throb never failed to bloom in her chest.

A groan escaped her lips at the thought of getting up again to place the box of rings on the dresser next to her bed; she threw it onto the carpeted floor, as if its weight wasn't immense with the knowledge, power, and history of the most ancient families in the world. It landed with a slide, with a large tinkle of rings slamming against each other reverberating in the room. And the parchment written on their abilities—yet to have been read—rustled and descended down further away from it, in a frustratingly slow spiral.

Snuggling back into her cocoon, she lifted her hand out from under the dark green quilt. Her gaze fixed onto the strange, unadorned band the shadow had given her—it had been pulsing quietly between her fingers, and she didn't know what to do with it. She rolled it over her palm for several long moments, thinking of Hermione's warning:

"....Don't try the ring on just yet. Not until we know what it actually does."

That made perfect sense. And considering what they've been through, especially in terms of the consequences they first-hand experienced through Salazar's necklace and Gaunt's ring, Mira really shouldn't try it on.

It was mad. She also had no doubt that wearing this mysterious ring given to her in her dead mother's vault can have some consequences:

Death (It's not as if she's scared of that.)

A curse or enchantment like Dumbledore—withering the hand of someone who wore it. Or maybe worse.

A tracing charm. Mira Potter does not lack enemies, especially after defeating a monster who had so many willingly serving him.

In normal circumstances, or maybe just the younger, hopeful version of Mira who hadn't yet been run ragged by war's losses and violence—the one still being hunted down, relying on the childish hope of defeating Voldemort to push through—would probably have handed it over to someone more equipped to handle things.

Or would she have?

But exhaustion tugged at her, and the urge of curiousity—a form of trauma, perhaps... an impulse to pursue things full well knowing the dangers of it. She hesitated, thumb brushing the inner band. For all she knew, the ring's magic might be nothing but a trick. Still, the allure of answers, and reassurance that it was not luring her into another dangerous battle, was too strong.

Mira slipped the ring onto her finger.

It was pure recklessness.

For a split second, she felt a jolt: a sudden tingle of heat that crackled through her hand, up her arm, and over her shoulder to trickle down her spine. It wasn't a painful sensation—not one that you'd immediately assume you're having a heart attack or something...but a warm, almost reassuring feeling. It caught her off-guard though, and a sudden influx of fear appeared in her. She sat up on one of her elbows, blanket slipping down to her waist, and flexed her hand. But the heat had come and gone...and now nothing seemed amiss.

For now, it was just a ring. She told herself the rest was nerves, nothing more—paranoia left over from nights of looking over her shoulder...waiting for something to attack her.

Besides, it looked quite nice on her. An enchanting, metallic, and sparkling silver—looked as though to be very costly—was a strong contrast to her pale, snow-like skin. But the band was enormous, looking to be millimeters wide as though it was made for a man's hand, just like the Black's ring. She noted that similarity with the other rings as well.

There was a lot of family pride in these houses, as shown through the extravagance of the rings...but with little interest or consideration for women. A little pang of resentment crept in as she stared at it; was there an ancient wizarding family that fashioned their heirlooms for both their sons and daughters? Or was all the power and nobility of the name intended purely for a man? In a way, she could understand it as the men continue the name through their own sons, while a lady typically continues the bloodline by marrying off to another noble family.

There was misogyny in magical Britain. She couldn't help but wonder if she'll have to face it if she starts participating in Wizengamot—when it becomes official that she is the only living heir to 3 of the most noble houses in the country. It stung, and created fear in her, in a way no sharp edge could.

Mira went back to laying flat, letting her breath slow. There was no point in letting her blood boil over nonsense...and the politics that she hadn't even looked into properly yet. She made sure to cover every crevice of open space around her with a blanket, and then only her eyes peeked out. "Go to sleep," she whispered to herself. It was an embarrassing attempt to forget what she had just done and to prevent her mind from wandering somewhere else.

But it only took a minute before she started fiddling with the ring on her finger with her other hand. Had she been foolish putting it on? Should she have waited? Hermione's voice...measured, logical, and certainly desperate for no more danger, echoed in her skull. Mira wanted to prove her subconscious, the same one that had planted into her head of imaginative shadows following her home, wrong.

"...We need to be careful, Mira."

She wanted to prove to herself that this was just her overthinking.

Mira continued to toy with the ring, then stilled, gaze softening as fatigue won out over anxiety. Her lashes fluttered against her cheek...her eyes began to droop with exhaustion. The gentle rise and fall of her chest slowed, shoulders easing back against the faded pillow.

Only then—breathing more deeply, the restless working of her hands finally still—did Mira allow herself to be taken by sleep.

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚

There was none of the silence she expected when she woke up.

She woke to music, and the music was wrong. Too lively and bright. Mira felt her body seize, her wand in a white-knuckled fist. She flinched, instinctively snapping her eyes shut at the harsh ray of light—she could not tell where it was from, and why the light had sparked on itself.

Still blinded by the searing light, and unsure where to turn, she pushed up on her elbows, curling instinctively in an attempt to unblock her view. Mira froze when she felt her elbow hit a stone...smooth, cold, and clean. It did not feel like the soft, comfortable mattress she had bought not-so-long ago—her bed may have been a little creaky, but it was definitely not this polished hardness.

And the sudden music?

Her heart lurched. This wasn't the guest bedroom. The oppressive silence was gone, replaced by the low hum of conversation, the bright ring of laughter, the swell of music played by a string quartet. Her heart hammered in her ripcage, chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly as the realization began to hit her.

There was someone in the house.

Mira opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet, wand raised.

She was no longer in her room. She was in another. Except—this room was alive.

Mira stared in undisguised horror as gleaming chandeliers glittered above, casting the room in a sharp golden light. Elegant figures in sweeping robes—evidently expensive ballgowns that even she knew hadn't been in fashion since the 70s—moved across polished floors. Men, hands on the waist as they twirled ladies around, wore shining cloaks and robes, champagne glasses in hand. The clothing was too fine—diamonds and gold adorning almost every person's attire—and the jewels were visible proof of nobility.

The air smelled of numerous scents of ladies perfume. It felt wealthy...but also sickly. Although, the shock of her waking up in the middle of....whatever this was...allowed her to be relieved of the suffocating air temporarily.

Mira staggered back, her hand flying to her wand. She gaped, uncertain whether she should scream, breathe properly, or run. Her entire body had become impossibly still; it felt as if fear rooted her to her spot.

Her eyes darted to the witches and wizards scattered around the room in groups, skimming their figures up and down. The tip of her wand aimed at every person she analyzed.

What she forgot to notice is that no one noticed her. In the midst of what looked like a fancy ball, she was the only one dressed in a simple pair of t-shirt and trousers—barefoot, at that—yet no one spared a glance.

"Oi!" Mira barked, her voice visibly alarmed. She finally aimed her wand at a dark-haired boy, who, unlike the others, stood in the corner of the room, sipping his goblet of wine whilst carefully sweeping his gaze around the room—measured, calculating, and deliberate. She had hoped that her loud voice would've caught his attention—intimidated him—over the sharp laughter and overly polite conversations.

Instead, the boy's gaze completely swept over her. As if she wasn't there.

No reaction.

She darted through the crowd, impulsively pointing her wand at everybody, but the people around her didn't flinch. She waved her hand in front of a passing woman's face—no reaction. She pushed at the shoulder of a laughing man, but her hand slipped right through him.

Still no reaction... despite them all looking like real people. And judging by their behavior—clipped and polite—as well as their lavish clothing...whatever hallucination she was seeing, it looked like what she'd imagined a pureblood party to be. And it fit perfectly with the—now shining—atmosphere of the house. Built and used for the wealthy.

Mira's breath hitched. She turned slowly, scanning the crowd, and then she saw him.

A boy, dark-haired, maybe 14 or 15, sprawled on a velvet chair, a goblet dangling lazily in his fingers. His free arm was draped over the back of the chair. He was laughing at another young wizard's words tossed across the table. He looked familiar—carefree, reckless, like a spoiled prince believing that no one in the room could ever touch him.

But even in his laugh, she saw it—the strain in his shoulders, the bitterness in his eyes when the others weren't looking. Like at this point, he had already learned that his biological family was a barrier keeping him from his true one. Her father, James.

Mira's throat closed. No. No, no, no.

She stumbled back a step, recoiling at the icy sensation of another witch walking straight through her. He looked familiar. Too familiar. The striking grey of his eyes, the luscious black hair, and the way he looked mischievous enough to burn the whole damn hall down just to spite them all—

And it wasn't the Slytherin type of cunning. It was so Gryffindor. So, so notoriously full of youthful recklessness and mischief.

Her wand lowered against her will.

"...Sirius?" she whispered. The trembling in her voice betrayed her shock and disbelief.

But he didn't turn. Didn't see her. His laughter grew louder, oblivious—or disregarding—the glares benign thrown at him by older people.

She tried to swallow but couldn't. The room tilted; the chandeliers started swinging too violently overhead, as if it were mere seconds away from collapsing onto her. She dug her nails into her palm, grounding herself, telling herself it wasn't real. Couldn't be real.

And yet, her godfather—now looking younger than she is and full of life—stood there. Not like the bitter, worsened-for-wear man that was so desperately trying to act happy for his goddaughter but was unable to hide the trauma he had endured so young.

And with that, raw grief replaced the fear she had been feeling since she woke up here.

At the far end of the hall, the shadows stirred. That same impossible silhouette from the vault, faceless still, appeared cemented to the wall. This time, the shadow had more of a human form. The silhouette was still pitch-black, of course, but Mira could see the broad shoulders and the faint uneven texture—a beard—that blurred its jaw. The shadow was a man.

Her vision tunnelled.

"No," she rasped, backing up until her shoulders hit the wall. She whimpered helplessly, a sound that hadn't left her since she was a child. "Not real. Not real."

What was happening to her?

What is happening. What is happening. What is happening?

She didn't move closer. She couldn't. She just watched him, eyes burning with tears that wouldn't fall. Because this wasn't real. It couldn't be.

Her gaze flicked across the room, and with each discovery, her stomach plummeted.

Bellatrix Lestrange was difficult to spot. Her usual disheveled black and grey curls were now slicked back into a tight braid, a sparkling diadem placed upon her head. The skeletal and gaunt face caused by her time in Azkaban was not there. Instead, there was youth and beauty... but not that much. The small spark of madness was still there. Mira caught her laughing cruelly at something the wizard next to her whispered.

Narcissa, elegant and mysterious as usual, bore innocence and eyes full of warmth—she looked barely older than Mira was now.

They were all supposed to be dead.

What the fuck was happening? For a second, Mira thought: what if she went back in time? For Merlin's sake...the room was full of Blacks, all alive when they should be gone.

Mira couldn't breathe when she saw Walburga Black, sultry and arrogant, grabbing onto Sirius' arm and hissing into his ear angrily. She was also supposed to dead—stuck inside a portrait.

Her wand slipped in her grip as the edges of the room swam. Her chest tightened, each breath shallower than the last. A ringing started in her ears, drowning out the music.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

She was gasping now, her vision narrowing, panic clawing at her ribs. Sirius laughed again— the sight of his smile broke her. The room blurred, her body shaking.

"Miss?"

The voice snapped her out of it.

She blinked and everything was gone. The chandeliers, the music, the ghosts...it all vanished. She was back in the dusty, silent Grimmauld Place hallway, hugging herself as she sat with her back to the wall. Her wand was rolling on the floor in front of her.

And Kreacher stood there, squinting up at her with wide, wet eyes.

"Mistress is... shaking." His voice cracked, almost in shock at what he was seeing.. "Is Mistress... Unwell?"

Mira pressed her fist to her mouth, fighting for air. Her chest hurt. Her head spun. The silence had returned but it pressed heavier than ever. Other than the terrifying—she assumed to be nightmare—the sight of her godfather could not leave her mind. 

She could not speak. She forced her eyes shut. "Did you... see anyone?"

The elf shook his head slowly, ears drooping. "Kreacher sees only Mistress. Only Mistress, alone."

She swallowed, hard. The tears finally slipped free, trailing hot down her cheeks. A guttered sob escaped her lips.

Kreacher shuffled closer, wringing his hands. His voice was unusually soft. "Mistress should not wander the old halls so late at night."

Mira wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. She had no words. She bit her lip, trying to hold herself from breaking down in front of the house-elf. Kreacher grabbed her arm, slowly pulling her to her feet, murmuring suggestions of possible sleeping potions to take. 

But only grief, and the echo of Sirius's laughter rung in her ears.

And as she allowed Kreacher to escort her back to her room, only the eerie silence of Grimmauld Place remained.

Chapter Text

✩•̩̩͙*ೃ˚.𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

❨ chapter eight ❩

The morning after—technically only a few hours after she was found by Kreacher—Mira sat curled up in an armchair in the drawing room, hands tightly wrapped around a mug of tea. It felt as if the temperature in Grimmauld Place dropped even more; the typical chill clinging to the air had worsened to the point where it seeped into her hands and toes. She adjusted the light blanket wrapped around her shoulders: she hadn't even slept for a second after enduring that.... whatever it was.

Music. Dancing. The dead.

She tried to think logically, her eyes distant and focused on a small corner of the wall.

Across the room, Kreacher wiped the counter for the third time, peering over his shoulder every few seconds. He moved quieter than usual. He had been done cleaning a while ago, but it was out of concern for his lady that he stayed.

He straightened and approached, hesitant.

"Is Mistress needing breakfast?" Kreacher ventured, voice pitched low but rough with concern. "Mistress did not sleep well. Mistress is worrying Kreacher."

Mira tried to smile and failed. "Thank you, Kreacher. The tea works for me," she murmured gently, lifting the mug up for him to view. Her words trailed, and Kreacher lingered nearby, clearly reluctant to leave her alone.

Kreacher had lessened his hostility after the war, largely because she was now heir to the house. But Mira sensed it was more than that, that his bitterness had softened mainly because justice had been served for Regulus Black—the young boy who, despite growing up in a household that taught otherwise, came to befriend his house-elf in secret.

Regulus Black had drowned to death at 17. And no one knew—everyone assumed that he had, like other members of his family, turned to follow Voldemort. He went missing and no one batted an eye, despite him being formally recognized as the heir to the most noble house in Britain after Sirius' disownment.

Not until Mira decided to change that.

As soon as the Battle of Hogwarts concluded, a surge of Aurors had arrived shortly after. She vividly recalled the sight of the cloaked officials—hardened souls who had faced death countless times. Yet, their shock at the destruction of the school, that had been home to so many, and the loss of so many young lives was undeniable. Hours were spent sorting the dead, separating victims from Death Eaters. Almost immediately afterward, Mira was summoned to the Ministry to recount everything she had witnessed.

Mira made sure to speak for Regulus Black—to see that he wasn't erased and defamed posthumously purely due to his surname. (After all, wasn't the prejudice against the infamous Black family name the reason Sirius was never granted a trial? Because they all assumed he had betrayed her parents and killed all those muggles because he was a Black?)

She told the whole truth, making sure to emphasize that she didn't save the world alone. And for Kreacher, that changed everything: he became devoted not to a title or a bloodline, but to the witch who had finally given justice for his Master.

For her, however...she was still trying to let go of the little resentment she held towards him over Sirius' death. Although, her icy way of acting would occasionally falter whenever Kreacher would treat her with such sympathy. 

Maybe someday she'll get over it.

Sirius' face, when he hesitantly mentioned his little brother, flashed before her eyes. It took a while before the grief on his face went away, but he didn't say anything more about him. And Mira didn't force him to. The realization quickly hit her: discussing Regulus was something he was not ready to talk about.

Mira was aware that it was just as hard for Sirius to speak of her own parents—her father, especially. But, for her sake—her desperation to know more of the loving, mischievous man who died for her—he told her some of his favourite stories. She always felt a sickening spread of guilt bloom in her chest whenever he did so, because he had lost so much. Sirius Black carried thousands of internal scars, and despite trying to hide it from her, it was quite visible.

She hastily drank a mouthful of tea to settle the growing ache in her chest. 

Sirius died thinking his little brother was lost forever to the darkness—a Death Eater, another casualty to their bloodline's infamous madness. He spent most of his life locked away in a soul-draining prison, condemned for a crime he never committed. He spent the rest of his miserable life torturing himself internally, consumed over the guilt of trusting Peter.... a rash decision made by their own paranoia.

As Mira stared into her mug, the sadness hit her once again—loss upon loss. She missed him. She missed all of them: Sirius, Remus, and her parents—what could've been.

"Mistress."

Her thoughts spiralled: the hallucination, the dead, the party, her own inability to act, and Kreacher finally grounding her. What was real? What could she actually explain, if anyone asked?

"Mistress, the Minister is here."

Mira jerked, mug almost slipping out of her grasp before she realization of just who had arrives hit her. Her hand instinctively reached for her wand. Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice carried through the door, deep and steady.

"Mira? May I come in?"

She lowered her wand slowly. Her throat was too tight to answer, but the door opened anyway, Kingsley ducking his tall frame through. He looked impossibly composed, his long robes trailing lightly against the floor, as if no weight of the war clung to him at all. Indeed, he wasn't the same man that fought to protect her during the war not-so-long ago, but a man exhausted by the pressure of politics and burdens that came with being the Interim Minister of Magic.

But his eyes softened when they landed on her.

"For a new Hogwarts graduate, you look tired," he said gently, a hint of amusement threading through his tone.

An ugly snort escaped her lips. She hid her surprise at his presence here... despite having a special relationship with him, he was still the Minister of Magic. She nodded to Kreacher, who had taken it as a sign to leave. "Understatement of the year."

He didn't press, but his eyes examined her face almost sadly. He conjured a chair with a flick and sat, folding his hands. "Arthur tells me you've been considering your... obligations."

Of course, he told him—as if she couldn't handle doing something on her own for once. Although, due to recent events, she had completely forgotten of her special access (as a result of being the Wizarding World's hero) to such..... help, that can assist her with something as big as Wizengamot.

"Obligations," she muttered. Her voice had an edge, sharp to hide the tremor. "You mean the Wizengamot. The bloody vault of problems dumped in my lap."

She really shouldn't be talking to a sitting Minister of Magic like that, but despite it, Kingsley didn't flinch, simply waiting with what looked like practiced patience. But she also couldn't find it in herself to care anymore—she had realized now that it was better to be blunt, be rude as it may be, rather than holding politeness in high regard. A governing body as vital as the Wizengamot should not have been hidden from her; then again, now that she thought about it, her lack of interest in the new legislation and policies of the rebuilt Ministry could have been the major cause for it. Maybe her own aversion to politics had given others license to decide things for her.

The truth was, she had not stepped foot within the Ministry since the political turmoil that erupted so suddenly after the first few weeks post-battle. 

Kingsley's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "That, yes. Arthur said you were uncertain. I thought perhaps you could use some advice."

The slight ease that had come from the mug of tea she held evaporated. She set it down with a bit more force than she intended, before crossing her arms tightly. "Advice. Right. Because what I really need right now is to play dress-up in fancy robes and sit in a room full of pureblood sissies with superiority complexes."

Kingsley's gaze was steady, unreadable. "It isn't dress-up. Wizengamot seats are powerful—the Black family seat... more than you could imagine. You've inherited influence that others only dream of."

Mira held his stare for a few seconds before she looked away. Her jaw clenched. Influence. She thought of the figures she'd seen last night, laughing and drinking, their bodies covered in visible proof of privilege and dynasty. The same family that had raised Sirius in a cage of expectations and blood purity. The same type of wizards and witches who had prolonged and encouraged Voldemort's reign and influence for decades...more than it should have been.

"I fought against these people—"

"—No you didn't," Kingsley swiftly interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "Not these people. You fought their parents"

Mira blinked at him, unsure of what he intended to say.

He leaned back slightly, arms folded. "You think the Wizengamot today is the same as the one Dumbledore sat in? It isn't. Most of those families are gone. Killed. Some fled, some are imprisoned in Azkaban for life, and others—" his eyes flickered, just for a moment—"Kissed after the war. You're standing in a Ministry full of ghosts, Mira. The same applies to the Wizengamot."

His voice lowered, measured but grave. "Most of the noble houses are gone. Either dead or left without male heirs. The McKinnons, the Meadowes, the Rosiers, the Travers line—extinct. The Lestranges had two sons, but both were Kissed. The Blacks, the Potters, the Crouches... also dead. The First War wiped out an entire generation of heirs, and the Second finished what was left. What we have now," he said, gesturing slightly with his hand, "is a Wizengamot built from survivors. Many of the current seat-holders are barely of-age, just like you, young enough to have been in your year at Hogwarts."

Mira swallowed hard. She had forgotten that Kingsley was a little older than what would have been her parents' age... having lived through both wars. He had known most of these people: some personally, some only by the blood on their hands. He had seen them fall in their youths, one by one, from the world and into graves. For a flicker of a moment, his eyes lost focus, as if some memory—a duel, a face, a scream—had surfaced uninvited.

Her throat felt dry. She twisted the strange shadow ring on her finger as if it could ground her from the growing uncomfortable memories; she was still thinking of something to say, but Kingsley sensed it and tried to throw a warm smile at her, sensing the mood diving into a topic both did not want to revisit, but it came out tight-lipped, as if he was unable to hold back his own flashbacks. Mira discerned that the Interim Minister of Magic had finally found a place to accept his grief, something dangerous in a career like his.

She sighed, and with a flick of her wand, cast a spell to warm up her mug of tea that had grown cold with the chilly temperature of the house. 

She hesitated, noting Kingsley's eyeing her wand—she wondered if he knew if it was the Elder Wand. Hermione had told her that surprisingly, not many believed of the existence of the Deathly Hallows like they did. She was also warned to keep the Invisibility Cloak, especially, a secret... For those who knew, it was very valuable.

"Erm..." Mira shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair. The House of Black's chair was it? Bloody hell... she internally noted down another task for Kreacher to do. "I get it. I really do. But do I have to? I mean—" She paused and bit her tongue. "I don't know of what's been happening with my seat for the past few years without me, but could I just leave it that way?"

"No one can force you to take the seat," he said slowly, after a little pause. "But the truth is... it's complicated."

Mira stared. "How so?"

This time, Kingsley was unable to keep the surprise out of his face. His brows knitted at first, but then slowly, they dropped. His expression morphed into one that Mira was easily able to recognize, as she'd been seeing them all her life:

Pity.

Kingsley didn't say anything for a few seconds—it felt like hours though. He studied her, focusing on the exhaustion under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hand as she sipped her tea, the defensive lift of her chin that had insecurity so plainly written on it. His gaze shifted towards the scar, which had faded significantly, and again, the dark bags beneath her lashes. She slumped in her chair, feeling uneasy at his scrutinized scanning of her face.

She had an urge to use Legilimency, to find out what was going through his head about her. But she was not a fool. Besides being the Interim Minister of Magic, Kingsley was mostly known as an excelled Auror... almost as good and reputable as Moody was. Mira knew Legilimens and Occlumens were a rarity, and she did not know what Auror training involved, but she had a suspicion that a skill as crucial as protecting the mind was taught at least on a beginners level.

She didn't dare try.

"I know..." He started at a measured pace, cautiously. Although, despite his hesitance, he sat piously and confidently, dark brown eyes not straying from her own. "You have been focused on your N.E.W.Ts, and rightfully so, but have you been following the progress on the ongoing trials and captures of rogue Death Eaters?"

It was truly disturbing how put-together he was. He was an excellent choice for Minister; she figured war and experience would do that to a wizard.

Mira bit her lip at the question, breaking her stare first—again. Has she been following the Prophet as much as she was supposed to?

Not really. It was Hermione and the others—mainly Hermione—that kept her up to speed for the first few weeks after they began their 8th year. It took a few days of watching her fellow peers express their excitement over certain criminals getting caught, to the point where she had asked all of them to refrain from telling her. To be fair, she had just started her final year at Hogwarts after having killed an evil monster responsible for ruining her life... She had done her due diligence. But was she irresponsible for not wanting to be involved in any more than that?

Mira shrugged timidly, ashamed. "Not much."

Kingsley opened his mouth to speak but shut it and stared at her with a blank expression. It wasn't an angry appearance, but again, more of him trying to hide his sympathy towards her—having spent years at being looked this way, Mira bristled at it.

He noticed.

"Well..." Kingsley said finally. His voice softened, though it carried the weight of authority that made Mira sit up a little straighter despite herself. "You've done enough for one lifetime, I'll give you that. But realistically.... this isn't something you can just ignore, Mira."

There were no words spoken. She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking longingly toward the hallway door as if she could walk out and leave everything behind. There was a silence, "I didn't ask for any of this, y'know?"

"No," Kingsley agreed quietly. "You didn't."

The words hung in the air; the atmosphere had shifted to a little tension rather than awkwardness... the topic in question edging on sensitive. Mira tried not to look at him, but he had that steady presence—anchoring, immovable—that made silence unbearable. Blimey, how she wished to have that trait.

She just didn't understand what it meant. A seat. Influence. She had been angry with Mr. Weasley and everyone else from hiding this from her, but little did they know, she was conflicted about it herself. Mira didn't grow up in a manor like she was supposed to. She didn't even have a bloody bed until she went to Hogwarts—nor had she been treated like an actual person. 

"I'm not sure if I can pretend to be a politician..." She finally said, a subtle smile ghosting her lips when she continued. "It's more Hermione's thing."

It was true. Excluding Hermione's rational solutions in some situations, she had survived the war by the skin of her teeth—recklessness and luck; certainly not calculation and patient. It was what killed Sirius.

Kingsley gave a faint, grim smile at the mention of the witch, though his eyes betrayed the fatigue of his own. "Merlin knows most of the Wizengamot's been doing that for centuries."

Mira tried to smile, but she was sure it came out looking like a wince.

Kingsley's expression shifted again—war between duty and understanding. His eyes softened, but his tone remained pragmatic. "Look, Mira. No one is asking you to walk in there and start giving speeches. But you should at least know what you're inheriting. Understand what power people will assume you hold—whether you like it or not."

She frowned, quiet. He could tell she was tired. More than tired. Haunted.

Kingsley let the silence breathe for a few seconds before he said, "Why don't you come with me to the Ministry? Just for today. There's an advisor still in service. Only Merlin knows why he hasn't retired. He handled Wizengamot protocol even before the First War. He can explain things far better than I can."

Mira didn't answer. She looked pale, her hands trembling slightly against the mug. The sight twisted something in Kingsley's chest. He had seen that look too many times—soldiers and survivors who had outlived everything they knew, all trying to live after a war. He'd seen it in the mirror once, too.

He sighed, quieter now. "You've been through hell. I know you'd rather not deal with this. But if you don't take control of your public image, others will try to do it for you."

That made her glance up. Her green and grey eyes, once so vivid and defiant, flickered with uncertainty. Her brows furrowed. "Others?"

"There are always others," he said simply. "There are families who lost everything but still think the old names should mean something. You're not the only one with a claim to a house, Mira. You're just one of the few whose bloodline still carries significant weight. Potter. Black. People don't forget names like those."

Mira wanted to argue, but he wasn't wrong. She had gone through her mother and father's school yearbooks and noticed that pureblood society was at its peak during their time; Blacks and Lestranges and Malfoys and Rosiers—Hogwarts then must have been less a school and more a miniature political capital.

But not anymore. 

Kingsley continued, "I hope you understand that just because we've captured most of the widely known pureblood supremacists that aided—" his voice faltered for an instant, as if he was trying to determine which title to refer to the infamous wizard. "—Voldemort, does not mean we've eliminated that ideology."

He stood, not waiting for her to reply. He held out a hand. "Come on. It's better to hear it from someone who can show you the facts. The history. If you decide you don't want the seat, you'll at least understand what you're walking away from."

Mira blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden request. Her gut twisted as she thought over the growing possibility of claiming her seats... She half-rose before she realized herself, brushing the white hair behind her ear right before she took his offered hand.

Perhaps it was the determined look behind his eyes that sparked a thread of hope in her chest.

The Ministry had changed quiet a lot since her last visit. 

It was too new, too clean. The polished marble gleamed, but it gleamed in a way that felt sterile; a brilliant frontage that the wizarding government put on, pretending not to remember the death and corruption that once lined its floors. 

Mira moved through the main atrium beside Kingsley in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the space. Her exhaustion was beginning to catch up to her. She'd barely slept the night before, half from nerves and half from the lingering shock of that strange hallucination she'd had.

She pushed it to the back of her mind—nightmares were normal, no matter the variety in their severity. What she now had to focus on was that it was now plainly obvious that Mira had basically no choice but to pursue a career in the Ministry.

Kingsley was silent too—the kind of silence that came not from discomfort, but habit. His expression was grave, as if he dreaded the halls he so often walked in. Every few moments, he'd incline his head slightly in greeting to an employee, and they would nod back—some with obvious reluctance and others with the kind of haunted familiarity that came from surviving the same war.

A few wizards and witches, after greeting the Minister, would drift their gazes over her before doubling back, eyes widening as they grasped who strode beside him. She kept her gaze fixed stubbornly on her trainers, feeling the same scrutiny—that she had yet to disregard—crawl across her skin. 

Kingsley noticed. He gave her a subtle, stern elbow, wordlessly urging her to lift her head. She hesitated, but did as he instructed out of surprise because this.... this was new. 

She didn’t understand why he suddenly cared so much about her ignoring people, but the Minister’s expression left no room for argument. He wasn’t scolding her. It was something else. Something that, for some inexplicable reason, reminded her so much of Draco Malfoy.

When they reached the golden-grilled lifts, he gestured for her to step in first. The gates rattled closed, and the lift jolted upward, the automated magical voice announcing each department as they passed.

"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation."  

The familiar words sounded distant to her. Mira was barely listening, still caught off-guard from Kingsley's sudden formality—with her, of all people. She shot him a glance. Kingsley stood tall, composed, hands clasped loosely behind his back—a politician’s stance.

"You don't have to look so tense," He said quietly, finally looking her way. "You're not on trial anymore."

But if she chose to walk this path, she would be.

"I feel like I am," Mira muttered, trying to force another smile. She didn't understand all of this, and Kingsley knew that.

But she was starting to get a feeling that he was set on her to learn.

He huffed softly—not a laugh, not really, just a sound halfway there. "Every new member of the Wizengamot does." He paused, face morphing into a grimace. "Then again, it was not supposed to be this way."

Mira nodded once, before the lift shuddered to a stop. 

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement."  

Kingsley pressed a panel that required his wand to open; the gates slid apart, revealing a corridor lined with ancient portraits. The air was cooler here—in a newer way. 

The magnificence and age-old history of the Ministry had been dulled by the reconstruction: the portraits of wizards—likely of fallen Aurors, lawmakers, and influential figures who had shaped magical law through centuries—still lined the walls. Their frames showed signs of repair, and many looked newer—repainted or even replaced after the damage.

She had been here before. Many times. But she did not even let herself think about it.

Sirius. Tonks. Moody. Dumbledore.

Don't, Mira told herself. She hoped no one caught the way she shook her head, as if she were physically trying to dislodge the memories clawing up her throat.

"This way," Kinglsey said, strolling out of the lift with long strides, his robes flowing behind him—the left corridor was almost empty compared to the right, where she assumed were the bustling section delegated to the Aurors and law-enforcement. He didn't wait for her, already pushing through the door.

The sign hung above it: WIZENGAMOT ADMINISTRATION SERVICES

He held the door open only long enough for her to pass, swiftly avoiding his tall frame, then let it shut behind them. 

"Through here," he said, already crossing the small reception chamber.

Mira trailed after him, her fingers twitching uselessly at her sides. Was this a mistake? 

Wizengamot was all about politics. Should she really be doing this when she could barely sleep without nightmares? 

Kingsley rapped his knuckles thrice on a frosted-glass door. The metallic plate nailed onto it gleamed faintly under the lighting: Senior Wizengamot Advisor – ELPHIAS DOGE

Mira's breath hitched. Elphias Doge, one of the last few surviving members of the Order and the writer of Dumbledore's obituary. She remembered him; his rather high-pitched voice, wheezy voice. He'd spoken to her at Bill and Fleur's wedding, minutes before the Ministry fell.

"Elphias?" Kingsley called out. "Do you have a moment?"

Mira awkwardly crossed her arms against her chest, dancing on the tip of her toes as they awaited a reply. Her stomach tingled from the nerves. 

The familiar voice floated out. "Yes, Minister. Do come in."

Kingsley pushed open the door and wordlessly gestured for Mira to enter first. She complied.

The office looked like someone had just moved in—or judging by his age, was in the process of moving out. Retirement, perhaps? Books stacked on every available surfaces, the large wooden desk bearing nothing else but overflowing towers of it, and lengthy parchment scrolls were rolled up neatly and stuffed into trunks.

A walking stick rested nearby and a pair of robes were tossed over a chair.

The man behind the desk had already been standing when they entered. He had already identified his visitors. His demeanour shifted from a practiced respect to greet the Minister, to a more gentle version when they came to rest on her.

He looked even older now—though, Mira could not find it in herself to feel anything other than a strange mixture of pity and fascination. She reckoned being elderly and living through several catastrophic wars would do that to a wizard (assuming he was as old as Dumbledore, if not older). His hair, that had been as white as her own during the wedding, had now thinned into wispy strands.

He looked… brittle. 

A pang of sorrow hit her before a sharp intake of breath banned it from her thoughts. Now was not the time to be feeling this way. She barely even knew this man!

"Minister," Elphias acknowledged, then nodded at Mira. "Miss Potter-Black."

Mira had barely managed to restrain herself from grimacing at the address. Elphias Doge had been one of the many interested in her blood-adoption, it was obvious at the time, though he never got to speak to her about it before the wedding attack. 

Kingsley didn’t waste time. "She needs to understand the Wizengamot situation. Properly. She hasn't been briefed, and that's partly my oversight."

Elphias nodded as if that wasn't remotely surprising. He offered her a sincere, wrinkled smile, visibly excited by the prospect of a conversation. “Not surprising, Minister. The girl has been rather busy saving the world.”

Poor bloke looked like he was on his last legs, she noted. Mira grinned uncomfortably; she hated when people said things like that, but she wasn't exactly going to say that to a poor old man, was she?

Kingsley placed a hand on Mira's shoulder—it was brief, grounding, almost paternal.

"I must go." Kingsley's statement wasn't directed to anyone specifically; they both nodded.  He turned to her, with a serious look. "Mira—stay, listen, and ask every question you can think of." He then hesitated, looking a mix of abashed and hopeful. "I trust you already know who he is..?"

Mira swallowed and nodded. "We met at Bill's wedding. Before... y'know..."

A flicker of relief crossed Kingsley's face, a silent acknowledgment that his time was scarce. Mira wondered how he managed to carve out even this past hour with her amongst the heavy burden of his responsibilities.

Kingsley inclined his head toward Doge. "Thank you, Elphias."

"Of course," Doge murmured, turning his gaze towards the witch and gesturing her to take a seat with a hefty cough.

The Minister sent a final heartfelt smile before he left, his footsteps fading down the corridor until the click of the office door sealed Mira in.

No matter your decision, I hope to see you at Aurorial Appraisal.

Mira froze. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. 

Of course... He just had to have known she was a skilled Legilimens. Yet, she wondered how. His words weren’t spoken aloud, yet they landed with the same weight as if Kingsley had whispered them directly into her ear.

Was she not as good of an Occlumens as she thought?  

Her reply slipped out of her before she could think, quiet and a little unsure.

I’ll try.