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Chapter Text

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley were slick with the morning mist, glinting under the faint rise of the sun. Esmeralda Hawthorn moved with precise purpose, her eyes scanning the bustling streets as she carefully jotted down observations in a small leather-bound notebook. Each shopfront, from Flourish & Blotts to the whimsical windows of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, carried the smell of parchment, potion fumes, and a hint of charred magical residue.

She weaved between shoppers and cauldrons, her mind preoccupied not with the crowds but with her own creations—gadgets that hummed and whirred, runes drawn in carefully measured arcs, each a line of protective code she had learned to manipulate from her studies and, secretly, the glimpses of the future she already knew from her books.

A small mechanical contraption—part spider, part clockwork—scuttled at her heels, its tiny legs clattering against the cobblestones. It paused mid-step, scanning the crowd as if alerting her to potential disturbances. Esme’s lips twitched in amusement. “No need to panic, Algie,” she whispered. “They’re not after us today.”

At a nearby window, a set of enchanted quills scribbled frantic notes in their own looping handwriting. One in particular spun a little too fast, scribbling rainbow-colored trails across the parchment and sending a tiny puff of colored smoke into Esme’s face. 

She coughed, waved her hand, and laughed quietly. A nearby shopkeeper glared as the smoke settled over a pile of books, but Esme already had a solution: a tiny flick of her wand and the quill obediently returned to its perch.

Her mind was far from the light-hearted chaos around her. Each rune she had drawn this summer, each intricate gear she had assembled, had a purpose. They were all pieces of a larger plan—magical defenses for the future, a shield against threats yet unseen, threats like the diary from the previous year.

As she adjusted the delicate focus of a miniature magical lens that allowed her to observe the smallest nuances of spell energy, a familiar face caught her attention. 

Harry Potter, looking slightly disheveled and more serious than usual, was speaking with a shopkeeper about something that immediately set Esme on alert: “Sirius Black.”

Her mind raced. She already knew the story from her books, every twist, every false lead, every grim moment. But Harry didn’t. And he needed guidance—subtle, careful, and above all, unspoiled.

She approached, letting the scuff of her boots announce her presence before speaking. “Looking for someone?” she asked lightly, glancing at the wand tucked into his robes.

Harry jumped slightly, then relaxed when he recognized her. “Esme! I… I mean, I need to find him. Sirius Black. They say he’s dangerous, but…” His words trailed off, eyes flicking nervously around the crowded street.

“Dangerous?” Esme asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or misunderstood?” Her voice carried the kind of teasing that drew a small smile from him, though worry still clouded his expression.

“You always make it sound like you know everything,” Harry muttered, exasperated but grateful.

“I read a lot,” she admitted, adjusting a small lens on her wrist gadget. “And sometimes, books are better than experience. Sometimes.”

{~}

By mid-morning, Esme led Harry down a series of narrow alleys, past wandering street performers, and finally to a small, unassuming doorway tucked between two tall, crooked buildings. With a discreet flick of her wand, the lock clicked open, revealing stairs that led down to a surprisingly spacious flat.

Harry glanced at Esme, hesitant. “So… where are your parents? Do they know you’re… doing all this?”

Esme’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had prepared for this question countless times in her own head. “They’re… elsewhere,” she said smoothly. “Living their own lives. I handle my own matters. It’s… safer that way.”

Harry studied her carefully. “So you’re on your own?”

“Mostly,” she admitted, her tone light, almost teasing. “But I manage. Don’t worry about me, Harry.”

There was a pause. Harry nodded, seemingly accepting the answer, though curiosity lingered in his eyes.

“This is… incredible,” Harry admitted, eyes wide as he stepped over a small floating cog that hovered in the air before turning away with a polite wobble. “I’ve never seen anything like this outside of the library… or maybe Fred and George’s shop.”

Esme smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing, really. Mostly experiments and… protective enchantments. I like to tinker. Keeps me busy.” She guided him further into the flat, past a softly humming circle of runes etched into the floor. “Here. Sit. You’ll be safer if we stay within the wards.”

Harry hesitated, glancing at the runes with curiosity. “Safe… you mean… from…?” He didn’t finish the question, but the worry was clear in his green eyes.

Esme’s lips pressed into a thin line, her mind already tracing the web of information she had on Sirius Black. She didn’t want to overwhelm him, not yet. The summer was just starting; there was time, if she nudged him carefully.

“From… things that go bump in the night, mostly,” she said lightly, though her tone carried a quiet edge. “You’ve been hearing a lot about Sirius, right?”

Harry flinched slightly, then nodded, clutching his worn coat a little tighter. “Yeah. The shopkeepers, people in the street… the Ministry. Everyone says he’s dangerous. That he’s—” He swallowed, eyes darting toward the window as if expecting to see the wanted poster floating outside. “—he’s coming for me, for Hogwarts. I don’t know what to think.”

Esme gave him a small, understanding smile. “You think the Ministry is telling the whole truth?”

Harry hesitated. “I… I don’t know. Maybe. But if he’s innocent, if they’re lying… how do I even figure that out?”

She gestured toward a small, cushioned chair. “Sit. We’ll take it step by step.” Harry lowered himself carefully, eyes scanning the room as if expecting traps or surveillance charms. Esme’s fingers hovered near a small stack of magical instruments, a quill floating lazily above a notebook. “The first thing,” she said slowly, “is to observe and question everything you hear. No one is telling you everything.”

Harry blinked. “That’s… easier said than done.”

Esme leaned against the desk, her mind racing. She knew the books. She knew the movies. She already had the knowledge of what would happen—how things would unfold—but she needed Harry to think for himself. The danger was real, but she couldn’t just hand him the answers. That would collapse the timeline in ways she couldn’t control.

“Let’s start simple,” she said. “Think about the people around you. Who benefits if the Ministry is lying about Sirius?”

Harry frowned. “Who benefits…?” His hands clenched around the armrest. “The Ministry? Maybe someone wants to cover up… a mistake? Or… someone else entirely?”

“Exactly,” Esme said softly, guiding him with precise subtlety. “Now, think about the people who disappeared or died under suspicious circumstances. Who could have had motive, access, or… powers to make it look like someone else was guilty?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Powers… you mean like… Animagus? And Lupin—he’s a werewolf, so maybe the Dementors… no, wait…” He groaned, massaging his forehead. “I’m getting tangled.”

“Good,” Esme said quietly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Getting tangled is the first step to untangling.”

He blinked at her. “Wait… what do you mean?”

“I mean you’re starting to think critically. Follow your instincts, not just the stories you’re told. Ask the questions you’re scared to ask.” She reached toward a small parchment, running her fingers along the edge as though she were emphasizing the thought. “Who really benefits from painting a man as guilty?”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s… complicated. And dangerous. I don’t even know if I can figure it out.”

“You can,” Esme said, softly but firmly. “You just need to think like a detective. Notice patterns. Who acts suspiciously? Who hides things? Who tells half-truths? That’s your path to answers.”

He looked around the room, at the floating devices, the humming runes, the small levitating tools that buzzed in time with the soft thrum of magic in the flat. “And… you’ve figured this out already, haven’t you?” he asked, almost whispering, a mixture of awe and caution in his tone.

Esme smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve read a lot. I’ve seen a lot. But that doesn’t mean I’ll tell you outright. You have to reach it on your own.” She let her gaze drift over him, gauging his comprehension, his willingness, his fear.

Harry leaned back, trying to absorb it all. “So… what about my parents? You… you know anything about them? Or… is that off-limits?”

Esme’s heart clenched briefly at the reminder, but she shook it off, keeping her tone light. “I know bits. But this conversation is about Sirius, remember?”

He nodded, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. “Right… Sirius. I just… it’s hard, you know? Not having answers.”

“Exactly,” Esme said. “Not having answers is what forces you to think. To learn. To act.” She allowed a small chuckle. “And sometimes, asking the right question is more powerful than having the right answer.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And you… you think you know the right questions?”

“I think I can help you find them,” she said. “But you have to do the thinking yourself. Otherwise, nothing you learn will truly stick.”

A small pause hung in the room, broken only by the soft hum of one of her experimental runes. Harry watched it carefully, suddenly aware of how much magic and knowledge surrounded him in this tiny, protected space.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice steadier. “So… I look for who benefits, who hides things… and I trust my instincts?”

“Yes,” Esme said, nodding. “And be observant. Notice inconsistencies. Questions often reveal more than answers.”

He exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and frustration. “I think… I can do that. I just… I don’t know if I can do it right.”

“You will,” she said softly. “And even if you stumble, you’ll learn. That’s what matters.”

Harry smiled faintly, though the worry still lingered in his eyes. “Thanks, Esme. I… I don’t know what I’d do without someone helping me think straight.”

Esme’s lips curved into a small, almost invisible smile. “Just remember… it’s summer. Relax, think, and learn. Everything else… will follow.”

Harry had gone quiet, eyes tracing the glowing runes in the floor. He looked younger than ever—tired, uncertain, carrying more than anyone his age should have to. Esme tilted her head, studying him. Something about his silence felt heavy, like a thought pressing too hard against his chest.

“Harry?” she asked gently, folding her arms. “You’ve gone quiet. What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, he seemed to fight with himself, as though saying the words would make them too real.

“I don’t… really have a place to go,” he admitted finally, voice low and raw. “Not really.”

Esme blinked and deliberately widened her eyes, faking surprise to soften the moment. “What do you mean you don’t have a place to go? You always spend summers with your relatives, don’t you?”

Harry gave a bitter laugh, though it was humorless. “Yeah. Relatives. That’s one word for it. They don’t want me there, not really. I’m just… something they have to put up with. They’d throw me out if they thought they could get away with it. And after what happened with Aunt Marge…” He trailed off, looking away.

Esme let her features twist into a picture of sympathetic shock. Inside, though, she already knew—she had always. But to hear Harry admit it, to see the shame and quiet hurt in his face, struck something sharp in her chest.

“Harry,” she said softly, crouching a little to meet his eyes. “That’s not right. You shouldn’t feel unwanted. You’re not a burden.”

He shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s fine. I’ve lived with it all my life. It’s just… I don’t know where else I’d go.”

Esme straightened, placing her hands on her hips with mock indignation. “Well, you can’t honestly expect me to let you wander around Diagon Alley like some stray Kneazle, can you?”

Harry blinked, startled. “Wait—you mean—”

“You’ll stay here,” Esme said firmly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “This flat is warded, it’s safe, and it’s got food. Granted, most of it is tea and bread and a suspicious jar of Bertie Bott’s, but it’s still better than the Dursleys.”

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I can’t just… stay here. Can I?”

Esme smirked, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Sure you can. There’s a sofa that doubles as a bed, plenty of wards, and I don’t mind company. But…” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “We’ll have to tell McGonagall. She’ll want to know where you are, otherwise she’ll have the entire staff searching Diagon Alley like you’ve been kidnapped.”

Harry’s expression softened, some of the tension in his face easing for the first time. “You’d… really let me stay?”

Esme nodded, more serious now. “Of course I would. You’re my friend, Harry. And friends don’t let friends sleep on the street—or with people who treat them like dirt.”

Something flickered in his green eyes at that—gratitude, maybe, or something heavier. “Thanks, Esme. I mean it.”

Esme waved it off with exaggerated nonchalance, though her chest felt warm. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen how much I snore.” She winked.

Harry laughed—an actual laugh this time—and the sound lightened the atmosphere like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.

Then Esme clapped her hands together. “Right. Let’s get this sorted. I’ll write a letter to McGonagall right now. She’ll probably raise an eyebrow, purse her lips, and then mutter something about ‘Hawthorn always collecting strays.’ But she’ll understand.”

Harry tilted his head. “Collecting strays?”

Esme smirked again, reaching for her quill. “You’ll see. Now, let’s convince our dear Professor McGonagall that this arrangement is perfectly reasonable…”

{~}

The door to Esmeralda Hawthorn’s flat slammed shut behind them, the wards humming faintly as the locks clicked into place. Harry Potter dropped his trunk in the hallway, already bracing for some strange rune-lit contraption to come whizzing down from the ceiling. The whole place had a quiet buzz of mischief in the air—like the building itself was holding its breath before doing something ridiculous.

Esme kicked her boots off, flicked her wand at the lamps, and the living room sprang to life. Floating lights bobbed around the ceiling like little stars, brushing against the walls before bouncing off again. Harry watched one dip too low and bounce off a lampshade.

“They’re supposed to do that,” Esme said airily, as if the bouncing was part of the design.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.” She unshrunk her satchel and dumped its contents onto the sofa—parchments, books, several rune-carved bits of wood, and what looked suspiciously like a teapot with scorch marks along its base.

Harry stared at the sofa. “Um, is this… where I’m meant to sleep?”

Esme put her hands on her hips and surveyed it like a queen inspecting her domain. “Not in this state. Give me a second.” She whipped out her wand, muttered something under her breath, and smacked the armrest.

The sofa groaned loudly, its cushions inflating like balloons. With another flick, the back folded down into what was supposed to be a bed. Instead, the entire frame shuddered, swelled too far, and knocked into the opposite wall with a thud.

Harry gawked. “That’s—”

“Comfortable,” Esme interrupted, waving at the monstrosity proudly.

The bed let out a squeaky wheeze and folded itself back up again, swallowing Harry’s satchel whole.

“Oi!” Harry dove for the straps, tugging them out from between the cushions. “It’s eating my things!”

Esme smacked the sofa again. It spat the satchel onto the floor with a sulky thunk.

“There. Self-cleaning storage feature.” She grinned, clearly enjoying his horrified face. “You’re welcome.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “That is not normal.”

Esme smirked. “Better than a cupboard under the stairs, isn’t it?”

His retort died in his throat. He huffed instead, trying to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.

Minutes later, Esme bustled into the kitchen, muttering, “Tea fixes everything. Always.”

Harry followed, perching at the small table, wary. He noticed immediately that her ‘teapot’ was carved all over with tiny runes and had a faint humming glow.

“This little beauty boils water in exactly three-point-two seconds,” Esme said with far too much confidence.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Does it always hum like that?”

Esme flicked her wand. “Only when it’s—”

The teapot shrieked like a banshee and belched out a geyser of boiling steam that shot directly into the ceiling.

Hedwig let out an outraged screech and flapped to the curtain rod, feathers puffed in indignation. Harry ducked, coughing, as the room filled with mist.

“—overexcited,” Esme finished smoothly, waving away the steam as though nothing unusual had happened. “Totally fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Harry wiped his glasses with his sleeve. “You call this fine?”

“Again, better than the Dursleys’ microwave.”

“…Fair point,” Harry admitted reluctantly.

The teapot let out one final, self-satisfied whistle before settling into silence.

By the time the mist cleared, Esme was at her desk scribbling a letter to McGonagall. Harry leaned against the wall, watching with vague amusement as her tawny owl strutted importantly along the windowsill, waiting to deliver.

Another owl swooped suddenly through the half-open window, aiming directly for the plate of biscuits.

“Hey!” Esme snapped, swatting at it with a rolled-up parchment.

The tawny owl fluffed its feathers and lunged at the intruder, the two of them spiraling in a feathery midair duel.

Harry ducked as a feather floated past his nose. “Is this… normal?”

“Completely,” Esme said, still writing furiously. “Wards keep out burglars, not biscuit thieves. Priorities, Potter.”

The biscuit thief won a crumb, cawed triumphantly, and zoomed out the window again. Esme’s owl sulked.

Harry shook his head, laughter bubbling in his chest despite himself. “I don’t know how you live like this.”

“Excitement builds character.” She shot him a sideways grin. “You’ll thank me later.”

{~}

On the desk beside her notes sat an innocent-looking rune-carved cube. Harry had just started to relax when it twitched.

“…Is that supposed to move?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes,” Esme said instantly. Then, seeing his expression, added, “…probably.”

The cube hopped once. Twice. Then launched itself off the desk like an overcaffeinated frog.

Harry yelped and scrambled out of the way as it ricocheted across the floor.

“I think it’s angry!” he shouted.

“It’s not angry!” Esme lunged after it with her wand. “It’s testing mobility. You know—proof of concept.”

The cube smacked directly into the sofa-bed, which groaned and folded in on itself again.

Harry collapsed onto the floor, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. “Perfectly—snrk—normal, you said?”

Esme finally managed to trap the cube under a glass, cheeks flushed. “I meant for that to happen.”

“Sure you did.” Harry was still wheezing with laughter.

Esme threw a pillow at him. He caught it mid-air and smirked.

{~}

Later, when the chaos had settled and Esme finally wrangled the sofa into something resembling a bed, Harry sat on the edge, still chuckling under his breath.

“You know,” he said, “McGonagall’s going to hex you sideways for adopting me.”

Esme flopped into an armchair, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “I’m not adopting you. You’re squatting.”

“Feels like adoption.”

She grinned. “You’re terrible at décor, so obviously you need me.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. Hedwig fluttered down to her cage, still glaring at the cursed teapot.

And for the first time that summer, Harry felt… safe. Even if the sofa might eat his socks during the night.

Chapter Text

The day was bright when Harry and Esme pushed through the brick archway that opened onto Diagon Alley. With a flick and shuffle, the wall reassembled itself behind them, sealing them into the wizarding street that always looked like something from a dream. Harry’s eyes lit up at once, every worry from Privet Drive and even the whispered name of Sirius Black momentarily drowned out by the bustle of witches and wizards shopping for school.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered, his face splitting into a grin as he adjusted his glasses. “I’ll never get used to this place.”

Esme smirked, shouldering a leather satchel bulging with scrolls and little rune-etched copper plates. She had been up half the night sketching ideas for protective wards and now carried an entire list of supplies she was determined to acquire. “You say that every time, Harry. At least you’ve graduated from tripping over your own shoelaces when you’re looking at the shops.”

Harry turned red. “That happened once.”

“Twice,” Esme corrected smoothly. “Three times if you count the time you nearly ran into a banshee cage in Knockturn Alley.”

Harry grimaced, but his smile lingered. It felt good to have Esme teasing him like this. The Dursleys never laughed with him—only at him. Esme’s humor was quick, clever, and softened with warmth.

The Alley was in full swing. Street vendors hawked charmed quills and self-stirring teacups. Robes fluttered in enchanted breezes outside Madam Malkin’s. A pair of owls swooped overhead, one dropping a letter on an unfortunate wizard’s head. The poor man swore and shook his fist as the owls chased each other into the bright sky.

Esme made a note of that with a private grin. Owls at top speed are better security than half the Ministry wards.

Harry tugged at her sleeve suddenly, eyes wide. “Look! It’s the Firebolt!” He darted to the nearest window, pressing his nose against the glass of Quality Quidditch Supplies. A gleaming broom sat displayed like a crown jewel, every child in the Alley gathered to gawk at it.

Esme chuckled, setting her satchel carefully on the cobblestones to peek at the broom too. She wasn’t much of a flyer herself—her focus had always been on earthbound magic and runes—but she could recognize brilliance when she saw it.

“You’re drooling,” she teased.

“I am not!” Harry swiped his sleeve across his chin anyway. “Do you know what that broom can do? Fastest acceleration, precision handling—”

“Yes, yes, Quidditch, glory, speed,” Esme said airily, pulling out a folded list from her bag. “Meanwhile, I need powdered obsidian, rune-grade copper, and three ounces of wolfsbane powder. Priorities.”

Harry tore his gaze away reluctantly. “What are you even building this time? You’ve already made the Sneakoscope-that-never-stops-spinning.”

Esme grinned. “Version two will be better. But right now? Dementor wards.”

Harry blinked. “You mean you can actually make something to fight them?”

Her grin faded just slightly. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Harry didn’t know the full scope of what was coming. Still, she covered smoothly: “I don’t know yet. But if you were facing creatures that feed on despair, wouldn’t you want as many defenses as possible?”

Harry shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t deny the logic.

They were interrupted by a loud crash from across the street. A wizard in mustard-colored robes had tripped over a stray trunk, sending cauldrons rolling everywhere. Children shrieked with laughter. A witch with a shopping bag full of kittens wailed as the creatures bolted under a cart.

Esme shook her head, amused. “Every year it’s the same. Chaos dressed up as shopping.”

“Better than Privet Drive,” Harry muttered.

“Better than my landlord’s plumbing,” Esme replied dryly, and Harry barked out a laugh.

Their first stop was the bookshop. Harry darted straight for the Defense Against the Dark Arts shelves, while Esme went prowling along the dusty back rows where runic theory texts gathered more cobwebs than readers.

A floating ladder creaked to life at her touch, wobbling dangerously as she climbed to reach a volume bound in dragonhide. “Stabilize, stabilize,” she muttered, tapping the rung with her wand. Instead, the ladder let out a belch and shifted left.

“Esme!” Harry cried from below as she wobbled precariously.

“I’m fine—fine—” She toppled backward, only to land squarely on a conjured cushion she’d prepared mid-fall. The ladder slammed shut on its own with a clang.

Half the shop turned to stare. Esme dusted herself off, holding the tome high. “See? Perfectly under control.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, though he was laughing. “Under control, she says.”

The shopkeeper coughed disapprovingly. Esme gave him her sweetest smile and dragged Harry toward the counter.

{~}

Out on the street again, Esme slowed. She’d spotted two robed figures lingering near the Leaky Cauldron’s archway—Ministry officials, by the cut of their robes and the smug tilt of their heads. They weren’t shopping. They were watching.

Harry noticed too. “Do you think they’re here because of Black?” he asked, voice low.

Esme tilted her head. “The Ministry never says the whole truth, Harry. They warn. They scare. But they don’t explain.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Esme’s eyes flicked toward the officials, then back to him. “Ask yourself: who benefits if everyone believes Black is the only danger?”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t have an answer.

Esme let it hang. She didn’t need to spell it out yet.

{~}

Next came the supply shops. Esme hunted down rune copper at a tiny stall wedged between a potion apothecary and an ice cream parlor. The shopkeeper, a gnarled wizard with a monocle, handed her a packet of etched plates with great ceremony.

“Do not overload them with raw power,” he intoned gravely.

Esme nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”

Two minutes later, one plate slipped from her satchel, hit the cobblestones, and discharged a spark that shot twenty feet into the air. A passing witch’s hat burst into flames.

Harry clapped both hands over his mouth, trying not to laugh as the witch shrieked and dunked her head in a fountain. Esme hissed, “Shut it!” and stomped on the smoking copper plate until it fizzled out.

“Controlled. Totally controlled,” she declared, slipping it back into her bag.

Harry wheezed, shoulders shaking. “You’re going to burn down Diagon Alley one day.”

“Not if I write the runes correctly,” Esme shot back, though her grin betrayed her amusement.

By the time they reached Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream, both were flushed with laughter and weighed down by bags.

Harry licked at a towering sundae, while Esme scribbled notes on the back of her supply list, runes dancing through her mind.

The Ministry officials were still lingering across the street. Esme noticed. She didn’t tell Harry. Not yet.

Because soon, Fudge would arrive. And with him, more half-truths.

And Esme needed Harry to start asking the right questions.

{~}

The Leaky Cauldron smelled of butterbeer and pipe smoke, a comfortable, chaotic scent that stuck to the wooden beams as much as the laughter of the patrons. Harry pushed open the door, and Esme trailed behind, clutching her satchel as if she were bracing for impact. She loved Diagon Alley, but the Leaky Cauldron? It was where chaos concentrated.

And chaos, as usual, did not disappoint.

“Harry, m’boy!” boomed Tom the innkeeper from behind the counter. “We’ve a room ready for yeh!”

Harry blinked. “Wait—you do?”

Before Harry could protest further, a swirl of emerald robes swept into view. Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, descended like an overfed peacock in a bowler hat. His cheeks were flushed, his smile wide.

“Harry Potter!” Fudge exclaimed, grabbing Harry’s hand and pumping it as though he were trying to draw galleons from a slot machine. “Delighted, delighted—such a relief to see you safe and sound, my boy!”

Harry tried not to wince. “Er—thank you, Minister.”

Esme, standing just behind Harry, tilted her head. The smile on her face was polite. The gleam in her eyes was not.

“Funny,” she murmured under her breath. “He doesn’t look nearly this cheerful when children are in danger at school.”

Harry’s lips twitched. He risked a glance at her, biting back a laugh.

Fudge, oblivious, released Harry’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, my boy, nothing at all! Stay here at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of your summer, all expenses paid! Quite right too, considering the circumstances.”

“The circumstances?” Harry asked quickly.

Fudge faltered for half a beat. “Er—yes, well. Black, you know. Dangerous fellow. But nothing for you to worry about. Not at all. We’ve got the best people on it.”

Esme coughed loudly, drawing Fudge’s attention for the first time. “Best people?” she repeated sweetly. “Then why does he keep slipping through your fingers?”

Fudge’s smile wavered. “Young lady, I hardly think—”

“Must be dreadfully inconvenient,” Esme continued, her tone guileless. “For a mass murderer to escape your fortress-prison and wander about unchecked.”

Fudge flushed crimson. Harry ducked his head, hiding his grin behind his hand.

“Well,” Fudge said briskly, “no need to dwell on that! Enjoy your stay, Harry! The Ministry is watching out for you!” With that, he swept off, bowler hat bobbing as he disappeared into the crowd.

Esme arched an eyebrow. “You see what I mean?”

Harry nodded slowly. “They’re not telling us everything.”

“Exactly,” she said, satisfied.

It wasn’t long before the pub door burst open again and the Leaky Cauldron was flooded with the sound of Weasleys.

“Harry!”

Ron practically bowled him over, Hermione trailing just behind with an exasperated “Ron, watch it!” Before Harry could catch his breath, Mrs. Weasley enveloped him in a crushing hug, followed by Fred and George clamoring for updates, Ginny peeking shyly from behind her mother, and Percy muttering something about “Ministry standards” as he tried to shepherd the twins out of trouble.

Esme stood back, watching with quiet amusement. She’d met them before, of course, but the Weasleys never failed to overwhelm her.

“Harry, dear, you look too thin!” Molly fussed, pressing a plate of treacle tart into his hands before Harry could protest.

“Honestly, Ron, you couldn’t wait two minutes before shoving into him?” Hermione scolded, already straightening Harry’s glasses.

Fred and George were less subtle. “Oi, Harry!”

“You’ve been holding out on us—”

“What’s this about living at the Leaky Cauldron?”

“And with Esme!”

Esme sputtered. “Excuse me?”

But the twins had locked on, identical grins spreading. “She’s gone and rescued you from Privet Drive!”

“Harry Potter’s secret summer hideout!”

“Only available by invite from our favorite rune-tinkering witch.”

Harry flushed crimson, caught between denial and laughter. Esme buried her face in her hands. “I should’ve known they’d find a way to make this about me.”

Hermione tilted her head curiously. “What have you been working on this summer, Esme? Last time you mentioned… was it enchanted copper?”

“Yes,” Esme said cautiously.

Unfortunately, her satchel chose that exact moment to let out a loud squeak. A thin wisp of purple smoke curled from the flap.

Every Weasley froze.

“…Was that a mouse?” Ginny asked.

Esme sighed, pulling out a rune plate that was now vibrating like a frog on a hot plate. “Not exactly.” She tapped it with her wand, and the smoke burst into a tiny cloud that shaped itself into… a dancing chicken.

The twins roared with laughter. Molly clucked her tongue. Hermione looked impressed.

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Esme…”

“I was testing an anti-Dementor charm,” she said defensively. “Clearly it still needs work.”

The chicken flapped its spectral wings, crowed loudly, and exploded into glitter.

The last sparkle of the glitter-chicken rained down onto the Leaky Cauldron floor. Molly Weasley was still brushing sparkles off her apron and muttering about “proper magical discipline,” while Ron was howling with laughter into his sleeve. Hermione leaned forward with curiosity burning in her eyes, scribbling mental notes about rune integration.

But Fred and George?

They had gone still.

And that was always dangerous.

“Esme,” Fred said at last, with solemn weight.

“My dear, my brilliant, chaotic Esme,” George continued.

Harry groaned. “Here we go.”

“You,” Fred said, clasping his hands dramatically, “are wasted in academic tinkering.”

“Wasted!” George echoed.

“You belong,” Fred declared, “in business.”

“Specifically—our business,” George added with a grin that could light up all of Diagon Alley.

Esme blinked. “Excuse me?”

Fred spread his arms wide, as though unveiling a glorious destiny. “Imagine it! Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes—”

“—featuring Esme Hawthorn, rune-smith extraordinaire—”

“—specialist in unpredictable chicken-based defensive charms!”

“That was not supposed to be a chicken!” Esme protested, her ears going pink.

Fred wagged his finger. “Innovation, Esme, doesn’t always start where you expect.”

George leaned in conspiratorially. “Besides, think of the potential. Fearsome glowing chickens to chase bullies out of corridors. Exploding glitter runes that leave teachers baffled but unharmed. Portable smoke bombs disguised as parchment notes. Why, with your brains and our salesmanship—”

“—we’d be unstoppable.”

Esme sputtered. “You want me to… join your joke shop? I’m working on anti-Dementor protections!”

Fred looked unimpressed. “And what’s funnier than a glowing chicken scaring off a soul-sucking monster?”

George snapped his fingers. “Patent it! Cluck-Patronus™. Guaranteed to terrify Dementors and amuse party guests.”

Harry nearly choked on laughter. Hermione gasped, scandalized. “Fred! George! This is serious research—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Hermione,” Fred said, patting her shoulder. “We’ll split royalties with her.”

“Generously,” George agreed. “Ninety-ten.”

“Ninety for us, ten for her, of course.”

Esme rolled her eyes, but she was laughing despite herself. “You two are incorrigible.”

“Compliment accepted,” they said in unison, bowing.

Molly returned just then, still grumbling, and caught the tail end of their performance. “You two had better not be trying to rope Esme into your nonsense.”

Fred pressed a hand to his heart. “Mother, how could you think so little of us?”

“Because I raised you,” Molly said flatly.

The twins exchanged a look, then turned back to Esme with a conspiratorial whisper. “Think about it.”

{~}

When the Weasleys had retreated upstairs for the night, Harry and Esme lingered near the common room fire. The glitter-chicken fiasco was still the hot topic of conversation, drifting through the pub like smoke.

Harry, still grinning, said, “You realize they’re not going to let this go, right?”

Esme groaned. “If they show up at my door with a business contract, hex me.”

Harry smirked. “You’d probably sign just to see what happens.”

“…Maybe,” she admitted, then tossed a pillow at him when he burst out laughing.

Harry then looked at the handful of parchment pages were spread across the table: Esme’s notes, littered with runic sketches and half-finished calculations.

Harry stared at the scribbles. “I don’t get half of this.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Esme said gently. “Not yet. It’s dangerous magic. Old magic.”

“Dangerous how?”

She hesitated. “Because it deals with fear. With what makes you falter. And if you write the wrong rune, you don’t block it—you amplify it.”

Harry swallowed. “So why do it at all?”

Esme looked at him steadily. “Because you’re going to face Dementors this year, Harry. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And you’ll need every weapon you can get.”

He looked down, fists clenched in his lap. “They said—Fudge said—not to worry.”

“And you believe him?” Esme asked quietly.

Harry thought of Fudge’s too-bright smile, the evasive words. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Good,” Esme said softly.

A silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Finally, Harry asked, “Esme… do you think Sirius Black is really after me?”

Esme leaned back, fingers drumming against her parchment. “I think,” she said carefully, “that you should start asking why. Why he’d risk everything now. Why the Ministry wants everyone focused on him alone. Why the truth doesn’t quite add up.”

Harry frowned, deep in thought.

Esme smiled faintly. She could see it: the first flicker of doubt, of curiosity. The beginnings of the sharper instincts he would need to survive.

{~}

The scarlet steam engine belched plumes of smoke as students swarmed onto the platform. Cats yowled, owls hooted indignantly, trunks banged against shins, and the whole place hummed with that particular chaos that marked the start of a new Hogwarts year.

Esme adjusted the strap of her rune-satchel and scanned the crowd, spotting familiar faces converging toward the train. Draco, already fussing about his hair despite the soot and steam, waved impatiently. Pansy trailed after him, muttering under her breath, while Blaise ambled like he had all the time in the world. On the other side, Hermione was balancing Crookshanks’ carrier, Ron was wrestling with his trunk, and Harry was awkwardly managing Hedwig’s cage.

Seven of them. One compartment.

This was going to be tight.

By the time they all shoved their way into a single compartment, it looked like a cross between a pet shop explosion and a broom cupboard disaster.

Ron’s trunk jammed halfway through the door. Draco sneered, but when he tried to help, his own luggage nearly toppled into the corridor. Hermione scolded them both for blocking the doorway while trying not to trip over Crookshanks, who had already escaped his carrier and was attempting to climb onto the luggage rack.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione hissed, reaching up desperately.

“Honestly, that cat’s a menace,” Pansy declared, plopping down with exaggerated elegance.

“Better than your perfume,” Ron muttered, fanning the air dramatically.

“It’s called class, Weasley,” Pansy snapped back.

Before Esme could intervene, Hedwig gave a loud hoot from her cage and Crookshanks launched himself onto Ron’s lap. Ron yelped, nearly upending a Chocolate Frog box onto Draco.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Esme groaned, tugging her satchel closer to her. A loose rune slip fluttered out, glowing faintly before landing on Blaise’s knee.

He raised an eyebrow, turning it in the light. “If this thing explodes, Hawthorn, I want it noted that I didn’t volunteer.”

“Give it back,” Esme snapped, snatching it away.

Blaise smirked. “Touchy.”

Harry laughed weakly, though Esme noticed his hand was already twitching against his thigh. She filed it away. Not yet. Soon.

“Right,” she announced, standing with her arms crossed. “If we’re going to survive this trip without killing each other, we need rules.”

“Rules?” Ron looked horrified, as if she’d suggested banning Chocolate Frogs outright.

“Yes. Rule one: no hexing each other in a moving vehicle. Rule two: whoever’s closest to Hedwig if she escapes is automatically responsible. Rule three: no one, and I mean no one, touches my bag.”

“Because it might explode?” Blaise asked dryly.

“Because it will,” Esme replied.

Even Draco chuckled at that.

For a while, the noise settled into a more manageable chaos. Hermione pulled out a book, Ron opened a pack of Bertie Bott’s (regretting it immediately when he got a sardine-flavored bean), Draco and Hermione dove into an argument over Arithmancy, and Blaise pretended to nap through the entire thing.

Esme sat back, half-listening, half-feeling the threads of magic that shimmered faintly at the edges of her vision. Something was building outside.

The laughter and bickering carried them down the line until the lamps above flickered once, twice.

The temperature dropped.

Esme stiffened, eyes darting to the compartment door. She could see it now — threads of shadow-laced magic creeping like frost down the corridor.

Hermione hugged Crookshanks tighter. Ron rubbed his arms. Draco glanced at the lamp, frowning.

And Harry… Harry’s hand was clenched on his knee, knuckles white, face pale. His breath came short, too fast.

Esme slid her fingers into her satchel. “Stay calm,” she murmured.

The train lurched. Lamps sputtered. The door rattled—

And a Dementor loomed in the doorway.

The compartment drowned in shadow. Cold pressed against their skin, heavy and suffocating. Ron gasped. Hermione’s lips trembled. Pansy’s eyes went wide, and even Draco froze, wand halfway raised.

Harry’s head snapped back, eyelids fluttering. He was slipping.

Not this time.

Esme pulled a rune slip and slapped it against the wall.

Golden light flared, spilling out like a warm breath. The glow wrapped the compartment, a thin but steady shield pressing back against the creeping cold.

The Dementor hesitated, rattling breath echoing in the corridor, then drifted slowly away.

The cold ebbed. The light steadied.

Harry slumped forward, breathing hard — but he hadn’t fainted.

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

“What—what was that?” Ron gasped.

“Did you just—did you just block a Dementor?” Hermione’s voice pitched high with disbelief.

“Impossible,” Draco muttered, though his wide eyes betrayed his awe.

Blaise sat up finally, smirking faintly. “Well. That’s one way to liven up a train ride.”

Esme tucked the rune slip back into her bag. “It was just something I’ve been working on. Modified protective sequence. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?” Hermione gaped. “Esme, you just did what most adults can’t without a Patronus!”

Harry, still pale, looked at her with something like gratitude shining in his eyes.

Before Esme could reply, the door slid open again.

Not a Dementor.

Professor Lupin.

His patched robes hung loosely, and his face looked tired — but his eyes were sharp. They swept across the compartment, pausing briefly on Harry before settling on the faint rune glow still fading from the wall.

“I heard… something unusual,” Lupin said softly.

Esme’s stomach flipped.

He stepped closer, studying the traces of light. Then he turned to her, and his expression shifted — not scolding, but curious, even impressed.

“Runes,” he said simply.

Esme swallowed. “Experiments.”

“Experiments that held against a Dementor,” Lupin replied. His tone was calm, but it carried weight. “That is… remarkable work for a witch your age.”

Everyone stared at her.

Hermione looked like she’d combust with questions. Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like terrifying. Draco leaned forward, interest flashing across his features. Blaise raised his brows, clearly amused.

Esme wanted to sink through the floor.

Lupin, however, gave her the smallest of smiles. “I’ll want to speak with you later, Miss Hawthorn. Precision like that is rare. And valuable.”

Then, with a nod, he closed the door, leaving them buzzing with shock.

Ron broke the silence first. “You’re terrifying. Brilliant, but terrifying.”

That set them all laughing — nervous, relieved, jittery laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

Esme leaned back, pressing her hand against her satchel, watching Harry’s faint smile. For once, she let herself be proud.

Chapter Text

The train’s screeching whistle echoed long after the wheels ground to a halt. Steam billowed across the Hogsmeade platform in great clouds, cloaking students in a fog that made the place feel half-real, like a dream dissolving. Excited voices rose all around as doors clattered open and students spilled out, dragging trunks and owls and chatter about the Dementor attack.

Esme stepped down with the others—Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Pansy, and Blaise—her bag slung across one shoulder and her mind already buzzing with a hundred things at once. The runes she had etched had worked; they’d shielded the compartment long enough. Harry hadn’t fainted, at least. But there was no satisfaction in it. Only the heavy reminder of how close things had come.

She brushed hair from her face and realized the whispers had already started.

“That Slytherin girl—”
“No, I swear, she lit up the whole corridor—”
“She fought the Dementor, didn’t she? On her own—”
“My cousin said she’s into Dark magic—”

Esme pinched the bridge of her nose. Fantastic. She hadn’t even set foot in the castle yet and the rumor mill was already building her into something she wasn’t.

Pansy looped her arm through Esme’s, smirking. “Smile, Dark Princess. You’re famous again.”

Esme groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

But Blaise had already latched onto it.
“Oh, but it fits. Dark runes, dramatic entrances, brooding in shadowed corners—”

“I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely brood.”

Even Draco was smirking, pale hair catching the torchlight as he stepped down beside them. “I’ll admit, Hawthorn, the name has a certain poetry to it. ‘The Dark Princess of Slytherin.’ I give it a week before first-years are begging you to hex their quills as souvenirs.”

Ron snorted behind them. “Better than being ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ at least. I’d trade with you.”

Harry, red-eared and glowering, muttered, “No one’s trading titles.”

Hermione, though, shot Esme a sidelong look, serious but kind. “They’re just children exaggerating. But… what you did was extraordinary. You gave everyone else strength.”

Esme opened her mouth to argue, but a gaggle of younger Ravenclaws suddenly swarmed near, wide-eyed and whispering as though she were some forbidden legend come to life. One small boy practically tripped over his own shoelaces in his rush to look at her. Another, no older than twelve, squeaked:

“Is it true, miss? Did you make a Dementor flee?”

Esme blinked, caught off guard, before managing a stiff: “No. Absolutely not. It tripped over—over… atmospheric instability.”

The boy blinked. “What?”

Blaise coughed loudly to cover a laugh while Pansy shook with silent hysterics.

Hermione sighed. Harry muttered something about “atmospheric nonsense” and stalked on toward the carriages.

By the time they reached the towering castle doors, Esme was ready to melt into the stone itself just to escape the stares. Every table was buzzing. By the time the students flooded into the Great Hall, whispers had congealed into words that carried, bounced, and echoed.

“The Dark Princess.”

The enchanted ceiling glowed with twilight starlight and candle flames, but Esme felt like a bug pinned beneath glass.

Normally, the Sorting Feast was a chaotic, joyful mess—students reuniting, laughter spilling down the long tables, food appearing in grand abundance. Tonight, though, something was different. Instead of splitting automatically by house, the energy of the train incident seemed to have shaken the usual divides.

Students drifted, hesitated, then clumped together in new ways. Gryffindors mingled with Slytherins, Ravenclaws squeezed in beside Hufflepuffs, as though sharing proximity made them safer somehow.

And in the center of it all, the Seven.

Esme squeezed between Pansy and Blaise, while Harry dropped opposite her between Ron and Hermione. Trays of roast chicken and mountains of mashed potatoes materialized. The scent was heavenly, but Esme barely registered it—her eyes caught the clusters of first- and second-years who kept sneaking looks at her like she might sprout bat wings any second.

A brave Hufflepuff leaned in from across the table. “Is it true you cursed the Dementor’s cloak so it caught fire?”

Esme choked on pumpkin juice. “What? No!”

Ron was nearly in tears laughing. Pansy, delighted, braided a small lock of Esme’s hair like she was preparing a coronation crown.

“You’re wasting your breath, darling. Once the school decides you’re the Dark Princess, you could sneeze on someone and it’ll be called a curse.”

Draco waved his fork elegantly. “Better than being utterly forgettable.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. “You’re all impossible.”

The laughter, though, was infectious. By the time dessert appeared, Esme found herself laughing too—even as she muttered dire threats under her breath at Pansy’s relentless “Your Majesty” jokes.

But beneath the surface, a thread of unease lingered. She could feel eyes on her—not just from students, but from the staff table. Lupin, seated near Snape, had his head tilted slightly, studying her with sharp, thoughtful curiosity.

And then there was Dumbledore.

The Headmaster’s twinkling gaze met hers briefly, kindly but piercing, and Esme felt her heart lurch.

Something told her the night wasn’t over yet.

{~}

The last of the treacle tart plates vanished, leaving only crumbs and satisfied sighs across the tables. Dumbledore rose with his usual flourish, his robes catching the candlelight like ripples of midnight-blue silk. The Hall hushed, though a few whispers still buzzed about the Dementors patrolling Hogsmeade.

The Headmaster’s voice carried easily: calm, reassuring, though edged with steel.
“Welcome, my dear students, to another year at Hogwarts. I wish to address the presence of the Dementors, stationed by the Ministry for our protection. I must stress: they are dangerous creatures, not to be trifled with, and none of you are to leave the castle grounds without permission.”

A ripple of unease passed through the Hall. Esme caught Harry’s expression—jaw tight, shoulders stiff—and knew his thoughts were circling Sirius Black like a vulture.

Dumbledore went on, but Esme only half-listened. She was too aware of the stolen glances, the hushed rumors growing louder even as he spoke. “Dark Princess.” Protector against the shadows. Dangerous but useful. The labels already tangled like vines around her name.

When the feast ended and benches scraped back, Esme thought she might escape with the flow of students. She even managed halfway up the marble staircase before a voice—warm, tired, but steady—called after her.

“Miss Hawthorn. A word, if you don’t mind.”

She turned. Professor Lupin stood leaning on the banister, a faint, knowing smile on his face. His threadbare robes looked even more out of place here than they had on the train, but his eyes—the sharp, gentle sort of eyes that seemed to read the world rather than merely see it—were fixed on her.

Ron muttered to Harry, “Bet he’s going to ask how she scared off the Dementor.”

Pansy smirked. “Bet he’s going to knight her Dark Princess officially.”

Esme shot them both a glare, but her stomach flipped as she followed Lupin down a quieter corridor.

{~}

The room was small, a bit shabby compared to the grandeur of the castle, but welcoming. Books leaned two-deep on shelves, maps of stars and magical ley-lines tacked across the walls. A gramophone sat in the corner, and a faint smell of tea leaves lingered.

Lupin gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit, Miss Hawthorn. You’ve had quite the evening.”

Esme sat, suddenly aware of how restless her hands felt. She curled them in her lap, willing herself not to fidget with the rune-etched charm she’d tucked away.

Lupin lowered himself into his own chair, folding his hands. “I’ll be direct. What you did on the train—those runes—were extraordinary. Few students your age could have attempted it, let alone succeeded.”

Esme’s cheeks heated. “It was… improvised. They weren’t meant for shielding against Dementors, but—”

“—you adapted.” His eyes twinkled faintly. “That is the mark of a true witch. Not merely following spells, but shaping them, daring to experiment.”

For a moment, Esme basked in the rare praise. But then his expression sobered.

“Yet, I also noticed something else. The… flavor of the magic you used. Dark-aligned runes, yes?”

Her shoulders stiffened. The words hung heavy. Dark Princess. Whispers. Always the same story.

Esme met his gaze squarely. “Dark magic isn’t bad. Not by default. It’s just… power. Runes are runes. Intent matters more than classification. Light magic can be used for terrible things, too. Calling one side good and the other evil is—lazy.”

There was silence. Esme’s heart pounded. She knew she was being bold, maybe reckless, but she refused to back down.

Then Lupin smiled faintly, almost wistfully.
“Spoken like someone who’s seen more of the world than her years should allow.”

Esme blinked, caught off guard.

He leaned back, thoughtful. “You’re right, of course. Magic itself is neutral. But society needs categories, and categories breed prejudice. Those who work with so-called Dark arts are feared, regardless of their intent. That’s the reality you’ll face, Miss Hawthorn.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’ve already faced it. I’m facing it now.”

Lupin chuckled softly, though it was tinged with sadness. “Yes, I heard the whispers. Dark Princess, is it? Titles have a way of clinging, no matter how unwelcome.”

Esme groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I hate it. They think it makes me… dangerous. Untouchable. Like I’m meant to go dark, like I have no choice.”

Lupin’s voice softened. “And what do you believe?”

Esme lowered her hands slowly. “That choice is everything. That’s what matters. Magic, light or dark, it’s a tool. The person wielding it decides the shape of it.”

For a long moment, Lupin regarded her with something like admiration. “I wish more students thought as you do.”

He reached for a parchment, sketching a rough sigil. “Tell me—your rune on the train, the protective one. Did it resemble this?”

Esme leaned forward, eyes sparking. “Close, but not quite. I bent the axis here—” she tapped the parchment “—to reflect, rather than absorb. Otherwise, Harry would’ve been crushed by the emotional weight instead of shielded from it.”

Lupin’s eyebrows lifted. “Ingenious.”

What followed was a flood of conversation. Runes, protective wards, counter-hex matrices. Esme explained her hybrid theories, blending Arithmancy and ancient script with her own observations. Lupin listened intently, occasionally interjecting with small, precise questions that pushed her to refine her thoughts.

Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed. For the first time in ages, Esme felt seen—not as the “Dark Princess,” not as a curiosity—but as a mind, as someone worth discussing magic with on equal footing.

And then, inevitably, the conversation veered.

Lupin set his quill down, his expression turning grave. “You know, the Ministry’s patrols… they’re not merely for show. Sirius Black is truly dangerous. The Dementors will not rest until he is captured.”

Esme’s throat tightened. She forced her tone to stay light. “So the official story goes.”

Lupin studied her carefully. “Do you doubt it?”

Esme hesitated. Her knowledge of the books screamed the truth at her, but she could not reveal it. Not yet. Not here.

Instead, she met his gaze steadily. “I doubt any story that fits too neatly. That demonizes one man without question. That feels too… convenient.”

Lupin’s lips quirked. “A dangerous way to think, Miss Hawthorn. But perhaps a necessary one.”

Esme leaned forward, elbows balanced precariously on Lupin’s desk, parchment littered between them like the aftermath of a duel fought with ink instead of wands.

Lupin had an uncanny way of listening: not with polite nods or half-interested murmurs, but with intensity. His gaze sharpened when she described an alteration to the rune of Algiz; his lips twitched when she suggested splicing solar alignments into protective wards. He scribbled as though every word she spoke deserved recording.

Finally, he set his quill down and chuckled.
“You realize you’ve just given me enough material to fill half a term’s worth of Arithmancy lectures.”

Esme smirked. “You’re welcome. Feel free to cite me.”

He laughed, but his expression soon softened. “You’ve a remarkable mind, Miss Hawthorn. It’s a rare gift, seeing the structure of magic not as rigid rules, but as fluid—adaptable.”

Her chest swelled at the praise, but before she could answer, a faint commotion drifted from the corridor outside.

Voices. Laughter.

Lupin raised an eyebrow. He flicked his wand, and the door creaked open just enough to admit a trickle of sound.

“…I heard she blew smoke in a Dementor’s face.”

“No, no—my cousin swore she conjured a whole dragon out of runes—scales, fire, the lot!”

“Oh, don’t be daft. She just snapped her fingers, and poof, the Dementor ran away crying like a baby!”

The voices dissolved into giggles.

Esme dropped her head onto the desk with a groan. “Merlin’s beard.”

Lupin’s mouth twitched. “Ah. The legend grows.”

She peeked up through her arms. “This is how ‘Dark Princess’ started last time. I did one slightly flashy ward in second year, and suddenly I’m ruling a shadow kingdom, apparently.”

His lips curved into something between a smile and sympathy. “Students adore a good story. You faced a terrifying creature and walked away not only alive, but unbowed. That breeds admiration—sometimes embellishment.”

“Embellishment?” Esme sat up, glaring at the door. “They just said I made a Dementor cry. Cry!”

Lupin couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Well, if it helps, I don’t think the creature shed actual tears.”

Esme crossed her arms, muttering, “I’m going to hex the nickname onto the back of their cloaks and see how they like it.”

The professor’s laughter gentled into something warmer. “You know, sometimes ridicule is best met with humor. If you lean into it—make the title ridiculous—they may grow tired of it.”

Esme gave him a look. “You want me to embrace Dark Princess?”

His eyes glimmered. “Why not? It has a certain… ring to it. Very regal.”

“Ugh.” She buried her face in her hands again. “You’re no help.”

When her groaning subsided, Lupin reached across the desk, pushing aside the scattered parchments. “Esmeralda,” he said softly, “jokes aside… I want to ask you something more serious.”

Her stomach twisted. She straightened in her chair, wary.

He chose his words carefully. “When you spoke earlier—about doubting neat stories. About questioning the Ministry’s narrative. I wonder…” His gaze searched her face. “Do you doubt Sirius Black’s guilt?”

Esme froze. The air felt heavier, as though the shadows themselves leaned closer.

Careful, her inner voice whispered. You can’t tell him what you know. Not yet.

She folded her hands on the desk to steady them. “I doubt any story told too loudly, too often, without evidence. It feels… wrong. Convenient. Like someone wants us not to think.”

Lupin didn’t reply at once. He studied her as though weighing the truth behind her words. At last, he nodded slowly. “An uncommon perspective. And a dangerous one. But sometimes…” He trailed off, a shadow crossing his features. “…sometimes, it is the only right one.”

Esme tilted her head, curiosity prickling. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

That flicker of pain in his eyes told her more than words could. He gave a tight, weary smile. “Once upon a time.”

The silence that followed was thick, filled with unspoken history. Esme ached to bridge it, to blurt out what she knew from the books—that Sirius wasn’t guilty, that the truth was far messier—but she bit her tongue until it hurt.

Instead, she said carefully, “Maybe people aren’t always what the world says they are. Maybe the truth just takes longer to surface.”

His gaze softened. “Wise words, Miss Hawthorn. Perhaps wiser than you realize.”

The heaviness of the moment lifted when Lupin gestured back to their runes. “Now—about that reflection ward. You adjusted the axis to mirror emotional force. That was brilliant. But tell me, do you ever worry what might happen if someone used that adjustment maliciously?”

Esme leaned back, folding her arms. “That’s exactly what I mean. It’s not the rune itself. It’s what someone does with it. The Ministry bans half the runes I study because they’re ‘dark.’ But if you think about it logically, almost any spell can be twisted. Lumos can blind someone. Healing charms can be warped into overgrowth hexes. So why is one automatically good and the other evil?”

Lupin tapped a finger on the desk, thoughtful. “Because people fear what they cannot control. Dark magic often demands more from the caster—blood, sacrifice, willpower—and that frightens them. Easier to condemn it outright than risk its misuse.”

“But condemning a tool doesn’t stop misuse,” Esme shot back. “It just drives people to use it in secret. Wouldn’t it be better if everyone understood it fully? Then fewer would abuse it blindly.”

For a moment, Lupin just stared at her, and then he laughed—a soft, genuine sound. “Merlin help me, you sound exactly like…” He stopped himself, shaking his head, a wry smile lingering. “Never mind.”

Esme arched an eyebrow. “Like who?”

“Someone I once knew. Someone brilliant, stubborn, and far too comfortable questioning every rule.”

She smirked. “Sounds like my kind of person.”

{~}

By the time the clock chimed midnight, the parchment between them was a maze of half-sketched runes, annotations, and wild theories. Esme’s hand ached from scribbling, but her mind buzzed with energy.

Lupin stretched, rolling his shoulders. “I fear we’ve kept each other far too late, Miss Hawthorn. You’ll need your rest for classes tomorrow.”

Esme groaned. “Don’t remind me. McGonagall’s going to have us transfiguring pineapples into porcupines at the crack of dawn.”

“Better a porcupine than a pineapple with quills,” Lupin teased, standing.

She gathered her notes, then hesitated at the door. “Professor Lupin?”

He glanced up.

“Thanks. For… not looking at me like I’m a monster. Or a story. Or a title.”

His smile was soft, tired, but true. “You’re welcome. And Esmeralda?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let them decide what you are. Princess, prodigy, dark, light—those are just words. Your choices are what matter.”

Her throat tightened, but she managed a nod. “Goodnight, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Miss Hawthorn.”

And as she slipped from his office, the castle quiet around her, Esme’s feet didn’t turn toward the dungeons with the rest of Slytherin. Instead, she made her way down a quieter corridor—one few students ever walked.

At the end was a heavy oak door, unmarked and plain. Snape’s voice echoed in her memory: “If you must work after hours, Hawthorn, do it here. Better your chaos be contained than spilling across my classroom.”

The latch clicked open at her touch. Inside waited the room he had grudgingly granted her: shelves of old texts, a scarred worktable, and wards on the walls strong enough to handle her rune experiments.

She dropped her notes onto the table, leaned against the chair, and let out a long breath. The whispers still followed her—Dark Princess, savior, danger, heroine—but here, at least, she had silence. Here, she wasn’t a story or a title. She was just Esme.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp with the kind of September sharpness that clung to skin, making every breath feel fresher than it had any right to be. Dew glittered across the sloping lawns of Hogwarts, and the chatter of hundreds of students walking toward the first Care of Magical Creatures lesson echoed like a tide.

Esmeralda Hawthorn trolled with the other Slytherins, hands tucked in her robe sleeves, expression unreadable. But her eyes—eyes that now burned faintly with threads of rune-sight—saw more than most. Every step revealed flickers of glowing lines across the grass where the wards of the castle bled into the grounds. It was dizzying and grounding at the same time, and she had to fight not to stare at it like she’d wandered into a gallery of invisible paintings.

Blaise Zabini noticed her distracted look.
“You’re staring at the ground again,” he muttered. “Please tell me you haven’t started communing with worms.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Esme replied dryly. “Worms are better conversationalists than you lot before breakfast.”

Draco gave her a sharp look. His pale hair caught the morning light in a way that made him look even more aristocratic than usual. “I’m perfectly conversational in the mornings.”

“You just complained for ten minutes about the mud.”

“I don’t like mud,” Draco sniffed.

“Imagine my shock,” Esme muttered.

Pansy Parkinson let out a little laugh and hooked her arm through Esme’s as though they’d been friends since birth. “Don’t listen to them, darling. If mud ruined my boots, I’d be furious too. Priorities matter.”

Ahead, the Gryffindors clustered noisily, Ron Weasley gesturing wildly with his long arms as Harry and Hermione tried to calm him down. Esme’s eyes lingered on Harry a fraction longer than necessary. He looked more rested than when she’d first seen him in Diagon Alley, but the shadow around his eyes was still there. He’d been thinking about Black again—she could tell.

The chatter around them stilled as the enormous wooden cabin came into view. Smoke curled from its crooked chimney, and Fang’s booming bark made a handful of first-years flinch. And there he was—half-giant, all heart—Hagrid, beaming at them with enough pride to make even the Slytherins hesitate.

“Welcome, welcome!” Hagrid called, his beard practically bouncing with his smile.

“Got summat special for yeh today. Somethin’ noble, somethin’ beautiful—”

Blaise leaned toward Esme. “Noble and beautiful usually means fangs.”

“You’re not wrong,” she whispered back.

Hagrid led them down toward the paddock at the edge of the forest. The grass gave way to trampled earth, and Esme’s rune-sight flared—faint outlines of enchantments swirled around the posts and gates, containment wards older than Hagrid himself. And then she saw the creature.

Buckbeak stood tall in the clearing, feathers shimmering like liquid silver, wings tucked neatly but with a menace that made her heart pound. His eyes glowed sharp amber, intelligence flashing in every tilt of his head.

Esme inhaled sharply. With her rune-sight active, Buckbeak was almost unbearable to look at—threads of magic danced across his feathers like sparks in a storm. He wasn’t just alive; he was stitched with raw power, something closer to elemental force than animal.

“Magnificent,” she whispered.

“Terrifying,” Draco countered, though his voice wavered.

Hagrid clapped his massive hands together. “Right! Who wants to go first?”

The Gryffindors leaned away as one, Ron muttering something about suicide. But Hagrid’s eyes lit on Draco.

“You there, Malfoy. Yeh’ve got good posture for it. Come on up.”

Draco froze. The Slytherins turned to stare, half smirking, half appalled.

“Why me?” Draco demanded.

“Why not?” Hagrid said cheerfully,

beckoning him forward. “Jus’ bow, show respect, tha’s the trick. Hippogriffs are proud creatures. Yeh insult ’em, they’ll have yeh for dinner.”

Draco turned to the group, clearly about to launch into a tirade, when Pansy stage-whispered, “You’ll do fine, Draco darling. Show them what you’re made of.”

“Hopefully not blood,” Blaise added under his breath.

Esme bit her lip, every instinct screaming. She remembered the books. She knew who was supposed to step forward. But fate—or maybe Hagrid’s nerves—had shoved Draco into the spotlight instead.

Draco approached Buckbeak with his usual swagger, though his shoulders were stiff. He gave the barest of bows, a mocking little dip, and sneered. “There. That should be enough.”

Buckbeak’s wings flared wide, feathers rippling like steel blades. His amber eyes burned.

“Oh, brilliant,” Esme hissed.

Her rune-sight flashed in warning. Lines of raw magic surged from Buckbeak, building like pressure about to snap. Esme dropped her sleeve, fingers brushing against the earth. With a flick and a muttered word, she traced a grounding rune into the dirt—fast, imperfect, but enough.

The rune lit faintly blue. Buckbeak’s energy shifted.

Esme lunged forward, grabbing Draco’s robe and yanking him back just as the hippogriff lunged. The creature’s talons dug furrows into the dirt where Draco had stood a second earlier.

The entire class gasped.

Draco stumbled, face pale. “What—what in Merlin’s name—”

Hagrid hurried forward, flustered. “Easy, Buckbeak, easy now! No harm done—” He turned to Draco, then to Esme. His huge face softened with something like gratitude. “Good instincts, Esme. Good instincts.”

Esme straightened, brushing dirt from her hands. “Or maybe just good timing.”

Behind her, Blaise let out a low whistle. “Dark Princess saves the day. Again.”

Esme groaned. “Don’t start.”

But it was too late. The Gryffindors whispered among themselves, Harry’s green eyes wide with something like admiration, Ron muttering, “Blimey, did you see that?” Hermione scribbled furiously in her notes.

Pansy fussed over Draco, dabbing at his robes like he’d been mortally wounded. “You could have been killed, Draco!”

Draco swatted her away, cheeks pink. “I had it under control.”

“Of course you did,” Blaise said, smirking. “Control of nearly being mauled.”

Even Harry, still pale from the close call, cracked a grin.

Esme rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the flicker of warmth in her chest. She hadn’t just saved Draco—she’d shifted the story again. And Merlin help her, she’d probably made things more complicated.

{~}

The Slytherin common room was its usual blend of shadows and elegance: deep green lamps glowed against the stone walls, scales of silver flickered in the enchanted ceiling, and the sound of the Black Lake pressed like a heartbeat overhead. It was normally a place Esme could vanish in, sink into an armchair with her notes, and forget the weight of things.

Tonight, however, it was buzzing.

Clusters of students leaned close together, voices lowered but urgent. Laughter bubbled here and there, sharp whispers ricocheted off the damp stone, and every so often, Esme felt a pair of eyes snap to her before guiltily looking away.

She had been here before. This air—the air of attention, admiration, fear tangled with awe—was suffocatingly familiar.

And then she heard it:

“Did you hear? She held off a hippogriff—like it was nothing.”
“Not just any hippogriff, Buckbeak! Hagrid’s beast nearly clawed Malfoy apart.”
“She didn’t even flinch.”
“That’s why they call her the Dark Princess again—no one else has that kind of nerve.”

Esme groaned and shoved her head into her hands.

“Already?” she muttered. “It’s been three hours.”

Blaise dropped into the armchair beside her, balancing a smirk like it was fine china. “You’re surprised? You’ve resurrected a legend. All you need now is a black tiara and a dramatic cloak.”

“I will hex you into next week,” Esme mumbled into her sleeve.

Across the room, Pansy was telling a dramatically inflated version of the story to a group of second-years, her arms gesturing wildly. “—and then Buckbeak lunged, talons flashing, teeth snapping—and Esme, calm as ice, pulled Draco back with one hand, like some sort of warrior-queen—”

“Warrior-queen?” Esme muttered, peeking over the back of the chair.

Draco was pacing nearby, pale but trying to look unaffected. “It wasn’t that dramatic,” he said stiffly. “I wasn’t in any real danger.”

“Of course not,” Blaise said dryly. “That’s why you shrieked like a banshee.”

“I did not shriek!”

“You absolutely did.”

Esme smirked despite herself. “You know, Draco, I could let them keep thinking you nearly died. Might improve your reputation. ‘Survivor of the Dark Princess’ heroics.’”

His glare could have cut glass. “If you think I’ll thank you—”

“You won’t,” Esme cut in, lifting her chin. “That’s fine. I didn’t do it for you.”

That quieted him. A handful of the whispers nearby stilled, students leaning in closer. Esme felt heat crawling up her neck. Great. She’d just made herself look more mysterious. Again.

A younger boy, maybe a second-year, finally gathered courage and approached. His face was pale, eyes wide. “Is it true?” he asked in a whisper. “Did you—did you really stop a hippogriff with your magic?”

Esme blinked at him, then leaned closer, lowering her voice into something conspiratorial. “No.”

The boy’s face fell. “Oh.”

“I stopped Malfoy. That’s different. Much easier. Less claws.”

Blaise snorted so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Draco, however, looked like he was about to combust.

The boy hesitated, but the story had already taken root. Behind him, another voice said: “Doesn’t matter—she still did it. No one else even moved.”
And another: “That’s why she’s different. She doesn’t wait for orders.”
And another: “It’s power. Old power. You can see it in her eyes.”

Esme slumped deeper into her chair, glaring at the firelight. Dark Princess. She’d been trying to bury that ridiculous nickname since her first year, when one ill-timed display of dueling skill had spiraled into myth. Now it was back, stronger than ever.

And she hated how part of her didn’t hate it.

“Don’t look so grim,” Blaise said lazily, resting his chin on his hand. “You could build a dynasty with this reputation.”

“I don’t want a dynasty. I want peace and quiet.”

“Those two rarely mix,” Blaise replied, clearly enjoying himself.

From the far side of the room, Pansy’s voice floated again: “—and that’s why no one crosses her. Dark Princess of Slytherin, back from the shadows.”

The title stuck like a burr in Esme’s ear.

She groaned aloud, dragging a pillow over her face. “Kill me now.”

Draco folded his arms. “If you hate it so much, maybe don’t throw yourself in front of rampaging monsters.”

“Next time,” Esme said from under the pillow, “I’ll let you be shredded. Promise.”

“Fine by me,” Draco huffed, though his voice was thin.

Blaise smirked, eyes glinting. “Ah, nothing like friendship in Slytherin House.”

{~}

The castle always seemed louder after something unusual happened. Hogwarts had a way of feeding on rumor the way a fire fed on dry tinder, and lately every corridor Esme walked through seemed to spark with whispers in her wake.

It was becoming… exhausting.

She tried walking with her chin up, expression carefully neutral, but it didn’t stop the murmurs drifting like smoke behind her:

“That’s her—she faced a Dementor without fainting.”
“No, no, she summoned a Patronus the size of a bloody hippogriff!”
“My cousin in Hufflepuff swears she drew a rune in the air and the Dementor exploded.”

Esme pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “Exploded? Really? What am I now, fireworks?”

Beside her, Blaise gave a lazy smirk. “Careful, Princess. If you glare too hard, they’ll say you can set people on fire with your eyes.”

Esme groaned. “Do not call me that.”

“Dark Princess,” Blaise said immediately, as if tasting the words like a fine wine. “Yes, it suits you. Regal, terrifying, adored from afar—”

“I’ll hex you into next week,” Esme shot back, though her ears burned.

The worst part wasn’t the gossip itself—it was how people looked at her. Younger students, especially first- and second-years, stared at her like she was some mythical creature who walked off the pages of a storybook. Some even trailed after her between classes, tugging nervously on their sleeves before daring to ask, “How did you do it? Can you teach me?”

And Esme, who had no patience for sycophants, was trapped in the ridiculous position of waving them off without snarling outright. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know she’d been improvising with runes, half-scared out of her mind, desperately keeping Harry upright.

“See?” Blaise continued, ignoring the way Esme’s jaw clenched. “An idol in her natural habitat. Worshippers in the wild. If you sign autographs now, you might make a profit.”

“Blaise Zabini,” she hissed, “if you don’t shut up, I’ll make you my first public execution.”

“Oh, dramatic. Very on-brand.” He winked.

Draco, striding just ahead of them, threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Do you two mind? You’re attracting even more attention.”

“I’m not the one cackling about royalty,” Esme muttered.

But Draco wasn’t wrong. A pair of Hufflepuffs peeked around the corner of the corridor, whispering furiously to each other. Esme caught the words “Dark Princess” again and bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to sting.

The name was supposed to be gone—buried dramatics, a silly nickname whispered by rivals and twisted into an insult. She had nearly forgotten it until now. But the Dementor incident had dragged it right back into the sunlight.

It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for the attention, hadn’t wanted it. All she’d done was try to keep Harry from collapsing. But Hogwarts loved nothing better than turning people into symbols—heroes, villains, caricatures.

And now they wanted her to be one.

{~}

The Great Hall at breakfast wasn’t much better. The long tables buzzed like a beehive. Gryffindors craned their necks to watch her walk past. Ravenclaws scribbled furiously in notebooks as if cataloguing her every move.

Even the Slytherins—her own house—weren’t subtle.

“Oi, Princess!” a sixth-year called as Esme slid into her seat. “Any chance you’ll duel me later? I want to see how quick you can take me down.”

Esme raised her spoon deliberately, scooped porridge, and said flatly, “You wouldn’t last ten seconds.”

The table erupted in laughter. The sixth-year flushed but didn’t press it.

Draco leaned close, muttering, “You should stop feeding it. You’ll just encourage them.”

“What do you suggest? Ignore them until they riot?”

“Act like it’s beneath you,” Draco said primly. “It works for me.”

Blaise coughed. “That’s because everyone knows you’d cry if you broke a nail, Draco.”

Draco’s glare could have curdled milk. Esme smirked into her porridge.

Still, she couldn’t deny Draco had a point. The more she snapped, the more entertaining she became to the gossip mill. But she also wasn’t the type to let people walk all over her. It was a delicate balance, and one she was rapidly losing patience for.

A group of first-years shuffled up the bench, eyes wide, clutching notebooks. Esme groaned inwardly. She already knew what they were going to say.

“Miss Hawthorn?” one squeaked. “Could you… maybe… tell us how to fight a Dementor?”

Esme paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Step one,” she said seriously. “Don’t.”

Their faces fell.

“Step two,” she added with a wicked glint, “run faster than the person next to you.”

Blaise choked on his pumpkin juice. Draco covered his mouth to hide a smirk. The first-years looked scandalized, muttered something about “not very heroic,” and scurried away.

Esme finally allowed herself a grin. At least she could still amuse herself.

But even as she bantered, her chest tightened with unease. The whispers weren’t just about Dementors anymore. They were about her. About her name.

The Dark Princess.

She had been trying to bury that label, to build a reputation on her own terms. But now it was crawling back up from the grave.

She could already imagine how bad it might get if she didn’t stop it.

And worse—she could feel eyes on her. Watching. Measuring.

Lupin’s curious gaze in the train compartment. Snape’s calculating frown when he let her slip into his side room. Even McGonagall, who seemed too perceptive by half.

She clenched her jaw and pushed her porridge away.

“Where are you going?” Blaise asked.

“To hex the next person who calls me Princess,” she muttered, sweeping out of the Hall before anyone could follow.

{~}

The day of September 23rd should have passed like any other. Esme intended it to.

She woke at her usual hour, pulled on her robes, and headed to breakfast with her usual practiced scowl that warned people off. Not once did she mention the date. Not to Blaise. Not to Draco. Certainly not to Harry or Hermione. She had made it two whole years without anyone discovering her birthday, and she planned to make it a third.

Birthdays were a weakness. They invited attention, sentimentality, the kind of vulnerability Esme loathed. Hogwarts was already suffocating her with the “Dark Princess” nonsense. She refused to hand them more fuel.

But Hogwarts, as usual, had other plans.

It happened in Charms. Flitwick was hopping excitedly along the front bench, explaining a particularly complicated levitation charm when he suddenly paused, peered down at his roll of parchment, and exclaimed:

“Ah, Miss Hawthorn! Happy Birthday!”

The room went silent. Dead silent.

Esme froze, wand halfway raised. Her stomach dropped. He did not just—

“Birthday?” Hermione’s head snapped around, eyes wide. “Esme, is it really—?”

Ron nearly choked on the quill he was chewing. Harry looked stunned. Draco groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face. Blaise burst into a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

And then the whispering began.

“It’s her birthday?”
“The Dark Princess has a birthday?”
“Wait, what do we do—celebrate or sacrifice something?”

Esme shut her eyes. Kill me now.

“Uh,” Flitwick stammered, oblivious to the rising chaos, “perhaps I shouldn’t have—well, no matter, many happy returns, dear girl!”

That was it. The class erupted.

Hermione was already scribbling a note furiously. Ron bellowed across the room, “Oi, twins! Did you hear that?” and George and Fred—conveniently already eavesdropping through the door—charged in shouting, “Birthday party!”

“No,” Esme said firmly. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”

Too late.

By dinner, the entire school knew.

{~}

The Great Hall that evening was transformed.

She walked in, hoping to melt into the shadows at the Slytherin table, only to stop dead. A massive banner hung overhead, shimmering with charmed silver letters:

“Happy Birthday, Princess of Darkness!”

Esme groaned so loudly several first-years squeaked. “Oh for Merlin’s sake.”

The tables themselves were laden with cakes and puddings that had definitely not been on the menu five minutes ago. Someone—most likely the twins—had bewitched the candles to float around her head in a glowing crown. Luna Lovegood was waving a glittering streamer at her serenely, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Surprise!” came the shout. From everyone. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws—even her fellow Slytherins. Ginny was on her feet clapping, Neville offered her a bashful smile, and Harry—traitor that he was—looked like he was fighting laughter.

“I hate you all,” Esme muttered.

“Speech!” someone yelled.

“Dance!” someone else cried.

“Sacrifice a goat!” came a particularly enthusiastic suggestion from the Hufflepuff table.

Esme pressed her palms to her face.

The worst part? They had organized.

There was cake. A massive, three-tier cake charmed to flicker between house colors every thirty seconds. The top read “Esme the Enigmatic” in sparkler-writing. Fred swore it was George’s idea. George swore it was Fred’s.

There were presents too. Piles of them. Books wrapped in neat paper from Hermione, a strange glowing rock from Luna, a box that hissed ominously from the twins. Draco presented his gift with an air of disgusted obligation (“Mother insisted”) but Blaise’s was insufferably smug.

“Happy Birthday, Princess,” Blaise purred, handing her a silver pendant shaped like a crown.

“If I throw this at your head,” Esme said sweetly, “will you finally shut up?”

“Worth it.”

Of course, the professors had noticed. McGonagall sat at the high table, lips twitching as though she were desperately suppressing a smile. Snape’s expression was unreadable—though when Esme caught his eye, he inclined his head the tiniest fraction, as if to say Endure it. This too shall pass.

But it didn’t pass.

Because the whole school was enjoying themselves.

The Gryffindors dragged her into their laughter, Ginny insisting she try on a ridiculous paper crown. The Slytherins egged her on to give a sarcastic toast. Even Neville shyly offered her a flower from the greenhouses.

And though she glared, though she threatened, though she swore under her breath—part of her chest warmed despite herself. She wasn’t used to being… celebrated. She wasn’t used to people gathering not out of fear, or rumor, or competition, but simply because they wanted her there.

It was mortifying. It was overwhelming.

But it was also… kind of nice.

She didn’t admit that out loud, of course. She simply smirked, raised her goblet, and said dryly, “Fine. If I must make a speech—thank you. Now please never do this again.”

Naturally, they all cheered anyway.

Esme stood there, goblet in hand, glaring out at a sea of expectant faces. Every single person in the Great Hall had gone quiet. Even Peeves was hovering overhead, stuffing a balloon into his mouth as if waiting for her to say something worth interrupting.

She took a slow sip of pumpkin juice, just to make them sweat.

Finally, she sighed dramatically.

“Well,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip, “congratulations. You’ve achieved the impossible. Hogwarts’ greatest mystery has been solved—not how to sneak past Filch, not how to win the House Cup, not even how to survive a year with Lockhart.” She paused, raising a brow. “No. You’ve discovered the date I was born.”

The hall erupted into laughter. Someone at the Gryffindor table clapped.

Esme tilted her head, pretending to look unimpressed. “I hope you’re all very proud of yourselves. Truly groundbreaking detective work. Aurors everywhere should be taking notes.”

More laughter. The twins whooped and banged on the table.

She continued, her smirk widening slightly. “Now, what exactly are you celebrating? That I’ve survived another year of your nonsense? Or that you’ve survived another year of me?”

“Both!” shouted Lee Jordan, earning cheers.

Esme rolled her eyes but let the corner of her mouth twitch. “Touching. Truly.” She set her goblet down on the nearest platter. “But since apparently there’s no escaping this circus… fine. A toast.”

She lifted the goblet again, standing straighter now. Her voice softened—just a fraction.

“To the idiots who planned this,” she said, looking directly at Fred and George, who bowed in unison. “To the brave souls who bought me presents I will probably never use—Except maybe Hermione’s?—and to those who insisted on plastering ‘Princess of Darkness’ across my head like some sort of cursed tiara…” She glanced at Blaise, who smirked knowingly.

Her eyes swept the hall, lingering briefly on Harry, on Draco, on Ginny and Neville and Luna, before landing back on her own table.

“…thank you. For proving that birthdays don’t have to be dreadful. Just mildly humiliating.”

The cheer that went up rattled the enchanted ceiling. Even McGonagall was clapping, though she disguised it as adjusting her sleeve.

Esme raised her goblet higher. “Now please eat the cake so I don’t have to look at it anymore.”

The hall roared, and just like that, the tension broke. Food was cut, presents were unwrapped, and Esme—despite her grumbling—was swept into the middle of it all, trapped between Ginny shoving a crown on her head and Luna explaining why wrackspurts always attend birthday parties.

{~}

The noise of the Great Hall celebration finally faded into silence. Candles guttered out, crumbs littered the tables, and Filch was still muttering about scorch marks and confetti explosions. Esme thought she’d managed her escape cleanly, slipping into the dark corridors with only the echo of her boots for company.

But she should have known better.

Because when she turned into one of the quieter classrooms near the library, seven familiar figures were waiting—like they’d planned it.

Harry. Ron. Hermione. Draco. Blaise. Pansy.

And, unfortunately, herself.

Esme stopped in the doorway, arms crossed. “Absolutely not.”

Ron grinned. “Absolutely yes.”

Pansy smirked, tugging her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. “You didn’t think we’d let you sulk off and brood alone, did you? Brooding’s our thing.”

“Correction,” Blaise drawled, stretching lazily against the window ledge, “brooding is Draco and Esme’s thing. Pansy’s is complaining. Mine is looking good while doing nothing.”

“Tragically accurate,” Draco muttered.

Hermione stepped forward with a conjured basket full of stolen sweets. “We thought you’d prefer something smaller. Quieter. Just us.”

“Define quieter,” Esme said flatly.

“Less shouting, no singing, and Blaise isn’t allowed to summon more confetti,” Harry said with the voice of someone who had already suffered too much today.

“…fine.” Esme pushed into the room, trying not to look like she secretly appreciated it.

They sprawled onto conjured cushions and desks dragged into a circle. A few floating candles glowed warm against the stone walls. Someone—probably Hermione—had snuck butterbeer and pumpkin pasties from the kitchens.

Almost immediately, the arguing began.

Ron told a story about Snape’s robes catching on fire during Potions two ago, which had Pansy howling with laughter and

Draco pretending to be offended until Blaise muttered, “You laughed hardest when it happened.”

Hermione was halfway through correcting Ron’s details when Pansy interrupted with a story of her own about a disastrous Slytherin holiday party involving a charmed mistletoe that wouldn’t come down. Harry nearly spit butterbeer at the image of Draco trapped under it with Crabbe.

The noise rolled into chaos, the kind of chaos that only came from people who knew each other too well.

At one point, Blaise leaned toward Draco and Esme with a sly look. Without warning, the three of them shifted into French.

“Tu paries combien qu’ils pensent qu’on parle de secrets?” Blaise murmured with a smirk. (How much do you bet they think we’re whispering secrets?)

“Évidemment,” Draco replied smoothly. “On pourrait parler de gâteaux, et ils paniqueraient quand même.” (Obviously. We could be talking about cake, and they’d still panic.)

Esme’s lips quirked. “Alors parlons de gâteaux. Beaucoup de glaçage.” (Then let’s talk about cake. Lots of icing.)

Ron’s head snapped up. “Oi! No fair. What are you saying?”

“International culture,” Blaise said sweetly.

“You’re definitely insulting us,” Harry muttered.

“Absolument,” Esme said innocently.

Pansy cackled. “I like it better this way—your faces are priceless.”

Hermione groaned, but her eyes were sparkling.

{~}

The night stretched long.

They ate. They teased. They dared each other into ridiculous confessions (Ron admitting he once tried to charm his hair into spikes, Pansy admitting she hexed Crabbe’s quill just to watch him panic during an exam, Esme reluctantly admitting she once fell asleep in the library and woke up covered in doodles courtesy of Blaise).

It was ridiculous. It was loud.

It was… warm.

Eventually, the laughter tapered off. They lay in a loose circle on the cushions, the butterbeer bottles empty, the candlelight flickering low.

Harry broke the quiet first. “You know… today wasn’t bad.”

Esme raised a brow. “For me or for you?”

“For all of us,” he said softly. “It’s good to… celebrate things. Even if you don’t think you deserve it.”

Her chest tightened.

Hermione, ever steady, reached over and squeezed her hand. “You do deserve it.”

Ron nodded, uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah. Even if you’re terrifying.”

“Mostly terrifying,” Blaise corrected.

“Utterly terrifying,” Pansy added, grinning.

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue—his shoulder pressed subtly against Esme’s, grounding her.

For a moment, silence. A strange, heavy silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… true.

And then Pansy ruined it. “Group hug!” she declared, lunging forward.

“No,” Esme said instantly.

“Yes,” Pansy insisted, dragging Blaise into it.

Ron dove in gleefully, Hermione sighed but joined, Harry pulled Draco with him despite Draco’s loud complaints, and within seconds Esme was buried under six other bodies in the messiest, loudest tangle of arms Hogwarts had ever seen.

“Get—off—me—” she gasped, but there was laughter in her voice.

“You love it,” Blaise said smugly, half-smothered under Ron’s elbow.

Harry’s muffled voice came through the chaos. “Dark Princess or not—you’re stuck with us now.”

And for once, Esme didn’t argue.

She let herself sink into the warmth of them all, eyes closed, lips twitching into the smallest, most dangerous smile.

Maybe birthdays weren’t so dreadful after all.

Chapter Text

Esmeralda Hawthorn had always been obsessive. It was a word people whispered about her—half insult, half grudging respect—but none of them understood. To Esme, obsession wasn’t weakness; it was survival. It was how she sharpened herself into something untouchable.

And right now, her obsession had a single name: the dementors.

She replayed it constantly in her mind—the way the air had grown icy, the way Harry had nearly collapsed, the way her own hastily carved runes had flared just brightly enough to hold the creature back. She had held it off, yes, but barely. Barely wasn’t good enough. Barely meant next time Harry might die. Barely meant she wasn’t in control.

So Esme spent her days and nights working on her wall.

{~}

It began in the abandoned classroom Snape had quietly allowed her to use. A dusty chamber near the dungeons, forgotten except for a few broken desks and cobweb-draped portraits. She had scrubbed the stone walls clean herself, then chalked the first set of runes across the northern surface.

But what she saw when the runes came alive—that was what shook her.

Magic was no longer invisible to her. Ever since that night, her sight had sharpened. If she concentrated, the air shimmered with currents of power, like threads of light drifting in unseen streams. Different charms left different hues—Hermione’s were a precise gold, Draco’s sharp silver, Harry’s wild green. And her runes, when she breathed power into them, burned a deep, dangerous violet.

Her first wall wasn’t a wall at all. It cracked, flickered, sagged. When Blaise walked in uninvited and tapped it with a quill, it shattered like brittle glass.

“Marvelous,” he’d drawled. “You’ve invented… glowing graffiti.”

Esme threw a book at his head.

She tried again. And again. Days blurred together. Parchment covered with sketches of bind-runes littered her desk. She tested configurations, layering defensive glyphs over stabilizing anchors. The more she worked, the more her vision sharpened. She could see how each rune tugged at the ambient currents, pulling them into shape.

But there was a problem. Walls weren’t natural to magic. Shields, barriers—those existed in spells. But a continuous wall,spanning wide enough to keep a dementor from breaching a Quidditch pitch?

That required bending flows of magic into something rigid, almost architectural.

Magic resisted rigidity. Magic liked movement.

Esme liked breaking rules.

{~}

It was on the third evening she was chalking when the door creaked open.

“I wondered why this room always smelled of chalk dust these days,” came a gentle, tired voice.

Esme turned sharply. Lupin stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes scanning the glowing lattice across the wall.

She bristled instinctively. “Spying, Professor?”

“Hardly. I was patrolling.” His gaze softened. “You’ve been working on this since the dementor attack, haven’t you?”

Esme didn’t answer.

Lupin stepped closer, studying the runes with keen interest. For a moment, his mild expression dropped, replaced by the sharp focus of a man who recognized rare talent.

“You’re weaving stability glyphs into barrier wards. Ambitious. Most advanced curse-breakers take years to attempt this.”

Esme scowled. “Most curse-breakers aren’t me.”

Lupin chuckled quietly. “True.” He tilted his head, as though debating how much to press. “Tell me, Esme—why a wall?”

Her jaw tightened. She hated explaining herself. Hated that it might sound sentimental. But the words slipped out anyway. “Because a shield protects one person. A wall can protect everyone. Harry won’t survive another collapse if one of those creatures gets too close.”

For a long moment, Lupin simply watched her. There was something unreadable in his gaze—not pity, not admiration, but something quieter. Recognition.

He smiled faintly. “Carry on, Miss Hawthorn. I look forward to seeing how far you get.”

And just like that, he left.

Esme stood frozen, chalk in hand, cheeks hot. She didn’t know whether she hated or liked the fact that Lupin understood.

{~}

Word, of course, leaked. Blaise and Draco made sure of it.

When Esme dragged herself into Potions the next morning with chalk still smudged on her fingers, Draco leaned over with a smirk.

“Tell me, Princess,” he whispered, “does decorating dungeon walls with glowing squiggles count as art or madness?”

Blaise, lounging beside him, added, “If she starts drawing little hearts and flowers, we’ll know she’s gone completely off the rails.”

Esme shot them both a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Mock all you want. When a dementor comes for your soul, don’t expect me to expand the wall wide enough to cover your arrogant heads.”

Draco only grinned wider. “Oh, so it’s selective? A designer wall. How very Slytherin.”

Harry, sitting nearby, looked at Esme curiously. “You’re really doing this? Building a wall?”

Esme ignored him, stirring her potion with extra force. Blaise caught Harry’s baffled expression and smirked. “She’s mad, Potter. Brilliant, but mad. You’ll get used to it.”

Despite their teasing, Esme persisted. Each night she returned to her classroom, refining, layering, testing. And slowly—slowly—the wall began to hold.

When she pushed magic into it now, the runes flared and locked together, forming a translucent sheet of violet light that rippled but didn’t break. The flows bent, reluctant but contained. She could see it with her eyes: a net of currents stretched tight across the stone.

For the first time, she felt it. Strength.

She stood before her creation, chest heaving, violet light washing over her face. Her wall wasn’t perfect. Not yet. But it was no longer a dream.

And she swore to herself, silently, fiercely: the next time a dementor came for Harry Potter, it would find Esmeralda Hawthorn standing in its way.

{~}

The castle hummed like a hive. It was all anyone could talk about.

“Hogsmeade this, Hogsmeade that,” Blaise muttered at breakfast, stabbing his eggs with the bored elegance of someone who pretended he didn’t care but was already compiling a mental shopping list. “Honestly, half the school acts as if it’s a second Christmas.”

“Because it is,” Pansy said with a toss of her hair. “Do you know how many exclusive boutiques are in Hogsmeade? Quality shoes, Blaise. Wizarding silk. And—oh—Honeydukes has a new line of imported fudge. French.”

Blaise perked up slightly. “French, you say?”

Draco smirked. “And here I thought you were immune to the allure of common sugar.”

“I said French, Draco,” Blaise sniffed. “It doesn’t count as common if it’s imported.”

At the Gryffindor table, Harry sat silent. No fudge, no jokes, no eager chatter about Zonko’s. Just his fork pushing at his eggs. His friends noticed, but it was Esme who caught the weight of it.

She knew why. She also knew she was not about to let the Chosen One mope while everyone else had the time of their lives.

And so the idea was born.

{~}

That evening, Esme burst into the Slytherin niche by the library with wild determination in her eyes.

“I need parchment. The good kind. And someone with decent handwriting.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Should I even ask?”

“Forged permission slips,” Esme announced triumphantly. “Harry’s going to Hogsmeade, whether the world likes it or not.”

Blaise nearly dropped his quill. “You’re insane.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Insane, yes. Entertaining, also yes. Carry on.”

Pansy tilted her head, intrigued. “And you want to forge McGonagall’s signature? Darling, you’d have better luck charming a Hungarian Horntail into wearing lace.”

Esme grinned. “That’s why I need you lot.”

They commandeered Esme’s rune-filled classrooms after hours. Desks were littered with parchment, quills, and at least four bottles of ink (because Esme kept knocking them over). Harry and Hermione had been dragged along too, Harry because he was the victim in need of rescue, Hermione because Esme claimed they needed “a moral compass.”

Hermione had been regretting it ever since.

“This is illegal!” she whispered furiously as Esme hunched over the first attempt. “Fraudulent! Against school policy! Against the law! If a Ministry official—”

“Relax, Granger,” Draco drawled. “It’s not like the Ministry cares about Potter unless he’s dying.”

“True,” Blaise murmured. “And even then it’s a coin toss.”

Harry tried to hide his grin behind his hand.

Esme, meanwhile, was wrestling her quill like it was a wild creature. “Snape’s signature is all sharp lines and doom, right? Easy.”

She scrawled something that looked like… a pile of sticks hit by lightning.

Blaise leaned over. “That looks like a first-year practicing Ancient Runes with a broken wrist.”

Pansy, biting back a smirk, tapped the parchment. “Darling, you’ve given him too much flair. Snape doesn’t flourish. He skulks. Think spider, not swan.”

Esme glared. “Fine. Then McGonagall’s.”

Her second attempt was… ambitious. Loops everywhere, curls twisting into each other. By the end it looked like a peacock had exploded on the page.

Draco actually snorted. “If McGonagall ever sees that, she’ll expel you on principle. Not for fraud—just for artistic insult.”

Harry was laughing now, full-bodied and shameless. He hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

Hermione, however, looked like she might faint. “I can’t believe I’m watching this. I should leave. I should—”

“You won’t,” Blaise interrupted smoothly, taking the quill from Esme. “Because you want to see me do it better.”

Blaise’s first attempt at McGonagall’s signature was so elegant that even Draco paused.

“…that might actually work.”

“Of course it would,” Blaise said smugly, blowing lightly on the ink. “I don’t do mediocrity.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and plucked the quill. “Please. McGonagall’s letters are taller. Straighter. She doesn’t waste space. Watch.”

Her version was, infuriatingly, also quite good.

Hermione’s eyes bulged. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

Esme crossed her arms. “Fine. You two can do McGonagall. I’ll stick to Snape.”

She tried again. This time, the parchment ended up with a huge ink blot right in the middle.

Harry laughed so hard he wheezed, sliding halfway off his chair. “That—oh no—that looks like Snape stepped in ink and tracked it across the parchment.”

Draco leaned back with a smirk. “Honestly, Potter, that’s closer than her first attempt.”

Even Pansy cracked, hiding her giggle behind a dainty hand.

{~}

Despite Hermione’s protests, they pressed ahead. Saturday morning arrived, and Esme led the “mission team” toward the Entrance Hall.

Harry walked stiffly beside her, face pale with nerves but eyes glittering with amusement. Blaise and Draco followed, Pansy strolling gracefully behind them like this was all her idea. Hermione trailed in the back, muttering furiously under her breath about “consequences” and “jail time.”

At the doors stood Filch, bony hands outstretched for permission slips.

Esme, with the confidence of a queen, shoved the forged slip at him.

Filch squinted. “Hmm. Don’t look right, this one. A bit smudged.”

Esme gasped dramatically. “Smudged? Smudged? How dare you. Professor McGonagall was in a rush when she signed that! She’s a very busy woman—meetings, tartan, discipline—her ink was barely dry!”

Filch blinked, confused.

“And Professor Snape—” she added quickly, “—signed it too, but you know how he is. Very minimalist. Hardly visible. A true master of subtlety.”

Draco coughed into his hand. “Yes. That sounds exactly like Snape.”

Filch’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be takin’ this up with—”

“Good morning, Mr. Filch.”

The voice froze them all.

Professor McGonagall stood there, arms folded, eyes sharp as knives.

Esme pasted on her brightest smile. “Professor! How fortuitous. We were just discussing your… exquisite penmanship.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Miss Hawthorn. Why is Mr. Potter’s permission slip in your hands?”

The silence was deafening. Blaise looked ready to collapse from suppressed laughter. Draco’s smirk was lethal. Hermione had her face buried in her hands, whispering I told you so like a mantra. Pansy, to Esme’s horror, was outright beaming.

Esme took a deep breath. “Because… I was testing Filch. Yes. Testing him. You know. An educational experiment in vigilance. For the safety of Hogwarts.”

Harry’s shoulders shook as he laughed into his sleeve.

McGonagall’s eyes flicked to the parchment. One look and she knew. With the kind of sigh only decades of teaching could produce, she plucked the slip from Filch’s hands.

“Miss Hawthorn,” she said crisply, “if you spent as much energy on your essays as you do on your mischief, you’d already be Head Girl.”

Esme grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Harry burst into helpless laughter, echoing off the stone walls.

Even Pansy couldn’t hold it back anymore. She slipped her arm through Esme’s, shaking with amusement. “Oh, darling. Dark Princess of Forgery. You’ve outdone yourself.”

{~}

The group hug had barely broken apart when the common room door creaked open.

A familiar voice cut through the soft quiet:

“Oi! What’s this? A party I wasn’t invited to?”

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, red-faced and windblown from the trek down to the dungeons. He looked between Harry, Hermione, and the cluster of Slytherins with his usual mix of suspicion and confusion.

Harry perked up immediately. “Ron! You found it!”

“Found it? Took me three wrong turns and one very angry suit of armor,” Ron grumbled, stomping inside. “Honestly, who builds a school like this? And why are you all crammed in together like you’ve discovered the meaning of life without me?”

Blaise raised a lazy brow. “We tried. Turns out the meaning of life is treacle tarts and forgery. You missed it.”

“Forgery?” Ron blinked. His gaze darted to Harry, who was trying not to grin too hard. “You forged McGonagall’s signature without me?!”

Esme smirked, delighted by his outrage. “Technically, I forged it. You would’ve just eaten the evidence.”

Ron’s ears went pink. “That’s not fair! I could’ve… I could’ve… held the parchment.”

Pansy clapped her hands dramatically. “Yes, yes, everyone knows your handwriting is completely illegible. You’d have given us away in an instant.”

Hermione sniffed. “He shouldn’t have been involved at all! None of you should have.”

Ron shot her a look. “Don’t start, Hermione. If Esme pulled it off, it would’ve been brilliant.”

“She didn’t pull it off,” Hermione reminded him sharply.

Ron dropped into the armchair beside Harry with a dramatic sigh. “Still sounds like the best day I’ve missed all term.”

From there, the teasing began.

“You should’ve seen Filch’s face,” Harry said, eyes sparkling with laughter. “He actually squinted at the parchment like it was some kind of rare artifact.”

“And then McGonagall came up behind him,” Blaise added smugly. “Nearly gave Esme a heart attack.”

“It didn’t!” Esme protested. “I was calm.”

Draco coughed. “You squeaked.”

“I did not squeak!”

“You squeaked,” Pansy confirmed with relish.

Ron groaned. “I really missed this? All I got was a chocolate frog and Seamus telling me Zonko’s had new dungbombs.”

Neville, quiet until then, offered him a tart from the dwindling tray. “You can still have dessert.”

Ron took it with all the gravitas of someone accepting a consolation prize.

Eventually, even Ron settled into the circle, his initial annoyance fading as the warmth of the group pulled him in. He leaned against Harry’s chair, tossing crumbs at Draco until Pansy smacked him on the shoulder.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered.

Ron grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

And for once, Draco didn’t bite back. He just shook his head, muttering something about Gryffindors being hopeless.

{~}

As the night wore on, the group naturally shifted closer again—this time with Ron wedged firmly in the mix.

The seven of them, tangled together in the flickering green light, were loud and messy and ridiculous. They argued, they teased, they laughed too hard, and somehow ended up in another clumsy group hug that left Ron half-crushed beneath Blaise and Hermione.

“Oi—someone get Zabini off me!” Ron wheezed.

“No,” Blaise replied, entirely comfortable.

Harry laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.

And for the first time since summer, it didn’t matter where they sat, or what houses they belonged to, or what lines were supposed to divide them. They were together, and that was enough.

{~}

The Gryffindor common room felt like it was buzzing that Saturday morning. The kind of restless, holiday buzz that came before a trip or a feast — except it wasn’t Christmas or Halloween, it was Hogsmeade.

Scarves were being wrapped, gloves dug out of trunks, and every other word floating through the air was Zonko’s or Honeydukes.

Harry sat in the corner of a sofa, trying not to glower too hard at the fireplace. His arms were folded, chin resting on them, while Ron and Hermione bustled nearby with their coats. Ron was halfway through rhapsodizing about the shelves of sweets at Honeydukes when he caught sight of Harry’s expression and faltered.

“...Sorry, mate,” he mumbled. “Wish you could come with us.”

Harry forced a nod. “Yeah. I’ll just… be here.”

Ron fidgeted, clearly torn between staying and bolting off to butterbeer with Hermione. Hermione looked sympathetic but firm — she wasn’t about to let Ron miss the trip because of Harry’s bad luck with guardians.

Before either could say anything, the portrait hole opened and in drifted Esme Hawthorn like she’d been summoned by fate or maybe just mischief. She wasn’t wearing her cloak. In fact, she looked as though she had absolutely no intention of going anywhere.

“Room for one professional sulker?” she asked casually, plopping herself down on the other half of Harry’s sofa without waiting for permission.

Harry blinked at her. “You’re not going?”

“Mm, no. I could,” she said airily, “but I thought, why bother with a quaint little wizarding village when I can sit here with you and critique your sulking form? You’re really going for the tragic orphan angle, aren’t you?”

Ron snorted. “Better you than me,” he muttered, tugging Hermione toward the door. “See you later, Harry.”

Hermione added warmly, “We’ll bring you something back!” before disappearing out the portrait hole.

Harry sagged back against the sofa. “You didn’t have to stay.”

Esme kicked her feet up on the low table, crossing her ankles. “Of course I did. Can’t have you brooding yourself into early wrinkles. Think of your future Quidditch posters. The fans deserve your smooth forehead.”

Harry stared at her, then let out a reluctant laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True.” She tilted her head toward him. “But I’m also an expert at sulking. Watch and learn, Potter.”

She leaned back dramatically, draping her arm across her forehead like some swooning actress. Her sigh was so over-the-top that a pair of second-years passing by gave her a wide berth, whispering.

Harry couldn’t help it — he laughed harder, the sound bubbling out before he could stop it. It felt good. Too good.

Esme peeked at him from under her arm. “See? You’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to look like life has abandoned you. Instead, you look like you just found a sickle in your pocket.”

Harry wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here I am, sacrificing a perfectly good afternoon of Honeydukes’ chocolate frogs to keep you company.”

Something warm pricked at Harry’s chest. He didn’t know how to thank her — not really. The thought of everyone else outside, laughing together, while he stayed locked away in Hogwarts because Uncle Vernon couldn’t be bothered… it burned. But Esme’s choice to sit here, to tease him until he laughed, dulled the sting.

“Why?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Esme shrugged, pretending it was no big deal. “Because you’d mope, and it’d be tragic, and then I’d have to listen to you sulk all week. Better to take preventative measures.”

But her tone softened just enough that Harry caught the truth she didn’t want to admit: she hated seeing him left behind.

The fire crackled between them, warm and golden.

{~}

The morning bled into afternoon. The common room slowly emptied until it was just the two of them, sprawled across the sofa with piles of parchment and ink bottles between them. Esme had pulled out her rune notes, sketching shapes that glowed faintly before fading. Harry watched the lines trace themselves in her careful hand.

“Doesn’t that get old?” he asked. “All those squiggles?”

“Squiggles?” she gasped, offended. “These are the bones of magic itself. Calling them squiggles is like calling the Mona Lisa a doodle.”

Harry smirked. “Still looks like squiggles.”

She threw a crumpled scrap of parchment at his head. “Philistine.”

For a while, the only sound was scratching quills. Harry’s thoughts wandered dark again — Sirius Black, the whispers, the way the adults shut up whenever Harry entered the room. The ache of being left behind gnawed at him.

Esme noticed. She always noticed.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, not looking up.

“Doing what?”

“The brooding. Proper sulking involves glowering at walls, not staring into space like your soul’s left your body.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. Show me how it’s done, then.”

She set down her quill, squared her shoulders, and glared so intensely at the stone fireplace that Harry half expected it to crack. “There. Classic sulk. A masterpiece of glowering. Note the furrowed brow and the tight jaw.”

Harry burst out laughing again, shaking his head.

Esme smirked in victory. But beneath it, something stirred in her chest. He was hurting, she could see it. She could feel it. And she hated it more than she hated anything else.

That was when the first seed of recklessness began to take root.

If Harry couldn’t go to Hogsmeade… maybe she could do something better. Something to give him an edge. Something no Ministry official, no Dumbledore, no useless adult seemed willing to do.

Her quill hovered over her rune page. A jagged thought sparked like lightning.

What if I could find Sirius Black myself?

{~}

The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual that night.

Most of the House had scattered early, muttering darkly about Sirius Black attacking Gryffindor Tower. The older years were half-smug, half-wary; it wasn’t every day the Ministry’s most wanted fugitive broke into Hogwarts. Now, under the green glow of the enchanted lamps, only a few clusters of students remained — Blaise sprawled across one armchair like he owned it, Pansy and Draco sitting together by the fire, and Esme perched cross-legged on the rug with parchment scattered around her.

Her quill scratched quickly as she drew the loops and slashes of runes in neat, glowing ink.

Or at least, they looked neat to her. To everyone else, it looked like she was scribbling nonsense all over expensive parchment.

Draco leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You do realize, Hawthorn, that you’ve officially crossed into lunacy? Sitting in the common room drawing squiggles like a deranged first year.”

Esme didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on the runes, watching as they shimmered with faint golden light. But behind them — beyond ink and parchment — her vision was shifting again. The air itself was alive with threads of magic: green streams winding like ivy, pale blue threads humming faintly, sparks that twitched like fireflies. The longer she looked, the more the world of magic itself took shape around her.

She dipped her quill again and drew another line, testing the way her perception bent with it. The rune glowed briefly, fizzled, and then popped out of existence.

Pansy snorted from the couch. “Lunatic artist. That’s what you are. Normal witches practice charms or potions. You’re redecorating reality.”

Blaise tilted his head at her work. “It’s… glowing. You’re not imagining it. You actually made it glow.”

“That’s just a trick of the ink,” Draco scoffed.

“No,” Esme murmured, still staring, “it’s not the ink. It’s… it’s the way the power runs through it. Like threads pulled taut. If I pull too hard, it snaps. If I angle it wrong, it fizzles.”

“See?” Pansy said, tossing her hair. “Artist. Absolute madwoman.”

But there was no real bite in her words. If anything, Pansy’s voice had a lilt of fascination.

Esme leaned back on her hands, letting her gaze blur. The world shifted — the ordinary common room fading into a web of light. Threads crisscrossed in shimmering streams, knots of dense color where spells had been worked into the very stones. It was breathtaking, maddening, and overwhelming all at once.

And if I can see this… I can follow it.

The thought came suddenly, sharp as a dagger.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. She had been testing for days whether magical energy had “flavors,” unique twists in the flow. Every witch and wizard, she suspected, carried their own signature, like a thumbprint.

So she pushed.

Her vision stretched out, beyond the immediate glow of the common room. She felt the faint trickle of students upstairs, each signature soft and contained. Beyond that, the stone of Hogwarts hummed like a living thing, layered with centuries of magic.

And then—

A jagged slash of wrongness.

It clawed against the wards, a splinter shoved into wood, scraping and tearing. The signature pulsed with unstable energy, sharp and ragged like broken glass.

Esme’s stomach dropped.

Sirius Black.

He was still here.

Her eyes snapped shut. She saw him even without looking — his magic an ugly wound against Hogwarts’ protections. Unstable. Dangerous. Wrong.

Pansy’s voice broke the silence. “Esme? You’ve gone all pale. Don’t tell me your squiggles are finally exploding in your face.”

Esme blinked, forcing her expression back into bored neutrality. She gathered her parchment into a pile, ignoring Blaise’s curious stare.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… testing a theory.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You and your theories. One of these days, Hawthorn, you’re going to test the wrong one and end up in the Hospital Wing missing an eyebrow.”

Esme smirked faintly, but her mind was miles away.

The jagged aura still pressed against her senses, lingering like the taste of iron.

He’s here. He’s close. And no one else sees it.

She slipped her parchment into her bag and rose.

“Where are you going?” Blaise asked lazily.

“Bed,” she lied, and swept out of the common room before anyone could stop her.

{~}

In the quiet of the corridor, Esme leaned against the wall, pressing her palms into the cold stone.

Logical Esme says: go back. Leave it to the professors. It’s their job. Reckless Esme says: Harry’s going to keep chasing danger until it kills him, and if I don’t act, it will.

Her pulse hammered in her throat.

She could walk away. Pretend she hadn’t seen anything. Pretend she hadn’t felt that jagged energy gnawing at the wards.

But Harry had already been denied Hogsmeade. He was already being coddled and pushed aside. And now Sirius Black was circling closer and closer, while everyone else argued and searched and whispered.

Esme muttered under her breath, “If Harry can’t have Hogsmeade, I’ll get him something better… proof.”

The decision settled in her bones.

She squared her shoulders, adjusted her bag, and stepped into the shadows of the corridor.

It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was absolutely stupid.

Which meant, of course, that she was going to do it.

Chapter Text

Esmeralda had always been good at slipping away.

She’d learned the art in the earliest weeks of her first year—dodging prefects, avoiding older students, escaping the overbearing weight of Slytherin’s reputation pressing on her shoulders. She’d practiced the craft in stolen walks, hidden experiments, and the quiet rebellion of keeping her secrets her own.

But sneaking out tonight was nothing like those small rebellions. This wasn’t slipping to the kitchens for treacle tart or testing runes under an abandoned stairwell.

Tonight, the castle felt alive.

She waited until the Slytherin common room had emptied, the last hissing whispers of gossip about Sirius Black drifting away into sleep. Her housemates had been thrilled by the panic, trading theories about whether Black would murder the Gryffindors in their beds, whether the Prophet would splash blood across its headlines tomorrow. They’d relished the drama in the way only Slytherins could.

Esme, however, had sat apart. Quiet. Thinking. Feeling.

And now—acting.

She slipped out past the emerald-lit fire and through the stone wall, every muscle thrumming with adrenaline. The dungeons were cold, damp, and darker than anywhere else in the castle, but her rune-sight caught every thread of magic etched into the stones.

She whispered the charm under her breath, low and steady, and the world shifted.

Rune-vision was never clean. It wasn’t like opening one’s eyes to a second, brighter world—it was like looking through cracked glass, colors bleeding and seeping in unnatural ways. Enchantments ran along the walls in glowing veins, deep wards carved into the very bones of Hogwarts centuries ago. The doors shimmered faintly, some with welcoming warmth, others with sharp warnings of protective spells that would singe the unwary. Even the portraits pulsed with energy, their painted figures bound with slivers of living magic.

And there—threaded faint but undeniable—was what she was looking for.

A jagged fracture in the air. Wrongness. A living thread, raw and unstable, as though someone had smashed a pane of glass and left the crack spreading outward.

Sirius Black.

Esme drew a slow breath, grounding herself. The castle wasn’t empty. She could already hear footsteps echoing far above, teachers moving in hurried groups. She’d have to dodge not just ghosts and prefect patrols, but adults who would not hesitate to drag her back to the common room.

She started forward, silent as she could manage.

The first obstacle was almost immediate. A lantern’s glow bobbed down the dungeon corridor—Filch, muttering to himself about “mangy murderers” and “students too thick to stay in their beds.” Mrs. Norris slinked ahead of him, eyes glinting like twin knives in the dark.

Esme flattened herself against the wall, breath caught. Rune-sight made the glow of the lantern painful, the magic of the flame flaring too bright in her vision, but she forced herself not to blink. Filch shuffled closer, his boots dragging against the stone, the cat pausing every few feet to sniff and twitch her tail.

When Mrs. Norris froze, head turning toward Esme’s hiding spot, she thought her heart might crack her ribs. But at the last second, Peeves’ cackle rang out from somewhere above, followed by the crash of a suit of armor.

Filch swore violently and hobbled off, cat darting ahead, both distracted by the poltergeist.

Esme let out her breath in a slow hiss and slipped away in the opposite direction.

She made it as far as the staircases before her next problem arrived. Peeves himself, streaking through the air upside-down with ink pots in both hands. He swooped low, his tongue lolling as he chanted something about “Murder, murder, Sirius is near! Hide your heads and guard your rear!”

Esme didn’t have time for him. She snapped, low and fast, “Silentium!” A muting charm fizzled over him for just three seconds—barely enough to silence his song before he blew a raspberry and flung ink toward her. She ducked, the black splattering across the wall, and darted down another staircase before Peeves could start yelling for teachers.

Her pulse hammered. She didn’t slow down.

Upward. Always upward. The crack in the magical glass tugged at her like a leash, leading her toward the heart of the castle. Toward the Gryffindor tower.

As she climbed, the rune-vision showed her more of Hogwarts than most students ever saw. The walls were latticed with centuries of spells, layered like sediment in stone—old defensive wards, charms of protection, enchantments to keep the very staircases moving. She brushed her fingers against a banister and felt it hum, thrumming with a spell so ancient it nearly drowned out everything else.

But the jagged energy cut through all of it. Sirius’s magic didn’t belong. It was raw, sharp, clawing against the wards of the school.

She followed it into a corridor thick with the smell of smoke. And then she heard it—raised voices, frantic, echoing down the stone.

Esme slowed. Pressed into a dark alcove.

The Gryffindors were in chaos. The Fat Lady’s portrait hung torn and ruined, slashed apart by some unseen violence. Students huddled in groups, whispering and shouting, wide-eyed and pale. Teachers were herding them, wands out, their faces hard with urgency. Dumbledore himself stood near the ruined painting, his voice low and grim as he questioned the Fat Lady’s sobbing replacement.

Esme didn’t step closer. She didn’t dare.
Because she knew.

Her rune-sight blazed with it: a living, jagged crack just beyond the crowd. The magic of Sirius Black, lingering, restless, alive.

He hadn’t gone.

Esme’s breath caught. She pressed deeper into the shadows, her body trembling with both terror and exhilaration. She was right. He was still here.

The others thought he’d fled, vanishing into the night like smoke. But she could feel him. The unstable energy scraped against her senses, sharp and undeniable.

And instead of turning back—Esme smiled.

{~}

That energy pulsed down the hall, faint but raw, unstable, restless as a caged animal. It scraped against the wards like claws on stone, vibrating her skull when she tried to focus too sharply.

Her lips curved in a thin smile. Found you.

She slipped along the edge of the wall, avoiding the pools of torchlight. Twice, she ducked behind a suit of armor when students stumbled past, babbling about murderers, passwords, and the Fat Lady’s screams.

Then she froze.

A prickle down her neck. The sense of being watched.

Esme turned her head—slowly, so as not to spook whatever instinct was shrieking at her.

And there he was.

An alcove halfway down the hall, swallowed in shadow. The jagged energy pulsed from there like a beacon, and the shape within was unmistakable: gaunt frame, tangled black hair hanging in wild mats around a hollow-cheeked face, eyes too bright and feral to belong to someone entirely sane.

Sirius Black.

The man every student had been told to fear, every poster in the wizarding world plastered with his sunken glare.
Her stomach tightened—fear, yes, but also thrill.

The stories, the warnings, the wanted posters—they hadn’t lied about his appearance. He looked like a man dragged out of hell. His prison-ragged cloak hung in tatters, his boots scuffed down to near ruin, his bones pressing sharp against starved skin. And yet, when his head tilted toward her, when his wand snapped up like a striking viper—

—there was nothing weak in him at all.

The jet of red light came so fast she barely had time to duck. The spell cracked into the wall behind her, leaving stone sizzling.

Esme let out a low whistle. “Wow. And here I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be chivalrous.”

Sirius didn’t lower his wand. He prowled forward out of the alcove, feral and predatory, shoulders hunched like he was ready to spring. His voice rasped—half growl, half laugh.

“You’ve got two options, girl. You scream—and I silence you forever. Or you turn around and run, and maybe I don’t chase you.”

Esme straightened, brushing dust off her sleeve like she hadn’t nearly been hexed. “Those are very unimaginative options. You should work on your presentation.”

His eyes narrowed, gleaming. “You’re either brave or stupid.”

She cocked a brow. “I’m an overachiever. Probably both.”

A bark of laughter burst out of him—harsh, humorless, edged with disbelief. He closed the distance between them by a few feet, wand still trained on her chest.

Then his expression darkened. “A Slytherin? Figures.”

Esme put a hand to her heart in mock-offense. “Don’t lump me in with the rest of them. I bathe.”

For the first time in what might’ve been years, Sirius Black blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched, though his eyes stayed sharp and wolfish.

He circled her, slow and deliberate, the way a starved dog sizes up a stranger in its territory. His boots scuffed against the stone floor, his wand never wavering.

“You’re out past curfew. In the middle of the night. Near the Gryffindor Tower that I just so happened to visit. Alone.” His voice dripped suspicion, every syllable sharpened by years of distrust. “So which is it? A trap? Or just really spectacularly bad luck?”

Esme turned her head to follow him, but didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. “Oh, this isn’t bad luck. I came looking for you.”

That stopped him.

His eyes—wild, tired, sharp as glass—locked on hers. His voice came out a rasp. “You… what?”

“Looking for you.” She let the words hang, casual, like she was talking about finding a misplaced book in the library. Then, with a tilt of her head: “Congratulations, by the way. The whole dramatic portrait-slashing thing was a bold choice. Points for style.”

His lips peeled back from his teeth in something too sharp to be a smile. “Careful, girl. You’re standing on a very thin ledge.”

“And you’re the one holding the wand,” she countered. “Which means if you wanted me dead, I would’ve been already. So maybe drop the scary routine and admit you’re curious.”

Silence stretched between them.

For twelve years Sirius Black had been treated like a monster—seen as nothing but a murderer. And now, here stood a girl in green-trimmed robes, calmly throwing sarcasm in his face.

His suspicion didn’t vanish, but something shifted.

He tilted his head, studying her, eyes narrowing as if he were trying to see through her. “Why?” he asked finally, voice low. “Why come looking for me?”

Esme smiled, faint and sly. “Because I don’t believe you did what they say.”

The change was immediate.

His body went rigid, wand hand trembling just slightly. For twelve long years, not a single soul had dared to say those words to him. Not once.

His voice cracked when it came. “Say that again.”

“I don’t believe you did what they say,” she repeated, softer now. Then she shrugged, a flick of indifference that belied the weight of her words. “I just don’t like sloppy lies.”

The silence stretched like a taut wire.

Sirius didn’t move at first—didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. His wand hand was steady again, but his knuckles had whitened, straining against skin like he was clutching it too hard.

Esme simply waited, arms loose at her sides, like she wasn’t standing alone in a shadowed corridor opposite one of the most wanted wizards alive.

Finally, Sirius rasped, “You don’t believe I did it.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds? How wrong?”

“Oh, completely,” she said cheerfully. “It sounds ridiculous. Impossible. Contradicts twelve years of public hysteria, stacks of Prophet headlines, and the Ministry’s smug conviction.” Her eyes gleamed faintly in the dim corridor light. “But impossible things tend to be more interesting, don’t you think?”

Sirius’ gaze sharpened. He began circling her again, his boots scraping against the floor in an uneven rhythm. She pivoted slowly, tracking him without moving her feet, like a chess piece refusing to give ground.

“You think you’re clever.” His tone was flat.

“I know I am,” she corrected dryly.

“Or maybe,” he pressed, the words low and biting, “you’re just another snake looking for leverage. Ratting me out to Dumbledore, maybe to the Ministry, in exchange for—what? A handful of gold? A shiny badge? Daddy’s approval?”

Esme smirked. “I don’t even like my father’s approval.”

That stopped him a half-second. His brow furrowed—just faintly—but then suspicion doubled down, sharp and feral.

“You’ve got all the hallmarks of a trap. Too calm. Too smooth. Too bloody Slytherin. People don’t just find me, girl.”

“Oh, I didn’t just find you.” She leaned one shoulder lazily against the wall, ignoring the wand still pointed at her. “I tracked you.”

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed into chips of obsidian. “Tracked me. How?”

Esme flicked her fingers, like brushing dust off the air between them. “Trade secret.”

His laugh came out raw, scraping. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to dangle riddles and walk away. Try again.”

Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Funny. That’s exactly how this works.”

For a heartbeat Sirius looked ready to hex her again. But then, as he studied her face—calm, sharp, unyielding—something else edged in. A glimmer of curiosity.

He prowled closer, stopping just a breath outside striking distance. His voice dropped low, almost a growl. “What’s your angle?”

“My angle?” she echoed, tilting her head. “I told you. I don’t like sloppy lies. And your story—the Ministry’s story—it’s full of holes big enough to fly a broom through.”

His jaw clenched. “You think you know the truth?”

“I think,” she said smoothly, “that the truth usually screams when people try too hard to bury it.”

That made him freeze again.

The corridor’s noises seemed to dim around them—the muffled panic of students, the professors corralling, portraits gossiping in scandalized whispers. Here in the shadowed alcove, it was just the two of them.

Sirius’ voice broke the silence, brittle and dangerous. “Twelve years. Not one person said that to me. Not one. They all believed I was guilty. They all saw what they wanted.”
His eyes glinted, hungry and hollow. “And now some slip of a girl in Slytherin robes tells me she doesn’t buy it. Why? Why the hell should I believe you?”

Esme’s smile turned sharp, wicked with self-awareness. “You shouldn’t.”

He blinked, thrown off by the bluntness. “What?”

“You shouldn’t believe me.” She folded her arms, tone dry. “Believing strangers who lurk in corridors at night is a fast way to end up cursed. I’m not asking for trust, Black. I’m asking for you to recognize that not all of us are content to swallow whatever drivel the Prophet spits out.”

He stared at her, silent, trying to gauge the angle of her words.

“Clever little snake,” he muttered finally. “Every syllable double-edged. Say just enough to bait me, never enough to give yourself away.” His wand dipped slightly, though suspicion still laced his stance. “You remind me of someone.”

“Let me guess.” Esme’s tone was bone-dry. “Tall, messy hair, Quidditch obsession, tragically prone to detentions?”

The reaction was immediate.

For a fraction of a second, Sirius’ face cracked. His guard slipped—just barely—but enough for her to glimpse the raw wound underneath. His lips parted, eyes widening with an old, aching memory.

James.

The resemblance wasn’t physical—it was in her reckless sharpness, the way she threw herself into danger with smirks instead of shields.

But just as quickly, the shutters slammed down again. Sirius’ eyes narrowed, lips twisting into something between a sneer and a grimace. “Careful, girl. Tread lightly when you speak of ghosts you don’t understand.”

Esme only shrugged. “Or what? You’ll hex me?”

His hand twitched around his wand.

“Go on, then,” she said, tilting her chin up. “You’ve had the chance twice already. What’s stopping you?”

The words hit like a challenge, sharp enough to sting.

Sirius stepped closer, invading her space, the ragged edges of his cloak brushing the tips of her boots. His breath smelled of cold stone and damp, prison rot lingering in his lungs. His eyes were a storm, suspicion and fury clashing with a flicker of—something else.

“Maybe,” he hissed, “I want to see what you’ll do next.”

Esme’s smirk sharpened. “And maybe I want to see if you’re half as dangerous as the Prophet insists. So far? Bit underwhelming.”

For the first time, Sirius barked out a genuine laugh—dark, hoarse, but real. It echoed oddly in the alcove, startling even him. He cut it short with a shake of his head, muttering, “You’re insane.”

“Takes one to know one,” she shot back.

His grin flashed—feral, fleeting—but it was there. And when it faded, what remained was something grimmer, more contemplative. He studied her, voice dropping to a murmur.

“You’re either the cleverest ally Harry could have… or the strangest enemy.”

Esme tipped her head, eyes glittering. “Why not both?”

Before he could answer, the echo of voices carried down the corridor—teachers’ footsteps, McGonagall’s clipped orders.

Sirius stiffened. In a blink, the manic energy returned, snapping his gaze toward the sound. He melted back into the shadows, cloak merging with the alcove’s darkness, body dissolving into a predator’s vanish.

Esme didn’t follow. She leaned against the wall, pulse hammering, letting her rune-sight trace the jagged crack of energy as it slipped away, vanishing deeper into the castle’s maze.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She didn’t need them. She knew. She’d always known.
Not Sirius. Never Sirius.

The true traitor was a rat.
And for once, the word wasn’t metaphor.

{~}

The first thing Esme noticed that Monday morning was how loud the Gryffindors were being. Even in the dungeons, where the damp stone usually muffled everything, she could hear their moaning and complaining echoing faintly down the corridors. She slipped her quill into her satchel, already anticipating why.

By the time she made it to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the answer was obvious: Professor Lupin was gone. His battered suitcase was absent from the corner, the smell of chocolate faint but fading from the air. In his place was a familiar looming presence in a long sweep of black robes.

Professor Severus Snape stood at the front of the classroom, arms crossed, expression coiled into that precise balance of disdain and impatience that meant everyone was in for a bad time.

“Professor Lupin,” Snape drawled, “has taken ill.”

His tone carried such unmistakable distaste that Esme almost smirked. Snape wasn’t the type to hide his feelings about colleagues, and she doubted Lupin had climbed far on his list of tolerable staff.

“You will not, however, use this as an excuse to waste valuable time. Dark creatures do not pause for sniffles and neither will you.”

The Gryffindors groaned. Esme slid silently into her seat toward the middle, careful to angle herself where she could see both Snape and the class. Already, she could feel the storm brewing.

Snape flicked his wand. The blackboard filled itself with his spidery writing: Werewolves: Recognition and Dangers.

Neville Longbottom made a soft choking sound. Hermione’s quill was already scratching furiously, no doubt preparing to cite half the library on the subject. Harry Potter sat stiff, pale, as if Snape had just pulled his ribs apart to reveal something private.

Esme tilted her head, interested. She didn’t need second sight to know that wasn’t an accident. Snape’s gaze flicked once, deliberately, toward Harry before sweeping coldly over the rest of the class.

“Copy down everything. You will have an essay of at least three rolls of parchment on the identification, subduing, and treatment of werewolves — due on my desk by Friday.”

A chorus of outraged noises burst immediately.

“Three rolls?” Ron Weasley barked. “That’s mental!”

“Silence, Weasley,” Snape said without looking at him.

Esme’s lips twitched. She didn’t exactly like Snape — he was too harsh, too scathing, and certainly too unfair. But she understood him in ways most of the other students never bothered to try. His cruelty was precise. He didn’t lash blindly. He aimed.
And right now, his aim was set firmly on Harry Potter.

She bent over her parchment, quill moving steadily, even as the rest of the class alternated between mutiny and despair.

The lesson crawled on. Snape paced like a wraith, robes whispering against the stone floor, making occasional biting comments at Gryffindors. Hermione answered half a dozen questions in rapid succession, voice eager but tight, while Harry said nothing, jaw clenched. Ron muttered about injustice under his breath.

By the time the class was dismissed, the Gryffindors looked ready to riot.

“Three rolls,” Ron repeated furiously as they spilled into the corridor. “What’s he think we are, professional authors?”

“More like slaves,” Seamus added darkly.

Esme didn’t say a word. She adjusted her satchel on her shoulder and slipped past them, her thoughts spinning.

Snape wasn’t just cruel for the sake of cruelty. That was too simple. He had something to prove. To Harry, to Lupin, to Dumbledore — to all of them. The assignment was a weapon, but also a shield. An excess of work, a smothering of time, ensured no one could look too closely at anything else.

And beneath the disdain, she thought she’d caught something else. Not weakness — Snape never showed that. But a flicker, quick and sharp, like the flash of a knife: worry.

Esme frowned as she descended toward the dungeons. Snape was a man of layers — poisonous ones, carefully built. But even poison sometimes grew from necessity, from defense.

It was an observation she stored away carefully, the way she might store a rune-stone before knowing its use.

{~}

The rest of the week confirmed what the Gryffindors had already suspected: Snape was enjoying his brief reign over Defense Against the Dark Arts far too much. The homework was crushing. Even Slytherins weren’t spared, though they bore it with more silent endurance than their Gryffindor counterparts.

But Esme could feel the difference in his eye when it passed over her. She wasn’t a Gryffindor, to be hammered and broken. Nor was she a Slytherin to be coddled. She was something else.

He tested her. A question here, sharp enough to slice. A demand for detail there, one step beyond what the text required.
She answered. Not flawlessly, never flawlessly — but enough to earn a narrowing of his eyes, a note made in his mind.

The runes helped. Esme saw the world in threads, colors, patterns. She saw what bound things together. Where others saw lessons, she saw shapes. Where others saw Snape’s cruelty, she saw calculation.

By Thursday evening, the Gryffindors were practically clawing at the walls from stress. The common rumor was that Quidditch would save them, that at least the match scheduled for the weekend would bring some respite.

It should have been against Slytherin — but Draco Malfoy’s conveniently bandaged arm had changed that. Now it would be Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.

Esme overheard Harry and his friends muttering about it on the way back from dinner, Ron furious at the unfair switch.

“Typical Malfoy,” Ron spat. “One little scratch and he’s out of flying for a year.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said, but his voice lacked conviction. His eyes were shadowed. Esme noted it, tucked it away like a rune etched into memory.

That night, when she returned to the Slytherin common room, she didn’t join the laughter at the fireplace. She didn’t roll her eyes at Pansy’s dramatics or Draco’s smugness.

She slipped instead to a quiet corner with her notes, spreading parchment out under the glow of green light.

Not notes for Snape’s assignment. Runes.
Her quill moved steadily, forming the curves and jagged lines of protection, of barrier, of warding. Her mind spun with geometry and resonance, with the memory of how the dementors had pressed at the castle’s boundaries the last time she’d sensed them.

The match was coming. And she had a choice to make.

If Harry Potter was doomed to faint, to fall — she wouldn’t let it happen.

Not if she could stop it.

{~}

The pitch was waiting.

The moon hung low as she slipped through the doors and onto the grass. The wide expanse stretched out before her, silent and silver under the night sky. The goalposts loomed like pale spears.

Esme stood at the edge of the field, letting her rune-sight wash over it.

Threads of magic crisscrossed the air, faint protections woven by the staff to keep the pitch intact. But they weren’t designed for what was coming. They couldn’t repel dementors.

Esme knelt, fingers brushing the grass. Cool, damp earth clung to her skin. She reached into her satchel and withdrew her chalk and stones, the kit she carried like others carried a wand.

This wasn’t about carving single runes. Not tonight. Tonight was about weaving an entire pattern.

She began at the northern edge of the pitch, drawing sigils into the soil: protection, warding, clarity of mind. The runes glowed faintly, pulsing like embers, then sank into the earth.

She worked methodically, circling the pitch, chalk scratching, fingers smudged with dirt. Her movements grew fluid, almost ritualistic. She hummed softly under her breath—not a song, but a rhythm to guide the lines.

Each rune linked to the next, forming a chain, a lattice, until the entire field shimmered faintly with unseen geometry.

The magic built slowly, rising like a tide. Esme felt it thrum beneath her bones, a steady pulse that matched her heartbeat.

She wove sigils not just for strength but for steadiness. She imagined Harry Potter on his broom, imagined the wave of cold pressing down, the despair clawing into his chest. She drew runes to blunt that edge, to steady his hand, to keep him upright when the shadows closed in.

Not just Harry. Everyone.

She refused to let a single student fall.

By the time she finished, sweat dampened her hairline and her fingers ached from gripping the chalk.

The pitch glowed faintly in her rune-sight, a web of light spread across the grass like frost. Each line hummed with potential, ready to spark at the first brush of dementor influence.

She swayed, exhaustion pulling at her, but forced herself to stand tall.

It would hold.
It had to.

The faintest scrape of shoes against stone snapped her back to attention.

Esme whirled, pulse spiking—

And nearly collided with a tall, sweeping figure in black robes.

Snape.

He froze, eyes narrowing, his pale face unreadable in the moonlight.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them.

Esme’s heart hammered. She didn’t reach for her wand. She didn’t move at all.
Snape’s gaze flicked once to the faint shimmer of her runes, then back to her. His expression didn’t change.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous.

“You are either reckless beyond comprehension, Miss Hawthorn… or cleverer than most I’ve had the misfortune to teach.”

Esme forced her voice steady. “Why not both?”

A pause. His lip curled faintly—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

Without another word, he swept past her, robes billowing. His steps carried him off the pitch, back toward the castle.

Esme stood frozen until the night swallowed him.

Only then did she let herself breathe.

{~}

The morning of the match broke sharp and cold, the kind of November chill that seeped into bones no matter how many layers one wore.

Esme rose with the rest of the school, feigning nonchalance as the chatter about Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff rattled down the corridors. Harry looked tense but determined when she spotted him at breakfast, Hermione whispering advice over his pumpkin juice while Ron stuffed toast like he was training for battle.

Draco, of course, was insufferable.

“If Potter falls off his broom,” he drawled loudly enough for Harry to hear, “perhaps they’ll call the game before he embarrasses himself further.”

Harry scowled, but Esme caught the flicker of nerves beneath his irritation. She nudged Draco’s shoulder when no one was looking.

“Tone it down,” she murmured.

Draco smirked. “What, and ruin my fun?”

But he didn’t press harder. He never did, not when she asked.

The stands filled quickly, colors flashing across banners and scarves. Esme climbed the rows with Draco, Blaise, and Pansy in tow, their commentary a steady background noise.

“Bet you Potter crashes in the first ten minutes,” Pansy said, tugging her gloves tighter.

“Bet you he doesn’t,” Esme muttered under her breath.

Her chest felt tight, every breath laced with the weight of what she’d done last night. The runes hummed at the edge of her awareness, woven into the pitch like threads in a tapestry.

They were quiet now. Waiting.

Hungry.

The whistle blew, and the game exploded into motion.

Harry soared, scarlet robes snapping in the wind. Cedric Diggory cut through the air like sunlight, golden and sure. The crowd roared, voices crashing together in a sea of sound.

Esme tried to focus on the match itself, but her rune-sight bled faintly at the edges of her vision, showing her the lattice glowing beneath the pitch.

Every time a player swooped, every time a Bludger whistled past, the wards shifted subtly, feeding steadiness into limbs, clarity into minds. Most of the players didn’t even notice. They only played harder, faster, sharper.

Harry spotted the Snitch. The crowd screamed. The air itself seemed to tighten—

And then the shadows came.

It began like a shift in weather, sudden and unnatural. A ripple of cold slid across the stands, silencing cheers mid-breath. The sky seemed to dim though no cloud passed the sun.

Then came the figures.

Dark, gliding, their tattered forms floating just above the ground as they streamed through the gates. Dementors.

Gasps tore through the crowd. Students clutched at one another, some shuddering, others already trembling with the first wave of despair.

On the pitch, Harry’s broom wobbled. His body jerked, one hand flying to his temple. Cedric slowed, his face pale.

But the wards ignited.

It was like striking flint to steel.

The lattice Esme had drawn flared, light unseen to most but blazing in her rune-sight. Sigils pulsed to life across the grass, glowing like frost beneath the players’ feet. The chain snapped awake, threads linking, weaving, expanding outward into a dome of invisible force.

The cold faltered. The despair recoiled, blunted against the wards.

Harry gasped once, steadied, his broom leveling again.

Cedric blinked, shoulders straightening, the trembling in his hands fading.

The crowd murmured in confusion—shivering, yes, but not collapsing. Not screaming.

The dementors pressed harder, their withering presence slamming against the unseen shield. The wards shuddered, flickered—then held.

Esme felt it all.

Every impact reverberated through her bones. The dementors clawed at the edges of her net, and each claw dug into her.

Her hands clenched against the wood of the stands, nails biting deep enough to sting. Her breath came shallow, sweat breaking across her temples despite the chill.

The wards drank from her like leeches. Every thread of magic she had, every ounce of willpower—it poured into the lattice to keep it upright.

But Harry was still flying.
The students were still standing.
It was working.

Harry dove, Cedric close behind, the Snitch gleaming like molten gold between them. The dementors surged again, furious, battering the wards with cold that could snap a soul in two.

Esme’s vision blurred. Her knees buckled.

Still she forced the lattice to hold.

Harry’s hand shot out—closed—

The whistle shrieked, victory crashing across the pitch in a roar of sound.

The dementors scattered, retreating as if pulled by some invisible leash. The wards flared one last time—then shattered like glass.

And so did Esme.

The last thing she felt was the ground rushing up to meet her, her body folding like parchment.

The world went black.

{~}

Esme woke to the prickle of starch-stiff sheets and the low bubble of something medicinal, like treacle trying to be respectable. Her mouth tasted like tin. Her ribs felt hollowed out, as if someone had scooped the magic straight from them with a ladle.

Curtains rustled. A familiar voice said, too briskly to be calm, “If she sits up, push her back down.”

“Try it,” Esme rasped, because habits die hardest.

Draco’s pale blur sharpened into a face above her, scowl already chambered. “Don’t test me, Hawthorn.”

Madam Pomfrey swept in, smacked Draco’s hand away from the bedrail, and peered into Esme’s pupils with a wandlight. “Mm. Conscious. Very good. Stupid as ever,” she added, which was apparently the diagnosis.

Esme tried to swallow. “On a scale of one to catastrophic, how angry are you?”

“Hydrate,” Pomfrey said, shoving a goblet into her hands. “Then I’ll decide.”

The curtain was whisked back and six heads crowded in—Harry, Hermione, Ron to the left; Draco, Pansy, Blaise to the right—like opposing counsel who’d agreed to share a bench.

Harry’s eyes did a quick, searching sweep of her face, then her hands, like he was counting fingers. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” Esme said, and even to herself she sounded surprised.

Hermione’s mouth was a thin line, her hair a halo of static from the cold. “You passed out,” she said, but not unkindly—just as an item to log, a cause to track.

Ron held up a paper bag. “I bullied the kitchens,” he said, and when Esme blinked at him: “Pumpkin pasties. And those treacle tart squares you pretend not to like.”

Pansy, arms folded like a fortress, added, “He nearly cried at a house-elf. It was tragic.”

“I did not,” Ron muttered. “It was strategic.”

Blaise offered a slow, annoying smile. “You were impressive.” He let it hang, then: “And breathtakingly reckless.”

Draco didn’t bother with qualifiers. “You absolute menace. A pitch-wide lattice? Without a relay anchor?” He dragged a hand down his face. “Do you ever like yourself alive?”

Esme drank. The potion was warm and bitter, and it slotted something back into place behind her eyes. “How long was I out?”

“Forty-seven minutes,” Hermione said immediately.

“Seventy-nine,” Madam Pomfrey corrected from the foot of the bed, flicking her wand to adjust the pillow. “And she will be out again if you all do not lower your voices.”

“Sorry, Madam,” Harry said. He didn’t lower his eyes.

Esme turned to him. “Did you—”

“Stay on my broom?” he finished. A small, stunned grin ghosted across his mouth. “Yeah.”

Something unclenched under Esme’s ribs. The memory came back in shards: the cold sliding in like fog, the wards singing, the dementors throwing their weight as if they could tear the runes with fingers.

“It worked,” she said, half to herself.

“It did,” Hermione said, and despite the tightness in her voice, pride threaded through. “Whatever you did down there—no one collapsed. No one even got sick. The temperature dropped, and then—held. Like there was a layer between it and us.”

“Like glass,” Harry said softly. “Cold glass.” He rubbed his forearms as if he could still feel it. “I could hear—well, I didn’t hear anything. That was the point. Just wind.”

Ron shifted, torn between awe and exasperation. “Whole stadium’s going to be talking about it for months. You are aware of that, right? Gryffindor owes you half the House Cup. Which is weird, because you’re—”

“Don’t say it,” Pansy warned.

“—Slytherin,” he finished anyway, braced for impact.

Pansy only rolled her eyes. “She’s Esme. Try to keep up.”

Blaise tapped the bedframe with two fingers, casual. “You used the spiral chains you’ve been sketching on your Charms notes,” he said. “But you over-drove them. That’s why you cratered.”

Esme’s mouth twitched. “You were looking at my notes?”

Blaise feigned outrage. “They were on the table. In my line of sight. Gravity compelled me.”

“Who won?” Esme asked, turning back to Harry before Draco could launch into a lecture about magical thermodynamics.

Harry looked almost sheepish. “Cedric caught the Snitch. Fairly.”

Draco made a noise like he’d swallowed a tack.

“Harry called it,” Ron said quickly. “Said the game was bent the moment the dementors showed and told Hooch to give Hufflepuff the win. Everyone went mad for him anyway. Noble git.” It came out proud.

Hermione nodded once. “It was the right thing to do.”

Harry shrugged, ears pinking. “I didn’t fall off a broom. That was… new.”

Silence bloomed, gentler than the ones they’d weathered last year. Esme let herself breathe it in. The ceiling was very white. The sheets were very loud.

“Side effects?” she asked Pomfrey.

“Fatigue,” the matron said crisply. “A day or two. Magical depletion. If you cast anything stronger than a warming charm before Monday, I will personally inform Professor McGonagall that you’re volunteering for bed rest and soup. No runes. No cleverness. No tinkering.”

Esme pulled a face. “Define tinkering.”

“Tinkering,” Pomfrey said, “is whatever you are thinking of doing next.”

Draco pointed at Pomfrey as if she were handing down royal decree. “You heard the woman.”

Esme feigned innocence. “I am an ideal patient.”

“Liar,” Pansy and Draco said together.

Ron opened the paper bag and pushed it into Esme’s hands. “Eat. Before Pomfrey decides you’re too fragile for sugar.”

Hermione hesitated, then added, “And… tell us next time? Before you try something like that?” The question inside the request hung, palpable. Last year’s silence. Last year’s secrets.

Esme didn’t look away. “I will,” she said, and meant it in a way she hadn’t known she could last year.

Harry leaned an elbow on the mattress. “What was it? The… wall?”

Esme glanced at Pomfrey, who was rearranging vials very loudly to signal that she wasn’t listening and also absolutely was. “A net,” Esme said, picking her way through the explanation. “Nested chains. They—caught the ambient despair before it could sink into you. Sort of.”

Ron blinked. “You built a sadness sieve.”

Pansy sniffed. “Of course she did.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And you built it solo.”

Esme didn’t bother denying it. “There was no time.”

“There was exactly time,” he shot back, then stopped, jaw working, the sharpness falling off his voice a degree. “Next time, you don’t do it alone.”

Esme forced a grin. “Next time I’ll delegate my melodramatic collapse.”

“Next time,” Hermione said, not smiling, “you’ll plan it with us.”

Esme met her gaze, then Harry’s, then Pansy’s steady, stubborn stare. Blaise’s amused, unblinking interest. Ron’s earnest worry trying hard to be casual. Draco’s anger—the kind that means stay alive.

“Okay,” she said simply.

Pomfrey seemed to take that as her cue. “Half an hour,” she decreed, snapping the curtain half-shut again. “Then out. Miss Hawthorn needs sleep and a silence charm.”

“Please put it on them,” Esme mumbled.

Pomfrey’s eyes glinted. “Tempt me.”

They laughed, soft and frayed, the way people do when the storm has passed but thunder still mutters on the horizon.

Harry shifted closer, lowering his voice. “You saved a lot of people today.”

Esme studied the stitches in the blanket. “We don’t know what would’ve happened without it.”

“I do,” Harry said quietly. “I know what it feels like. Not feeling it—because of you—was… I’ll remember it.”

Heat prickled behind her eyes, annoying and insistent. “Don’t get maudlin, Potter.”

He smiled. “Bossy.”

“Untrue,” she said, and everyone made the same disbelieving noise at once.

Blaise leaned back, satisfied. “Good. She’s herself.”

Pansy tucked a loose strand of Esme’s hair behind her ear in an absent, bossy gesture she’d deny later. “Sleep. We’ll guard the bed from well-wishers and idiots.”

“Same category,” Ron muttered.

Hermione touched Esme’s wrist, a silent promise there. “We’ll come back after dinner.”

“Bring contraband,” Esme said.

“Soup,” Pomfrey called from two beds down.

“Soup is contraband,” Esme whispered, which earned her a smirk from Draco and a scandalized look from Hermione that felt like home.

They filtered out in twos—Ron and Hermione bickering about homework; Pansy telling Blaise to stop flirting with the curtains; Draco lingering just long enough to give Esme one last, dark look that meant don’t you dare. Harry was last; he squeezed her hand once, quick, like a secret, and then he was gone.

The ward quieted to the hum of glass and potion.

Esme let her lungs unfurl. The world edged back into place.

Madam Pomfrey appeared one last time, depositing a small square of chocolate on the bedside table with studied indifference.

“From no one,” she said. “For energy.”

Esme glanced at the neat, precise wrapping; at the subtly elegant spell-twist on the knot. Not Lupin—he was still ill. Not Pomfrey—her style was brisk and utilitarian. Something about the ward on the paper whispered of controlled precision, irritation disguised as care.

Snape, then. He hadn’t visited. He never would. But he had noticed. And somewhere, in a classroom she hadn’t reached yet, there would be a note tucked under a blotter, full of red-inked cruelty that was not actually cruel.

“Thank you,” Esme said, to the chocolate, to Pomfrey, to the bed that had seen too much of her and still kept her.

“Sleep,” Pomfrey said, and flicked her wand. The world softened at the edges, sound turned velvety, and the ceiling drifted away like a pale, forgiving sky.

Esme let her eyes close, not fighting it this time. The wards were down, yes. Her magic was threadbare. But six voices still echoed in her head, stubborn and fond and infuriating. And for the first time this year, the emptiness that followed a great working wasn’t a chasm.

It was space.

And she could fill it tomorrow—together.

Chapter Text

The infirmary had never been kind to Esmeralda.

It smelled of bleach, dittany, and too much pity. This was her second time in here in as many years, and Madame Pomfrey had the same pinched frown she always wore around Esme — the sort of look adults gave children they couldn’t categorize. Not fragile, but not safe either.

Esme lay back against the stiff pillows, staring at the ceiling beams, replaying the Quidditch match in her head. She had done it — the runes had worked. The wards had flared across the pitch like invisible glass, keeping the Dementors’ chill at bay. Harry hadn’t fainted. None of the players had.

Even the crowd had been shielded from that bone-deep terror.

Her body, however, had paid the bill.

“You’ll burn yourself out at this rate,” Pomfrey muttered for the sixth time, bustling past her bed.

Esme only smirked. “Oh, good, I was worried I’d been doing it too responsibly.”

When Pomfrey stalked away to scold a Hufflepuff with a sprained wrist, the quiet settled heavy. The pride of saving everyone couldn’t outweigh the pounding headache and bone-deep fatigue that felt like it had hollowed her out.

That was when the owl came.

A regal barn owl swooped through the open infirmary window, dropped a heavy parchment envelope onto her lap, and vanished without waiting for crumbs. The seal wasn’t Hogwarts red or even Ministry green — it was gold, pressed deep with the crest of the Department of Magical Education and Regulation.

Esme stared at it like it might bite.

She cracked the seal with careful fingers and read:

Miss Esmeralda Juniper Hawthorn,

It has come to the Ministry’s attention that your work in the field of Ancient Runes and applied wardcraft demonstrates a level of mastery beyond that expected of a third-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The Committee for Underage Magical Advancement therefore requires your attendance at a preliminary evaluation to assess your development, scheduled during the upcoming winter recess. Your cooperation is expected and appreciated.

Failure to appear will be considered noncompliance.

Respectfully,
Julius Catterick
Senior Undersecretary, Department of Magical Education

Esme’s lips parted around a whisper. “Oh, bloody brilliant.”

She let the parchment flop against her chest, staring at the ceiling again. First she was passing out on Quidditch fields. Now she had a Ministry file.

And in the corridor outside the infirmary, she swore she heard them again — the whispers. Dark Princess. They slithered like smoke under the door, curling in her ears, dredging up a chill that had nothing to do with Dementors.

{~}

The next day, the rhythm of Hogwarts returned like nothing had happened. Students bustled through the corridors, gossip flying faster than Filch’s dustpan — Dementors at the match, Potter nearly falling, and the strange, shimmering wards that had flickered like a net of light across the whole pitch. No one could explain those, not even the professors.

Esme knew better. She had the exhaustion pounding at her temples to prove it.

She was propped up in the infirmary with a book balanced on her knees when the door opened again. This time, it wasn’t the frantic nighttime rush of her six friends — it was a far more casual invasion.

“Room service,” Blaise drawled, sauntering in with a stolen plate of treacle tart balanced on one hand like a waiter.

Pansy followed, plopping onto the chair by Esme’s bed without asking. “Honestly, this place needs redecorating. Curtains, maybe. Something green. I’ll write Pomfrey a note.”

“Don’t,” Draco said sharply, shutting the door behind him. “She’ll have you scrubbing cauldrons in the hospital wing for the rest of term.”

Behind him, Harry, Hermione, and Ron shuffled in, clearly in the middle of an argument.

“I’m telling you,” Ron insisted, waving his arms, “it wasn’t the Hufflepuff seeker’s skill. It was the wind! The Snitch flew right to him.”

“That’s not how aerodynamics works,” Hermione sighed.

Harry, grinning faintly, just said, “Ron, you sound like Wood.”

Esme raised a brow at the lot of them. “You’re very loud for people who are supposedly sneaking in between classes.”

“Not sneaking,” Blaise corrected smoothly, setting the treacle tart in her lap. “Strategic loitering.”

Pansy leaned forward, chin in hand. “We decided you shouldn’t be left alone. You might get lonely. Or die of boredom. Or both.”

Esme smirked, cutting into the tart. “So considerate. Truly, I feel cherished.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn’t leave the spot he’d claimed against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t encourage them.”

Hermione, ignoring the Slytherins entirely, perched at the end of the bed and asked, “How are you feeling? Really?”

“Like I wrestled a dragon and lost,” Esme admitted. “But at least I looked good doing it.”

Ron snorted. “That’s one word for collapsing.”

“You weren’t complaining when you didn’t faint,” she shot back.

That earned a few chuckles — even Harry’s mouth twitched into a smile.

For a while, the group just sat together, comfortable and bickering in their usual way. Blaise and Pansy mocked Ron until he turned scarlet, Hermione tried (and failed) to pull Harry into revising, Draco lobbed sarcastic barbs from the sidelines, and
Esme let their banter wash over her, treacle tart sweet on her tongue, but her mind kept snagging on the folded parchment hidden beneath the blanket. She’d read it five times already, each pass worse than the last.

The Ministry.
Her.
Runes.

Not detention, not praise from a professor, not a stern warning from McGonagall — the Ministry of Magic itself wanted her.

She hadn’t told a soul. Not last night, when she’d been too drained to speak, not this morning when she caught Draco watching her like he could smell the secret on her skin. But as Blaise and Pansy bickered over whether Madam Pomfrey’s curtains were “criminally unfashionable” or “merely tragic,” the weight of the letter burned like a brand against her ribs.

She set her fork down, suddenly unable to swallow another bite.

“I have to tell you something,” she said.

That shut them all up.

Six pairs of eyes swung toward her. Even Ron, halfway into a pumpkin pasty he’d nicked on the way in, froze with his mouth full.

Esme exhaled. “The Ministry of Magic sent me a letter.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“Oh, brilliant,” Draco muttered. “What did you do this time?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she snapped back. Then, softer: “That’s the problem.”

Hermione, predictably, leaned forward like a cat catching the scent of knowledge. “What did it say?”

Esme pulled the folded parchment from under her blanket and dropped it onto the bed. The seal was broken, the ink still too sharp, too official.

“They want me to come in,” she said flatly. “Apparently my… understanding of runes is ‘extremely advanced for my age.’ They require a visit.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

“Require,” Blaise repeated, eyebrow arched. “That’s not a friendly invitation. That’s Ministry-speak for get your affairs in order.”

Pansy smacked his arm. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Blaise said smoothly. “They’re dramatic.”

Ron swallowed loudly. “Hang on, the Ministry? As in — actual Aurors, laws, Azkaban — that Ministry?”

“No, the Ministry of Silly Walks,” Esme deadpanned.

Harry didn’t laugh. His eyes were dark, stormier than usual. “Why would they care about you? About… schoolwork?”

Esme hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. She couldn’t say because I already know half the future and I’ve been warping magic like clay in my hands. So instead she offered the simplest sliver of truth.

“My wards,” she said. “At the Quidditch match. People noticed.”

“They noticed?” Hermione squeaked. “Esme, those weren’t just wards, they were — they were extraordinary! No one’s managed to neutralize a Dementor’s aura at that scale —”

“Yes, thank you, walking textbook,” Draco cut in. “We were there. We saw her collapse.”

“It was worth it,” Esme murmured. “Better me than Harry.”

Harry flinched like she’d slapped him.
“No,” he said sharply. “Don’t say that.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Draco snorted. “Congratulations, Hawthorn. You’ve graduated from gossip and ridiculous nicknames to actual government surveillance.”

At that, Pansy smirked. “Oh, don’t sound so surprised. It’s not like this is new. They’ve been calling her the Dark Princess since last year. Honestly, I’m a little insulted the Ministry’s only just catching up.”

“Mm,” Blaise drawled. “Slow on the uptake, aren’t they? Hogwarts whispers figured her out ages ago.”

“Figured what out?” Ron demanded, crumbs on his chin. “That she’s not evil?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s the point, Ron. The nickname is absurd — but it stuck, and now it’s become… folklore.” She glanced at Esme, apologetic. “People are used to it. You are, too.”

Esme forced a dry laugh. “Used to it. Sure. Like you get ‘used to’ having a leech on your ankle.”

Harry cut in, his voice was flat, dangerous. “They can whisper all they like. This isn’t that. This is the Ministry. It’s different.”

The group sobered immediately.

Esme pushed the letter onto the bed so they could see the neat, cruel handwriting. “They want a meeting. Say my grasp of runes is… ‘extremely advanced for my age.’ They want to ‘assess my development.’” She spat the words like poison.

Blaise arched an eyebrow. “Assess. Lovely. That’s the same word they use before they put someone on a list.”

“Blaise,” Pansy warned, though she looked uneasy, too.

Draco leaned back in his chair, studying her with sharp gray eyes. “So the Dark Princess isn’t just a joke anymore. It’s… paperwork.”

The others groaned.

“Draco, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione snapped.

But Esme surprised them by laughing — bitter and short. “No, he’s right. The whispers were… noise. This is real.”

Harry’s gaze locked on hers, fierce. “Then you’re not facing it alone.”

{~}

The letter still burned at the back of her mind, every hour of every day. Even when she shoved it under a pile of parchment in her trunk, she could still feel it, like the paper itself whispered her name. But Esme had other ghosts to chase.

And one of them was squeaking in Ron Weasley’s pocket.

Peter Pettigrew.

Not that she could say it. Not yet. Esme knew that announcing future knowledge was a fast way to sound like a lunatic. So she approached it sideways — through runes.

She spent late nights sketching ward-circles on parchment scraps, carving sigils into chalk that she could drop like breadcrumbs. The designs weren’t meant for protection this time but detection. She wanted something that would flinch when touched by corrupted magic — twisted, broken, unnatural.

Pettigrew was all of those things.

The first time she tested one, it worked too well. The rune-circle sparked red when Draco leaned too close. He had raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Really, Hawthorn. I’m not corrupted. Just… innovative.”

Pansy snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Harry, more serious, had asked, “Would it react like that… to Voldemort?”

Esme hadn’t answered. Not properly. “It would burn.”

Hermione had been the one who pushed her hardest, of course. “The theory is fascinating, Esme, but you can’t just scatter experimental rune-traps around the castle. Someone’s going to notice.”

“Then I’ll be subtle,” Esme replied, hiding her chalk-stained fingers under the table.

The seven of them began to fall into an unspoken rhythm. Hermione and Harry lingered with her during tests, watching corridors, whispering warnings if teachers approached. Draco — never one to be accused of subtlety — found ways to “accidentally” keep Slytherin prefects occupied, or slip her rare ink for etching rune-work deeper into stone. Pansy and Blaise worked as a pair, loudly distracting Peeves with insults until he forgot who else was sneaking by.

And Ron — Merlin bless him — defended Scabbers without realizing what he was doing.

“You’re wasting your time,” he’d grumble when Esme’s circle fizzled near his pocket.

“Scabbers is just a rat. He’s been with me for years. He’s harmless.”

“Right,” Esme would mutter, eyes narrowing. “Harmless.”

If he noticed the venom in her tone, he didn’t comment.

The anxiety of the letter never left, but it braided itself now with another secret — suspicion, proof, the need to catch Pettigrew before anyone realized what she knew. It was a dangerous kind of focus, the sort that made her stop eating properly, the sort that made her laugh too sharp when Draco teased her.

Then Lupin returned.

Class should have been normal — Defense lessons always were with him, gentle, steady, more like storytelling than instruction. But Esme’s sight had sharpened since her encounter with Sirius. And when she glanced at Lupin now, she saw something no one else could: a shimmer of silver carved deep into his aura. Scars — but not physical. Magical. Wolf-shaped. They threaded through him like stitched moonlight, painful but somehow dignified.

She didn’t flinch. She only watched.

And later — when she felt Sirius Black again in the castle, jagged and electric like a crack in glass — she noticed something else.

The resonance.

Sirius’s magic was sharp, shattered, half-mad. Lupin’s was scarred, bound by moonlight. And yet — there was a thread between them. Not visible to anyone else, but to her rune-sight, it sang.
Jagged hum met silver scar.

Esme muttered under her breath, heart pounding:

“That’s not coincidence. That’s tethering.”

And she knew better than to speak of it yet. But the thought didn’t leave her.

Two men, both broken, stitched to each other in a way magic itself recognized.

Not coincidence. Never coincidence.

{~}

Esme should not have been out here.

The thought needled at the back of her mind as the last scraps of daylight bled out across the horizon, painting Hogsmeade in fractured gold and shadow. She stood at the edge of the boundary, where the manicured Hogwarts grounds bled into wild grasses and the skeletons of fence posts. Beyond, the Shrieking Shack hunched on its little rise like something both abandoned and waiting.
Her rune-sight flared before she even set foot closer.

It always started as a pressure, like a crack along glass, pulling behind her eyes. But here — here it was louder. The air itself vibrated with old scars. Enchantments layered thick across the walls, woven like barbed wire and poorly healed bone. She almost hissed through her teeth.

“Merlin’s teeth…” she whispered.

The Shack had a reputation for being haunted. Students dared each other to run up and touch it, screamed about ghosts shrieking at night. But Esme saw something different. Not ghosts. Not specters.

Scars.

The wood of the door had been clawed through, thick gouges raking down the beams, and when she focused, the grooves glowed faintly silver. Silver that pulsed like a heartbeat. Not Sirius. No, this was something older, something cyclical, tethered to the moon’s pull.

Her stomach dropped.

Not human half the month.

She crouched, pulling chalk from her satchel with practiced fingers. Each line she drew shimmered faintly, flaring as her sight layered it against the Shack’s existing magic. Rune after rune sparked and faded until she found one that held — wolf-bane twisted into protection, resistance woven with echo-threads.

The rune flared bright, burned, and then… split. A jagged scar across it, as though the Shack itself refused to let her impose order. She stared, heart hammering.

“That’s not natural,” she murmured. “That’s tethering.”

Her hand shook as she brushed her hair back.

She had seen tethering only once before.

In Sirius Black.

His magic was ragged, yes, but humming — always humming — in strange resonance with someone else’s. She had thought it chance, thought it a trick of her exhausted eyes. But now, staring at the Shack, at walls soaked in wolf-silver and screams preserved in splintered wood, she knew better.

Sirius’ magic wasn’t wild. It was bound. To someone else.

The Shack creaked under the weight of old memories, wind slipping through gaps in the boards. Esme swallowed.

It would be so easy to step closer. To try another rune, to force it to show her more. But she also knew the danger — not just from the Shack’s scars, but from the man who hadn’t strayed far since she first found him.

Her pulse quickened. Sirius Black was out here somewhere. She could feel the jagged thread of him on the edge of her rune-sight, an erratic vibration that set her teeth on edge.

And for the first time, she realized: he wasn’t just haunting the castle.

He was tethered to it.

The hairs on the back of Esme’s neck prickled before she even turned.

The jagged thread she had felt earlier snapped taut, vibrating through her rune-sight like a string plucked too hard. She froze, chalk still between her fingers, when a voice rasped from the shadows:

“You’ve got a death wish, girl.”

Her eyes flicked up. He was there — Sirius Black, gaunt and furious, framed by the rotting fence line. His wand was already raised, hands trembling but steady enough to kill if he chose. His eyes were wild, bloodshot and burning in his skull like coals that had refused to die.

Esme didn’t flinch.

“I’ve been told that before,” she said evenly, tucking the chalk away. “Usually by people less skeletal.”

His lips curled into something between a snarl and a grin. “Brave. Or stupid. Haven’t decided yet.”

“You keep circling that conclusion.” She tilted her head, deliberately casual, deliberately provoking. “Predator or prey? Make up your mind.”

That caught him off guard. Just a flicker, a shift in his shoulders. Then he moved, stepping closer, circling her the way he had before — half-starved wolf, half-caged man. His wand tracked her like a predator’s eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. “You shouldn’t even see this.”

“Oh, I see a lot of things,” Esme said lightly, though her pulse thrummed hard in her throat. “Some of them are messy. Some of them… jagged.” Her eyes flicked deliberately to him. “You hum like broken glass. Did you know that?”

Sirius stilled. The smile drained.

He stepped in closer, too close, and for a heartbeat she thought he might strike. Instead, his voice dropped low, guttural. “You talk like you understand. But you don’t. Don’t pretend you do.”

Esme’s mouth curved into something sharp. “You act like you’re the only one who’s suffered.”

That struck deeper than she’d planned. His jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, and then — he snapped:

“Don’t pretend you know what it’s like to see the person you—”

He cut himself off, too fast, the words choking into his throat. His eyes blazed, feral, furious at his own slip.

Esme’s brows arched. “Ah. So the great Sirius Black can bite his tongue.” She leaned back slightly, deliberately needling, though inside she filed the words away. Every syllable mattered. The person you—
He was rattled. That was useful.

“You think you’re clever,” Sirius spat, stepping back a fraction, eyes still fixed on her. “Maybe you are. But clever gets you dead.”

“Or alive longer,” Esme countered. “Depends on who’s keeping score.”

For a moment, their gazes locked — her cool, unflinching stare against his manic, jagged fury. And then, as before, his resolve faltered first.

The voices carried on the wind: teachers, faintly, calling from the path back to Hogsmeade. Sirius’s head snapped toward the sound, animal-sharp.

“Go back to your castle, little Slytherin,” he rasped, retreat already in his stance. “You’ve seen enough.”

Esme smirked faintly. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

For a moment longer he hovered, wand half-raised, body coiled like a spring. Then he melted back into shadow, the jagged thread of him retreating until her rune-sight dulled again.

Esme stood there in the cold, her hands shaking now that he was gone.

The person you—

The words replayed like a rune sparking again and again.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Sirius Black was dangerous, yes. But he was also tethered. To someone. To something.

And that was a thread she intended to pull.

Esme waited until the jagged thread of Sirius’s presence vanished fully before she moved.

Her hands were steady again, but her rune-sight was still crackling like lightning under her skin. She adjusted her satchel and drifted toward the Shack itself — battered, broken, humming with a residue that didn’t belong to Sirius.

Not entirely.

She knelt by one of the walls, fingers brushing splintered wood. Her runesight shimmered in her vision — faint scars carved not by wand, but by nature turned savage. Silver-threaded marks, tearing the magical aura apart in places like claw-rakes.

Esme’s lips pursed. “Whoever did this wasn’t human… half the month.”

Her voice was quiet, just for herself.

Lupin. It had to be.

Her chest tightened. She already knew from the books, of course, but seeing it was different. Seeing the scars left by his wolf form etched into the Shack itself — into the very magic of the place — was like confirmation and warning all at once.

And tethered to it… faintly, like an echo… the same jagged hum Sirius carried.

Her eyes narrowed. “Not coincidence,” she whispered.

The word hung between her and the Shack. Resonance. A bond. Not the tidy weave of family, nor the clean knot of loyalty. This was something rawer, wilder — like two broken halves forced together because the world hadn’t given them any other choice.

She lingered a moment longer, sketching a subtle rune in the dirt — a recorder, meant to capture residual resonance. Then she wiped it clean again before it could be seen.

Her satchel felt heavier on her shoulder. And for the first time, a flicker of unease curled in her stomach. If she could see this tethering, and Sirius could sense that she saw more than she let on…

How long before he started asking the wrong questions?

{~}

The warmth of the castle did little to thaw the chill Sirius had left in her bones. Esme slipped through the corridors, pulse still skittering beneath her calm mask, and ducked into the alcove near the library where she knew the others would be waiting.

And they were — her six constants, her anchor. Draco leaning against the wall with studied laziness, Blaise pretending he hadn’t been keeping watch, Pansy with her arms crossed but relief softening her scowl.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron straightened the second she appeared.

“You’re late,” Hermione said, but it came out more anxious than scolding.

“Got caught up in studying,” Esme lied smoothly, sliding into their circle. “Don’t faint, Hermione — it happens sometimes.”

“Studying what?” Draco asked, pale brows lifting. He could always smell her half-truths.

Esme smirked faintly. “Old wood. Bad paint. Drafts.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Blaise drawled. “Remind me to yawn.”

The easy banter steadied her heartbeat. The terror of Sirius’s wild eyes faded just enough to breathe again. She let herself sink against the stone wall, their chatter closing the jagged silence he’d left behind.
But in the back of her mind, the threads hummed.

Sirius’s slip.
The Shack’s scars.
Lupin’s tether.

Pieces of a puzzle only she could see.

And she wasn’t sure yet whether sharing those pieces would save the seven of them — or paint targets on all their backs.

Chapter Text

The twins cornered Harry between classes like a pair of overgrown shadows, grinning with the kind of wicked confidence only Fred and George could wear. Esme didn’t hear all of what they whispered, only the tail end as they pressed something parchment-thin into Harry’s hands with a conspiratorial wink.

She knew that look. She knew that grin. And she knew Harry Potter well enough by now to recognize when he’d just been handed something dangerous and wonderful in equal measure.

“Don’t tell her,” Fred stage-whispered, jerking his chin toward Esme as they slunk away down the corridor.

“Why not?” Harry frowned.

“Because,” George said with mock gravity, “Esmeralda has a talent for ruining perfectly good mischief by making it sound responsible.”

Esme raised an eyebrow at their retreating backs. “You two act like I don’t already have an entire file on your crimes.”

They only cackled in answer.

Harry stuffed the folded parchment deep into his robes, but he hadn’t learned subtlety yet. His ears were pink, his grin too sharp, and Esme caught the way Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

By dinner, Harry couldn’t hold it in anymore. He dragged both Esme and Hermione to a quiet alcove off the Great Hall, unfolded the parchment with a flourish, and whispered, “Look.”

The blank page blinked back at them.
Hermione crossed her arms. “Harry, is this another one of their tricks? Because if you’re hiding dungbomb blueprints—”

“Watch,” Harry interrupted, tapping it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Esme felt the wards shift the moment the words left his mouth. Layers of old magic peeled back, revealing twisting lines of ink that bled across the parchment like veins of starlight, resolving into corridors, rooms, staircases… names. Hundreds of names crawling across Hogwarts like ants.

Hermione gasped. “Is that—? Is that the castle?”

Harry grinned. “The whole thing. Every passage, every room. And it shows everyone inside.”

Esme didn’t grin. Her rune-sight flared unbidden, and what she saw made her breath stutter. The lines weren’t just ink. They thrummed with woven enchantments, each hallway bound by tether-runes, each moving name glowing with a living pulse.

And then she saw it. Near Gryffindor Tower.
A name that should not exist.

Peter Pettigrew.

Her throat tightened. She knew this script before she ever read it. She’d read about this map, seen the way it would reveal the truth of the rat. But seeing it now with her own magic—it wasn’t a story. It was real, and it was wrong.

“That—” Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “That’s not possible.”

Hermione leaned over her shoulder. “Peter Pettigrew? But he’s… he’s supposed to be dead.”

Harry frowned. “The map must be mistaken. It’s old. Maybe the spells are glitching.”

Esme’s jaw clenched. “No. It’s not a glitch. That’s not a name—it’s a parasite. Look.”
She traced the rune-webbing around the scrawled letters. The glow was warped, jagged, unlike the clean pulses of the others. “That isn’t ink. It’s residue. It clings to the wards like rot.”

Harry blinked, unsettled by her intensity. “Esme… you’re scaring me.”

“Good,” she said flatly. “Because this isn’t funny.”

Hermione’s eyes darted between them, wide. “If Pettigrew is alive—then where?”

Esme didn’t answer, though her stomach already knew. Ron. It was always Ron.
But to say it aloud would fracture them. The Seven weren’t meant to break.

So she swallowed the truth and smirked instead, forcing nonchalance. “Guess your new toy isn’t as innocent as it looks, Harry. Leave it to Fred and George to hand you something cursed with a bow on top.”

Harry scowled, but Hermione looked at Esme like she knew the smirk was a shield.

And Esme couldn’t help it—her eyes flicked once more to the tiny glowing script that read Peter Pettigrew, beating like a pulse against the castle walls.

Hermione didn’t let it drop.

Later that evening, when Harry had tucked the map away and Ron was ranting happily about Quidditch plays, Hermione caught Esme by the sleeve and tugged her out of the common room.

“Spill it,” Hermione said the moment they were alone in the library’s quiet alcove. “Back there—you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

Esme arched a brow. “Technically, wasn’t that the point? Pettigrew is supposed to be dead.”

“Don’t deflect.” Hermione’s arms crossed, her tone sharp as a curse. “You didn’t just see a name. You saw something else.”

Esme hesitated. How much could she say? She could never admit she already knew the story, that she’d read the ending before they ever began. But Hermione was too clever to brush off.

So Esme exhaled slowly and leaned back against the shelves. “The map’s magic is old. Living magic, threaded with intent. Most names are… clean. Bright. But his?” Her lips thinned. “His aura is twisted. Like someone stuffed human magic into the wrong skin.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “You mean—like possession?”

“More like camouflage,” Esme said carefully. “A mask. But a mask that’s been worn too long. It leaks.”

Hermione shivered, her logical mind colliding with fear. “If that’s true, then—where is he hiding? Why hasn’t anyone noticed?”

Esme’s throat tightened. She thought of Scabbers curled in Ron’s pocket, of the way Ron always defended his rat, how he called it harmless. Loyal.

“Because no one looks twice at a rat,” Esme said softly.

Hermione’s eyes sharpened at once, following the trail. “Esme… are you saying—?”

“No.” The word came out quick, firm. Esme pushed off the shelves, shaking her head. “I’m saying we don’t have proof. And if we breathe a word of this to Ron before we do, it will rip everything apart. You know it.”

Hermione bit her lip, but she didn’t argue. She knew Ron’s temper, his loyalty, the way he’d defend Scabbers until the bitter end.

Instead, Hermione asked the question Esme had been dreading. “So what do we do?”

Esme forced a grin, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “What we always do. Watch. Wait. Set a few clever traps. And when the mask slips…” Her voice dropped into something sharper, colder. “…we’ll be ready.”

For a moment, the two girls just stood there, shoulder to shoulder in the hush of the library. Not Gryffindor and Slytherin. Not opposites. Just two minds too sharp for their own good, staring into the same shadow.

Hermione finally whispered, “Sometimes I think you scare me more than the danger itself.”

Esme smirked faintly. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”

But when Hermione turned away, Esme’s smirk faltered. Because underneath the bravado, her hands were trembling.

{~}

The common room was buzzing with chatter about Hogsmeade weekend. Students compared lists of sweets to buy at Honeydukes, trinkets from Zonko’s, and whispered plans about butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. For Harry, every laugh was salt in the wound.

He sat slouched in the armchair opposite Hermione and Esme, his arms crossed and his scowl deepening by the minute. “It’s ridiculous. Everyone else gets to go. I should be allowed, too.”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her notes. “You don’t have a permission slip, Harry. Professor McGonagall was very clear. You’re not allowed outside the castle without it. Especially after Esme tried to forger their signatures.”

Harry shot her a look. “That’s not fair. Sirius Black’s not going to be lurking in Zonko’s, is he? I’ll be fine.”

Hermione’s quill froze mid-word, her eyes flashing as she lifted her head. “That’s exactly the point! You won’t be fine if you get caught out there. You are the one Sirius Black is after, Harry. The rules aren’t there to punish you—they’re to keep you alive.”

Harry’s scowl only deepened. He pulled the Marauder’s Map from his bag, flattening it across the table with practiced ease. “I have the map. I know the passages. Fred and George use them all the time. I wouldn’t even be seen.”

Esme, curled comfortably with her rune notebook on her lap, finally let out a quiet sigh. “You mean we’ve circled back to this again?” she drawled, glancing between the two of them. Her sharp eyes flicked down to the map. “Harry, you’ve been staring at those passages like they’re going to sprout wings and carry you to Honeydukes themselves.”

Harry straightened. “Because they’ll work. Look—” He jabbed at the parchment where the narrow tunnels crawled away from the castle like veins. “This one leads straight to the cellar. It’s foolproof.”

Hermione folded her arms tightly. “There’s no such thing as foolproof when you’re the fool rushing into it.”

That earned a short bark of laughter from Esme. Hermione shot her a look, but Esme only smirked and snapped her notebook shut. “She’s not wrong, Potter. Cloak or no cloak, the passages may dodge eyes, but they don’t always dodge wards. And Hogwarts is nothing if not nosy. The place practically snitches for fun.”

Harry hesitated. “You really think the wards would notice?”

Esme tapped her temple. “I see them, remember? Most are quiet. Old. But a few are prickly. Life-signature keyed. Step wrong, and you’ll ping like a bell in a cathedral.”

Hermione leaned forward, seizing the point. “Exactly! That’s what I’ve been saying. The cloak isn’t a license to ignore basic safety!”

But Harry wasn’t deterred. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Please, Hermione. I can’t just sit here while everyone else goes. It’s not fair.”

Esme tilted her head, studying him for a long moment. There was the raw edge again—that hunger for freedom, for a life that wasn’t bound by rules he never asked for. She understood it, even if it was maddening.

Finally, she spoke, her tone flat but with a spark of mischief. “So the real question is—are you sneaking for the butterbeer, or for the principle of the thing?”

Harry blinked. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” Esme said, standing and sliding the map toward herself, her eyes narrowing as the ink shimmered under her rune-sight. “Because one gets you a sugar high, the other gets you caught.” She flicked her gaze up at him. “And I prefer my friends in one piece, thanks.”

Hermione exhaled, exasperated. “Thank you! At least someone—”

“—isn’t finished,” Esme cut in smoothly, smirk tugging at her lips. “If it’s about the principle, then you need to know the risks before you leap. And if it’s about butterbeer, I’ll hex you myself.”

Harry’s grin flickered, cautious but real. He leaned closer. “So… you’ll help me?”

Esme only arched a brow. “I’ll advise. Whether you listen is your funeral.”

Harry leaned forward, his elbows digging into the wood as he jabbed at the Marauder’s Map yet again. “Look. The one under the one-eyed witch statue—it’s perfect. Fred and George have used it for years, and they’ve never been caught.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, because Fred and George aren’t the target of an escaped convict! You can’t just compare—”

Esme cut her off by pushing a wrapped sweet across the table toward Hermione. “Eat something. You’re scolding on an empty stomach.”

Hermione’s lips pursed, but she took the sweet anyway, muttering under her breath.

Harry’s eyes lit with a flicker of triumph. “So you’re not saying no outright.”

“I’m saying,” Esme replied lazily, “that your optimism is adorable. Dangerous. But adorable.” She tapped her fingers along the edge of the map, where faint runic echoes still shimmered to her sight. “These passages aren’t clever enough to be untraceable. Not fully. Someone sealed them once, I can tell. The only question is—did they leave them unlocked because they forgot… or because they wanted students to play mouse in the maze?”

Hermione stiffened. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!”

Harry groaned, flopping back in his chair. “So what—you’d rather I rot here in the castle while everyone else has fun?”

“Harry—” Hermione began, but Esme cut in again, her voice quieter this time.

“You think sneaking out makes you freer. But the second you trip the wrong alarm, you won’t just be the boy who lived. You’ll be the boy who slipped. And Black—” She stopped herself, jaw tight, then waved a hand. “Let’s just say not all hunters show their teeth until you’re cornered.”

For a moment, the air went still. Then Harry leaned forward again, his expression stubborn. “I’ve got the cloak. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Esme tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. If you stay clever. If you stay calm.”

Hermione bristled. “You can’t possibly be encouraging him—”

But before the argument could boil, the portrait hole creaked open.

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise slipped in like shadows, their expressions varying from smug (Draco), amused (Pansy), and faintly bored (Blaise).

“Oh, this looks productive,” Draco drawled, taking in the map spread across the table.
“What are we plotting? Treason? Or just an ill-advised sugar run?”

Harry instantly stiffened, but Esme leaned back in her chair, smirk curving her lips. “Both, if Potter has his way.”

Pansy’s eyes glinted. “Let me guess—Hogsmeade?”

Hermione let out a sharp noise. “He’s not going. He doesn’t even have a permission slip—”

“Neither do half the Slytherins who sneak down there,” Blaise interrupted smoothly, sinking into the chair beside Esme as if he’d been invited. He plucked up the sweet wrapper Hermione had left behind, flicking it absently. “The question isn’t whether it’s possible. The question is whether Potter has the spine to pull it off.”

Harry bristled. “I do.”

Draco smirked. “Then you’ll need more than Gryffindor bravado and an old cloak. You’ll need timing, cover, and a way back before Filch smells your shoes.”

Esme arched a brow. “Spoken like someone who’s been caught before.”

Draco ignored her, though Pansy snickered.

Hermione slammed her quill down. “Are all of you mad? We’re talking about breaking the rules—”

“Breaking rules is only dangerous if you’re bad at it,” Esme interrupted smoothly. She tapped the map again. “And Harry isn’t bad. Just impatient. There’s a difference.”

{~}

Harry’s POV

Harry’s heart hammered in his chest as he crouched low in the shadow of the one-eyed witch. The common room had been tense all night, Hermione’s protests growing more shrill the closer it got to curfew. But now, with the corridors empty and the castle wrapped in silence, there was only the stone witch, the shifting ink of the Marauder’s Map in his pocket, and his determination.

Esme stood a step behind him, arms folded. She hadn’t tried to stop him—not exactly. That alone was enough to set his nerves buzzing.

“This is insane,” Hermione whispered fiercely. She’d followed them this far, still wringing her hands as though sheer will might drag Harry back to safety. “If Filch catches you—if Snape—”

“Then I’ll think of something,” Harry said, a bit too quickly.

Esme’s voice cut through the whispering, low and precise. “Think faster. There’s a patrol three corridors north. Mrs. Norris is already circling.”

Harry swallowed. “The cloak will cover us.”

“Will it?” Esme tilted her head, rune-sight flickering faintly in her eyes. “Your father’s cloak is strong—stronger than most—but nothing is absolute. Filch’s nose is sharper than a dog’s, and cats… well.” Her gaze flicked toward Hermione. “You’ve noticed Crookshanks doesn’t exactly respect it.”

Hermione nodded vehemently, as if Esme had just handed her proof. “See? Even Esme says—”

But Harry was already brushing dust from the witch’s hump. He tapped it with his wand, whispering, “Dissendium.”

The stone ground open with a low groan, revealing the sloping passage beyond. Stale, cool air rushed up, carrying the scent of earth and something older, half-forgotten.

Hermione looked like she might faint. “This is reckless. This is—”

“Genius,” Draco drawled softly from the back, where he and Pansy had trailed along out of pure mischief. He gave a little mock bow toward Harry. “You’ve managed to terrify Hermione, impress Esme, and amuse me, all in one night. Not bad, Potter.”

“Impress?” Harry muttered. “Doesn’t feel like that.”

Esme’s lips twitched, the closest she’d come to a smile all night. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only impressed you haven’t tripped and set off every ward between here and the dungeons.”

Hermione stamped her foot. “He’s not going, and that’s final!”

But Harry already had the cloak half-unfolded, shimmering silver in the dim torchlight. “Sorry, Hermione,” he said, a little breathless. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Esme studied him one last moment, eyes narrowing slightly, then reached out and tugged the cloak higher around his shoulders. “Then keep your head down. The wards aren’t looking for invisibility, but for motion. Walk steady. Don’t stumble.”

Harry blinked. “You’re helping me?”

“I’m keeping you alive,” she murmured, echoing her promise from earlier.

Hermione made a strangled sound of outrage. “Esmeralda Hawthorn, you are supposed to be the responsible one!”

“Responsible doesn’t mean stupid,” Esme replied. “And pretending he won’t go just makes him reckless. Better to know exactly where the cracks are.”

Harry ducked into the passage before Hermione could launch another tirade, his heart thudding so hard he thought it might shake the cloak loose. The tunnel sloped steeply down, cool damp air pressing close around him. His excitement tangled with fear, but it was the thrill of it—the forbidden, the dangerous—that kept his feet moving forward.

Behind him, he could almost hear Hermione’s muffled protest echoing, Esme’s calm instructions, Draco’s mocking commentary. He grinned to himself. For once, he wasn’t just the boy who lived—he was the boy who got away.

{~}

Esme crouched at the tunnel mouth long after Harry disappeared beneath the cloak. The stone witch groaned shut, sealing off his trail, and for one reckless second she almost wished it would stay sealed—lock him in, keep him safe, protect the balance.

But that wasn’t who she was.

Responsibility didn’t mean clutching at people until they broke free. It meant studying the cracks, learning where danger would give before it snapped shut.

She slid her fingers over the rough stone and whispered a string of wards under her breath—nothing heavy, nothing that would alert the castle’s greater enchantments. Just enough to soften the air’s hum, to thread her magic through Harry’s path. Her wards would cling like dust, not shields, but maybe it would muffle him from sharper eyes.

Hermione was still muttering behind her, half to herself, half to anyone who would listen. “Irresponsible, reckless, dangerous—it’s Harry all over again, and you’re helping him—”

Esme cut her a glance, sharper than she intended. “Better I help him than let him stumble blind. You know he would’ve gone without us.”

Hermione flushed, her curls quivering with every sharp breath. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Esme agreed softly. “It makes it inevitable.”

Draco snorted. “Spoken like a Slytherin.”

She ignored him. Her focus was on the tunnel—on the thread of magic Harry carried with him. The cloak was impressive, yes. Old magic, clean and silvery. But even silvery threads could fray. If he stumbled, if his emotions spiked, if the wards around the grounds shifted to notice…

No. He’d be fine.

Still, Esme whispered another set of runes under her breath and tucked the sketches into her sleeve. A tether—nothing binding, but enough that if Harry tripped into something, she might feel the pulse in her bones.

The witch’s hump sealed tight again. Silence pressed close.

“Are you staying here?” Hermione asked, voice softening now, frayed at the edges.

Esme shook her head. “No. I’ll shadow him.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

Hermione’s lips thinned, but she didn’t argue further. Maybe she understood that Esme had already made her choice. Maybe she was too busy rehearsing the alibi she’d need to spin if a professor asked where Harry Potter had gone this time.

Esme ducked low, pressing her palms against the stone. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and old magic. She whispered a concealment sigil against her wrist, a trickier one—nothing as complete as the cloak, but enough to fold her presence inward. To blur herself into shadows.

And then she slipped in after him.

The tunnel swallowed her whole.

Every step down felt like walking deeper into something she couldn’t control—not a future she could manipulate with runes and whispers, but something alive, thrumming with threads she couldn’t cut cleanly.

Her sight flickered once—bright, sharp—when the magic around her shifted. Not Harry’s, not the cloak’s, but an older stain. Wolf-silver and jagged threads scraped along the tunnel walls, old scars left behind.

Her throat tightened.

She pressed forward, quicker now, until the faint glow of Honeydukes’ cellar spilled into view.

Harry was already tugging the cloak tighter, eyes wide with delight, surrounded by barrels of sweets and shelves glittering with sugar-dust. He didn’t see her yet.

Esme leaned against the shadows and whispered to herself, steadying her breath.

“Stupid. Brilliant. Reckless. And mine to keep alive, apparently.”

The cellar of Honeydukes was warm and thick with the smell of sugar and melting chocolate, so different from the damp stone behind her that Esme had to pause a heartbeat just to adjust. Her rune-sight twitched at every enchanted jar and barrel—protective wards to keep the sweets fresh, charms woven so tightly they glittered like cobwebs in her eyes.

Harry was already halfway up the stairs, the cloak swishing around his ankles as he moved with a mix of glee and panic. Childlike wonder and reckless daring—he was a contradiction, and Esme almost envied him for it.

She followed, careful not to brush against the warded barrels. Her fingertips tingled where she steadied herself on the wood.

The door creaked, and suddenly they were aboveground, spilling into the chaos of Honeydukes proper.

If the cellar was heavy with scent, the shop was drowning in it. Caramel and peppermint, spun sugar and fizzing sherbets—it was so sweet it almost stung her teeth. Students clustered everywhere, laughing, chattering, arms full of candy bags. None of them noticed the subtle shimmer in the air where Harry’s cloak blurred him from view.

None of them noticed her either. Esme kept her concealment rune tight, head tilted, pretending to browse a shelf of Fizzing Whizbees.

Harry nudged her side—cloak pressing against her robes. “Look at this place.” His whisper was so bright, so full of barely-contained joy, she couldn’t help the faint tug at her lips.

“It’s a shop, Potter. You’d think you’d never seen sugar before.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Not like this.”

And then his gaze snagged on something—rows of Chocolate Frogs stacked high, the kind with collectible wizard cards tucked inside. For just a second he looked his age, not the boy marked by a scar, not the friend carrying too much weight. Just Harry, who wanted chocolate and the thrill of breaking a rule.

Esme looked away before the ache in her chest grew too sharp.

Her rune-sight flickered again. Not at the candy. Not at the charms on the shelves. But at something…off. A thread of magic that didn’t belong here. Faint, distant, as if bleeding in from elsewhere.

She palmed the Marauder’s Map from her sleeve—Hermione’s reluctant loan, still buzzing faintly from the wards Esme had etched into its corners. With a practiced flick she opened it under the shadow of a display, her fingers tracing the ink.

Names crowded the parchment: students, shopkeepers, moving dots flitting about the village. Harry Potter’s dot hovered near hers, faintly blurred by the cloak.And in the castle—

Her breath caught.

“Peter Pettigrew.”

Still there. Still in Hogwarts. Not on Ron’s shoulder, not gnawing cheese in the Gryffindor dormitory.

The dot pulsed faintly, huddled close to Ron’s moving figure.

Esme’s stomach coiled.

Harry leaned closer, squinting at the map upside down. “What is it? Did you see something?”

She snapped the map shut before he could make out the name. Too fast. Too sharp.
“Nothing,” she lied, slipping it back into her sleeve. “Just making sure the wards weren’t pulling against the ink.”

Harry frowned, clearly unconvinced, but before he could press, a group of Ravenclaws tumbled into the shop, laughing loudly, breaking the tension.

Esme exhaled slowly, knuckles tight against her palm.

One lie had already trapped an innocent man in Azkaban. She wasn’t about to add another so carelessly. But if she told Harry now—if she even hinted—Ron would be caught in the middle, and the fragile balance of their seven would fracture.

Not yet.

She forced herself to browse a rack of Peppermint Toads, her voice calm when she asked, “So, Potter. Which smuggled sweet will nearly give Filch a fit when he finds it under your pillow?”

Harry grinned, distracted. “All of them.”

{~}

The moment they slipped out into the street, Harry froze.

Snow still clung to the rooftops, white frosting dripping from chimneys that smoked with the scent of pine and roasting meat. Strings of enchanted lanterns swayed in the cold air, scattering sparks of warm light over the cobblestones. Hogsmeade was alive in a way the castle never was—laughing students spilling from shop to shop, villagers bundled in cloaks, the air carrying bursts of cinnamon and butterbeer.

Harry just stood there, grinning like he’d stepped into a dream.

Esme, though—her gaze darted immediately to the shifting colors of magic that hung in the air. Every building was woven with wards: subtle, layered protections curling around windows and doors. Her rune-sight traced them instinctively, analyzing where protections overlapped, where they frayed with age.

Safe. Secure. Almost too secure.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered, tugging the cloak closer. “Look at this place.”

“I am,” Esme murmured, eyes narrowing on a faint trace of magic that drifted across the street, barely visible. “And if you think Honeydukes was distracting, try not walking headfirst into a wardline.”

Harry blinked at her, baffled, before being pulled along by sheer excitement. He wanted to see everything—the broomsticks gleaming in the Quidditch shop window, the joke boxes stacked high in Zonko’s, the snowy roofs glittering under late sunlight.

And Esme…kept scanning. Her chest was tight, the map heavy in her sleeve. She didn’t need to look at it to know Pettigrew’s name was still curled in Hogwarts. The rat in Ron’s pocket.

“Do you ever stop analyzing?” Harry asked, half amused, half exasperated, when she stopped again, tilting her head toward a narrow alley.

“Do you ever stop running headlong into things that could kill you?” Esme shot back, dry.

He laughed, too loud, and a group of Hufflepuffs turned briefly before looking away again. The sound was easy, real, and for a moment she let herself soften. He was a boy who wanted to be normal. A boy who deserved this.

They walked past the Three Broomsticks, the doorway spilling golden warmth and chatter into the street. Harry slowed, peering longingly through the fogged glass.
Esme caught the shift in his posture before he spoke.

“You’ll get caught if you go in,” she said quietly.

“I just wanted to—”

“I know.” Her voice softened despite herself. “But that place is a net. Teachers, Ministry, maybe even Dumbledore. You’d last five minutes before McGonagall dragged you out by the ear.”

He grinned at the image despite his disappointment. “You’re probably right.”

“Always am,” she muttered.

And then it happened—her rune-sight flared.

Down the street, past the clustered shops and chatter, lay the edge of the village. The Shrieking Shack loomed, dark against the pale snow, every window shattered, the roofline crooked. Students gathered at a safe distance, daring each other closer, shrieking and laughing.

But the house itself…

Esme froze, pulse hammering. It wasn’t just abandoned wood and dust. The very air around it was scarred. She saw clawmarks in the wards themselves—twisted, brutal rents that glowed like half-healed wounds.
Layers of defensive magic mangled and resewn over and over again, fraying in ways no human should have left behind.
Her breath caught.

“Esme?” Harry followed her gaze. “That’s the Shrieking Shack. Supposed to be the most haunted building in Britain. Why—”

“It isn’t haunted,” Esme whispered, her voice shaking before she forced it flat. “Not the way they think.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She tore her gaze away, pressing her fingernails into her palm. She couldn’t tell him—not yet. Not when she had no proof but her own sight. Not when it tied into secrets that weren’t hers to expose.

But in the scars of magic, she had seen something too deliberate. Too familiar.
Whoever had torn those wards apart hadn’t been human all the time.

She dragged Harry away before he could keep asking questions, steering him toward a quieter alley between the shops. And that’s when voices drifted to them—low, familiar, sharp.

Harry stiffened, recognizing McGonagall’s crisp Scottish lilt, followed by Hagrid’s rumble, and—yes—Cornelius Fudge’s pompous drawl.

Esme’s stomach twisted. They weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this alley. Not now.

But Harry was already edging closer to listen, curiosity burning in his eyes.
Esme had no choice but to follow.

They pressed themselves into the shadows, backs against the cold stone wall. The alley narrowed, a half-collapsed crate offering just enough cover. Snow drifted softly, muffling sound, but the voices carried cleanly.

“…dangerous—more dangerous than he ever was before,” Fudge was saying, his words clipped, brisk, almost rehearsed.

Harry stiffened at the name that followed.

“Sirius Black.”

Esme felt his arm twitch beside her, every line of his body taut. She slid her hand to his sleeve, not restraining—just grounding.
“Keep breathing,” she whispered, so low it was almost thought instead of sound.

McGonagall’s voice cut through: “We cannot afford carelessness. He betrayed them once—he’ll not hesitate again. To think, Potter under the same roof…”

Harry’s breath shuddered. His fists clenched.

Esme leaned closer, her lips near his ear. “Listen. Don’t decide yet. Listen.”

He turned his head, eyes blazing with hurt. She met the fury with cool steadiness, her tone sharp enough to slice through it.
“They’re telling you a story,” she said quietly. “Not the truth. Stories are neat. The truth never is.”

Hagrid’s rumble joined: “Poor Lily, poor James. Trusted him—an’ he sold ’em to You-Know-Who.”

That word—sold—was too much. Harry jerked like he’d been burned, a hiss escaping his throat.

Esme pressed harder on his sleeve, pinning his fury in place with the weight of her gaze.
“Sloppy lies spread fastest,” she murmured, echoing words she’d told him once before. “You ever notice that? The messier the truth, the quicker people rush to tidy it up with something easy. Neat. Convenient.”

Harry swallowed, his knuckles whitening. But he didn’t move forward. Didn’t shout.
He listened.

Esme let relief flicker only for a second before she tilted her head, parsing the voices carefully.

Fudge, speaking again, almost smug: “The Dementors will have him soon enough. No one escapes them. Not twice.”

Her stomach twisted. She pictured Sirius—hollow, hunted, shackled by a crime he didn’t commit. She had to fight not to blurt something, not to let the truth pour out.
Because Harry wasn’t ready. Because none of them were.

When the footsteps faded and the voices were swallowed by the winter wind, Harry finally moved.

He spun to face her, jaw tight. “You heard them. He betrayed them. My mum. My dad. He gave them to Voldemort.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Esme held his gaze, her own steady. “Or that’s the story they want you to believe.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. “You think they’re lying?”

“I think people lie all the time,” she said evenly. “Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes because it’s easier than looking at the cracks. You saw how quickly they spoke. How polished it sounded. That’s not grief, Harry. That’s a script.”

He froze.

“Do you want their story,” she asked quietly, “or do you want the truth?”

For a long moment, the only sound was the hiss of wind curling through the alley. Snowflakes clung to Harry’s hair, his breath harsh in the cold air.

Finally, his shoulders sagged. The fury in his eyes dulled into something heavier.
“…truth,” he whispered.

Esme’s hand finally dropped from his sleeve. She tucked her rune-sight away, her secrets deeper still. Because she couldn’t give him all of it yet.

The walk back was slow, snow crunching underfoot, their cloaks tugged by the bitter wind. Harry hadn’t said much, which was rare for him—silence usually meant his mind was chewing itself to ribbons.

Esme matched his pace, hands tucked deep into her sleeves. She kept her eyes forward, giving him the illusion of privacy while staying close enough he’d remember she was still there.

Finally, Harry spoke, voice low, brittle.
“Do you really think… they’d lie? Professors. The Minister. Even Hagrid?”

Esme tilted her head, not answering right away. Words mattered here—too sharp and she’d cut him off, too soft and he’d dismiss it.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that people don’t have to mean harm to spread it. You remember in first year? Everyone said Snape was trying to kill you.”

Harry flinched at the memory. “…and it was Quirrell.”

“Exactly. The neat story, the easy villain, always catches fire first. Doesn’t mean the truth’s less real—just harder to dig out.”

Harry kicked at a mound of snow, his jaw set.
“If he really betrayed them… then he deserves worse than Azkaban.”

Esme glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “And if he didn’t?”

That stopped him. Harry blinked, stunned by the weight of the thought. She didn’t press, didn’t give him more—just let the possibility hang between them like fog.

When they reached the castle, the familiar warmth of the torches washed over them. Harry looked torn, his expression raw, but less volatile than before. She counted that as a victory.

That night, Esme sat cross-legged on her bed, the curtains of her four-poster drawn tight. The Marauder’s Map lay flat on her knees, its spidery ink glowing faintly in the candlelight.

Her rune notebook was open beside it, symbols scattered across the page in jagged lines, notes written in sharp, impatient strokes.

She traced her finger across the map, eyes narrowing. There—“Peter Pettigrew.” Sitting innocently in Gryffindor Tower. Exactly where Ron’s rat should be.

Her chest ached with the weight of it.

“One lie trapped an innocent man,” she whispered. Her voice was almost too soft for even herself to hear. “One lie hides a monster in plain sight.”

She stared until her vision blurred, the ink dancing under her gaze like it knew the weight of her words.

“How do I unravel it,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “without burning everyone with me?”

The map offered no answer. Only silence.
And the steady pulse of secrets it refused to give up.

Chapter Text

Esme woke with a tightness in her chest. She knew what today would bring. It had been nagging at her since the start of the week — the way the days lined up, the timing of the mail. Christmas Eve at Hogwarts.

The day the Firebolt comes.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she trailed with the others down to the Great Hall, snow falling in lazy curtains beyond the enchanted ceiling.

Everyone was chattering about train departures, about what sweets they’d buy in Hogsmeade before going home, about whether the carriages would be warm enough. But Esme’s nerves hummed in her ribs like a second heartbeat.

Harry was dragging his feet, shoulders rounded with that restless energy he always got when the holidays loomed. Ron was buzzing, trying to convince him to come stay at the Burrow. Hermione fussed about packing lists. Draco and Pansy trailed lazily at the back of the Seven’s cluster, pretending they weren’t listening but absolutely listening.

The owls came in a flurry.

Esme’s eyes found the package before Harry’s did: long, slim, wrapped in brown paper, with no note. Her stomach flipped.

There it is.

Harry blinked up at it as it swooped down, nearly knocking a platter of eggs off the Gryffindor table.

“What the—” Ron gasped, shoving pumpkin juice aside. “That’s—that’s broomstick shaped, that’s what that is—”

Esme fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. She’d known this moment was coming, but foreknowledge didn’t make it easier to sit through.

Harry tugged the paper off, and the Firebolt shone in the candlelight. Gasps echoed across the table.

Ron actually made a strangled noise, half awe, half despair. “It’s a Firebolt. That’s a Firebolt—”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up despite himself. “Well, someone’s spoiled rotten.”

Harry’s face split into a grin so bright it made Esme ache. He ran his hand reverently down the handle.

Hermione, however, looked like she might faint. “Harry, put that down! You don’t even know who sent it—”

Ron whirled on her. “Who cares who sent it? Look at it!” He crouched, nearly nose-to-handle. “Do you have any idea how fast these go? Zero to one-fifty in ten seconds—”

Esme let her rune-sight slip open just enough. Threads of enchantment laced the wood, bright and steady. Precision spells, stability wards, charms for grip and balance — all layered so seamlessly it was like listening to perfect music. No poison, no curse, no hidden traps. Just artistry.

Her lips parted. “It’s clean,” she said softly.

Harry’s head snapped up. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been. Whoever made it… they wanted it to fly. That’s all.”

Hermione made a frustrated sound. “It can’t possibly be just that—”

But before Ron could bark back, the telltale clip of Professor McGonagall’s shoes rang across the floor.

She stopped dead when she saw the broom.
“Oh no.”

“Professor—” Harry began.

“Potter.” Her tone left no room for argument. “You will hand that over at once.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? No! It’s mine—”

“It could be cursed,” McGonagall cut in sharply, reaching for the handle. “With Black at large, do you really think I’ll let you fly about on something sent anonymously to your bedside? Hand it over.”

“It’s not cursed,” Esme blurted.

Every head swiveled toward her.
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that, Miss Hawthorn?”

Esme’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t say because I already lived through this in another world. Couldn’t say because I’ve studied every scrap of your history through movies and fan forums.

Instead, she forced calm into her voice. “I can see the threads. It’s clean magic. Balanced. No malice.”

That earned her a long, searching look — the kind that made her feel very small. Then, brisk as ever, McGonagall plucked the broom from Harry’s grip. “Regardless. It will be inspected. If it’s safe, you’ll have it back.”

Harry’s knuckles whitened around the empty air where the broom had been.

As McGonagall swept off, silence crashed down.

Ron broke first. “This is insane! A Firebolt—
Harry, with that you’d crush Slytherin in the match—”

“Correction,” Draco drawled, smirking faintly. “With that he’d almost make up for his lack of skill.”

“Oh, shove it,” Ron snapped.

Pansy leaned her chin in her hands, grinning. “Don’t pout, Draco. You’re just jealous it didn’t show up with your name on it.”

“Jealous?” Draco scoffed. “Please. My father could buy me three Firebolts tomorrow if I wanted.”

“Yet… here you are. Firebolt-less.” Blaise’s lazy smile widened.

Hermione huffed, arms crossed. “None of you are thinking straight. It could have been dangerous.”

Esme raised an eyebrow. “And it wasn’t.
Sometimes people give gifts because they want to. Not every miracle is a trap.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to her, clinging to her words. She gave him the smallest, firmest nod she could manage.

He exhaled, shoulders loosening just enough to show he believed her.

{~}

Snow fell thickly against the castle windows that morning, turning the world outside into a pale blur. The Gryffindor common room fire crackled merrily, but warmth couldn’t chase away the coil of dread that had settled in Esme’s stomach.

The “Seven” were gathered around her — their mismatched little circle of Gryffindors and Slytherins bound together by circumstance and choice.

“You’ll be fine,” Harry said, though he sounded more like he was reassuring himself. His green eyes were earnest, brimming with the kind of loyalty Esme hadn’t known what to do with when she’d first landed here. “It’s just questions, right?”

“Questions from people who can end her Hogwarts career with a flick of a quill,” Draco drawled from the armchair nearest the fire. He was leaning back, fingers laced behind his head, voice smooth as glass. “No pressure, Esme.”

“Draco,” Pansy hissed, smacking his arm.

Esme forced a smile. “He’s not wrong.” Her voice wobbled despite her best efforts. “They don’t… invite thirteen-year-olds to the Ministry unless something’s seriously wrong.”

Hermione crossed her arms, her expression pinched with worry. “They’re threatened because you’re good. Too good. But that isn’t a crime.”

“It might as well be,” Blaise said quietly from his corner. His tone wasn’t unkind, just brutally practical. “Ministries don’t like what they can’t control.”

Ron shifted uneasily, scuffing his trainers against the rug. “You don’t think they’ll—kick you out, do you?”

The room fell into silence.

Esme hugged her arms to her chest, the weight of their eyes making her insides twist. “I don’t know.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone. You’ve got us.”

“Touching,” Draco muttered, though the sarcasm lacked bite. He was watching her with a sharpness he tried to hide.

A knock rattled the portrait door before anyone could answer. The voice that followed was smooth, cold, and unmistakable.
“Hawthorn. With me.”

Snape.

Esme’s heart dropped into her stomach.

{~}

The castle corridors were empty as she followed him, her shoes squeaking faintly against the flagstones. The sound echoed too loudly in the hush of winter, like her presence didn’t belong here—like she was an intruder in a space that had already decided her fate.

Snape’s robes swirled ahead of her, a silhouette that looked more shadow than man. His gait was purposeful, each stride carrying the weight of inevitability. He didn’t look back, didn’t slow, didn’t speak—yet somehow his silence pressed on her more than words could have. He had always been a man who could fill a room without saying a thing.

Esme wished he would speak. She wished he wouldn’t. Both desires warred in her chest until she almost wanted to laugh. Almost.

“You’re shaking,” he said at last, voice like an unexpected blade drawn in a dark alley. He didn’t turn, didn’t break stride, but the words hit her anyway.

Esme bristled, clutching the strap of her satchel tighter. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he countered softly, the way venom softens just before it seeps in. “Control it. They’ll smell weakness before you even sit down.”

The words cut deep because they rang with truth. She glanced down at her hands, realizing with a start that her fingers trembled faintly, betraying her. She stuffed them into her sleeves as if that could erase the evidence.

Her throat tightened. “Easy for you to say. You’re not about to be grilled by the entire Ministry for knowing things I shouldn’t.”

The confession slipped out before she could choke it back. It felt raw in the corridor’s cold air, like her fears had been laid bare for him to dissect.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Not empty silence, but weighted—like the pause between lightning and thunder, where the world holds its breath.

Then his voice cut through, low and edged.
“And yet you do know them. That is what unsettles them. What unsettles me.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She glanced up sharply, eyes locking onto his back as if her gaze could pierce the black fabric. “Do you think I’m dangerous too?”

He stopped walking. The suddenness of it startled her, forcing her to pull up short before she stumbled into him. Slowly, he turned.

His dark eyes bored into hers—unreadable pools of shadow, reflecting nothing back. For once, she wished he would sneer, or scold, or draw his lips into that familiar line of disdain. Anything would have been easier to face than this bottomless void of analysis.

“I think,” he said finally, each word deliberate, “that danger depends on intent. The Ministry does not care for intent. They will measure only capacity. Do you understand?”

Esme’s chest tightened like she’d swallowed stone. She nodded stiffly.

“Good,” he murmured, and turned away again, his robes whispering as though they spoke for him.

Esme’s feet carried her forward automatically, but her mind spun in frantic circles.

Capacity. Intent. Weapon.

The words wouldn’t stop echoing.

Back in her world she had thought of magic as something wondrous, a kind of glittering dream that glittered but never cut. The stories had always glossed over the ugliness, the bureaucracy, the fear of power in the wrong hands. To a reader, runes were elegant puzzles, charming details tucked between plot points. To the Ministry, runes were ancient weapons, sharp enough to carve through defenses centuries old.
And she, a girl out of place, wielded them like second nature.

Her stomach twisted.

The silence of the castle seemed heavier the farther they walked. Tapestries hung limp in the drafts, their woven knights and witches frozen mid-battle, eyes glinting strangely in the torchlight. Esme felt them watching her, or maybe she was just paranoid. Her nerves prickled with the sense that Hogwarts itself—its walls, its portraits, its centuries of secrets—knew she was heading somewhere dangerous.

She swallowed. “Professor?”

Snape did not pause. “What?”

Her voice wavered before she could catch it. “Do you… do you think they’ll expel me?”

The question slipped out, small and desperate, like a child tugging at an adult’s sleeve.

Snape’s shoulders shifted—barely, but enough to notice. He did not answer at first, his silence stretching long enough that she thought he might ignore her completely. Then:
“Expulsion is a mercy compared to what some would prefer.”

Her heart lurched into her throat. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, turning another corner, “that certain members of the Ministry are always searching for threats to crush before they rise. A child with knowledge of wards older than the castle itself is not merely an anomaly. You are a variable they cannot account for.”

The words should have frozen her blood. But there was something in the way he said it—not fear, not condemnation. Almost… acknowledgement. Like he was naming her existence aloud for the first time.

She didn’t know whether to thank him or tell him to stop.

Instead, she whispered, “I never wanted this.”

Snape did not look back. “Few who are dangerous ever do.”

The words hung in the air, and Esme could not tell if they were meant as warning, comfort, or both.

The nearer they came to the Floo chamber, the more Esme’s body betrayed her. Her palms grew clammy, her heartbeat thundered, her mouth dried as though she’d swallowed dust. She tried to force herself to breathe evenly, counting the steps to ground herself. One, two, three—flagstones blurring underfoot.

Snape noticed. Of course he noticed. His voice slid through the quiet. “You imagine them as executioners already.”

She startled. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he said flatly. “You’re picturing the worst outcome. Wise, but paralyzing. The truth is simpler.”

Her lips parted. “Simpler?”

“They want to see what you are,” Snape replied. “And if they cannot understand it, they will try to define you in terms that suit them. That is the Ministry’s nature. It is not personal.”

“Not personal?” Esme let out a short, strangled laugh. “It feels pretty personal when your entire future is being decided by strangers.”

Snape stopped before a door of ancient oak, his hand curling around the handle. For a heartbeat, he looked down at her—not with pity, not with warmth, but with something unreadable that sat somewhere between respect and warning.

“You are not the first to walk into that room with fear gnawing at your bones,” he said softly. “And you will not be the last. Do not give them more than they ask for. Do not give them less. And whatever you do—do not show them your fear.”

Her mouth went dry. “And if I can’t hide it?”

“Then you will learn.”

He pushed the door open.

The green glow of the Floo chamber spilled out, emerald light flickering against stone.
Esme stepped forward on trembling legs, her reflection flickering in the glassy surface of the powder-filled grate.

The Ministry waited.

And there was no turning back.

{~}

The Floo Network spat them out into polished marble. Esme stumbled forward, her knees nearly buckling as she clutched at the edge of the grate. The world steadied just as the last sparks of green flame licked away into nothing.

The Ministry atrium loomed around her.
It was dazzling — almost violently so.
Golden statues gleamed at the center, polished so fiercely that the enchanted lights bouncing off them seemed to burn.

Wizards bustled in every direction, their footsteps and voices overlapping into a living tide, a constant murmur like the hum of a beehive. Robes whispered, heels clicked, and owls flapped overhead with letters clutched in their talons. The air smelled faintly of ink and candlewax, undercut by something sharper—ozone, maybe, the scent of magic held in place by wards too vast to comprehend.

Esme froze.

She felt impossibly small. Out of place.

Wrong.

These were not school corridors with portraits snoring gently in gilded frames. This was not a castle filled with secret passageways and laughter echoing down stone halls. This was power incarnate—structured, polished, controlled.

A hand closed around her shoulder.

Snape.

It was only for a second, the pressure light, but it rooted her like an anchor. Whether steadying or restraining, she couldn’t tell. His fingers withdrew before she could react, and his voice cut low against the din.

“This way.”

She followed.

He cut through the crowd with surgical precision, robes slicing the air like a blade through water. No one dared slow him; even bustling clerks veered instinctively aside.

Esme hurried to keep pace, her shoes clattering faintly on the marble floor. She tried not to gawk at the opulent displays—the charmed fountains, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a stormless sky—but her eyes betrayed her. Everything screamed too much.

The further they went, the more the noise thinned. The bustling crowd trickled away as Snape guided her into narrower corridors, away from the public eye. Here, the walls were darker, lined with polished wood and sconces that burned with a steady, unnatural flame. The air cooled, quieter, oppressive.

Esme’s chest constricted. Each step felt like being swallowed deeper into something ancient and deliberate.

At last, they reached a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. It loomed taller than any she’d seen, etched with faint runes that glimmered like warning signs.

Snape rapped once. The sound echoed like a knell.

The door creaked open of its own accord.
Beyond was a chamber that smelled faintly of parchment and smoke. The room was arranged in a half-circle of high-backed chairs, raised slightly on a dais so that those seated within seemed to look down on anyone unfortunate enough to stand before them. Each chair was occupied by a witch or wizard draped in heavy robes, their faces sharp in the torchlight. Quills hovered over parchment, scratching idly as though impatient for blood.

Esme’s breath caught. It felt less like a meeting and more like a trial.

Snape’s hand brushed briefly between her shoulder blades—guiding, pressing her forward. Then, with the same abruptness, it withdrew. She sensed him peel away, his presence slipping to the shadows along the wall. Watching. Waiting.

“Miss Hawthorn,” the central witch intoned.

Her voice rang with authority that brooked no argument. She wore crimson robes, so fine they shimmered faintly under torchlight, each thread catching fire as she moved. Her hair was drawn into a crown of silver, her eyes dark and assessing, cold as a blade.

“You will sit.”

Esme obeyed.

The chair was not built for comfort. It was tall, straight-backed, unyielding. The wood was cool against her palms as she gripped the armrests, trying to ground herself. She had the sickening feeling that the chair was charmed to do more than merely hold her—that if she tried to bolt, it would not allow it.

Her eyes darted across the semicircle.

To her left, a narrow-faced wizard with ink-stained fingers tapped a quill against his knee, lips pursed in thought. Beside him, a witch with hawkish features adjusted her spectacles, her eyes glinting like she was already dissecting Esme’s every move. On the far right, a man lounged with deceptive ease, his rings catching the torchlight, but his gaze was sharp, measuring.

Esme’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t a school evaluation. This wasn’t even a disciplinary hearing. This was something older, sharper, colder. She had no illusions now—these people hadn’t gathered to understand her. They’d gathered to measure. To weigh. To decide whether she was asset or threat.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap to hide their tremor.

The crimson-robed witch leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Esme’s face.

“Do you know why you are here, child?”

Esme’s mouth went dry. She swallowed, her throat tight, her tongue heavy. The silence stretched, oppressive, before she finally forced herself to speak.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The witch’s lips curved faintly, though whether in approval or mockery, Esme could not tell.

“Then tell us,” she said.

Esme drew in a shaky breath.

“I… I know things I shouldn’t.”

“State your full name,” the witch ordered.
Her voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of expectation, as if refusing would be unthinkable.

Esme swallowed, feeling her throat tighten around the simple answer. “Esmeralda Juniper Hawthorn.”

Quills scratched. The sound was oddly loud, like a dozen tiny blades carving into stone.
“Mmm. Age?”

Esme shifted in the chair. “Thirteen.”

The pause that followed was heavy, deliberate. They were not surprised. They were marking the number down like a weapon they intended to use against her.

The silver-haired wizard to her left leaned forward, his fingers steepled, eyes sharp as knives. His hair caught the torchlight like spun steel, his robes immaculate, his voice precise.

“Tell us, Miss Hawthorn,” he said, his syllables crisp, almost surgical, “how does a third-year Hogwarts student come to command rune structures that even licensed curse-breakers hesitate to attempt?”

Esme’s breath caught. The question was delivered like an accusation, not a curiosity. Every instinct screamed at her to lie, to play dumb, to fold herself small until they lost interest. But something told her that would not work here. They already knew too much.
Her palms were slick against the armrests of the chair. She forced her tongue to move.

“I… study,” she said carefully, forcing the word out as though it might shield her.

The man tilted his head, like a falcon sighting prey. “Study,” he repeated, dry as ash. “Study alone does not grant fluency in tongues long dead. Nor the ability to reconstruct entire matrices of power.”

Quills scratched again, faster now.

Esme’s heart hammered so loudly she thought they must hear it. Her chest ached with the pressure. She wanted to vanish into the wood of the chair, to fold herself into nothing.

Before she could stammer out another excuse, the witch in crimson robes leaned forward. Her tone was velvet, but it wrapped around Esme’s ribs like iron bands.

“Perhaps,” she said smoothly, “we should proceed to demonstration.”

The words dropped like stones in a still pond.

Esme’s head snapped up. “Demonstration?”

The hawk-faced witch to the right adjusted her spectacles. “Of course. Words are wind. But runes… they leave no room for lies.”

Another wizard—a heavyset man with a booming baritone—added, “If she truly knows what she claims, the proof will be self-evident.”

Esme’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t claimed anything. Not out loud. Not directly. But it didn’t matter. They had decided.

A parchment floated down before her, blank but thick, edged with faintly glowing wards. A quill followed, hovering at the ready. The crimson-robed witch gestured.

“Begin.”

Esme stared. “What am I supposed to—?”

The silver-haired wizard cut her off.

“Translate.”

Symbols bled into existence across the parchment, ink rising as if drawn by an invisible hand. Ancient, jagged, complex — the sort of runes she’d only ever seen sketched in dusty diagrams. They weren’t just words, they were structures, meant to hold meaning and power.

Her throat went dry.

This was a trap.

If she failed, they’d sneer and call her a liar.
If she succeeded, they’d know for certain she was dangerous.

Esme glanced, almost involuntarily, toward the shadow at the edge of the room. Snape stood there, unreadable, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on her with that same impossible depth. He gave nothing away.
Her fingers twitched.

She picked up the quill.

And began.

The language wasn’t just old — it was primeval. Angular strokes folded into spirals, strokes carried weight in their direction, and the way they linked formed meaning in layers, not lines.

Esme knew them. Of course she did. Not from Hogwarts’ dusty shelves, not even from the specialized rune texts Hermione had been poring through last year — no, she knew them from memory burned in her bones, from books that technically didn’t exist here, stories she read back in her own world. They had been nothing but fantasy there, glyphs scribbled as decoration in margins, dismissed as set dressing. But here… here they thrummed with power.

Her quill hovered.

If she wrote too quickly, they would know she wasn’t working it out like a student should.
If she hesitated too long, they would suspect she was stalling.

She forced herself to breathe. In, out. In, out. Her fingers steadied.

The first rune she touched to the parchment shifted slightly under the quill, as though recognizing her. The scratch of ink seemed deafening in the chamber.

The silver-haired wizard leaned forward, lips thinning. He was close enough that she felt his gaze drilling into her temple. “Well?” he prompted softly.

Esme’s voice came without her permission, low and trembling. “It says… ‘binding of the vessel.’”

A pause. Quills scratched. Someone coughed.

The hawk-faced witch with spectacles gave a slight tilt of her head, her mouth tightening. “Continue.”

Esme swallowed and pressed on. Her mind worked faster than she could write, remembering half-forgotten notes from the books she’d devoured in her world, mapping them against the threads of instinct that whispered when she traced each shape.

“‘Through stone and through blood… the vessel holds what flesh cannot.’”

The words dropped into the air like cold water. Even Snape’s head shifted almost imperceptibly in the shadows.

Esme dared a glance upward. Several of the Ministry members were exchanging looks now, not scribbling, not scoffing — watching.

The crimson-robed witch’s fingers tapped the arm of her chair once, sharp.

“Impressive. For a child.”

Esme forced herself to meet her eyes. “It’s just—just translation.”

“Translation,” the silver-haired wizard said again, his voice like frost on glass. “Tell me, Miss Hawthorn — did anyone teach you this tongue? Or did you pluck it whole from the void?”

Her throat closed. She couldn’t tell them the truth — that she’d learned by reading stories in another universe, where their lives were nothing but ink and paper. They’d lock her away.

“I… read widely,” she muttered, her eyes dropping to the parchment.

“Mmm.” His quill flicked with suspicion.

The hawk-faced witch raised one bony finger, and the runes on the parchment melted away, replaced by a new set — tighter, crueler, their edges jagged as broken teeth.

Esme felt her stomach drop. She knew these too. Darker runes, the kind ancient cults whispered about in hidden tombs. Symbols that wanted blood to wake.

“Translate,” the witch ordered.

Esme licked her lips, the metallic taste of fear already there.

Her quill trembled, but the words spilled all the same. “‘Sever flesh, sever will. What oath is sworn, let it bind until death. Betrayal will tear the soul asunder.’”

The words echoed, foul and heavy, until the chamber itself seemed to flinch.

The heavyset wizard shifted in his chair, clearly disturbed. “You expect us to believe a third-year stumbled onto this language?”

Esme’s heart stuttered. She looked down quickly, her hair falling like a curtain. I shouldn’t know this. I shouldn’t know this.
But she did.

The crimson witch’s voice was velvet again, but this time it hid a razor. “And yet, she does.”

For the first time, Snape spoke. His voice slid through the silence like oil on water.
“You asked for demonstration,” he said, each word deliberate. “You have it. Unless you intend to fault her for accuracy.”

Several heads turned sharply toward him, irritation flickering across the officials’ faces. But none dared to challenge him directly.

Esme felt his intervention like a thin thread holding her above drowning water. She gripped it silently, steadying her hand as the parchment wiped itself clean again.

“Enough translation,” the silver-haired wizard said abruptly. His eyes were flint. “Let us test application.”

The parchment vanished with a flick of the crimson witch’s fingers, dissolving into motes of light. In its place, a small wooden box floated toward Esme, its surface sealed with brass clasps. It clicked open mid-air, and fragments of rune-inscribed stone spilled across the table before her.

They were jagged, broken edges like pieces of a shattered plate, the symbols across them incomplete and disjointed. Some were worn by age, others scorched as if touched by fire.

The silver-haired wizard leaned forward, voice clipped. “This was once a functional ward. Old — delicate. Reconstruct the sequence.”

Esme stared at the shards, her mouth suddenly dry.

This wasn’t translation. This wasn’t reciting memorized lines from books she wasn’t supposed to have read. This was creation — restoration. They wanted her to build.

Her fingers hovered over the stones, the magic whispering faintly at their edges. Each fragment thrummed like a nerve cut loose from a body, twitching for reunion. The runes themselves… they weren’t standard warding glyphs, not the neat symmetrical patterns she’d practiced at Hogwarts. No, these were older, clumsier, but stronger for it — symbols of protection layered with sacrifice.

She swallowed hard.

If she did this too easily, too perfectly, it would terrify them.
If she fumbled, they’d call her a fraud.

The hawk-faced witch tapped her quill, impatient. “We are waiting.”

Esme picked up the first shard. It pulsed faintly in her palm, a resonance that tugged her toward another piece. She set them together, letting instinct do what her fear tried to smother.

The edges aligned. A rune formed, jagged but clear.

“Good,” murmured the crimson witch. “Continue.”

Piece by piece, Esme rebuilt the ward. The fragments called to one another, invisible threads pulling her hands in the right order. She traced the lines with her fingertip, filling the missing strokes with ink on parchment, bridging gaps in meaning with sheer intuition.

Minutes bled by. Sweat dampened her temples. Her quill scratched furiously as she drew, the shape expanding across the parchment: a circle of jagged teeth, symbols of endurance, of fire, of binding strength.
When the last stroke fell, the rune circle flared faintly blue, humming against the chamber walls.

A completed ward.

Gasps rippled from the half-circle of officials. The heavyset wizard muttered something under his breath. The silver-haired one sat back sharply, his jaw tight.

The hawk-faced witch adjusted her spectacles, staring at the parchment with narrowed eyes. “This design has not been properly reconstructed in three centuries.”

Esme’s heart slammed against her ribs. Oh no.

The crimson witch leaned forward, her gaze like a dagger’s tip pressing against Esme’s skin. “Tell us, child… where did you learn to mend wards of this caliber?”

“I—” Esme’s voice cracked. She forced herself to steady it. “I didn’t. I just… followed the patterns. They wanted to fit.”

“Wards do not want,” the silver-haired wizard snapped. “They obey knowledge, structure, will.”

“She is dangerous,” the heavyset one muttered again, louder this time. “Too dangerous.”

Esme’s chest tightened, panic flaring. She looked toward Snape, desperate.

He stood as still as stone, but his eyes flicked to hers — just for an instant — and in them she read one word, unspoken but firm: control.

She forced herself to breathe. “I don’t know everything,” she said quickly. “I—I made guesses. Anyone could have—”

“Enough.”

The crimson witch’s voice sliced the air, silencing her. She gestured, and the parchment folded itself, hovering toward the panel. The officials leaned in, scrutinizing, their whispers hissing like serpents.

Snape’s voice slid through the quiet once more, smooth as poison.
“You see competence, they see calamity. She is thirteen. Your paranoia makes her more than she is.”

“Or less than she seems,” the silver-haired wizard countered coldly.

The crimson witch raised a hand for silence. Her eyes never left Esme.
“Another test.”

The crimson witch’s fingers twitched, and another object floated from the shadows of the chamber. This time it wasn’t parchment or fragments of history.

It was a stone.

No larger than Esme’s palm, but pulsing — faintly glowing with unstable runes crawling across its surface like veins of fire. The symbols flickered in and out of coherence, jagged, volatile. The air hummed around it, and even from the table Esme felt its vibration deep in her ribs.

Her breath caught. It’s alive.

The heavyset wizard leaned forward, his mouth curling unpleasantly.
“Tell us, girl. What happens if this is left unchecked?”

Esme licked her lips. “It’ll fracture. The runes are collapsing into one another — they’ll cancel, then rebound. It’ll… explode.”

A murmur rippled across the half-circle.

“And if one wished to weaponize it?” the hawk-faced witch asked sharply.

The implication made her stomach churn.

She forced herself not to look away.
“It would level the room.”

The silver-haired wizard smiled faintly, as though that answer pleased him.

“Then,” the crimson witch said smoothly, “you will stabilize it.”

Esme’s hands turned clammy. Of course they would.

The stone floated down until it hovered just inches from her fingers. The heat coming off it was sickly, uneven, like a fever radiating from broken flesh. The runes crawled wildly, fighting to collapse in on themselves.
She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to steady.

Okay. Think. Don’t let them see the panic. Look at it like a puzzle. Just a puzzle.

Her rune-sight sharpened, instinct sliding into place. She could see the collapse — two sigils spiraling into conflict, one of fire, one of binding. If she corrected the binding, reinforced its lattice, it might hold long enough to bleed the excess energy away.

Her fingers moved, sketching quickly on the parchment at her side, then over the surface of the stone itself, not touching but tracing the invisible lines.

Whispers rose again among the panel.

“She sees the flows.”
“Not possible—”
“She shouldn’t be able—”

Esme ignored them, pressing her lips together, focusing. Her magic thrummed with the rune’s, not overpowering it but guiding, coaxing. Not fight — redirect. Like a river through a dam.

The stone’s glow sputtered. Then steadied.
The feverish heat ebbed, the runes aligning at last into a coherent sequence. They hummed, low and rhythmic, like a heartbeat finding calm.

Esme exhaled shakily. “There. It’s stable.”

The stone dropped to the table with a thunk, harmless now.

For a beat, the room was silent.

Then the silver-haired wizard spoke, voice sharp.
“Impressive. Now—reverse it.”

Esme’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Collapse the runes deliberately. Force it to detonate.”

Her blood turned to ice. “You—you want me to—?”

“Consider it,” the hawk-faced witch said, voice cold and clinical, “an ethical measure.
A child with this much power, left unchecked, may very well decide to use it. We wish to see whether you will.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might split her ribs. This is it. The trap.

Snape’s voice cut through, low and silken with disdain.
“You are asking a schoolgirl to commit magical violence in front of you? How very noble.”

“She is no ordinary schoolgirl,” the silver-haired wizard shot back.

Esme’s fingers clenched in her lap. Her mind raced. If she refused, they might brand her weak — or worse, deceptive, hiding a willingness she wouldn’t show them. If she agreed, she’d be proving them right — that she was dangerous.

The crimson witch tilted her head, her eyes fixed and predatory.
“Well, Miss Hawthorn? Which will it be?”

Esme swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak through the quiver in her chest.
“I won’t. I can’t. You wanted proof of what I can do — fine. But I’m not going to blow up a room just to satisfy your paranoia.”

The heavyset wizard sneered. “Defiance.”

The hawk-faced witch scribbled furiously on her parchment.

But the crimson witch only smiled faintly, as if that was the answer she’d been waiting for all along.

“Noted,” she murmured.

The chamber seemed to echo with the silence that followed. The stabilized stone sat on the table between them, humming faintly, as though mocking the stillness.

Esme’s fingers dug into her knees. She wanted to be anywhere else — back in the castle, in the noisy common room, even sitting through Binns’ droning lectures. Anywhere but under these watchful eyes.

The crimson witch finally folded her hands.
“We have seen enough.”

Her words slashed through the quiet. The other panelists straightened, parchment fluttering as quills scribbled without sound.

“Miss Hawthorn,” she continued, “your demonstration confirms what our reports have suggested. You wield a level of understanding and application of ancient runic magic far beyond not only your years, but beyond what most trained curse-breakers achieve in a lifetime.”

Esme’s mouth went dry. She stared at the floor.

“That capacity,” the hawk-faced witch said sharply, “is both… valuable and deeply concerning. A child with this knowledge—”

“Is already a risk,” the silver-haired wizard finished smoothly, eyes glinting like steel. “You cannot deny it.”

The heavyset wizard slammed his palm against the armrest of his chair. “She stabilized a volatile construct in moments! And refused to follow orders when pressed. What happens when she decides the rules no longer apply? When she decides we no longer apply?”

Esme’s stomach lurched. She opened her mouth, desperate to speak, to defend herself—

—but Snape’s voice cut in first. Low, smooth, almost lazy.
“Perhaps the Ministry should ask itself why it fears a child more than the countless dark wizards roaming unchecked. Unless, of course, you are suggesting that your own incompetence requires scapegoats younger and younger each year.”

A dangerous hush followed. Quills paused. Eyes narrowed.

The crimson witch did not rebuke him. She only tapped one long finger against the table.
“Severus. You have vouched for her presence here, have you not?”

“I have,” Snape drawled, his expression unreadable. “Though I see now it was a mistake. The lot of you treat a student as though she were a weapon to be catalogued. If she were truly dangerous, goading her would hardly be wise.”

The hawk-faced witch bristled. “We are ensuring the safety of the wizarding world—”

“You are ensuring your own paranoia,” Snape snapped back, his voice sharp as a whip crack.

Esme’s heart thudded. She’d never seen him defend her so openly — but it only seemed to deepen the tension in the room.

The crimson witch silenced them both with a glance. Then she turned her gaze fully on Esme.

“Miss Hawthorn.”

Esme forced herself to meet her eyes, though her chest felt like it was caving in.

“You are not in trouble,” the witch said, her tone carefully measured. “You have broken no laws. Yet your ability places you in a category the Ministry cannot ignore. For your own safety — and for that of others — your activities will be monitored. Quietly, of course.”

Esme’s mouth went dry. “Monitored?”

The silver-haired wizard leaned forward, lips curling. “It means, child, that your steps will be watched. Your studies noted. Your experiments… contained. Should you stray into darker territory, we will know.”

Her stomach plummeted. They were going to treat her like a criminal before she’d done anything wrong.

“I’m not dangerous,” she whispered, the words slipping out without thought.

The heavyset wizard snorted. “You already are.”

The crimson witch raised her hand, silencing the others. Her gaze lingered on Esme, unreadable, heavy with both curiosity and warning.

“You may return to Hogwarts,” she said at last. “For now. But understand this, Miss Hawthorn — you are under the eye of the Ministry. Every step you take, every rune you etch, will echo here. Do not give us cause to believe our fears justified.”

The words pressed down on her like chains.
Snape stepped forward, his robes whispering against the stone floor. “Are we finished?” he asked coldly.

The crimson witch gave a single nod.
Snape’s hand closed around Esme’s shoulder, steering her back toward the door.

The stone chamber and its accusing eyes
faded behind them, but the weight of the verdict clung to her skin, heavy as lead.

They’ll be watching me.

The thought curled like smoke in her chest. She had gone into the Ministry terrified of being judged. Now, she was leaving with their judgment burned into her future.

{~}

The Ministry corridors seemed longer on the way out. Colder. Every echo of her footsteps felt magnified, like the walls themselves were whispering about her. Esme kept her arms crossed, her nails biting into her sleeves, trying to hold herself together.

Snape strode ahead, as if the verdict hadn’t been stamped across both of their skins. His silence was heavier than anything the panel had said.

Finally, she couldn’t bear it.
“They’re going to watch me.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted, echoing down the polished hall.

“They watch everyone,” Snape said curtly.

“Not like this.” Her throat tightened. “They think I’m—” She stopped herself, the word clawing at her chest. Dangerous.

Snape’s stride slowed just enough that she nearly bumped into him. He turned, his expression carved from stone.
“They think many things. The Ministry thrives on fear, Miss Hawthorn. Today it is you. Tomorrow it will be someone else.”

“But—”

He cut her off with a flick of his hand. “Do not waste energy agonizing over what they whisper. You cannot control it. You can only control yourself.”

Esme looked away, her eyes burning. She hated that his words made sense. She hated even more that part of her wanted him to tell her she’d be fine — that it didn’t matter what the Ministry thought. But Snape was not that sort of man.

He studied her face, then added, softer, “If you allow their fear to rule you, then they are correct. Do not give them that satisfaction.”

Her breath caught. For one heartbeat, his words felt like an anchor. Then his robes swirled again, and he was walking, leaving her to hurry after him.

The Floo flames roared to life. Together they stepped through, spat out into the familiar chill of the castle.

And suddenly, Hogwarts felt emptier than ever.

{~}

Esme didn’t sleep.
She had tried — curling beneath the blankets, pulling the pillow tight against her chest, even whispering a few runes meant to calm the mind. Nothing worked. Every time her eyes closed, the Ministry’s chamber bloomed behind them: torches smoking, quills scratching, voices asking her how she knew, why she knew, what she would do with it.

So when dawn arrived, grey light spilling through the high windows, Esme rose with the hollow weight of exhaustion dragging at her bones. She moved through her morning routine on autopilot — washing, dressing, gathering her things — but the shadows under her eyes betrayed her.

She hadn’t meant to run into anyone before the carriages left. But fate had other plans.
In the Entrance Hall, her six friends seemed to converge at once, luggage floating behind them, cloaks wrapped snugly against the cold. The sight of them together — laughing, tugging at scarves, bickering lightly — made something inside Esme ache.

“Esme,” Hermione’s voice broke through first. Her sharp eyes narrowed immediately. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Esme froze. “What? Of course I did.”

“You look like Nearly Headless Nick,” Blaise muttered, raising a brow. His tone was dry, but his gaze was too sharp, too knowing.

Pansy leaned in closer, her perfume clinging faintly to her cloak. “What happened? Did something—” She broke off when Draco shot her a quick look, then turned back to Esme, expectant.

For one wild second, Esme wanted to tell them everything. To spill out the whole story and the way the Ministry’s eyes had pierced through her, dissecting every word. She wanted to admit she was scared, that she felt like someone had pressed a target between her shoulder blades.

But she shook her head. Forced a faint smile. “It was just… a long day, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

Hermione’s frown deepened, as if she didn’t believe a single word. Harry shifted awkwardly, glancing between them. Even Draco, usually quick with a cutting remark, said nothing — just studied her face with a frown that was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“Fine,” Pansy said at last, though her voice was too light, too false. “But if you collapse face-first into your pudding at the Christmas feast, don’t expect me to get you out.”

Esme laughed weakly. “Deal.”

Then came the inevitable.

The castle thinned, students pouring out like water from a sieve. Luggage clattered, owls swooped overhead, and the great carriages rattled toward Hogsmeade station.

Harry caught her again near the doors. His scarf was crooked, his trunk obediently floating behind him. Hermione hovered close, still watching Esme with knitted brows. Ron waved from further down the steps.

“You sure you’ll be all right here?” Harry asked.

Esme nodded quickly. “Yeah. Go. Enjoy Christmas.”

“You know you could’ve come with us,” Hermione pressed. “The Burrow would—”

“I’ll be fine,” Esme cut in, firmer this time. “Really.”

Harry hesitated, then gave her a look that was half guilt, half reluctant acceptance, before following Mrs. Weasley out into the snow. Hermione’s glance lingered on Esme until the doors closed behind them.

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise left too, striding toward the gates with their trunks and sharp laughter. Pansy waved, Blaise gave his usual cool nod, and Draco muttered something that might have been a farewell — though the wind swallowed it before she could catch it.

And then they were gone.

{~}

By evening, silence wrapped itself around the stone halls like a cloak. The Great Hall, half-lit and half-empty, echoed with every clink of cutlery. Ghosts drifted lazily, even their chatter subdued.

Esme sat in the Slytherin common room, firelight flickering against the green-stone walls. Books lay open in her lap, but the words refused to make sense. Her thoughts circled instead:

They’ll be watching me. Every step. Every rune. Every spell.

A log cracked in the hearth. She flinched, then laughed at herself — the sound hollow in the empty chamber.

Loneliness pressed in from every side. The castle was too big without the chaos of her friends. Every shadow stretched too far, every creak of the stones too loud. She hugged her knees against her chest, feeling smaller than she ever had.

For the first time since stepping into this world, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

And still, deep inside, that whisper stirred again: They’re afraid of you for a reason.
She hated that thought most of all.

{~}

The days blurred.

Snow blanketed the castle grounds, muffling the world in white silence. From the windows, Esme could see the Forbidden Forest standing black and skeletal against the pale sky, its trees like watchful sentinels.
The lake was frozen over, glassy and strange, reflecting the low winter sun.

Inside, the castle felt cavernous. Corridors stretched endlessly without the usual noise of chattering students. Portraits dozed more often, their painted snores echoing faintly, as though even they were tired of the emptiness.

Esme’s footsteps followed her everywhere. She hated that sound — the reminder that she was the only one walking there.

Meals in the Great Hall were the worst. Only a handful of students had stayed behind, and they clustered together at one table like a family too small for a house meant for twenty. Esme sat at the edge, away from their conversations, pushing food around her plate. The professors looked oddly softened without the chaos of the full student body — even McGonagall’s sternness relaxed into quiet dignity, though her sharp eyes lingered on Esme longer than usual.

Snape, when he appeared, was unchanged. Cold. Silent. Except sometimes — sometimes — Esme thought she caught his gaze flick toward her at the Slytherin table, his expression unreadable. She wondered if he was watching her for himself or on the Ministry’s behalf.

She tried to keep busy. Books stacked around her in the library, parchment filled with rune sketches until her quill hand cramped. But the Ministry’s words echoed every time she wrote a new line of script: No third-year should know this. No child should be capable.

By Christmas Eve, the snow outside had thickened into drifts. The castle glowed with soft candlelight, wreaths of holly and ivy hung along the banisters. The magic of the season clung stubbornly to Hogwarts even in its emptiness.

Esme walked the corridors late, her breath puffing in little clouds in the cold air. She paused near the Great Hall, peeking in through the partially open doors.

The professors sat together at one end of the long table, laughing more quietly than usual. Dumbledore’s bright robes looked almost garish against the winter-dark stone, and he waved his goblet with a flourish as he spoke. For a moment, Esme thought about stepping inside, about joining the handful of stragglers gathered near the fire.

But the thought of all their eyes — the questions, the pity — drove her back into the shadows.

She returned to the Slytherin common room instead. The fire there burned high, its light dancing against the green glass of the lake beyond the windows. She curled into the chair nearest the flames, pulling her knees up, listening to the muffled gurgle of water.

It was warmer here, but not less lonely.

{~}

Christmas morning crept into the dungeons slowly, pale light filtering down through the enchanted windows. The Slytherin common room was hushed, the lake outside casting rippling shadows against the green stone walls. Esme sat curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire, a blanket around her shoulders. The castle was silent — too silent — but on the low table before her, a small pile of gifts waited.

She stared at them for a long moment, heart twisting. For the first time in days, she let herself smile.

The first package she picked up was slim and wrapped in gleaming silver paper. Neat, almost too perfect. She knew at once who it was from.

Inside was a thin silver bookmark, its surface etched with delicate filigree. When she slid it into the book on her lap, it stayed perfectly in place even when she shook it. No slipping, no folding of corners. Classic Draco — precise, elegant, and just a little smug.

A small folded card was tucked inside:
“Books slipping out of your hands is hardly dignified. Now you won’t have that excuse. – D.M.”

Esme laughed softly, running her thumb along the cool silver. For all his barbed words, Draco had been paying attention. That thought warmed her more than the fire did.

The second package was wrapped in emerald ribbon, the handwriting on the tag looping and dramatic: Pansy.

Inside was a quill — long and sweeping, its feather a dark, glossy green that shimmered when it caught the light. She turned it over in her hands; the weight was perfect, balanced, and with a tap it refilled its own ink. Pansy’s style, through and through: beautiful, sharp, and showy.

The note fluttered free:
“Now you’ll have no excuse to look half-dead scribbling essays. Try to look like you enjoy yourself for once. You’re welcome. –P”

Esme snorted, pressing the note against her knee. Typical Pansy. Insult wrapped in kindness. She loved it anyway.

Blaise’s gift was next: a sleek black box with no ribbon at all, as if he couldn’t be bothered. But when she opened it, her breath caught.

Inside lay a small vial of ink, but unlike any she’d ever seen. In the firelight, it shimmered like liquid smoke — shifting from deep sapphire to crimson to something almost invisible. When she tilted it, the ink seemed to vanish entirely before pooling again.

The note was short:
“Use it wisely. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll enjoy watching. – B.”

Esme grinned, shaking her head. Of course he’d give her something that felt more like a secret than a gift. Dangerous, beautiful, intriguing — Blaise all over.

Her hands trembled a little when she reached for the next package. The brown paper was simple, slightly crooked in its folds, tied with a bit of twine. She didn’t need to check the handwriting to know it was Harry.

Inside was a small, battered-looking compass. But when she opened it, the needle didn’t point north. It swung firmly toward Hogwarts. Always toward Hogwarts.
Her throat tightened as she turned it in her hand. A gift that said, without saying it, you belong here. You’ll always find your way back.

The note was clumsy, scrawled in ink that had blotted at the edges:
“Figured it might help if you ever get… lost. You know. See you soon. –H.”

Esme blinked hard and pressed the compass against her palm until it warmed. Harry’s awkward sincerity had a way of cutting straight through her defenses.

Hermione’s parcel was neat, carefully wrapped, the corners precise. Inside was a small leather-bound notebook. At first glance it looked ordinary, but when Esme opened it, her breath caught.

Every page was filled with careful handwriting — spells, rune diagrams, cross-references to obscure books, footnotes in the margins. It was a treasure trove of knowledge, meticulously organized.

The note was written in Hermione’s tight script:
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you skim over details. This should help keep things… orderly. (And no, you don’t get to argue with me about it.) Merry Christmas! –H.”

Esme ran her fingertips over the ink. Of course Hermione would give her something like this: not just useful, but a piece of herself. A reminder that someone cared enough to notice how she worked, to want to make it easier.

Finally, Ron’s package. The wrapping was lumpy, the tag slightly smudged, but it smelled faintly sweet even before she opened it. Inside was a box of Honeydukes sweets: chocolate frogs, fizzing whizbees, licorice wands.

The note made her laugh out loud:
“Mum says don’t eat them all at once. Which means you definitely should. –Ron.”

It was so perfectly Ron that her chest ached. Simple, genuine, and somehow exactly what she needed.

When the last note was set aside, Esme leaned back in her chair, the firelight dancing across silver, feathers, leather, and sweets. Six gifts, six voices. Gryffindor and Slytherin, sharp and soft, practical and sentimental. A reminder that she wasn’t forgotten.

She pressed her hands over her mouth, but the tears came anyway, hot and sudden. A choked sob broke free, echoing off the stone walls. She bent forward, shoulders shaking, as the compass tumbled from her lap and spun on the rug, needle pointing unwaveringly back toward home.

No one had ever given her this before — not just things, but pieces of themselves. A mark of trust. Of care. Of love.

For so long she had braced herself to be alone, to fight her battles in silence, to guard her secrets like armor. But now, surrounded by proof that six different people had thought of her, chosen something only she would understand… the armor cracked.

Her tears fell onto the leather notebook, blotting the corner of Hermione’s neat script. She clutched the compass to her chest, the silver bookmark pressed between her fingers, and let herself sob until she could barely breathe.

Loved. She was loved. Not for what she could do, not for the dangerous things the Ministry whispered about, but for her.

The fire burned low. Her sobs softened into hiccups, then into silence. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her jumper, blinking through swollen eyes at the pile of gifts that seemed to glow in the firelight.

For the first time in her life, Esmeralda Hawthorn didn’t feel like a mistake.
She felt… home.

Chapter Text

The carriages had just rattled back through the gates when Esme saw them — scarves trailing, voices loud with the half-complaints and half-laughter of a journey back from the holidays. The air was sharp with January’s bite, snow crunching under boots, but she didn’t care.

Her chest tightened as Harry came into view, dragging his trunk behind him, Hermione right beside him, Ron already complaining about frostbite. Then Draco appeared, pale as ever, Pansy at his elbow and Blaise trailing with his hands tucked neatly in his pockets, surveying the chaos with his usual cool detachment.

Something in Esme broke loose. Weeks of silence, of echoing halls and nights by the fire alone, of staring at their presents until her chest ached — it all boiled up and snapped.

She ran forward.

Before any of them could blink, she barreled straight into the group, throwing her arms around all six at once in a giant, bone-crushing hug. Scarves tangled, trunks toppled, someone yelped as her elbow caught ribs. She buried her face into their coats and refused to let go.

“YOU’RE BACK!” she shouted into the tangle of wool and startled gasps. “I MISSED YOU SO MUCH—”

“Oi—OI—Esme—what the—” Ron wheezed. His muffled voice was somewhere under her arm. “I can’t—breathe—”

“Polyjuice,” Draco hissed immediately, shoving at her shoulder like she’d sprouted tentacles. “This isn’t her. She’s been replaced. Someone call Snape.”

“I AM Snape-proof!” Esme snapped back, hugging harder.

“Definitely not her,” Draco gasped, muffled in her hair. “She’s hugging—voluntarily—this is an imposter—”

Pansy’s muffled shriek joined in: “My hair! You’re crushing my HAIR—do you know how long it takes to get curls like these to survive the snow?”

Hermione, half-laughing and half-panicked, wriggled uselessly against Esme’s grip. “Esme—Esme, let go! Please! You’re frightening Ron—”

“I’M—” Ron’s face popped out of the pile, scarlet and wheezing. “I’m NOT frightened! Just—dying a bit—maybe—”

“Right,” Blaise’s calm baritone cut through, though he too was trapped. “Either she’s possessed, or we’ve finally reached the end of days. Personally, I’d like to vote possessed.”

Esme only laughed harder, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She tightened her hold until it felt like the whole world was finally back where it belonged.

Draco made a strangled noise. “Someone hex her. For Merlin’s sake—hex her!”
But no one did.

Finally, when their muffled protests had grown so ridiculous she half-feared Ron might actually faint, she loosened her grip and stepped back. Her cheeks were flaming, but she didn’t care.

They all stumbled away, breathing like they’d just survived a duel. Hermione clutched her bag to her chest, Harry rubbed his shoulder, Ron bent double wheezing, Pansy frantically smoothed her flattened curls, Blaise brushed snow from his coat with icy dignity, and Draco stood glaring at her like she’d just tried to assassinate him.

“You’re not Esme,” Draco said flatly, dusting himself off. “Esme would sooner hex herself than hug me.”

Harry was staring at her too, wide-eyed and half-grinning. “What—what was that about?”

Esme sniffed, suddenly shy again. “I… missed you.”

The six exchanged a wary look.

Ron squinted at her. “She’s smiling. That’s even scarier.”

“She’s smiling and hugging,” Blaise corrected. “Definitely cursed.”

Pansy folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. “Say something only the real Esme would know.”

Esme crossed her arms in return, though her grin wobbled. “That you spent half of Potions last term doodling Draco’s initials in your margins instead of notes.”

Pansy went crimson. “YOU—”

“Real Esme,” Hermione decided quickly, before Pansy could hex her.

“But still potentially unstable,” Draco muttered darkly.

Hermione gave him a shove. “Oh, stop. She obviously had a hard holiday. Can’t you tell?”

That silenced them all for a beat. The laughter lingered, but so did something else — concern flickering beneath their expressions.

Harry glanced at her, his voice gentler now. “Esme. Slow down. You’ve got to tell us what happened. Properly. Not out here in the snow.”

Hermione nodded, her brows drawn together. “Yes, let’s get inside. Warm fire, tea, and then you explain everything. Every detail.”

Esme hesitated, her throat tight, but she nodded.

For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t scared of explaining. Not with them beside her.

They gathered their things and trudged toward the castle, their voices tangling together again — bickering, laughing, the same chaos she’d missed so fiercely. Esme trailed just a step behind, watching them, her heart aching with relief.

Whatever the Ministry thought of her, whatever shadows waited… for now, she had them.

And that was enough.

{~}

The snow had started again by the time they reached the castle, soft flakes drifting down like feathers shaken loose from the sky. The group trudged up the steps, boots stamping and trunks levitating, their laughter from outside giving way to the muffled hush of stone walls and torchlight.
Esme followed a half-step behind them, her chest still buzzing from the hug. She felt lighter, but fragile too — like one wrong word might crack her open.

They made their way into Gryffindor Tower first, Hermione leading the charge with her usual determination, though Draco, Pansy, and Blaise slowed near the portrait hole with looks that screamed we don’t belong here.

Hermione huffed. “Oh, don’t start. You three have snuck in here a dozen times already. You’re practically honorary Gryffindors.”

Draco muttered, “That’s an insult, not an invitation.”

But he stepped inside anyway, scowling like the cushions had personally offended him. Pansy rolled her eyes and followed, while Blaise sauntered in with the calm detachment of someone who could make himself comfortable anywhere.

The common room was warm, firelight spilling across thick rugs and deep armchairs. The glow hit them like a wave after the cold outside, thawing noses and fingers. A kettle whistled faintly from somewhere near the hearth — a kindness left behind by the house-elves for returning students.

Ron collapsed first, dragging his trunk into a corner and flopping across an armchair with a groan. “Merlin, I swear the train ride back gets longer every year.”

Harry dropped his trunk by the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Hermione, ever the organizer, whisked her cloak off and started rearranging tea cups on the low table.
Draco perched stiffly on the arm of a chair, Pansy claimed a cushioned seat and began fussing with her hair again, and Blaise sprawled on the rug near the fire, long legs crossed at the ankle like he owned the place.

Esme stood for a moment, hovering near the edge of the room. She had spent all of Christmas in silence, curled by a fire in the Slytherin common room that had never felt like hers. Now, here they were — her friends — back together, filling the space with their familiar chaos. It was almost too much.

Harry noticed first. He patted the sofa beside him. “Come on. Sit.”

She obeyed, perching like a bird about to take flight.

Hermione poured tea into mismatched cups, passing them around. When she handed Esme hers, her eyes softened. “All right,” she said, settling in across from her with her own cup balanced neatly. “Start from the beginning. Slowly. What happened at the Ministry?”

The others quieted at that, curiosity pulling their voices back.

Draco leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed. “Yes. What exactly did they want with you? Because Snape wouldn’t tell us a bloody thing.”

Esme wrapped her hands around the warm china, the heat seeping into her fingers. Her chest tightened, the memory clawing back — polished marble, crimson robes, questions sharp as knives.

She opened her mouth — then shut it.

The silence stretched.

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er… look, if it’s bad, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Esme said, surprising herself. Her voice was rough but steady. “I want to. Just… let me get it right.”

She drew a deep breath, stared into the fire, and began.

“They made me sit in a chair,” she said, words slow, careful. “A whole half-circle of them, quills floating like they were ready to record my every breath. They asked me questions about… about how I know the things I do. About runes. About languages. About magic most people don’t even study until they’re out of Hogwarts.”

Her throat worked. She sipped her tea, but her hands shook.

“They didn’t believe me when I said I just… study. They don’t believe it’s possible. So they gave me tests.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Tasks no one my age should be able to do. Things I only managed because of—” She cut herself off. The words because of who I really am hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed them back.

Draco frowned. “What kind of tasks?”

Esme hesitated. “Rune reconstructions. Curse matrices. They wanted me to unravel spells, to… to prove myself. And I did. Every time. Too well.”

The silence after that was heavy.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “So they’re afraid of you.”

“Yes.” The word was bitter in Esme’s mouth. “They think I’m dangerous. That I’m… something to be contained. Watched.”

Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Esme said. Her voice cracked then, the weight of it spilling out. “They looked at me like I was some kind of weapon they couldn’t control. And then they let me go, but only with a warning. Every step I take, every spell I cast… they’ll be watching. Waiting for me to slip.”

She hadn’t realized tears had slipped down her cheeks until Hermione reached over, pressing a handkerchief gently into her hands.

For a long moment, the fire crackled. None of them spoke.

Then Draco broke the silence, dry as ever. “So. The Ministry’s finally recognized what we’ve known all along — that you’re terrifying.”

Esme choked on a laugh, half-sob, half-hiccup. “That’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is,” Pansy said firmly, tossing her hair. “Because it’s ridiculous. You? Dangerous? You’re the girl who cries over Flobberworms.”

“I did not cry—”

“You absolutely did,” Ron jumped in, grinning faintly now. “I was there. Tears. Actual tears.”

Blaise smirked, his dark eyes glinting. “And you’re telling me the same girl who can’t survive Potions without turning green is supposed to be some apocalyptic weapon? Please.”

The tension broke. Esme laughed — shaky, but real.

Harry leaned closer, voice soft. “Esme, listen. They don’t know you. But we do. You’re not dangerous. You’re our friend. And whatever they think… you’re not alone.”

Hermione nodded fiercely. “Exactly. Let them watch. Let them whisper. We’ll be here. Always.”

Esme’s vision blurred again, but not from fear this time. From something warm, solid, anchoring.

She swallowed hard. “Thank you. For… for not treating me differently. For still being you, even after everything I told you. I was so scared that if you knew, you’d look at me the way they did. Like I was something to be… handled.”

Draco tilted his head, lips twitching. “Handled? You? Please. If anyone’s handling anyone here, it’s you handling us.”

Ron snorted. “Too right.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “Esme, we’d never look at you like that. You’re one of us. Always.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. You’re stuck with us, no matter what the Ministry says.”

Pansy leaned forward, smirking but sincere. “And if anyone tries to lock you up, they’ll have to go through me first. And trust me, I bite.”

“Same,” Blaise said lazily. “Though I prefer poisoning. Much classier.”

Esme laughed through her tears, heart swelling so big she thought it might burst.
She set her tea aside and, before she could stop herself, threw her arms wide. “Group hug. Now.”

A chorus of groans met her, but she ignored them, practically launching off the sofa into the middle of their circle. She caught Hermione and Harry first, then dragged Ron in, then Pansy and Blaise, and even Draco — who made a very undignified sound of protest but didn’t actually escape.

They ended up in a ridiculous pile, limbs tangled, tea nearly spilled, everyone complaining and laughing at once.

“Esme, you’re crushing me—”
“Whose elbow is that—”
“Draco, stop squirming—”
“I refuse to be part of this—”
“Too late!” Esme crowed, clinging tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt whole.

{~}

The fire crackled merrily in the Gryffindor common room, throwing shadows across the walls and gilding every cushion, blanket, and scattered mug of cocoa with warmth.

The storm outside beat against the tower windows, but in here the world was nothing but laughter, drowsy chatter, and the comfortable weight of friends pressed together in one space.

Esme curled at the edge of the cushion pile, half-lulled by the soft rise and fall of voices.
Harry shifted closer, his knees drawn up as he poked at the fringe of the rug. The firelight caught on his glasses. When he spoke, his voice was low, meant only for their circle.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About the Dementors.”

That earned him instant attention. Ron sat up straighter, Hermione snapped her book shut, and even Blaise tilted his head away from Pansy’s whispered comment.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Esme, then away again. “You shouldn’t have to do that every time. Not alone. Not until you faint.”

Esme opened her mouth to argue, but Harry pressed on. “I’m going to ask Professor Lupin to teach me. Properly. The Patronus. If—when—they come back, I want to be ready. I don’t want all of us just waiting for you to step in.”

The words settled over the group like a second blanket.

Hermione’s face softened, pride shining in her eyes. “That’s… actually a brilliant idea, Harry.”

Ron gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. Makes sense. You fainting in the middle of a match wasn’t exactly reassuring, Esme.”

Draco’s smirk was more gentle than mocking. “For once, Weasley makes a point.”

Esme drew her knees up, chin resting against them. She wanted to tell Harry he didn’t have to. That she could handle it. But she saw the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists against his knees. He was right. She couldn’t always be there. And the Ministry breathing down her neck only made things worse.

Instead, she smiled faintly. “It’s a brilliant idea. Really.”

Harry’s gaze finally met hers, green eyes steady. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

And just like that, something shifted. It wasn’t all on her anymore.

{~}

The Defense classroom smelled of old parchment and oil, a faint tang of brass polish clinging to the air. The desks had been shoved back against the stone walls, leaving a wide, open space in the middle of the room. A wardrobe sat heavy in one corner, shuddering occasionally as if its occupant itched to be let free.

Harry’s heart was already hammering. He had been at this for weeks, but each time the same thing happened—fog, light, and then nothing.

“Again, Harry,” Professor Lupin said patiently, his wand lowered but his eyes kind. “Concentrate not only on happiness, but on strength. It must come from a memory powerful enough to drown the darkness.”

Harry nodded, wiping his palms on his robes. He raised his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

A wisp of silvery mist curled from the tip, then sputtered out like dying smoke. His heart plummeted.

From a desk near the wall, Esme Hawthorn swung her legs lazily. She was surrounded by the guts of some contraption—glass bulbs, copper piping, and brass screws scattered across the wood. A small cauldron hissed nearby, venting steam through one of her odd copper tubes.

She tilted her head, watching Harry’s mist dissolve. “Not bad, Potter. At least this time it looked like smoke instead of a candle snuffing itself out.”

Harry shot her a look, cheeks red.

“Esmeralda,” Lupin chided gently, though there was amusement in his voice. “Encouragement, not criticism.”

Esme grinned but didn’t apologize. Instead, she twisted a wire into place on her gadget, her wand flicking to weld the metal with a spark of blue light.

“What is that thing?” Harry asked, grateful for the distraction.

“Trap,” she said without looking up. “Not for boggarts. For something nastier.” Her eyes flicked to him briefly. “Rats.”

Harry frowned. “You mean—?”

“Exactly what you think I mean.” She shoved another screw into place, hands moving with almost mechanical speed. “But I can’t use my runes or wards. The Ministry’s watching. If I so much as scratch a glyph into the wall, they’ll swoop in and confiscate the whole project.” She leaned back, brushing hair from her eyes, her smirk edged with defiance. “So… fine. Let’s see them keep up with this.”

Lupin’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, as though weighing what he ought to say. Then he turned back to Harry. “Ready again?”

Harry swallowed. He thought of flying on his Firebolt, the wind whipping his face. He thought of Ron and Hermione, laughing in the common room. He thought—more than anything—of the moment he had first heard his mother’s voice through the Dementor’s cold mist.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The silver light flared stronger this time, almost forming a shape, before it collapsed back into smoke.

Harry’s chest clenched. “It’s no use. I can’t do it.”

“Not true,” Lupin said firmly. “Progress is never useless. You are closer every attempt.”

“Maybe he just needs to see it done properly,” Esme said suddenly.

Both Harry and Lupin turned.

Esme stood, brushing copper filings off her robes. She twirled her wand in her hand with a mix of nervousness and determination. “All right. Let’s see if I still remember.”

“Have you practiced the charm before?” Lupin asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.

Esme smirked. “Maybe once or twice.” Then she took a deep breath. “Expecto Patronum!”

The classroom erupted in silver brilliance. From the tip of her wand burst a magnificent Patronus, solid and luminous, prowling forward with the grace of a predator. Its long tail flicked; its massive paws left glowing prints on the flagstones.

“A snow leopard…” Lupin whispered, awe flickering across his usually calm face.

The Patronus padded to Esme’s side, pressing its gleaming muzzle against her arm. She stroked it once, her hand trembling slightly, though she masked it with a crooked smile. “Guess that’s me, then. Stubborn, solitary, impossible to track.”

Harry stared, wide-eyed. “You—you did it first try?”

Esme shrugged, though there was a crack in her bravado. “Maybe I just had the right memory.” She didn’t elaborate.

The snow leopard turned its head toward the brass-and-glass contraption in the corner, eyes glowing faintly. Esme’s smile faltered, as if the Patronus itself had reminded her of something she didn’t want to face. With a flick of her wand, the creature dissolved back into silver mist.

Lupin was still watching her, thoughtful and unreadable. “That is… extraordinary, Esmeralda. Few witches or wizards can summon a corporeal Patronus, let alone on their first attempt.”

She busied herself with her gadget again, as though embarrassed by the attention. “Well, now Potter knows what it’s supposed to look like. His turn.”

Lupin chuckled softly, but Harry was already lifting his wand again, his determination reignited.

This time, when he cast the spell, the mist burst brighter than before, holding for a fraction longer, as though it too wanted to become something more.

And though Harry’s Patronus still failed to fully form, the silver glow reflected in his eyes—and in the faintest gleam of pride in Lupin’s.

{~}

That night, long after the lesson ended, the classroom was empty except for Esme’s contraption. A gear clicked softly in the dark, winding itself, waiting.

{~}

The Gryffindor common room was never this quiet. Even in the dead of night, someone usually left an essay unfinished, a chessboard abandoned mid-game, or a firewhisky toffee wrapper crumpled on the rug. But tonight, the room was hushed, firelight licking across stone and shadow.

Esmeralda Hawthorn sat curled in the largest armchair, her boots propped on the hearth, wand balanced across her lap. A half-finished device lay beside her: brass tubes wound through glass chambers, wires coiled like veins across the floor. She didn’t touch it now. Instead, she kept her eyes on the staircase that led to the boys’ dormitories.

She knew what was coming. The night Sirius Black would break in again.

Her stomach was taut with nerves. She’d seen this play out in the films—Ron’s scream shattering the night, Sirius fleeing into the dark, confusion smothering the truth. But this time, she would be waiting.

Hours dragged. She fought to keep herself awake, biting the inside of her cheek. Once, her head dipped against her hand, and the copper contraption beside her gave a sharp ping! that jolted her back upright. The fire had burned down to embers when she finally heard it: a floorboard sighing at the edge of the stairwell.

She sat very still.

A shadow detached itself from the dark. Sirius Black.

His hair was matted, black as coal around a face carved with hunger and fury. He moved with the silence of a predator, eyes bright and searching.

Until they landed on her.

He froze. His hand jerked toward his wand, eyes wild. “Merlin’s bloody beard—!” he rasped, stumbling back a step. “Do you make a habit of sitting in the dark to give me heart failure?”

Esme smirked from her chair. “Third time’s the charm, huh? You’re going to start expecting me every time you sneak in somewhere.”

He scowled, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve got James written all over you, you know that? Same grin. Same bloody nerve.”

“And you’ve got a habit of underestimating me,” she shot back.

He lowered his wand, eyes still burning. “So? Going to scream for help? Call your Head of House? You should. It’d be the smart thing.”

“Not planning on it.” She rose to her feet, her voice dropping low. “Because I know you didn’t betray James and Lily.”

He stiffened, but didn’t deny it. “You’ve said that before.”

“And now I’m saying more.” She stepped closer, her silver-grey eyes fixed on him. “I know who did.”

Sirius’s breath caught. He stared at her as though she’d struck him. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was steady, though her pulse hammered in her throat. “Peter Pettigrew. He’s alive. He’s been hiding in plain sight for years. As a rat.”

Sirius’s face went deathly pale, his gaunt frame trembling. “You—how do you—?”

Esme cut him off. “He’s been living with the Weasleys. Ron Weasley’s pet, Scabbers.”

For a moment Sirius couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved, his eyes blazing with a fury that bordered on madness—but beneath it was raw, broken relief. Someone knew. Someone had finally said it.

His laugh came out cracked, bitter and wild. “That worm… hiding with children—hiding with Harry—” His fists shook. “All this time.”

Esme’s voice sharpened. “Revenge won’t clear your name. If you want the truth out, you’ll need proof. I can help you get it.”

He looked at her then, really looked, as if weighing the risk of trusting her. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Not just for you,” she said. “For Harry. For James and Lily. For the truth.”

Something flickered in Sirius’s eyes—respect, maybe even the faintest spark of hope. “You’re trouble,” he muttered. “James would have adored you.”

Esme allowed herself the ghost of a smile.

And then the moment shattered.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Ron Weasley’s scream split the air. He was frozen on the dormitory landing, eyes wide, pointing down at them both. “SIRIUS BLACK! AND—AND—ESME’S WITH HIM!”

The tower erupted in chaos. Curtains ripped back, students tumbled from their rooms in confusion. Sirius swore under his breath, wild eyes darting.

“Go!” Esme hissed, shoving him toward the portrait hole. “Now!”

For the briefest instant, Sirius hesitated—trust flickering between them like a flame.
Then he vanished into the shadows, gone through the portrait hole just as the common room flooded with students.

Seconds later, professors burst in—

McGonagall in tartan, Lupin pale and tense, Snape smirking like a vulture who’d scented blood, and Dumbledore, calm and grave.

“What is the meaning of this?” McGonagall barked.

Ron was still shaking, pointing wildly. “Sirius Black was right here—he was with her—talking to her!”

Every eye in the room swung toward Esme.

Her smirk was gone. She stood tall, but her chest tightened under the weight of their suspicion.

“Miss Hawthorn,” McGonagall demanded, “is this true?”

Esme’s voice was steady. “He didn’t harm me. But yes, he was here. And yes—we talked.”

Snape sneered. “And what, pray tell, does the mad murderer of Azkaban have to discuss with a third-year student?”

Esme hesitated, then said carefully, “The truth. That he wasn’t the one who betrayed James and Lily Potter.”

The professors froze. Lupin went rigid, color draining from his face. Snape barked a disbelieving laugh. McGonagall’s lips thinned to a dangerous line.

“Enough,” Dumbledore said quietly, but his eyes lingered on Esme, piercing and unreadable. “Miss Hawthorn, you will come with us. You will explain everything you can, and Madam Pomfrey will examine you for curses or charms. For your own safety.”

Esme inclined her head, though her pulse pounded like thunder. “Fine. But I told you the truth. Whether you believe me… that’s your problem.”

The professors herded her from the tower as the common room buzzed with frightened whispers. Ron’s wide, bewildered eyes followed her until the portrait swung shut.

{~}

The infirmary smelled of polish and lavender, faintly antiseptic, the same way it always did. Esme sat on the edge of one of the hospital beds while Madam Pomfrey waved her wand in precise arcs, her brow furrowed. Blue and green sparks danced over Esme’s body, leaving no trace behind.

“No curses. No hexes. No charms, binding or otherwise,” Madam Pomfrey announced crisply. “She’s clean.”

Esme raised an eyebrow. “Told you so.”
Madam Pomfrey sniffed. “Given who you were in a room with, young lady, you’ll forgive me for being thorough.” She flicked her wand once more, then turned. “Well? She’s yours.”

Four professors waited at the far end of the ward. McGonagall stood stiff-backed, her tartan dressing gown wrapped tight. Snape’s black robes pooled like shadows at his feet, his smirk sharp as a knife. Lupin lingered just behind the others, pale and drawn, eyes locked on Esme. And at the center, Dumbledore leaned on his staff, his gaze unreadable.

Esme slid off the bed, crossing her arms. “So… who’s first?”

“Me,” McGonagall said, her voice clipped. “Esmeralda Hawthorn, do you have any notion what you’ve just done? Sitting alone in the common room, unguarded, with Sirius Black—a man the Ministry believes is a murderer?”

“Yes,” Esme said calmly. “And I also have the notion that he didn’t kill James and Lily Potter.”

Snape gave a low, contemptuous laugh. “Of course. Let me guess—you’ve been seduced by his silver tongue? The man’s a master manipulator. James Potter’s spawn would eat up every word.”

“Careful,” Esme said sharply, her eyes flashing. “You might cut yourself on that much bitterness.”

Snape’s smirk vanished into a sneer, but McGonagall cut in before he could retort. “That’s enough.” She turned back to Esme. “You claim Black spoke of the Potters?”

“Yes. He said he didn’t betray them. He said someone else did.”

Lupin stirred, his voice low but strained. “Someone else?”

Esme hesitated. The silence stretched, all eyes burning into her. Finally, she nodded once. “Peter Pettigrew.”

The effect was immediate. Lupin went very still, his face ashen. McGonagall’s hands tightened on her sleeves. Snape scoffed loudly, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Dumbledore alone remained steady, though the weight of his gaze sharpened.

“You’ll forgive me,” Snape drawled, “if I don’t take the word of a fourth-year girl as evidence.”

“She’s not lying,” Lupin said suddenly, his voice rough. His eyes stayed on Esme, searching, almost pleading.

“Perhaps not,” Dumbledore said quietly. “But the question remains—how does she know?”

Esme’s heart kicked against her ribs. She lifted her chin, voice even. “Because I look closer than most people do. I listen. I watch. I put pieces together.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Pieces that just happen to align with Black’s delusions?”

“They align with the truth,” she shot back.
McGonagall pressed her lips thin. “Miss Hawthorn, this is deadly serious—”

“So am I,” Esme interrupted, steel in her voice. “You can believe what you want. But Sirius Black didn’t kill James and Lily. And if you ignore that, the real traitor stays free.”

The professors exchanged looks, a storm of unspoken arguments. Snape looked as though he’d swallowed poison. Lupin couldn’t tear his eyes from her. McGonagall’s stern façade cracked just enough to show doubt. And Dumbledore… Dumbledore’s gaze lingered, quiet, measuring.

Finally, he said, “That will do for tonight. Esmeralda, you will not speak of this to anyone—not even your closest friends. Do you understand?”

Esme inclined her head. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Dumbledore’s eyes softened, though the weight in them remained. “You may return to your dormitory. For now.”

Madam Pomfrey fussed at her as she left, pressing a vial of calming draught into her hand. But Esme barely felt it.

As the infirmary doors shut behind her, she caught a glimpse of the professors still huddled together—Snape hissing venom, McGonagall’s voice sharp, Lupin silent as stone, and Dumbledore’s silhouette calm, steady, but grave.

Esme slipped back into the shadows of the castle, her mind racing. The truth was out—half of it, anyway. But it was enough. Enough to plant doubt. Enough to shift the ground beneath their feet.

And Sirius Black now knew she was willing to fight for him.

{~}

The dungeons were never quiet. The torches hissed and guttered, the walls seemed to hum with the constant flow of magic, and there was always the faint drip of water echoing through unseen pipes. But tonight, the noise was different.

It wasn’t just sound. It was buzz.

Esme felt it before she even stepped through the serpent-door: the weight of dozens of eyes, the press of whispers in every corner.

“She sat with him.”
“Sirius Black. Hours, they say.”
“She’s not cursed? Not hexed?”
“She’s a Hawthorn. Of course she isn’t. Dark blood runs strong.”
“Dark Princess—told you, didn’t I? Untouchable.”

The name curled like smoke through the common room as she passed. Dark Princess. Again. She kept her head high, her expression calm, though every syllable scraped like a blade across her nerves.

She crossed the room without pause, cloak brushing the stone floor, and headed straight for the far corner where seven seats had been claimed.

They were waiting for her.

Draco sat sprawled across the end of the sofa, pale but trying for cool disdain. Blaise leaned casually against the mantel, though his dark eyes betrayed worry. Pansy perched on the arm of Draco’s chair, twisting her bracelet. Harry and Hermione sat side by side, stiff-backed and wide-eyed. Ron had his arms folded, scowling furiously at the floor.

Esme stepped into the circle and, for the first time all evening, let out a slow breath.
The buzz of whispers didn’t fade. But here—here was her family.

“What happened?” Hermione burst out first, her voice a whisper but trembling with urgency.
“Are you alright?” Blaise followed, sharper, his tone clipped to hide concern.
“They said you were with him,” Pansy said, eyes darting around like the word Black itself might bring trouble. “Alone. Esme—”
“You could’ve been killed!” Ron exploded, voice cracking. His freckles stood stark against his pale face.

Esme held up a hand. “I’m fine. Truly.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “He was there. In our room. And you—” He stopped, his green eyes burning.

“Harry.” Esme’s voice gentled, the way it always did when she tried to steady him. “I’m here. You see me. He didn’t harm me.”

Draco leaned forward suddenly, his expression unreadable. “You know, technically… he wouldn’t have. Not to her.”

That earned him a full circle of glares—especially from the Gryffindors.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron snapped.
“Careful,” Harry warned.

But Draco just smirked faintly, like he enjoyed knowing something they didn’t. “You forget, Black is my mother’s cousin. He’s a Black before anything else. That makes him family.”

Hermione’s gasp broke the silence. “What?”

Harry and Ron both turned to her as if she’d just spoken Parseltongue. “He’s—what?” Ron blurted.
“You mean Sirius Black is—he’s your—” Harry stammered.

“Cousin,” Draco finished smoothly, leaning back again, smug as a cat. “On my mother’s side. The Black family tree has… branches everywhere. Anyone who’s actually studied the Sacred Twenty-Eight knows this.”

The Gryffindors looked scandalized.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Honestly. Did you three really think pure-blood families don’t all overlap? The Notts, the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Lestranges—it’s practically one big, self-important web.”

Pansy tilted her head. “We were taught these lineages before we could even spell our names. Everyone in Slytherin knows it.”

Harry looked stricken. Ron looked ready to argue. Hermione just pressed her lips together, furious that, for once, her encyclopedic knowledge hadn’t saved her.

Esme shifted in her seat, her cloak pooling around her. The familiarity of this pure-blood chatter sat strangely in her chest. She wasn’t truly part of it—she knew her soul belonged to another world entirely—but the Hawthorn name carried weight, and she had learned to wield it like a shield.

“Yes,” she said, voice steady, “and that’s exactly why we can’t take rumors at face value. Black isn’t simple. None of this is.”

Draco gave her a sharp glance at the note of authority in her voice. Blaise’s mouth quirked.

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, looking more frustrated than ever. “You’re all talking like it’s some kind of history lesson. He broke into our dormitory.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t dangerous,” Esme cut in gently. “I only said… there’s more to this than the school thinks.”

The group fell into silence, the fire crackling loud in the pause.

Esme could still hear the whispers from the lower common room. Dark Princess. She sat with him and lived.

She closed her eyes briefly. Then, softly, she said, “I was told not to speak of what happened. Not to anyone. Not even you.”

All six of them erupted at once.

“What?” Hermione gasped.
“Esme—” Draco started, outraged.
“That’s rubbish,” Ron shouted, leaping to his feet.
“Not even us?” Blaise demanded.
“Are you serious?” Pansy pressed.
Harry’s voice cut across them all, low and strained: “Why not?”

Esme looked at them—her strange, stitched-together family of Gryffindors and Slytherins—and forced her voice to stay calm.

“Because if I break that trust, everything I’m trying to do will fall apart. I don’t expect you to understand right now. I only ask you to trust me.”

Her words fell heavy into the circle. The fire popped.

Behind them, younger Slytherins were still whispering. “She’s untouchable. Dark Princess.” “She must have cursed him.” “Or maybe he cursed her—look at her eyes—”

Esme’s fingers curled tightly into her cloak, but she didn’t flinch. Not in front of them.

Esme sat cross-legged on the rug now, cloak cast aside, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She’d never looked so tired. Still, there was a sharpness in her gaze that told them she was very much awake.

Draco sprawled in the armchair nearest her, chin propped on one hand. Blaise and Pansy sat together on the sofa, their knees almost touching. Hermione sat with her legs tucked beneath her, eyes flicking constantly to Esme. Harry leaned against the arm of the couch, tense and wired. Ron sat on the floor too, but farther back, arms still crossed like he was holding himself together.

The silence stretched.

“Are you really not going to tell us?” Ron finally burst out, his voice ragged in the hush.

Esme glanced at him, her lips pressed together. “…I can’t.”

Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You sound like Dumbledore.”

That, oddly, made Esme smile. “Then perhaps I’ve been here too long.”

Harry shook his head. “This isn’t funny. He was there, Esme. With you. With us. And you’re—what? Calm? Because you know something. You always do.”

Esme’s smile faded. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Do you trust me?”

The question cut through the air like a blade.

Hermione answered first, immediate and firm: “Yes.”
Blaise nodded once. “Always.”
Pansy sighed. “Against my better judgment, yes.”
Draco smirked faintly. “Of course I do. You’re smarter than the lot of them combined.”
Ron muttered something under his breath, but didn’t argue.

And Harry… Harry’s eyes burned. “You know I do. That’s the problem.”

Esme’s throat tightened. She reached out, almost without thinking, and laid a hand over his.

“You don’t have to like it,” she said softly. “You just have to hold on to me until it makes sense.”

No one spoke after that.

Instead, they sat. And the hours dragged on.
Whispers crept under the door, muffled giggles of younger Slytherins sneaking down to listen. The seven huddled closer, lowering their voices, speaking of anything and everything to fill the silence: Quidditch, homework, the absurdity of Snape’s lectures, even the weather. They spoke until their voices were hoarse, until laughter broke like a balm against the heaviness pressing down on them.

But every time the conversation lulled, it circled back to him. To the man with haunted eyes and hollow cheeks. To the knife. To the truth unspoken.

And always, to Esme.

They watched her like she might vanish if they blinked.

By dawn, their eyes were bloodshot, their limbs heavy, but not one of them had left. Not one of them had slept.

Seven shadows, bound together in firelight and secrecy.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hogwarts felt louder than usual.

It wasn’t the chatter of owls in the rafters or the clatter of cutlery in the Great Hall — it was the whispers. Whispers that chased Esmeralda Hawthorn wherever she went, slipping into the gaps of silence like smoke.

Dark Princess.
She spoke to Black and lived.
Did you see her? Not a scratch on her…

Esme walked with her head held high, each step measured. She had learned quickly that the only way to handle Hogwarts gossip was to wear it like armor. To let the name slide across her like water against glass. She even tilted her chin a little higher when the word Dark Princess reached her ears — better to look as though it pleased her than to let anyone see it still had teeth.

Because it did. Deep down, it still stung. Not because of the name itself, but because of what it implied — that she was something other, something dangerous, something apart.

Pansy noticed first at breakfast. She leaned close across the Slytherin table, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “They’re practically making up legends about you already,” she said in a low hiss. “The girl who faced down Sirius Black and didn’t die.”

Blaise smirked. “Can’t say I mind. You’re terrifying enough as it is.”

Esme flicked a bit of toast at him, but Harry cut in quietly, his green eyes serious. “You did talk to him. For more than a second. No one else could’ve done that.”

Draco, always too quick with his drawling confidence, smirked. “Of course she could. She’s a Hawthorn. They’ve always had a reputation for walking through fire without being burned.”

Esme felt her stomach twist. She wasn’t really a Hawthorn, not in the way they meant — but she let it stand.

Then Harry said what she least expected: “Neither do we.”

The table hushed. Hermione looked at him sharply, but didn’t contradict him.

Before Esme could say anything in return, a shadow fell over her.

“Miss Hawthorn,” said Professor McGonagall, her lips pressed into the thinnest of lines. “The Headmaster requests your presence.”

The whispers began before McGonagall had even finished speaking.

Walking to Dumbledore’s office was worse than the Great Hall. Students craned their necks, whispering, pointing. The younger Slytherins were the worst — not cruel, but… worshipful.

“She didn’t flinch.”
“She’s braver than half the Gryffindors.”
“Dark Princess of Slytherin.”

The words trailed after her like a crown she hadn’t asked for. Esme clenched her jaw and kept walking, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

The office was quiet when she entered, though Fawkes stirred on his perch, letting out a low, soft trill that made the room feel less cold.

“Sit,” Dumbledore said. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t light either. “Last night has left Hogwarts unsettled. And you, Miss Hawthorn, are at the center of it.”

“I didn’t invite Black into Gryffindor Tower,” Esme said immediately.

“No,” Dumbledore replied, folding his hands, “but you also did not scream when you found him. Instead, you spoke with him.”

Her chin lifted. “Running never helped anyone. Least of all Harry.”

A flicker passed through Dumbledore’s eyes, but he said nothing to that. Instead, he waited.

Esme took a breath. “I’ve been building something. Not wards — I know the Ministry is watching for that. Something else. A device. A trap.”

His gaze sharpened. “For whom?”

“For Peter Pettigrew.”

The silence was sharp enough to cut. Even the silver instruments on the shelves seemed to pause in their endless whirring.

“I know he’s alive,” Esme pressed on, words tumbling quickly now. “I know what form he’s taken. If I can build a device keyed to his magical resonance, it will catch him—force him back into his true form. Then the truth will be undeniable. Sirius Black will be cleared.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change much, but the weight in his gaze did. He studied her as though seeing more than just the girl in front of him.

“And how,” he asked softly, “do you propose to build such a thing?”

Esme leaned forward. “By combining mechanics with magic. A cage with shifting plates, layered in runic etchings that disrupt Animagus stasis. It won’t look like much — but once he steps inside, it will collapse the transformation, force him back. He won’t be able to slip free.”

“And if it fails?”

“Then I try again,” Esme said firmly. “Because I know he’s out there. I know he’s the reason Sirius has spent twelve years in Azkaban. I can’t let that stand.”

For a long moment, Dumbledore was silent.
Then he inclined his head, just slightly.
“You have my approval,” he said at last. “But be warned, Miss Hawthorn — you are walking a dangerous line. If the Ministry suspects what you’re attempting, they may turn their eyes on you even more sharply than before.”

Esme’s hands clenched on the arm of her chair, but her voice was steady. “I’ve lived under suspicion my whole life. At least this time, I’ll be doing something worth it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, though his words remained grave. “Then so be it. Do what you must — but be prepared for the cost.”

Esme stood, her resolve hardening like steel. “Everything worth doing has one.”

{~}

The library was silent, save for the low hum of wards thrumming at the edges of Esme’s rune-sight. Hermione had her arms crossed, but her eyes flicked between Esme and the rolled-up blueprints poking out of her satchel.

“You’ve already built something,” Hermione said at last, not a question but an accusation.

Esme didn’t bother denying it. She tugged the tube free and unrolled the parchment across the table. Delicate sketches in charcoal and ink sprawled across the page—half clockwork, half runes. Tiny gears etched with sigils, spring-loaded arcs bound with containment wards. At the center, a hollow cage no bigger than a shoebox.

Hermione leaned closer, curiosity overriding her fear. “You really did it.”

Esme’s mouth quirked in something between pride and grimness. “The shell, yes. It’ll hold him if I get him inside. But the trigger—the magic that forces an Animagus out of their form? That’s where I’m stuck.”

Hermione traced a finger along the etched runes, careful not to smudge. “That’s advanced transfiguration theory. You’d need—” She stopped, eyes darting up. “—you’d need to force a destabilization of the Animagus bond. Disrupt the harmony between form and core.”

“Exactly,” Esme said. “But it has to be clean. Controlled. I can’t risk frying his core completely. As much as he deserves it.”

Hermione frowned, chewing her lip. “There’s a passage in Intermediate Transfigurations about forcing magical reversals. Most wizards would never attempt it—too volatile—but if we weave it into a binding rune…”

Esme leaned closer, her eyes glinting. “Think it’ll hold?”

Hermione hesitated. “It could. If we design it carefully. But Esme…” Her voice dropped. “If this works, you’ll be dragging a Death Eater’s servant out in front of everyone. You’ll be naming him a traitor. The Ministry will know you did it. Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

Esme’s jaw tightened. “Sirius was rotting in Azkaban because no one else was brave enough to look closer. If it takes me building a contraption in a school library to prove the truth—then that’s what I’ll do.”

Hermione studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Then we’ll do it together.”

That word—we—landed heavier than Esme expected. She wasn’t used to allies, not in this fight. But Hermione’s certainty made something inside her uncoil.

Hermione sat, pulling quill and parchment closer. “All right. Show me where the containment lines are weakest. If we integrate a forced-reversal charm here—” she tapped the side of the cage, “—we can channel the Animagus disruption directly into the core link without damaging the host body.”

Esme smirked faintly. “You sound like you’ve been waiting your whole life to weaponize a textbook.”

Hermione flushed, but her eyes gleamed. “Someone has to keep you from blowing us all up.”

Together, they bent over the designs.
Hermione scribbled runes and formulae with her neat, precise hand while Esme sketched modifications in quick strokes, the device taking sharper shape between them. The library’s silence pressed close, but neither cared. For once, the weight of the secret wasn’t crushing—it was shared.

When they finally leaned back, the parchment was covered in notes, lines, and corrections. The trap was still theoretical, still dangerous, but it was real.

Hermione exhaled, setting her quill down. “If this works…”

Esme’s gaze sharpened. “When it works. Pettigrew won’t stay hidden much longer.”

{~}

The castle at night was a breathing thing.

Every creak of old wood, every groan of shifting stone, every sigh of wind through the arrow slits seemed magnified in the silence. Esme’s boots made no sound—she’d charmed them for silence hours ago—but beside her, Hermione’s whispered complaints filled the void just as easily.

“This is mad. You know this is mad, don’t you?” Hermione hissed as they slipped through the courtyard shadows. “Not reckless like sneaking to the library after hours—properly, fully mad.”

Esme’s lips quirked. “Relax, Hermione. You say that about half the things I do.”

“That’s because half the things you do involve explosives or rune matrices that could melt through the floorboards if one glyph is out of line.”

“Only melted the floorboards once,” Esme murmured, smirking when Hermione nearly tripped on the cobblestones.

They reached the edge of the grounds where the forest loomed dark and waiting. Hermione’s steps slowed, her hand tightening on Esme’s sleeve. “What if this is a trap? What if he—what if he really is a murderer, and you’re about to walk right into his claws?”

Esme tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Then we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Hermione groaned softly, muttering something under her breath about insanity, but followed anyway.

The forest seemed to part for them. And then, between the trees, a shape emerged. A great black dog, eyes like burning coals, waiting as though he’d expected them all along.

Hermione froze. Esme didn’t.

The dog padded closer, and in the moonlight, his body warped—bones reshaping, fur receding, until Sirius Black stood tall, hollow-cheeked but very much alive.

His grin was sharp. “Careful, girl. If you keep stalking me, people will talk.”

Esme arched a brow, arms folding. “Please. You couldn’t handle the gossip.”

Hermione choked on a sound halfway between outrage and despair. “You’re bantering with him?”

Sirius’ grin only widened. “Bantering, is it? Not the worst crime I’ve been accused of.” His gaze flicked to Esme again, lingered. “You’ve got nerve, coming to me in the middle of the night. Not many do.”

“Not many have what I have,” Esme said, sliding her satchel forward. She crouched, unfastened the flap, and withdrew the contraption she’d been nursing for weeks—a frame of brass, rune plates etched with painstaking care, gears and wire set with a jeweler’s precision. It gleamed faintly even without light.

Sirius’ eyebrows shot up. He crouched opposite her, eyes narrowing. “And what, exactly, am I looking at? Don’t tell me you risked your prefect’s favorite neck for… a very elaborate mousetrap.”

Esme smirked. “It’s not for mice. Unless you count the kind who fake their own death and crawl into a rat’s skin for twelve years.”

Hermione winced. “Must you put it like that?”

“Yes,” Esme and Sirius said in unison.

Their eyes met, and Sirius chuckled low in his throat. “I like her,” he said to Hermione.
“Sharp tongue. Would’ve done well in my year.”

“Or been expelled,” Hermione muttered darkly.

Esme ignored her, tapping the rune plates. They pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. “It’s designed to unravel an Animagus form. Not permanently—just long enough to strip away the glamour, the transformation, whatever mask someone’s hiding behind. Think of it as… forcing the truth out of flesh.”

Sirius’ grin faded into something sharper, colder. He leaned closer. “You’re telling me you can rip him out of the rat? Just like that?”

“If he’s Peter Pettigrew? Yes.”

Hermione huffed, arms crossed tight. “We built this carefully, Sirius. Every rune has to align perfectly, or the whole lattice collapses. It’s not a toy—it could rebound, backfire, or worse. We’re walking a line thinner than a hair, and you’re treating it like some… casual hex you can toss around!”

“Good,” Sirius growled. His eyes burned. “That’d be justice.”

Hermione gasped. “Justice? That’s— that’s murder.”

“It’s survival,” Sirius snapped back, his voice edged with years of Azkaban. “That rat murdered my friends, murdered James and Lily with his betrayal. He framed me. He left me to rot. And now he scurries around under your best mate’s nose, hiding in a pocket, nibbling crumbs like the coward he is. If she’s got something that can drag him into the light, I’ll call it justice with my dying breath.”

The silence stretched. Hermione looked stricken, clutching her sleeve. Esme met Sirius’ gaze, unflinching.

“You sound like you want me to build a weapon, not a trap.”

Sirius tilted his head, studying her. Then, slowly, his grin came back. Not warm—feral. “And you sound like you already built one.”

Esme’s smile was thin, but steady. “Semantics.”

Hermione made a strangled sound. “You’re both insane. Completely insane.”

Sirius shrugged, eyes still locked on Esme. “Insanity kept me alive in Azkaban. Maybe it’s not such a curse.”

Esme arched a brow. “And here I thought it was my charm keeping you alive.”

That earned a bark of laughter from him—sharp, real, echoing in the trees. He leaned back on his heels, shaking his head. “Merlin’s bones, you’re dangerous.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering to herself, “I’m going to be expelled. Or dead. Or both.”

But Sirius and Esme didn’t hear her.
Because for the first time in twelve years, Sirius looked at someone and saw not just an ally, not just a risk, but a girl reckless enough to take his madness and call it a plan.

And Esme? She saw in him what she feared she might become—if vengeance ever swallowed her whole.

The silence between them stretched, taut as wire, until Sirius broke it with a humorless chuckle. “So. You built yourself a toy to smoke him out.” His voice dropped lower, roughened by old rage. “Good. Because I’ve known he’s been crawling around Gryffindor for months now. Thought I was losing my bloody mind—sensed him in the walls, even saw a flash of his mangy tail once. But I didn’t know.” His gaze sharpened, cutting.
“Didn’t know the rat was your friend’s pet.”

Hermione stiffened, guilt flickering across her face. “Ron only got him last summer. From his brother Percy. No one—not even Ron—realized what he was.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” Sirius sneered, though the bite wasn’t for her. “That coward tucked himself into the safest corner he could find. A school full of children, hidden in their pockets, sleeping at their feet. I should’ve known. Merlin help me, I should’ve known.”

Esme’s tone was steady, quiet but firm. “You do now. That’s what matters.”

Sirius looked at her sharply, and for a moment there was nothing in his expression but raw, ragged grief dressed up as fury.

Then, with an effort, he swallowed it down and forced the grin back into place. “You’ve got brass, girl. Fine. If your trap works, we use it. But Pettigrew won’t come willingly. He’ll bolt the moment he realizes the game’s up.”

“That’s why we need somewhere contained,” Esme said at once. Her mind was already racing ahead. “No corridors, no students, no interruptions. Somewhere we can corner him without him slipping into the castle walls.”

Sirius’ eyes glinted, sharp and dangerous. “I know just the place. The Shrieking Shack.”

Hermione blinked. “That—that’s supposed to be haunted.”

Sirius laughed, bitter and sharp. “That’s the story, yeah. Truth is, Dumbledore spun it to keep people away. It’s where Remus used to transform, back in school. Sealed tight. Nobody dares go near it.”

Hermione froze, the words colliding together in her mind. “Transform? What are you—”

Esme cut her off, her tone calm, matter-of-fact. “He’s a werewolf. That’s why the Shack has the reputation it does—his howling carried. And why the Willow was planted, to keep others out.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “How do you—how could you possibly know that?”

Esme didn’t flinch. “Patterns and my rune-seeing. He disappears every full moon, always looks wrung out the next day. Even a clever charm can’t hide the smell of wolfsbane. And Sirius just confirmed it.”

Sirius gave a low chuckle, both impressed and unsettled. “Sharp as a blade, this one. You’d have given Snape a run for his money.” His grin flickered into something feral. “But she’s right. The Shack is perfect. One way in, one way out. Once the rat runs down that tunnel, he’s mine.”

Hermione rounded on him. “You’re suggesting luring Pettigrew through the Willow? With Ron there? And Harry?”

“He’ll have to,” Esme said before Sirius could answer. “If Crookshanks pushes him out into the open, Ron will chase. Harry too. They won’t let their friend’s pet be torn apart.”

Sirius’ grin widened, teeth flashing in the moonlight. “And once they chase him through, I’ll be waiting. Trap snaps shut.”

Hermione’s voice rose, half a squeak. “This is—this is insane! Do you realize how dangerous that tree is? How dangerous you are?”

Esme’s gaze flicked to Sirius, then back to Hermione. “So’s Pettigrew. He’s lived in our dorms. Listened to everything. Watched everything. How long before he scurries back to his master with news Voldemort could use? We end this now—before he slips away again.”

Sirius leaned forward, eyes blazing, every inch the caged predator finally sensing the door about to open. “She gets it, Granger. This isn’t about safety—it’s about justice. The Shack, the Willow, her trap—this is the only way to pin him down.”

Hermione looked between the two of them, aghast. “You’re both utterly reckless. Reckless and—” She broke off, burying her face in her hands. “Why do I always follow people into madness?”

Sirius barked a laugh, but it was Esme who spoke, her voice low, decisive. “Because this time, it isn’t madness. It’s strategy. And it’s going to work.”

{~}

The deal with Sirius was struck. The plan was a razor-thin thing, stitched from desperation and ingenuity, but it was a plan nonetheless.

By the time Esme slipped back into the castle with Hermione, the corridors were hushed and heavy with sleep. But not empty.

Draco Malfoy was waiting against the wall outside the common room, arms crossed in that practiced casual way of his, though the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Pansy hovered beside him, sharp eyes narrowed, while Blaise Zabini lounged nearby—too calm, too watchful, as though he had been expecting her.

“Took your time,” Draco said, voice pitched softer than usual. “You’ve been slinking about more than usual. What’s going on, Esme?”

Hermione opened her mouth, bristling for a fight, but Esme raised a hand, stopping her. Three familiar faces stared back at her—not just schoolmates, but the family she’d chosen here. They’d fought with her, lied for her, bled with her. The only reason they hadn’t known this already was because Dumbledore had bound her silence with that quiet, maddening request: you will not speak of this to anyone—not even your closest friends. Do you understand?

Her chest ached with the weight of it.
“I should have told you sooner,” she admitted, voice low, steady. “The only reason I didn’t was as you know, I wasn’t allowed. But this isn’t just mine to carry anymore. You deserve the truth. You always have.”

Draco’s smirk faded at once, his eyes searching her face. Pansy tilted her head, lips pressed thin, but her gaze softened. Even Blaise, who never let much of anything slip, leaned forward.

“You want in?” Esme asked finally. The words were heavier than they sounded, an invitation and a vow all at once.

Blaise arched a brow, but his voice was gentle. “In on what?”

“On something that matters,” Esme said. “Bigger than house points. Bigger than detentions. This isn’t schoolyard games anymore—it’s war. And it’s about to walk straight into our laps.”

Draco straightened, every trace of laziness gone. “Go on.”

So she told them. Not everything—some secrets still weren’t hers to share—but enough. About the rat in Gryffindor Tower who wasn’t a rat. About betrayal and blood and a friend who had sold the Potters to Voldemort. About the contraption she had built to force him into his true form. And about the need for witnesses—people strong enough to stand their ground when the truth broke open like a storm.

When she finished, the silence stretched. Pansy’s mouth was pressed in a line, sharp but resolute. Blaise’s dark eyes glittered with something keen and calculating. And Draco—Draco looked stricken, like someone had just told him the ground under his feet wasn’t solid anymore, but there was fire behind his shock.

“You’re telling us this now,” he said slowly, “because you don’t want to face it without us.”

Esme nodded once. “Because I can’t. Because you’re my family. All of you.”

The words hit the air like a binding spell.

“You’re serious,” Draco whispered.

“No,” Esme said with a flicker of a smile. “Sirius is waiting in the forest. I’m just done keeping you in the dark. So—are you in or not?”

Chapter Text

The next night, the plan began.

The castle was heavy with silence, torches guttering low along the walls, shadows stretching long across the flagstones. Esme moved first, her steps sure despite the way her heart rattled against her ribs. Behind her, four shadows followed, the weight of their trust pressing close on her shoulders.

Draco walked at her side, arms folded like he was daring anyone to challenge where he belonged. Pansy kept a half-step behind, sharp-eyed and restless, like a hawk watching for threats in the dark. Blaise drifted at the rear, hands in his pockets, every bit the picture of lazy grace, though Esme could see the quick flicks of his eyes — counting turns, noting cover, memorizing escape routes.

Hermione was the only one who muttered under her breath, anxiety spilling out of her like steam from a kettle. “If we’re caught—if we’re seen—”

“We won’t be,” Esme whispered back, though her voice carried a steadiness she didn’t quite feel. “We’ve done worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” Blaise said lightly. “I’ve never done worse than this. Breaking into the forbidden forest, sure. Setting fire to Snape’s cauldron, guilty. But sneaking out to aid a wanted murderer? New ground, even for me.”

Pansy smacked his arm as they pressed into the shadow of a stairwell. “Shut up before you get us caught.”

“I’m providing comic relief,” Blaise murmured, lips twitching.

“Comic relief gets you hexed,” Pansy shot back, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the tiniest upward tug.

Esme cut them both a look — half-grateful, half-exasperated. The air was too tight around her lungs, her nerves too sharp; their bickering was a pressure valve she hadn’t realized she needed.

They reached the lower halls, near the entrance to the grounds, when a lantern bobbed into view.

“Filch,” Draco breathed, jaw tight. He shoved Esme behind a pillar with him before she could react, his arm pressed firm across her shoulder like a shield. The rest scattered silently — Blaise flattening himself into shadow, Hermione clutching Pansy’s sleeve as they ducked into an alcove.

Mrs. Norris padded first into sight, eyes glowing like twin embers. Filch’s muttering followed, low and sour: “Students out of bed, skulking about, I’ll catch the lot of you, see if I don’t—”

Esme held her breath so long her chest ached. Draco’s hand brushed down her arm, a quick, steadying gesture — nothing he’d ever admit to later, but enough to anchor her to stillness.

The lantern light lingered…then drifted away. Filch turned, muttering down another corridor.

They didn’t move for a long beat, until Blaise exhaled loudly from the shadows. “Nearly wet myself. Anyone else?”

Hermione smacked his arm as they regrouped. “You think this is funny?”

“Yes,” Blaise said. “Because if it’s not funny, it’s terrifying. And frankly, Hermione, I prefer to laugh before I scream.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but linked her arm briefly through Esme’s, tugging her onward. “Come on. Before Filch doubles back.”

They made it out onto the grounds. The Whomping Willow loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette against the night sky, branches twitching like the limbs of some restless beast. The wind hissed through the grass, carrying the smell of damp earth and something older, darker.

Esme exhaled, steady and measured. “That’s it.”

Hermione grabbed her sleeve, wide-eyed. “Esme—have you ever—?”

“I’ve been there before,” Esme interrupted, voice low but firm. “Alone. It’s real. The Shack, the tunnel — all of it. And it’ll hold. It was built for worse than this.”

Her calm hit the others like a spark of steel. Draco’s smirk faltered into something sharper, more focused. Pansy drew a long breath through her nose, as though bracing herself. Blaise only arched a brow, as if to say of course you have.

They crouched low, circling wide to avoid the tree’s swiping range. Each movement made the branches lash, cracking the air like whips.

Esme’s voice cut through the dark, quieter than the wind. “There’s a knot at the base. One press and it’ll still. Don’t hesitate — the Willow likes hesitation.”

Hermione shot her a look, but swallowed hard and nodded.

The knot was pressed — Hermione’s hand, cautious but precise — and the Willow groaned, stilling as if it resented the touch.

The entrance yawned open at the roots, black and hungry.

Esme knelt first, brushing damp soil from the edge. She glanced back, her eyes sweeping over each of them. “Stay close. Don’t stop unless I tell you. The tunnel’s narrow, damp, and it’ll fight your nerves if you let it. Just follow my steps — I know the way.”

One by one, they slipped inside.

The tunnel swallowed them whole. The air was damp, close, smelling of earth and rot. Roots clawed down from the ceiling, dripping water. Each step echoed, and every echo sounded too loud, like a scream bouncing off stone.

Pansy muttered, “If this collapses, I’m haunting you, Esme.”

“Then haunt me,” Esme said without missing a beat. “But you won’t. It’s stronger than it looks.”

Blaise snorted softly. “Wonderful. The house of horrors is up to code. I feel safer already.”

Even Hermione let out a shaky laugh, the tension cracking for a heartbeat.

Draco didn’t speak, but he stayed at Esme’s shoulder, his arm brushing hers whenever the tunnel narrowed. He didn’t need to say anything. She could feel his loyalty in the silence, steady as bedrock.

The tunnel bent sharply, the air pressing tighter around them. For a moment, Hermione faltered, ducking low to avoid a claw of root that snagged her hair. Esme slowed, waiting, murmuring reassurance.

Then, suddenly, the space widened and a faint draft slipped down the passage. The smell changed — musty wood instead of damp earth.

They had reached the end.

Esme pushed up the warped trapdoor with her shoulder and climbed into the Shrieking Shack. The floor groaned beneath her weight. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the broken shutters, dust floating in silver shafts. The house seemed to hold its breath.

One by one, the others emerged. Draco was last, pulling the door closed as if to shield them from the world they’d left behind.

The silence lasted only a moment. Then the shadows in the corner stirred.

A massive black dog padded forward, eyes burning gold in the dark. Hermione stiffened with a sharp intake of breath, and Pansy grabbed her wand instinctively. But Esme didn’t move.

She met the dog’s gaze, unflinching. “Sirius.”
The creature rippled, bones shifting with an audible crack. Fur receded, limbs stretched, and in a blink, Sirius Black stood where the beast had been, gaunt but grinning like he owned the room. “You came.”

Sirius’s grin tilted, wry and tired all at once. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” she said softly. “You’ve never run from the hard things.”

For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent. Then Sirius huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.
“Careful, girl. Keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

Esme allowed the faintest smirk. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Blaise muttered under his breath, “Merlin, she talks to him the same way she talks to Malfoy.”

“Exactly,” Draco shot back, but his eyes stayed on Sirius, searching.

Something heavy pressed into the space between them — history, blood, shadows of a family name that bound them whether they liked it or not.

“You’re my cousin,” Draco said finally, voice almost strangled.

Sirius tilted his head, dark hair falling across his face. “Second cousin, technically. Black blood runs thick and bitter. But yeah. We’re family.”

For once, Draco didn’t look smug. He looked… conflicted. “My father says you’re a traitor.”

Sirius barked a short laugh, humorless. “Lucius would. He always did fancy himself the gatekeeper of purity. And what does Draco Malfoy say?”

Draco hesitated. Then, with a glance at Esme — just a flicker, but it steadied him — he lifted his chin. “I say my family is here. With her.”

Silence stretched. Sirius’s eyes moved from Draco to Esme, lingering on her with something strange in them — amusement, recognition, maybe even relief.

“Of course you’d be friends with her,” Sirius murmured. “Of course. Makes perfect sense.”

Esme arched a brow. “Why’s that?”

Sirius smirked, teeth flashing. “Because you’re both trouble. Clever, reckless, a little too stubborn for your own good. That’s Black blood all over — even if you’re not one of us. You fit, Esme. And Merlin help anyone who gets in your way.”

Pansy made a soft scoffing sound, but there was no heat in it. Blaise’s grin widened like he’d just been handed free entertainment.

Hermione, despite herself, muttered, “Well. He’s not wrong.”

Esme rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest betrayed her.

Draco’s voice cut in, quieter this time, almost grudging. “So… you don’t hate me. For being a Malfoy.”

Sirius studied him for a long, tense moment.

Then, unexpectedly, his smile curved into something softer, something that looked startlingly like fondness.

“No,” Sirius said. “I don’t hate you. Not your fault where you came from. You’re standing here, aren’t you? With her. That tells me everything I need to know.”

Draco looked away quickly, but Esme saw the way his jaw eased, the tightness in his shoulders uncoiling. For once, he didn’t try to hide the flicker of pride that crossed his face.

And in that ruined house, with the dust of old secrets in the air, something fragile but real clicked into place — a bond not just of blood, but of choice.

{~}

The Shrieking Shack had fallen into a hush, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards feel amplified, every breath too loud. Dust motes drifted lazily in the silver light, but under it all, there was a pulse — the kind of anticipation that made the walls themselves seem to lean closer.

They were waiting.

Esme sat cross-legged near the broken hearth, her tools spread out on a strip of cloth: bits of wire, rune-marked stones, a charm-wound clasp that glittered faintly like a snare waiting to snap. Her fingers moved in slow, steady motions, tightening and adjusting the final piece of the trap.

Pansy paced like a caged wolf, arms folded, boots clicking against the warped boards. “This is absurd. We’re staking our lives on a cat.”

“Not just a cat,” Hermione muttered, though her nerves made her voice too sharp. “Crookshanks is cleverer than half the students here. He knows.”

“He’d better,” Pansy shot back. “If this goes wrong, it’s our heads.”

Blaise leaned lazily against the wall, tossing a small enchanted marble in one hand, catching it again with lazy precision. “Relax, Pansy. It’s poetic, really. We’re about to bring down a traitor who hides as a rat… with the help of a cat. Circle of life.”

Pansy glared daggers. “If you start singing, I’ll hex your mouth shut.”

“Tempting,” Blaise said with a grin, though his eyes never left the window, watching the dark grounds outside.

Draco hadn’t moved from his spot near the trapdoor. He stood like a sentry, posture sharp, every muscle taut as if he expected the floor to open beneath them at any second. When Sirius drifted closer, leaning against the wall beside him, Draco’s jaw tightened.

“You’re too tense,” Sirius said casually, folding his arms. “It makes you loud.”
Draco bristled. “I’m not tense.”

“You’re a Malfoy in a den of traitors and a Gryffindor,” Sirius replied dryly. “If you weren’t tense, I’d think you were an idiot.”

Esme glanced up from her work, arching a brow. “Both of you, quiet. You’ll scare the cat off before he even starts.”

The room stilled again, only the faint whine of the wind rattling through the broken shutters. Esme finished the clasp with a sharp click, then sat back on her heels.

“Crookshanks will do it,” she said firmly, no trace of doubt in her tone. “He’s cleverer than anyone gives him credit for, and he’s hated that rat since day one. He knows what Scabbers really is. He’ll drive him straight to us.”

Hermione blinked at her, a flicker of relief softening the tight line of her shoulders. “I always thought so too,” she admitted quietly. “But no one ever believed me.”

Esme offered her the barest of smiles. “They’ll believe soon enough.”

Sirius’s smile was sharp, wolfish. “Good cat.”

Esme rose, tucking the trap neatly into place where the tunnel’s shadows were deepest. It looked like nothing — just dust, stone, roots clawing down from above. But once triggered, it would snap tight, locking around whatever was caught inside with a strength no rat could wriggle free from.

“All we need now,” she murmured, brushing her hands off on her robes, “is the chase.”

As if the house itself had been waiting for her words, the silence outside broke.

A sudden scrabble of claws against stone echoed from the tunnel below, sharp and frantic. A hiss followed — low, furious, feline. Crookshanks.

The group froze.

Then — the squeal. High, desperate, unmistakably rodent.

Esme’s eyes snapped to the trap, the tension in her chest tightening into a blade. “Here we go.”

Hermione clutched her wand with both hands, breath caught in her throat. Pansy’s pacing stopped dead, every nerve on edge. Blaise straightened at last, the marble vanishing into his pocket. Draco shifted wand already raised. Sirius’s eyes gleamed like firelight, a predator waiting for the snap.

The scurrying grew louder, faster — claws scrabbling, squeaks rising in pitch as Crookshanks herded the rat mercilessly down the tunnel.

And then—

SNAP.

The trap triggered. A sharp, metallic crack filled the air, followed by a screeching squeal that cut off too abruptly. Dust shivered loose from the ceiling, settling in lazy spirals as silence reclaimed the Shack.

Esme’s chest rose and fell. Her hand tightened around her wand.

Sirius’s voice broke the quiet, low and rough with triumph.

“Got him.”

Ron’s voice cracked through the air, raw and panicked. “No! Leave him alone—that’s my rat!” He stumbled forward just as the runes ignited, searing lines of gold across the floor. Harry was right behind him, eyes wide with alarm.

The trap flared.

Light spilled across Scabbers’ tiny frame, crawling over him like living fire. His body convulsed, limbs jerking violently, squeals twisting higher until they didn’t sound like any rat Esme had ever heard. Fur retracted in patches, bones stretched and warped, fingers clawed against the wood as they lengthened.

The air stank of sweat and something fouler — like rot brought to life.

And then, with a final, sickening crack, the creature on the floor was no rat at all.

Peter Pettigrew sprawled there instead — a man, pale and greasy, hair plastered to his damp forehead. His watery eyes darted in terror, darting from Esme to Sirius to the others, like a cornered animal desperate for escape. His chest heaved, and a pathetic whimper slipped out.

Ron had gone still. The fight drained from him in a heartbeat. His face was the color of old parchment, freckles stark against his skin, lips trembling like he might be sick.

Hermione gasped, clutching at the back of a chair to steady herself. Pansy swore under her breath. Blaise’s eyes narrowed, sharp and glittering.

Harry just stared, his whole body taut as a bowstring, rage beginning to burn its way past shock.

And Esme stepped closer, her voice cold as steel:
“Peter Pettigrew.”

The name dropped into the silence like a curse, and for the first time, Pettigrew flinched.

Sirius lunged, but Esme was already moving, slamming herself into his path. Her arms locked against his chest, braced like iron even as Draco and Blaise caught his arms to hold him back.

“Move!” Sirius bellowed, spit flying as his face twisted with raw hatred. “He doesn’t deserve to breathe—”

“He deserves worse,” Esme said, her voice low, shaking with controlled fury. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Her gaze slid past Sirius, pinning Pettigrew where he cowered against the warped floorboards. “And if he doesn’t speak, I will make him.”

Peter whimpered, stammering nonsense, but Esme stepped forward, her words slicing him open with each syllable.

“Twelve years,” she spat. “Twelve years you hid in shadows, pretending to be nothing more than a boy’s pet. While Sirius was chained, rotting in Azkaban, eaten alive by Dementors — because of you. Because you let the world believe he was the traitor. All while you curled up in Ron’s pocket like the snake you are.”

Peter’s mouth worked soundlessly, but Esme only pressed harder, her voice rising.

“James Potter trusted you.” Her words trembled with venom. “Lily Potter trusted you. They made you their Secret Keeper — not Sirius, not Remus, you. And what did you do with that trust?”

Her hand twitched toward her wand, her face a mask of fury. “You led Voldemort straight to their door. You handed them over like lambs to slaughter.”

Harry froze, the words hitting him like a blow. His throat bobbed, but no sound came.

“You—” Esme took a step closer, looming over the rat-like man as her voice broke like fire. “You didn’t just betray them. You murdered them. With your cowardice, with your greed, with your endless hunger to save yourself. They begged you to be strong for them, and you gave them to death instead.”

“No—no, I had no choice—” Pettigrew shrieked, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“You always had a choice!” Esme’s voice was sharp enough to cut bone. “You could have stood by James. You could have defended Lily. You could have died protecting Harry, the baby in that crib. But you chose yourself. You chose power. You chose to grovel at the feet of the monster who promised to spare you!”

The room shuddered under her fury. Pansy’s jaw was set tight, Blaise’s expression cold and unreadable. Draco hovered near her shoulder, silent, but his eyes burned like embers.

Hermione’s breath came short, her face pale but resolute.

Harry finally croaked out, barely audible, “Is that true…?”

Esme turned, her expression softer, but her words no less certain. “It’s true.” She met his gaze, steady, unyielding. “Sirius never betrayed them. He was their friend, their brother. The real traitor is the man groveling at your feet right now. The one who sold them for nothing.”

Harry’s fists shook at his sides. “You… you killed my mum and dad…” His eyes locked on Pettigrew, wet with tears but blazing with hate.

Peter crumpled further, sobbing, “I—I had no choice—”

But Esme’s voice cut him off, merciless. “Say their names, Peter. Say James. Say Lily. Look at their son in the eyes and tell him how you chose your skin over their lives.”

Pettigrew gagged on his own breath, curling smaller and smaller. Sirius strained against the hands holding him, snarling like a caged beast.

Esme didn’t let up for a moment. Her gaze stayed locked on Peter Pettigrew, keeping him pressed, shrinking under the weight of her fury. Finally, she gave a curt nod to Sirius, Draco, and the others.

“Enough for here,” she said, voice low but cutting like steel. “We bring him somewhere he can’t escape. Somewhere he has to speak the truth for everyone to see.”

Sirius growled, still straining against his bonds, but he nodded reluctantly. “You’re making a mistake bringing him to the professors.”

Esme’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. “No. They need to see it. The lies end here, and they end in the light.”

Blaise, Draco, and Pansy fell into formation around them as Esme grabbed Peter’s collar and hauled him upright. The man was pale, trembling, eyes darting wildly. “You’ll pay for this! You can’t—”

“You already have,” Esme interrupted, dragging him down the corridor. Her voice was measured, cold, almost surgical. “Every secret, every betrayal, every lie is catching up with you. And every person who saw you cower will know the truth today.”

The corridors of Hogwarts were still, the torches flickering like nervous eyes.

Professors had already been alerted — the rumble of urgency and confusion had reached them through whispers and enchanted signals. The group reached the entrance to the staff offices, and Esme’s hand on Peter’s shoulder pressed him forward.

Minerva McGonagall appeared first, her eyes narrowing sharply at the scene. Behind her came Professor Flitwick, wand half-raised, expression tight. Snape followed, cloak swirling, face carved of stone. Even Filch had arrived, muttering about students being “out at this hour.” But none of that mattered. The trap, the confession, and the dark fury in Esme’s posture held the room in a silent grip.

Esme took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the intensity of her presence fill the hall. “Peter Pettigrew,” she said, voice echoing against the high ceilings, “you will tell the truth. Every lie you’ve ever told, every betrayal you’ve committed, every life you’ve destroyed. And you will do it here, in front of Dumbledore, so there is no room left for deception.”

Peter’s eyes widened, and he shrank back, lips quivering. “I—I won’t! I can’t—”

“You will,” Esme said, stepping forward, her voice like a whip of shadow and steel. “You have nowhere left to hide. You’ve cowered in shadows, disguised as a pet, worming your way through the lives of the innocent. You betrayed James Potter. You betrayed Lily Potter. You betrayed Harry. You framed Sirius Black. You let Voldemort have what he wanted. And now, the world sees you for what you are.”

From behind, Sirius bristled, ready to step forward. Draco, Pansy, and Blaise flanked Esme, silent guardians. Hermione’s hands shook, wand ready but she didn’t intervene — she trusted Esme’s control, the dark, sharp authority she radiated.

From the doorway, a tall figure appeared: Dumbledore, robes flowing, eyes sharp beneath the half-moon spectacles. He looked at Peter first, then at Esme, and finally at Sirius. “I see… you have found him,” Dumbledore said, voice calm but heavy with quiet authority.

Esme inclined her head. “Yes, Headmaster. It’s time the truth was spoken.”

Peter trembled violently, the weight of the room pressing down on him. “I—I didn’t have a choice—”

“You always had a choice,” Esme interrupted, voice cutting across the hall like a blade. “You chose cowardice. You chose self-preservation over loyalty. You chose to betray your friends and family. And now, Peter Pettigrew, you will speak it aloud. Every lie, every betrayal, every cowardly act — before the professors, before the boy whose life you destroyed, before anyone who will ever need to know the truth.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened slightly as he observed her, but there was a gleam of approval. He did not intervene — he knew some truths required confrontation, not protection.

Peter’s knees buckled, his voice shaking: “I—I betrayed James… Lily… I—framed Sirius… I—”

Esme stepped closer, her shadow stretching long across the polished floor. “Louder. Speak it to Harry. Speak it to Dumbledore. Speak it to everyone here so there is no hiding, no whispers, no shadows left to cling to. You betrayed James Potter! You betrayed Lily Potter! You betrayed their son! Speak it!”

Harry’s fists tightened at his sides. The betrayal, the stolen truth, the stolen lives — it all hit him at once. His eyes burned with a mix of horror, anger, and relief. Finally, the world made sense in a terrible, unyielding clarity.

Peter whimpered, voice cracking and tearing as he repeated every word, confession spilling from him like poison draining from a wound. Every syllable burned, every admission laid bare the cowardice, the lies, the betrayals.

Esme’s eyes never left him, voice rising and falling with the rhythm of judgment, sharp and deadly: “Now, do you understand the weight of your actions? Do you understand the lives you have ruined, the freedom you have stolen, the love you have destroyed? This is the truth, Peter Pettigrew. And there is no way back.”

The professors were silent, their expressions unreadable, but their presence lent gravity to the room. Dumbledore’s hands were clasped behind his back, his piercing gaze holding the room together, giving space for the confession to unfold fully, unbroken.

Sirius’s growl had softened to a tense snarl. Draco shifted slightly, shoulders coiled but unmoving. Hermione exhaled slowly, letting her tension ease only slightly, and Blaise’s eyes glittered, unreadable but focused. Pansy’s jaw was tight, but her stance was protective, unwavering.

And Harry — Harry listened, silent tears forming, the weight of years of confusion, anger, and grief finally finding a voice through Esme’s relentless control, through Peter’s collapse under truth.

{~}

The distant echo of hurried footsteps and the unmistakable sharp clatter of boots on stone warned them before the Ministry appeared. The staff office doors burst open, and Aurors streamed in, wands raised and eyes scanning the room like hawks.

“Sirius Black! Miss Hawthorn! Step away from the prisoner!” barked a tall Auror, wand leveled and shaking slightly with authority.

Sirius tensed immediately, eyes blazing, but he did not move toward Pettigrew. Esme’s hand shot out, palm flat against his chest, holding him back. Draco, Pansy, and Blaise flanked her, a silent shield of loyalty.

Peter Pettigrew, pale and trembling, shrank back against the polished floorboards. “You can’t… you can’t take me back! I’ll be killed! I’ll—”

“You’ve caused enough harm,” Esme said, her voice cutting through the room like steel. “Your lies end here. You will confess before the proper authorities, in the presence of witnesses, as Dumbledore commands. And no one here will allow you to escape accountability.”

The Aurors exchanged uncertain glances. One of them, a shorter man with a severe jaw, stepped forward. “Headmaster, you must comply. Black is wanted, and Hawthorn—”

“They acted under my guidance,” Dumbledore’s voice rang out, calm but absolute, cutting through the tension. He stepped fully into the room, robes brushing the floor. “This course of action was sanctioned. The trap was designed to force the truth into the open. Sirius Black is not to be seized here without cause. Miss Hawthorn’s actions are protected under my supervision.”

“Orders, Headmaster,” the Auror insisted, voice rising, “are clear! Both of them are implicated in harboring a fugitive—”

Dumbledore’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, pinned the Auror in place. “Orders do not absolve injustice. The truth must be seen and heard. To seize them now would be to compound the crimes already committed, not to serve justice. Step back, and observe reason.”

Sirius’s eyes flicked to Esme, and he gave a tense nod. Neither made a move to attack, but the air was charged — a coiled tension that dared anyone to challenge them.

Esme’s voice, low and commanding, carried to every corner of the room. “We will not allow him to escape, Aurors. We will not allow the truth to be buried. He confesses, here and now, and you will witness it.”

The Aurors hesitated, the authority of Dumbledore’s presence keeping their wands raised but their confidence wavering. Filch had followed them in, muttering under his breath about students “never learning,” but even he froze, eyes wide.

Peter Pettigrew, trembling and whimpering, realized for the first time there was no escape. His confessions, raw and ragged, spilled again, this time louder, for the Ministry witnesses to hear.

“I—I betrayed James Potter! I—I betrayed Lily Potter! I—I framed Sirius Black! I—hid for years! I—lied!”

Dumbledore’s voice carried across the room: “Let this serve as record. The truth is known. No deception may stand against it.”

The Aurors shifted uneasily, glancing at each other. Their orders had not prepared them for this — sanctioned actions, sanctioned by the headmaster himself. To act against them now would be to challenge Dumbledore, and none dared.

Esme’s gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade, unwavering. “No one will touch us until the truth is fully accounted for. If anyone tries, they will answer to the Headmaster, to me, and to justice itself.”

Sirius exhaled, a growl of restrained frustration softening. “Finally,” he muttered, voice low, “someone’s doing the right thing.”

Harry, standing slightly apart, clenched his fists, tears brimming but eyes fierce. The weight of years of lies, the betrayal, and finally the truth being laid bare filled the room.

The Ministry could only watch, awkward and constrained, as Dumbledore’s authority and Esmeralda’s iron presence ensured that justice would unfold properly. Peter Pettigrew was trapped, accountable, and there would be no escaping this reckoning.

In that staff office, surrounded by the flickering torchlight and the watchful eyes of Hogwarts’ professors, the balance of power had shifted — and no Auror, no Ministry official, would undo it.