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Chapter Text

The train wheezed into Hogsmeade like a beast choking on its own smoke, and out spilled a small army of black-cloaked bodies. Their chatter rattled against the station walls, overlapping like the hiss of snakes. The air smelled of coal, wet wool, and the kind of excitement that only belongs to other people.

Yumeko Jabami stepped down last, quiet as a shadow, her dark hair glossy against the lantern light. She didn’t hurry to join the crowd. Her stride was leisurely, too leisurely for the cold. She looked, if anything, delighted by the fog curling over her shoes, by the squeal of owls in their cages, by the way children pushed each other in their scramble toward the carriages. She looked as though she had walked into a casino rather than a school.

“New girl,” someone whispered, not bothering to keep it quiet. “Thought no transfers came this late.”

She smiled faintly, a curl of lips that was more acknowledgment than warmth. The words touched her like the brushing of cards across a velvet table: expected, inevitable, part of the game.

Up by the gate, the Slytherin prefects were already gathering their own like mother hens with expensive bloodlines. Kira Timurov stood among them, straight-backed, hair smoothed into an immaculate dark braid, her green-trimmed cloak pressed and gleaming in the torchlight. There was something unnervingly precise about her movements, the way she gestured for the first-years to fall in line as if she were conducting a silent orchestra.

Kira saw Yumeko instantly. Her eyes, sharp as cold steel, cut through the fog. She noted the new girl’s smile, the dawdling steps, the air of insolence that clung to her. Something about the scene irked her, though she didn’t yet know why.

“Transfer,” Kira murmured to Michael, who stood just behind her, hands already full of scrolls and quills as though the weight of organization alone kept him alive. “Second-year at least. Look at her robes.”

Michael squinted. “Fifth. They don’t cut like that until later years. See the hem? It’s longer.”

Kira hummed, displeased. New variables were never welcome. They disrupted balances she had so carefully arranged, delicate as glass towers in a draft.

Behind her, Suki—sharp-chinned, with a mouth always curving toward cruelty—leaned in. “She looks like a stray cat. Wanders in whenever it pleases, expects someone to feed it.”

Another, Dori—tall, her jagged bob of hair falling into her sly, restless eyes—snorted, amusement curling in her throat like smoke. “More like a rat. Did you see the way she lingered at the platform? As if she owned it.”

“She smiled,” Suki said. “When people stared at her. Who smiles like that when they’re being laughed at?”

“Someone who doesn’t know the rules,” Dori replied. “Or someone too stupid to care.”

Kira let them chatter. Their words were useful static, filling the air while she thought. Still, her eyes remained fixed on the new girl—on Yumeko—walking toward the carriages with that slow, deliberate step. A step that wasn’t shy, nor cautious, but indulgent. As though she were savoring something everyone else had missed.

The prefects had already begun ushering younger students into thestral-drawn carriages. The creatures pawed the earth restlessly, their skeletal wings folding and unfolding with leathery rustles. Kira gestured crisply, motioning her group forward.

And then, like a flicker in her periphery, Yumeko veered closer.

“Oh no,” Suki muttered, nudging Kira’s arm. “The stray wants to sit with us.”

Yumeko approached the carriage where Kira and her circle had gathered. Her eyes were wide, lit with a kind of unholy delight at the sight of the thestrals. She tilted her head, as though listening to them breathe.

“Lovely creatures,” she murmured. “I suppose you only see them if you’ve seen death. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Michael stiffened. Dori made a face. Suki’s lips curled in a smirk.

“Morbid,” Suki said. “No wonder they stuck you in Slytherin. You’ll fit right in with the dungeon dust.”

Yumeko’s gaze slid lazily to Suki’s face. She didn’t bristle. She didn’t even blink. Instead, she smiled, slow and dangerous, as if Suki’s jab had been a winning hand she had been waiting for all night.

“Dust,” Yumeko repeated softly, almost to herself. Her tone turned the word into silk. “Yes. Dust never leaves, does it? Always clings. Always lingers.”

Suki faltered, just slightly, caught off guard by the strange twist of words.

Yumeko laughed—a sound too bright, too sudden. Like glass shattering on stone. She climbed into the carriage uninvited, settling across from Kira as though a place had been waiting for her all along.

Kira’s jaw tightened.

Michael gave her a sideways glance, uneasy. “She’s… unusual.”

“Unusual is one word,” Dori muttered, crossing her arms.

Yumeko rested her chin on her hand, smiling at them all as the carriage jolted forward. She looked perfectly at ease in the face of their hostility, as though the hostility itself was the game she had come to play.

For the length of the ride, Kira did not speak. But she felt Yumeko’s eyes brushing against her, feather-light and constant, like a dealer’s hand shuffling cards just out of reach.

The carriages clattered over the cobblestones, the silhouettes of the castle swelling larger with each turn. Turrets pierced the mist, windows glowed like watchful eyes, and the long stretch of the bridge looked slick and treacherous with rain. Inside the carriage, silence had congealed thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the leathery flap of thestral wings and the occasional cough from Michael.

Yumeko didn’t mind the silence. She filled it herself—by humming faintly, tunelessly, her gaze turned outward toward the castle as though she had been waiting all her life for its jagged silhouette.

Kira’s hand, gloved and immaculate, tightened on her lap. The humming threaded through her composure like an itch. Finally, she cut her eyes toward the transfer, voice low enough that only those within the carriage could hear.

“Do you ever stop?”

Yumeko turned, slow as molasses, her smile as guileless as it was pointed. “Oh, was I bothering you?” she asked, her tone feather-soft, as though it were a genuine question.

Michael stiffened, and Suki’s brow lifted with quiet anticipation.

Kira’s jaw did not move, but her words were precise, clipped: “You take up too much air.”

Yumeko laughed—not loudly, not rudely, but with that disarming lilt that sounded as though she had just been handed the hand she was waiting for. “Then I suppose it’s lucky we’re nearly there.” She glanced back out the window, unbothered, and hummed one last note, sharp and sweet, like the closing of a scale.

When the carriage lurched to a halt, the Slytherins climbed out in practiced order, their shoes clicking smartly against the stone. Yumeko followed last, as always, her pace deliberate. The others surged up the steps into the entrance hall, voices ricocheting off the high ceiling. Yumeko tilted her head back, staring at the gargantuan doors and the flaming torches, and smiled—like she already knew she had left her mark.

It was a gambler’s smile—the kind one wore before laying down the final card.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and candle wax. The murmur of hundreds of students waiting in the Great Hall swelled like the low roar of a sea. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with clouds, reflecting the mist still clinging to the Scottish sky outside.

The first-years were huddled near the front, small and tight with nerves. But this time, the whispers weren’t for them. They spread like cracks through the hall, all directed at the tall, dark-haired girl being shepherded by Professor McGonagall.

“A transfer? This late in the year?”

“She looks older than the rest—fifth year?”

“Why’s she smiling like that?”

McGonagall’s voice cut crisply over the din, though her eyes held the faintest flicker of curiosity. “Students, this is Miss Jabami. She joins us from Mahoutokoro in Japan, having received special permission from the Ministry to complete her studies here at Hogwarts.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the tables, rising, crashing. Jabami. The name hung in the air like a dropped coin that no one bothered to pick up.

“Never heard of it,” someone muttered at Ravenclaw.

“Not an old family,” a Hufflepuff boy said, relieved, as if it justified his ignorance.

“Not any family,” another corrected, and the word rippled outward in a hiss: mudblood.

Kira’s fingers tightened against the stem of her goblet, her knuckles whitening. Jabami. Meaningless. No heritage, no crest, no claim. A void where lineage should be. Her friends reacted around her like a well-trained chorus.

Michael adjusted his glasses with a push, expression carefully blank but his eyes alight, cataloguing the scandal with clinical efficiency.

Suki leaned in, lips curling faintly. “Jabami? Sounds like something you cough up, not a wizarding family.”

Dori gave a humorless laugh, shoulders squared, the burn of challenge already in her stance. “She’ll never survive the dungeons. Not with that name.”

Across the hall at Ravenclaw, Riri tilted her head, lips pressed together, gaze fixed on Yumeko as if she were something curious under glass.

Chad, loud as ever, leaned forward on his elbows and barked, “A mudblood? In our year? What a joke.” He threw his grin Kira’s way, but she didn’t return it.

For Kira, it wasn’t humor. It was insult. The weight of her family name pressed heavier on her shoulders just hearing Jabami said aloud, and the thought of it ever being linked beside her own was almost nauseating.

At the Gryffindor table, Mary’s brows furrowed. “Jabami?” she muttered, as though tasting the syllables. “Never heard of her.”

Ryan, meanwhile, barely seemed to hear the whispers. His gaze stayed locked on Yumeko as though the absence of history made her more magnetic, more dangerous.

Yumeko bowed her head politely, her long hair spilling forward like ink. When she lifted her gaze again, her eyes were bright, almost feverish.

“She will, of course, be Sorted,” McGonagall added, her tone final, though there was a hint of unease at the corners of her mouth—as though she herself wondered whether it was wise to loose this girl into their careful balances.

Yumeko’s smile widened, subtle, sharp. She stepped toward the stool, and every movement was deliberate. She didn’t glide, she didn’t rush—she walked as though each step were part of a performance she alone understood.

From the staff table, Snape’s eyes narrowed, his black gaze slicing through her with suspicion. He leaned toward Dumbledore, voice soft as silk. “This one will be trouble.”

Dumbledore, in his maddening serenity, only smiled, steepling his fingers. “Ah, but sometimes trouble is precisely what a school needs.”

Yumeko lowered herself onto the Sorting Hat’s stool. The hall fell into a hush so complete that the crackle of torches seemed deafening.

The old patched hat descended over her head, blotting out the candlelight.

The Sorting Hat’s voice scratched against Yumeko’s mind like a match being struck.

“Well, well,” it said, thick with amusement. “You’re a curious one. Brimming with hunger, risk, ruin. Gryffindor for your daring, perhaps—no? You’d ruin them, wouldn’t you? Ravenclaw for cleverness, Hufflepuff for loyalty—no, no, no. You want the game, child. You want the thrill. You want Slytherin.”

“Yes,” Yumeko whispered in her mind, thrilled. “Slytherin.”

The Hat laughed, dark and knowing, and shouted the word aloud.

The Great Hall erupted.

Gasps. Snickers. Outright laughter. “A mudblood in Slytherin?” hissed someone at the far table. “They’re desperate.”

“Never seen one before,” another muttered. “They’ll tarnish the crest.”

The noise spread like a disease—snide remarks muttered low, heads bending together, eyes darting with suspicion and glee. Some students looked merely curious, others delighted, most disgusted.

At the staff table, McGonagall’s lips pressed into a white line. Snape’s eyes glittered with a mix of disdain and calculation. Dumbledore, as always, wore that infuriating softness, hands steepled as though he were watching the opening of a play he had already read.

Kira’s hand tightened around her goblet until her knuckles whitened. The metal bit cold into her skin. Her friends leaned in immediately, whispering, their words as sharp as their smiles. Suki arched a brow, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well,” Suki murmured, “we always needed new entertainment.”

Dori chuckled under her breath. “Mudblood entertainment, no less.”

Michael said nothing, but the way his quill scratched too harshly over parchment betrayed his unease.

Kira remained still, statue-perfect, every line of her body composed. But inside, irritation curdled, low and corrosive. Slytherin was not a place for charity cases. It was not a halfway house for the desperate or the unwanted. And yet—here sat a girl who wore her scandal like a crown.

Yumeko rose from the stool as if the uproar were applause. She bowed her head politely to McGonagall, a gesture at once respectful and mocking, then drifted down the aisle toward the Slytherin table.

Her steps were too slow, too measured, as if she wanted to taste the weight of every stare. Whispers hissed at her from both sides. A Ravenclaw girl muttered something under her breath, a Gryffindor boy sneered openly, but Yumeko’s face never faltered.

She sat near the end of the Slytherin table. No one moved to welcome her. In fact, the opposite: students shifted away, scraping benches, leaving deliberate inches of cold space around her. The absence of bodies was louder than the whispers.

Yumeko folded her hands on the table, serene as a saint, unbothered by the shunning. Her hair fell like ink down her back, gleaming under the candlelight. Then, slowly, her eyes flicked toward Kira.

The gaze lingered. Intentional. A hunter’s gaze disguised as curiosity.

And then she smiled.

The smile was not polite. It was a wound opened deliberately, a blade drawn across soft flesh. It was a challenge.

Kira’s pulse quickened despite herself. Something in the girl’s smile carried the same electricity as a wager placed on a knife’s edge—dangerous, intoxicating, intolerable.

Suki followed the direction of Yumeko’s glance, then leaned toward Kira, whispering just loudly enough to sting.

“She’s staring at you. Maybe she thinks you’ll be her protector.”

Kira didn’t answer.

Yumeko’s smile widened a fraction, as though she had heard.

The hall roared back to life as food appeared on the tables—platters steaming, goblets brimming, candles dripping wax like blood. Students reached for food with the ravenous relief of routine. But at the far end of the table, space still circled Yumeko like a moat, and in that quiet pocket she sat, utterly content.

Kira tried to hold her gaze steady, tried to stare down this intruder, this disruption, this anomaly. But Yumeko’s eyes were black pools, bottomless, laughing silently, daring her.

It was Kira who looked away first.

And Yumeko laughed—not aloud, not fully, but a brief tremor of amusement that curved her lips before vanishing into the shadows.

The soundless laugh lingered. It seemed to coil through the air, invisible but tangible, a ribbon of private mirth that brushed against anyone who had been watching. Kira’s friends exchanged sidelong looks; Suki smirked as though he had seen a duel won without a wand raised, while Dori drummed her fingers once against the table in faint approval of the boldness, even if misplaced. Michael ducked his head, already scribbling frantic notes in the margins of his parchment—as if the act of recording the moment would somehow tame it.

Around them, the hall buzzed alive again, conversation rising in a messy tide. The Sorting Hat was carried off, the candles flickered, and plates and goblets stood ready for the feast. Yet the echo of that stare-down—short, sharp, inconclusive—still pulsed like an aftershock in the air around the Slytherin table.

Yumeko, for her part, behaved as though nothing had transpired at all. She smoothed her robes, adjusted her sleeves, and settled into the deliberate emptiness that had been left for her. If she felt the coldness of her housemates, she wore it like a cloak. Her smile now was gentler, softer, but it clung with the same unnerving weight—the way one might smile while playing with a secret.

A few students, emboldened by the noise of the hall, called remarks down the table.

“Brave, aren’t you?” one boy jeered, voice carrying over the clatter of plates. “Or stupid.”

Another leaned across, smirking. “You’ll find Slytherins don’t take kindly to… charity admissions.”

Yumeko only tilted her head, listening as though they had offered compliments rather than insults. Then, instead of replying, she traced a fingertip along the rim of her goblet, eyes fixed far away—until she abruptly looked up again, catching Kira’s reflection in the polished silver of a serving platter.

The flick of recognition was enough. Kira froze for a fraction of a second before tearing her gaze back to her own plate. Suki’s grin sharpened.

The tension frayed further when the great golden dishes filled themselves. The appearance of food was enough to cut through even the sharpest whisper, to distract even the hungriest curiosity. Platters shimmered with roasted meats, vegetables gleamed with butter, steam rose from tureens of soup. Students reached out greedily, relief and hunger taking precedence over scandal.

Still, not everyone forgot. A few Gryffindors twisted in their seats, trying to catch a better view of the new girl. Ravenclaws whispered with the precision of scholars, already building theories about her origin. Hufflepuffs exchanged softer, speculative glances. And all the while, Yumeko sat in her little circle of deliberate solitude, sipping water as though it were wine, smiling faintly whenever she felt eyes brush against her.

Dinner unfolded in its usual shimmer of silver platters and steam. Mary tilted her head from across the Gryffindor table, curiosity sparking. “She’s odd,” she muttered, elbowing Ryan, who was already staring at Yumeko with the kind of hopeless awe one usually reserved for shooting stars.

“Odd?” Ryan said, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. “She’s—she’s brilliant. Did you see the way she walked up there? Like she wasn’t afraid at all? Everyone was laughing and she just… smiled.”

“She’s a mudblood in Slytherin,” Mary replied flatly, tearing into her bread roll. “That’s not bravery, that’s madness.”

Ryan flushed, defensive. “Maybe madness is better than being boring. At least she didn’t look like a frightened first-year. She looked like—like she wanted it.”

Michael, hearing them from the Slytherin table, leaned across to adjust his glasses. His hands were perpetually full—notes, quills, parchment tucked into every fold of his robes—but his attention was as sharp as any blade. “Madness and bravery often sit at the same table,” he murmured, voice dry, eyes glinting. He glanced sidelong at Kira, who was picking apart her roasted pheasant with surgical precision, carving flesh from bone without ever glancing at the subject of their conversation. “What do you think?”

Kira didn’t look up. Her knife slipped along a seam of meat, clean, deliberate. “I think she’ll last a week.”

Suki gave a low laugh, tilting his chin toward Yumeko’s end of the table. “You’re generous. I’d give her three days.”

“Three days?” Dori scoffed, tearing meat from a drumstick with a feral kind of satisfaction. “She’ll thrive if only to spite you. That sort of girl doesn’t fall quietly.”

“She’ll burn herself out,” Kira said, finally raising her eyes, steady and cold. “They always do.”

But at the far end of the Slytherin table, Yumeko was laughing again—quiet, sudden, private. The sound curled up the vaulted ceiling like smoke, uncontainable. A few first-years flinched at it, not knowing why, only that it sounded like the start of something they couldn’t name.

From the Ravenclaw table, murmurs spread like parchment catching flame.
“Transfer,” one girl whispered.
“From where?”
“No one knows—she just appeared.”
“I heard she studied abroad. Durmstrang.”
“No, Beauxbatons. Look at her posture.”
“She doesn’t sit like a Beauxbatons girl. She sits like—like she’s waiting for the room to test her.”

At the edge of the group, Riri said nothing, as always. She only watched Yumeko with that unreadable stillness she was known for, chin tilted, eyes sharp. The others glanced at her briefly, as though waiting for a reaction—some small cue to tell them what to think. But Riri offered none. Just a faint arch of her brow, the ghost of something between amusement and warning, before she turned back to her plate.

The silence she left behind unsettled them more than any rumor could.

Hufflepuffs, gentler, leaned toward each other with concern.

“Do you think she’ll be all right? Slytherins aren’t exactly… welcoming.”

“Maybe she likes the challenge,” another said, though her voice was uncertain.

Runa, with her chin resting dreamily in her palms, blinked up at the ceiling where the enchanted stars glittered. “She’ll be fine,” she said softly, as if speaking to the night sky itself. “People like that always land on their feet.”

Her tablemates traded glances, half-reassured, half-bewildered.

Mary, unimpressed, stabbed at her shepherd’s pie. “Challenge or not, she’s marked herself. She’ll be chewed up before Christmas.”

Ryan bristled. “You don’t know that.” His eyes flicked to Yumeko again, softening in helpless devotion. “She’s not like anyone else here. You can feel it.”

“You mean you want to feel it,” Mary muttered, though her gaze strayed back too, her scowl deepening.

From the Slytherin table, Chad let out a bark of laughter loud enough to turn heads. He threw an arm lazily over the back of his bench, smirking as though the whole Great Hall were his stage.

“Please. One look at her and you can tell—she’s shark bait. Let’s see if she’s still smiling after Snape takes her apart in Potions.”

Mary’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Ryan scowled. Across the room, Yumeko merely tilted her head, that same smile curving like smoke—unfazed, unreadable, daring the world to try.

Michael caught Kira’s eye again, faint amusement ghosting across his features. “The house is watching. All of them. She’ll be tested every day she breathes in those dungeons. Whether she lasts a week or a month, I think she’ll enjoy every second of it.”

And Yumeko—alone, yet not alone at all—sipped from her goblet as though it contained something far more intoxicating than water. Her lips curved. She did not need to speak; the game was already underway.

The hum of the hall pressed in tighter after that, as if the ceiling itself had dipped lower, listening. Plates clattered, goblets refilled, owls rustled from the rafters, but somewhere in the weave of it all was the unshakable sense that a line had been drawn—thin, invisible, undeniable.

Kira’s knife slipped cleanly through the last shred of pheasant, but her appetite had vanished. Every time she stilled her hands, her ears betrayed her—catching Yumeko’s soft laughter, the ripple of speculation that followed her like perfume. It itched at the edges of her composure.

Suki leaned close, whispering with relish, “You’ll crush her by morning. She won’t even see it coming.”

Kira did not answer. She had no intention of promising anything she had not yet measured.

At the other tables, the conversations refused to die. Gryffindors were still casting glances, Mary with her sharp, hawk-like watchfulness, Ryan with his wide-eyed worship. Ravenclaws dissected Yumeko’s every gesture like a puzzle to be solved. Even the Hufflepuffs—normally unshaken by Slytherin dramas—were murmuring amongst themselves, wondering whether kindness or caution was the better approach.

And Yumeko seemed to relish it, all of it. She leaned into her solitude like a queen at court, every whisper another coin in her pocket, every sneer another card in her hand. She looked less like a girl who had been excluded and more like one who had already orchestrated the exclusion herself.

The feast stretched on, candlewax dripping slowly down to brass holders, golden platters replenishing themselves again and again until the air was heavy with spice and roasted meat. One by one, appetites dulled, conversations lagged, yawns spread.

Still, Yumeko’s presence clung, sharp as wine on the tongue.

When the feast ended, students rose in waves of chatter, and prefects began shepherding their groups. Benches scraped, cloaks swung, the tide of black-robed bodies poured toward the doors.

Kira did not wait for Yumeko. She rose smoothly, sharply, her friends falling into formation around her, a wall of polished cruelty. Together, they turned toward the dungeons, the green-and-silver tide of Slytherin students sweeping forward with purpose.

But Yumeko caught up, drifting through the crowd like a ghost that chose when to be seen. She matched Kira’s stride without asking permission.

“Hello,” Yumeko said brightly, as though they’d already been introduced. Her eyes glittered. “I think we’ll have fun.”

Kira did not glance at her. “You think too much.”

“Oh, but don’t you?” Yumeko’s smile widened. “Every move, every gesture—you think it all through. But isn’t it thrilling when something happens that you can’t predict?”

The corridor was narrowing as the students filed toward the dungeons, torches hissing in their sconces. Cloaks brushed stone; shoes echoed on flagstones slick with centuries of damp. And in that slow funneling of bodies, Yumeko’s words seemed to slice through the air sharper than any spell.

Kira stopped walking. The suddenness of it made the students behind her falter, colliding into one another like a wave breaking on rock. She turned, slowly, like the deliberate pivot of a predator sizing its prey.

Yumeko had closed the space between them. Too close. The torchlight burned across her hair like a spill of ink, catching the edges of her smile. Her gaze did not waver.

Kira’s voice was low, colder than the stone around them. “Stay out of my way.”

Gasps flickered down the line of students. No one ever addressed Kira directly unless invited; her authority was bone-deep, unquestioned, reinforced a hundred times over by victories both spoken and silent.

But Yumeko tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching with delight. “But what if the way is yours and mine?”

It was a gamble, a provocation, an almost indecent intimacy to speak to her like that, here, with eyes on them.

Kira’s composure faltered—not much, just a tightening of her jaw, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the faintest narrowing of her eyes. But in Kira Timurov, a crack was more shocking than a collapse.

Yumeko saw it. She always saw it. And she laughed—not cruelly, not kindly, but with that same maddening delight, as though the world were a deck of cards being shuffled only for her amusement.

The laughter echoed in the corridor, too loud in the hush it had created. Suki stiffened; Michael’s quill nearly snapped in his fingers. A few first-years glanced at one another, wide-eyed, as though Yumeko had just signed her own death sentence.

But Yumeko was not afraid. She drifted another half-step closer, her sleeve almost brushing Kira’s, her smile widening with a wild kind of intimacy. “Doesn’t it make your heart beat faster?” she whispered, not just to Kira, but to everyone listening. “Not knowing what I’ll do next?”

The corridor held its breath.

And Kira—who had been born and bred to endure whispers, who had never flinched beneath scrutiny—stood utterly still, eyes locked on Yumeko’s, as if for once she were not the only one dictating the rules of the game.

Chapter Text

Yumeko made her first choice three nights later.

The notice for the Dueling Club had gone up on the board outside the Great Hall, and by breakfast the next morning, everyone already knew. The new girl signed her name. Not just signed it—she had flourished it, looping the “J” of Jabami so extravagantly that it bled into the names below it.

At the Slytherin table, Kira’s council reacted immediately.

Suki’s lips twisted as he leaned over the parchment. “She’s insane. That club eats up second-years, let alone a transfer with no pedigree.”

Dori crossed her arms, her expression carved from granite. “She’s asking for humiliation. And I’ll enjoy watching it.”

Riri, at the Ravenclaw table nearby, sat in silence, her dark eyes locked on the paper longer than anyone else’s. She didn’t speak, but her stare lingered as though memorizing every curl of Yumeko’s name.

Across the hall, Runa leaned back lazily on the Hufflepuff bench, a lollipop stick rolling between her teeth. “Guess the new girl’s got a death wish,” she said brightly, though her grin didn’t quite hide her interest.

Chad, overhearing from Gryffindor, snorted. “More like she’s got no idea what she’s in for.” But when his gaze flicked to Yumeko, seated prim and calm at the Slytherin table, even he frowned—like he couldn’t quite match her serenity with the words doomed.

Through it all, Kira had said nothing. She only glanced once at Yumeko, across the hall where she sat serenely among the other Slytherins, nibbling toast as though oblivious to the storm of whispers she’d stirred up. But when Kira looked—Yumeko looked back. And smiled.

The castle seemed to carry that smile long after breakfast ended. In the corridors, students exchanged hurried theories—some swearing Yumeko had been tutored privately by foreign masters, others insisting she was reckless enough to sign up without the faintest clue of what she faced. The Slytherins were merciless in their speculation, their disdain sharpened into amusement. And yet, beneath the mockery, there was something else.

Curiosity.

At night, in the dungeons, Kira’s council whispered among themselves. Suki muttered that Yumeko was drawing attention better spent elsewhere; Dori argued it was wiser to watch her implode than waste energy; Chad, overhearing in the common room, scoffed but couldn’t disguise his intrigue. Riri passed silently through, her gaze lingering on Yumeko longer than necessary, though she said nothing as usual. And Runa—chewing her lollipop from the warmth of Hufflepuff’s basement—was heard telling her friends that she almost wanted Yumeko to win, just to see the look on Slytherin faces.

Yumeko, meanwhile, carried on as though untouched by rumor. She strolled through classes with her easy smile, hands folded primly over her books, answering questions when called upon with a soft voice that carried farther than it should. She never once defended herself, nor acknowledged the whispers. Every glance, every silence, every choice felt intentional.

By the time the first Dueling Club meeting arrived, the Great Hall had been stripped bare, benches shoved aside to make room for the makeshift arena. Flitwick tottered about cheerfully, setting charms for safety, while students pressed close against the walls, buzzing with expectation.

Yumeko arrived late—just late enough to draw every eye. She drifted inside as though she had no interest at all in the spectacle, wand balanced loosely between her fingers, smile blooming when she saw the space cleared for combat.

“She’s really going to do it,” Suki muttered, watching from the sidelines. “She’s actually going to stand in that circle.”

Dori’s jaw tightened. “Good. Better to crush her early than let her keep playing games.”

Chad shook his head, trying to look casual. “If she’s smart, she’ll bow out after one round. No shame in losing to a proper duelist.”

But Runa giggled, eyes glittering. “Oh, I hope she doesn’t play smart.”

Flitwick clapped his hands for attention. “Now, as is customary—we’ll have a few demonstration duels for our newer members. Volunteers?”

It was no surprise when Yumeko’s hand shot up first.

“Ah! Excellent. Miss Jabami. Now then, who will—” Flitwick began.

But the crowd had already decided for him. A ripple of motion, almost audible, spread through the hall as heads turned in unison toward one figure. Kira.

The whispers started soft, then sharpened into something nearly gleeful.

“Kira should do it.”
“She’ll crush her.”
“Lady Kira versus the mudblood—no contest.”
“It’ll put her in her place.”

The words hung thick in the air, sticky as smoke. Yumeko stood perfectly still in the middle of the circle, her hands folded behind her back, head tilted just slightly as though she were savoring the atmosphere rather than absorbing the hostility.

Kira, for her part, remained seated. Her goblet-dark eyes were lowered, lashes casting long shadows, as though she hadn’t heard the chant of her own name. Michael leaned toward her, his expression unreadable. “It doesn’t have to be you,” he murmured, just loud enough for her and her council to hear. “Let someone else volunteer.”

“Why should she waste her time?” Suki added with a curl of her lip. “A first duel against someone beneath her? It’s not worth the effort.”

“She won’t back down though,” Dori countered, folding her arms. “Not in front of them. They’re waiting for it. They’ll call her weak if she refuses.”

From the Gryffindor section, Mary’s voice rang out above the low murmur. “Of course she won’t take her. Lady Kira doesn’t bother with scraps.” She said it like a dare, her tone carrying over the crowd. Ryan flinched, shooting Mary a look, but his eyes drifted back to Yumeko, who had not stopped smiling.

Riri tilted her head from the Ravenclaw knot of students, silent as ever, her dark eyes flicking between the two girls like she was measuring a scale. Chad let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “This’ll be good. Either Kira shuts her down or this mudblood makes herself a spectacle.”

The weight of all those gazes pressed heavier by the second. The duel had not yet begun, and still the hall felt poised, breathless, the torches flickering like they too waited for the decision.

Yumeko, as if sensing the stalemate, shifted. She turned her head toward Kira, her hair spilling forward, and simply… looked at her. No words, no gesture, just that smile again—bright, merciless, intimate. The kind of smile that said, Choose me. I dare you.

Flitwick cleared his throat, clearly aware of the current beneath the silence. “Well, surely—perhaps another volunteer? Anyone?”

No one moved.

At last, Kira rose. The scrape of the bench echoed louder than it should have, dragging across the stones. Her council followed instinctively, spines stiffening, their formation closing around her like a shield. She didn’t hurry, didn’t grandstand. She simply reached for her wand and inclined her head toward Flitwick with poise that made the air tighten.

“I’ll take her.”

The sound in the hall was immediate—half gasp, half roar. It was not just a duel anymore. It was a coronation. Or a funeral.

And so it was set. Yumeko versus Kira.

The duel of firsts.

The crowd pressed closer as Flitwick waved his wand, the enchanted ropes slithering into place and forming a perfect circle in the center of the Great Hall. The benches had been shoved back so far that students perched on them like birds waiting for a storm. The torches burned hotter, their smoke curling upward, staining the rafters with restless shadows.

Yumeko stepped into the ring first. She didn’t march, didn’t strut—she drifted, like she was slipping into a dream she had already memorized. Her slippers whispered against the flagstones, and when she reached her place, she folded her hands politely around her wand, the picture of composure. But her eyes gleamed black as onyx, wide and eager, like she’d been starving for this moment all her life.

Kira followed, and though her steps were precise, controlled, they carried weight. Each movement was deliberate, her robes cutting sharp lines, her wand held with a surgeon’s poise. Her council fanned behind her—Michael adjusting his sleeves as if preparing for a court trial, Suki whispering sharp commentary into Dori’s ear, Dori smirking like she was already imagining Yumeko sprawled on the floor, Chad watching with the gleam of someone waiting for blood.

Ryan, of course, had gone pale with excitement. “She can do this,” he whispered fiercely, earning an incredulous look from Mary.

Inside the ring, the two girls finally faced each other. For a moment, no one breathed.

“Bow,” Flitwick instructed, cheerfully oblivious to the razor-wire tension.

Yumeko bowed low, theatrically, her hair spilling forward, pausing just long enough for the gesture to feel mocking. When she straightened, her smile lingered like the aftertaste of honey turned sour.

Kira bowed, curt, precise. Not a millimeter deeper than required.

Their eyes locked again, and something silent passed between them—challenge, disdain, fascination. A string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

Flitwick lifted his tiny arms. “Wands at the ready.”

Yumeko’s grip looked casual, almost careless, as though she might drop the wand at any second. But her gaze sharpened, narrowing in on Kira with a predator’s attention. Kira, by contrast, raised her wand like a duelist from a textbook, exact form, stance perfect, every angle calculated.

The hall was so silent that even the flick of Flitwick’s wrist seemed thunderous.

“Three,” he began.

Students leaned forward, whispers dying in their throats.

“Two.”

Yumeko tilted her head, her smile widening, whispering just loud enough for Kira to hear. “Isn’t it thrilling?”

“One.”

The air quivered, wands drawn, hearts hammering.

“Duel!” Flitwick squeaked, hopping back toward the safety of the wall.

And still—no spell flew. Only the stare between them, hot enough to scorch.

Yumeko did not raise her wand. Instead, she lowered it slightly, the polished wood catching the torchlight as she regarded Kira with that bottomless smile. She looked almost tender, as though they were alone in the room, as though the circle of onlookers had vanished into smoke.

“You’re so careful,” Yumeko said, voice soft but carrying, her words threading into every corner of the Great Hall. “Every finger in place. Every line rehearsed. You must practice in the mirror.”

A low ripple of laughter spread from the Gryffindor table. Mary smirked, elbowing Ryan, who looked horrified that Yumeko was already provoking someone like Kira.

Kira did not move. Her wand remained steady, her stance flawless. “Focus on yourself,” she said coldly. “You’ll need it.”

“Ah,” Yumeko’s smile widened. She tilted her head, circling a single step to the side, the hem of her robes brushing the rope barrier. “But it’s so much more fun to focus on you. I wonder… will your hand tremble when you finally cast? Or will you cut me down without even blinking?”

The crowd leaned forward, the air tightening.

Michael murmured something sharp under his breath, but Kira silenced him with a raised hand. Her gaze never left Yumeko.

“Enough.” Kira’s voice was level, but her grip had shifted, tighter, the faintest strain showing in the whiteness of her knuckles. “You asked for this duel. Stop stalling.”

“Stalling?” Yumeko echoed with delighted surprise. “Oh no. I’m savoring. Aren’t you?”

The way she said it made the hall erupt into whispers again. Yumeko’s tone was playful, but layered with something else—seduction, danger, madness.

Dori crossed her arms, shaking her head. “She’s trying to get inside Kira’s head. Typical mudblood trick.”

“Look closer,” Chad countered, his grin wide. “She already has.”

Kira inhaled, sharp as glass. “One more word out of you,” she said, “and you’ll regret it.”

Yumeko’s eyes lit up, as though Kira had gifted her the rarest treasure. “Oh, I do hope so,” she whispered, her smile curving almost sweetly. “Regret makes the game worthwhile, don’t you think?”

The tension snapped through the hall like a whip. Even Flitwick’s cheer dimmed, his eyes darting nervously between them.

Kira’s wand lifted higher, her composure strained now, a shadow of fire behind her mask.

Yumeko leaned in—not forward, but with her gaze, black and endless, daring. Her voice softened, intimate enough that the crowd had to strain to hear.

“Show me, Lady Kira. Show me who you are when you stop thinking.”

The silence stretched, unbearable—every student perched on the edge of breath. Yumeko’s smile lingered, wide and unblinking, while Kira’s grip tightened until her knuckles shone pale.

And then it broke.

“Expelliarmus!”

The flash of scarlet was so sudden, so violent, it scorched the darkness of the hall. Gasps ripped through the crowd as Yumeko barely twisted aside, the spell missing her by a hair and smashing into the rope barrier. Sparks hissed and spat against the flagstones.

Yumeko’s laugh rang out, bright and terrifying. “Ohhh, so you do have teeth! Lovely!”

Her wand snapped up. “Protego!” The shield bloomed just as Kira’s follow-up curse—“Stupefy!”—struck it head-on, the crack echoing like shattering glass.

Yumeko staggered back with the impact but only grinned wider, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. “Marvelous! You strike like a queen. Cold, direct, beautiful.” She tilted her head, eyes feverish. “But tell me—can you keep it up once it stops being so clean?”

Kira advanced a single, graceful step, her green-trimmed robes sweeping the floor. “You won’t last long enough to find out.”

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Yumeko dove aside, rolling across the floorboards with shocking recklessness. The jet of light shot past her shoulder, grazing the edge of her sleeve. She came up laughing, wand flicking.

“Rictusempra!”

Kira’s shield sprang up instantly. The tickling charm burst harmlessly against it, the faintest spark scattering across her poised face.

The crowd roared—some laughing at the absurdity, others holding their breath at the audacity of Yumeko’s choice.

“You mock me?” Kira’s voice cut sharp, deadly.

Yumeko twirled her wand between her fingers like a gambler toying with dice. “Mock you? No. I’m testing you. Oh, this is delicious. Tell me, Lady Kira—do you duel to win? Or do you duel to play?”

“Crucio!”

The curse tore from Kira’s wand with lethal precision. Gasps choked the room—Flitwick nearly tripped over his own robes as he stumbled forward, sputtering, “Miss Kira! That spell is—!”

But Yumeko was already spinning, the jet of red light slicing past her cheek, close enough to singe a strand of her hair. She didn’t flinch. She only laughed louder, her voice ricocheting off the stone walls.

“Ohhh, perfect! At last, a risk worth gambling on!”

The hall was chaos now—students pressed against the barrier, some screaming, others cheering. Mary clutched Ryan’s sleeve, torn between horror and awe. Chad whooped openly, pumping his fist.

Kira’s face remained calm, but her eyes burned, the mask cracking as Yumeko’s madness pressed against her composure.

Yumeko tilted her head, eyes fever-bright. “Come now, Lady Kira. Let’s make this more interesting.” She raised her wand high, smile gleaming. “Accio wand!”

The tug of the spell lashed at Kira’s grip—her wand jerked violently, but she held fast, her fingers like iron.

Kira’s voice came low, dangerous. “You’ll regret underestimating me.”

And her next spell was already burning on her lips.

“Expulso!”

Kira’s voice was sharp as glass, the curse detonating against Yumeko’s hastily conjured “Protego!.” The shield burst into a spray of blue shards that shimmered before fading. The backlash shoved Yumeko back a step, but she only laughed breathlessly, her eyes glowing like embers.

“You go straight for destruction, Lady Kira. Brutal. Efficient. Oh, how Slytherin of you!” She slashed her wand through the air, her tone almost playful. “Confringo!”

The Blasting Curse roared forward, hissing with heat. Kira flicked her wrist elegantly, her “Finite!” dissolving the curse before it could land. Smoke curled around her in delicate tendrils, as though even chaos bowed before her poise.

The crowd was wild now—half cheering Kira’s elegance, half drawn to Yumeko’s reckless audacity.

“Is that all you have?” Kira’s voice rang coldly, but her grip on her wand was rigid, her knuckles white.

Yumeko’s answering grin was sharp enough to cut. “Oh, I have plenty. The question is… how much are you willing to lose to keep up?”

She whipped her wand in a spiral, murmuring, “Serpensortia!”

A serpent erupted onto the floor, thick and gleaming, its hiss curling in the air like smoke. The Slytherins shouted in delight, some jeering Yumeko for the audacity, others leaning in, curious to see how Kira would respond.

Kira didn’t flinch. Her wand snapped down. “Vipera Evanesca.”

The snake dissolved into ash before it had time to strike. The crowd gasped—the precision, the cold decisiveness. Kira hadn’t just countered; she had erased Yumeko’s move as though it were beneath her.

“Pathetic tricks,” Kira said coolly, but her pulse thundered in her throat. She could feel Yumeko’s eyes on her, devouring her restraint.

Yumeko clutched her chest dramatically, feigning a swoon. “Pathetic? Oh, Lady Kira, you wound me! That was art! You turned my little gamble into dust. It’s thrilling, the way you erase things you don’t like. Do you erase people the same way?”

The crowd hissed, scandalized. Even Flitwick squeaked, “Miss Jabami!”

But Kira’s mask twitched—just for a fraction of a second.

Yumeko saw it. She always saw it.

“Ohhh, there it is.” Her voice dropped, velvet-soft and predatory. “That little crack. I wonder what would happen if I pry it open?”

Kira’s wand hand tightened. Her breath stilled.

Yumeko’s wand shot up. “Expelliarmus!”

The jet of red tore toward Kira, faster than the eye could follow.

Kira didn’t dodge. She didn’t flinch. Her voice cut the air like steel. “Protego Maxima!”

The shield burst to life, massive and luminous, swallowing the spell whole and throwing Yumeko’s magic back in a cascade of sparks that dazzled the hall.

The crowd screamed—applause, shrieks, chaos.

And in the chaos, Yumeko whispered across the space, her grin wide, unhinged, utterly alive.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, then raised her wand with a sudden flick. “Locomotor Wibbly!”

The jinx darted across the floor, playful but wicked, aimed at Kira’s knees. Not a dangerous curse—almost mocking.

Kira didn’t even deign to move. “Immobulus.”

The jinx froze midair, shuddering before dissipating harmlessly. Kira tilted her head, lips curving into the faintest, coldest smile. “Child’s play.”

The crowd hummed, uncertain. Some Slytherins laughed, but others leaned forward—Yumeko wasn’t just fighting; she was performing.

“Oh, forgive me,” Yumeko said sweetly, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “I thought you’d like games. You do look like someone who loves control, after all.”

Her wand darted up, sharp as a dagger. “Oppugno!”

A shower of abandoned quills from a student’s satchel snapped into the air, darting like a flock of angry birds toward Kira.

Gasps broke out; even Flitwick flinched. That charm was advanced.

Kira slashed her wand, crisp and precise. “Protego Horribilis!”

The barrier shimmered, strong and unyielding. The quills shattered against it, raining splinters that fell harmlessly around her. The crowd roared—half thrilled, half scandalized.

But Yumeko clapped her hands together in delight. “Yes! Yes, that’s what I wanted! More, Lady Kira, more! Show them how invincible you are.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. She hated it—how Yumeko twisted even her triumphs into something that felt like feeding the fire.

“Rictusempra!” Yumeko sang out suddenly, the tickling charm streaking across the air like a red ribbon.

Kira countered instantly. “Protego.”

The charm fizzled against her shield, but Yumeko twirled as if she had scored a point, bowing dramatically to the crowd. The Hufflepuffs laughed, Ravenclaws leaned in, and even some Slytherins smirked.

“She’s not fighting her—she’s toying with her,” someone whispered.

Kira heard it. She heard all of it.

Her patience frayed. “Levicorpus!”

The spell lashed out, a classic Slytherin humiliation tactic.

Yumeko didn’t dodge. She let it strike her.

Gasps erupted as she was yanked upside-down by her ankle, hair spilling toward the floor, skirts fluttering indecently. A few laughed, but Yumeko—dangling, spinning slowly—only smiled, her face flushed with exhilaration.

“Ohhh, you’re delicious,” she purred, swaying as though the spell were a swing. “Yes, yes, bind me, flip me, strip me of dignity… The crowd adores it. But—”

Her wand, still clutched in her dangling hand, twitched. “Relashio!”

The counter-jinx snapped her free, and she landed lightly on her feet, her hair wild but her composure untouched. She looked like she had meant for it all to happen.

The hall exploded in cheers.

Kira’s teeth pressed together so tightly it hurt.

Yumeko leaned forward, wand at her side, eyes glittering. “You see? You humiliate me, and yet they cheer. Why do you think that is, Lady Kira?”

The words cut deeper than any spell.

Kira lifted her chin, forcing steel back into her voice. “Because they don’t know the difference between spectacle and substance. But I do.”

She raised her wand again, slow and deliberate, every syllable precise.

“Expelliarmus.”

The disarming charm shot across the hall, pure and undeniable.

Yumeko caught it on a shield charm, but the force rattled her wrist. Her wand spun in her hand before she steadied it, still smiling, but a hint of strain flickered in her knuckles.

And Kira saw it. Finally, a crack.

But Yumeko only whispered across the silence, lips curling in something dangerous.

“Mmm. You almost had me. Do it again. Harder.”

The crowd shivered—half shocked, half enthralled.

It wasn’t just a duel anymore. It was theatre, it was seduction, it was war.

Kira’s wand hovered, poised. Yumeko’s wrist twitched as though itching to move—but she didn’t. She only tilted her head, smiling through the sweat beginning to bead at her temples.

“You’ve tested me,” Yumeko said lightly, almost breathless, “but you haven’t risked anything.”

Her eyes glittered feverishly. “So I will.”

Before Flitwick could interject, before anyone could think to stop her, Yumeko slashed her wand through the air, her voice ringing, bright and wild.

“Sectumsempra!”

Gasps tore through the hall. A forbidden spell—dangerous, sharp, one few dared to attempt outside whispered duels in dark corners.

The jet of silver light shot straight for Kira.

Kira’s instincts roared. “Protego Maxima!”

Her shield bloomed just in time, the curse ricocheting with a sound like steel striking stone. Sparks rained down, hissing against the flagstones. A scorch mark split across the floor between them, black and smoking.

Flitwick cried out, scrambling for control, but the crowd had already surged forward, voices shrill and electric.

“She tried Sectumsempra—”
“Merlin’s beard—”
“She’s insane—”

But Yumeko only laughed, breathless, her chest heaving as she lowered her wand. The kind of laugh that vibrated with adrenaline, with dangerous delight.

“I could’ve cut you,” she whispered, almost reverently, to Kira alone. “And you could’ve let me. What a thrill that would’ve been.”

Kira’s hand was still steady, but her pulse thundered beneath her skin. She had won—she had held, had not faltered. But somehow, standing across from Yumeko with the smoke curling between them, she did not feel victorious.

Yumeko bowed low, her hair spilling forward like a curtain. “Enough. You win, Lady Kira.”

She yielded with a flourish, stepping back, wand lowered.

Yet the cheer that erupted was not for Kira. It was for Yumeko—daring, reckless, unforgettable. The girl who had gambled everything on a forbidden spell and walked away laughing.

Kira’s council bristled with outrage.

Suki hissed under her breath, “She should be expelled.”

Kira did not move. She could not. Her face was a mask of control, but inside something twisted.

Because Yumeko Jabami had lost.

And yet somehow—

She had won.

The applause stung like acid. It wasn’t meant for Yumeko—not here, not in Slytherin, not in Kira’s world where lineage was power and precision was everything. And yet every cheer, every wide-eyed whisper, every trembling gasp was being swallowed whole by the new girl’s shadow.

Kira’s pulse beat in her ears, an ugly reminder of how close the blade had come. Sectumsempra—reckless, forbidden. It was a child playing with fire, and yet… Yumeko had made it look like artistry.

She tightened her grip on her wand until her knuckles whitened. She should have felt triumphant, superior, untouchable. That was her right, her heritage, her place. But instead she felt—watched. Weighed. For the first time in years, the balance wasn’t tilted automatically in her favor.

She replayed the moment in her mind—the flare of silver, the sizzle of sparks, the way Yumeko’s laughter had curled around her like smoke. That smile. That bow. That deliberate act of surrender.

It hadn’t been submission. It had been theater.

And the worst part was, Kira knew it.

She inhaled deeply, holding herself still, every line of her body sculpted into composure. Her council was watching. The whole school was watching. And Yumeko—always Yumeko—was watching, too, eyes shining as if she had just tasted something exquisite.

Kira set her wand down with surgical precision. She would not let the others see her crack. But in the hollow of her chest, the truth gnawed.

This wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

A hush lingered in the hall, a silence stretched taut, as if no one dared breathe until Kira made her next move. Then, like a sudden thunderclap, Flitwick’s voice shattered it.

“Miss Jabami!”

Flitwick’s squeak cracked through the din like a whip. He darted forward, wand trembling slightly, his usual cheer shriveled into something hard, sharp. “That spell—do you realize the danger of attempting such magic at your age, without supervision?” His voice wavered between outrage and genuine fear. “Sectumsempra is not a dueling spell. It is reckless, it is forbidden—if you had miscalculated even slightly—”

Gasps rippled through the hall, half in horror, half in awe. The younger students shrank back, wide-eyed, while the older ones leaned in, whispering like gamblers scenting fresh blood. Words passed like contraband.

Sectumsempra. Forbidden. Dangerous. Brilliant. Mad.

Yumeko tilted her head, hands folded neatly around her wand as though she were receiving a compliment rather than a scolding. “Oh, Professor,” she said sweetly, “but isn’t that the point of a duel? To gamble?” Her voice was soft, but it carried, and the crowd shivered with the delight of hearing something they shouldn’t.

Flitwick’s cheeks flushed crimson. “Detention will be the least of your consequences if you ever attempt such magic again.” He flapped his tiny arms, more ruffled than authoritative, then rounded on the crowd. “And the rest of you—stop applauding such recklessness! A duel is not a performance!”

But it was. Everyone knew it. And Yumeko knew they knew.

Ryan shoved his way forward, face pale with terror that shaded into something softer the moment he reached her. “Yumeko, that was—are you all right?” His voice cracked, desperate, like a boy begging her to see him. “That spell, it could have—”

He stumbled then, as if realizing he hadn’t even introduced himself properly. “I—I’m Ryan. Ryan Adebayo. I just—” His hand twitched at his side, hovering uselessly, like he meant to offer it and then thought better.

Mary, standing just behind, arched an eyebrow so high it nearly touched her hairline. Her gaze sliced into him, equal parts disbelief and disdain. To her, he looked less like a knight rushing to a lady’s defense and more like a fool tripping over his own eagerness. Pathetic, almost—so quick to bare his throat in front of a girl who hadn’t even looked at him.

Because Yumeko’s eyes didn’t even flicker toward him. She was watching Kira, drinking in the stillness of the Slytherin heiress, the sharp line of her jaw, the effortful calm. The only acknowledgement Ryan got was a polite smile, the kind one might give a stranger offering directions.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, but not to him. Her words, her laughter, her gaze—they all belonged elsewhere. To the girl across the platform who had not moved, whose silence was thunderous, whose pride had been touched for the first time in years.

Ryan lingered for a beat too long, shoulders squared as if waiting for more, before retreating a step back into the crowd.

Mary’s lips curled into a smirk, her voice slicing cleanly through the murmurs around them.
“Smooth, Ryan. Nearly killed herself with magic, and your first thought is to pitch your name at her like it’s a bloody business card. No wonder she didn’t blink at you.”

The jab landed sharp enough to make Ryan’s ears burn scarlet. He opened his mouth as if to defend himself, then closed it, the sound of laughter from a nearby Ravenclaw twisting the knife further.

Ryan faltered, his words dissolving in his throat. Mary tugged him back toward the crowd, her expression grim, muttering that he was wasting his breath. But he barely heard her. His eyes stayed on Yumeko, hopeless as the tide.

And Yumeko’s stayed on Kira.

Her pulse still thrummed from the duel, a sweet, dizzy aftertaste like a gamble that had nearly ruined her but paid out in ecstasy. She could feel the way the crowd had shifted, their whispers turning, their eyes wide, hungry—for her. But none of that mattered. Not really.

No, what mattered was the girl across the platform. Kira, so rigid in her composure it was almost theatrical, every breath measured, every blink controlled. To Yumeko it was delicious. Because she had touched something in Kira—not flesh, not victory, but pride. Pride fraying at its edges.

And Yumeko knew exactly whose pride it was. She had already heard the whispers long before setting foot in the Dueling Club—the Timurov name carried in hushed tones, the heiress of Slytherin’s inner circle, the girl whose word bent others like reeds in the wind. A paragon, untouchable, untarnished. The perfect mark. To gamble against someone like Kira wasn’t just a game—it was the pinnacle of risk. And the higher the risk, the sweeter the rush.

Her lips curved, faint and secret, like she was savoring a flavor no one else could taste. To Yumeko, this was the real duel—not spells or shields, but the unraveling of an heiress who’d thought herself untouchable. The sting of her restraint was sweeter than any triumph.

And the longer Kira held herself still, the more Yumeko wanted to see what would happen when she finally broke.

–

The Slytherin common room glowed green and gold in the dim light of the lake, lanterns casting restless ripples across the carved stone walls. Normally it was a sanctuary of cool composure, but tonight it felt stifled, charged, as though the very water pressing against the windows strained to hear the fallout of what had happened in the Dueling Club.

Kira entered first. Not a word, not a flicker of expression—only the sharp cadence of her boots striking against stone, echoing like a judge’s gavel. She did not glance left or right, though every younger Slytherin in the chamber turned instinctively, their chatter dying at her arrival. She cut through the space like a blade, cloak trailing behind her, until she reached the high-backed chair by the hearth. The chair was not formally a throne, but everyone knew what it was.

The others followed. Suki with a strut, hands shoved into his pockets as though he owned the very air he breathed; Dori with her sly little grin, already leaning toward mischief; Michael moving quieter than the rest, book under one arm, his brow drawn as though he were already cataloging the evening for future analysis; Chad loud and broad, muttering half-curses under his breath about “bloody mudblood theatrics.”

And then Runa, soft-footed and unreadable, her expression half-hidden by the fall of her hair. She always moved like she wasn’t quite of this world, and yet she never missed a thing.

Finally, Riri. She took her place without sound, settling on the arm of a velvet chair near the fire, her eyes—sharp, unblinking—fixing on Kira. She did not speak. She never did. But her gaze carried weight enough to still the others, to make the silence around Kira heavier.

It should have been impossible—students from other Houses slipping into the sanctum of Slytherin, where the very walls carried enchantments meant to bar intruders. And yet here they were. The wards bent, not broken, because Kira Timurov had commanded it so. She had argued with the prefects, with the wards themselves, until the ancient stones yielded to her will. If Kira decreed someone belonged, they belonged. Runa, Chad, and Riri’s presence here was proof enough. Kira’s reach extended past House colors, past tradition, past the very architecture of Hogwarts itself.

Kira said nothing. She sat, legs crossed with deliberate grace, wand still laid across her lap, fingers drumming once against the wood before stilling again. Her composure was perfect—too perfect.

It was Suki, naturally, who broke the silence.

“Well, that was a bloody circus,” he drawled, collapsing onto the couch opposite Kira with the kind of careless sprawl only he could manage. He tilted his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got half the school convinced the mudblood won.”

Chad slammed his palm against the back of a chair, sending it scraping. “She didn’t bloody win! You had her down. You—” His voice faltered, the certainty cracking. “You had her.”

Dori laughed, light and cutting, like glass breaking. “Doesn’t matter if she had her. Did you hear them? They were eating her up like she was Merlin’s mistress. The gasp when she pulled that spell? God, I thought half the Gryffindors were going to faint from excitement.” She leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes glittering. “She played them. And they loved it.”

Michael adjusted his book against his knee, his voice measured, academic. “That was Fiendfyre. Not mastered, no, but still—Fiendfyre. For a student, and for a mudblood student at that, to even attempt it? It reframes the entire balance of perception. She branded herself tonight. Dangerous, reckless, captivating.” His eyes lifted, settling on Kira. “And you, Lady Timurov, are the one she chose to set herself against.”

Riri’s gaze did not waver from Kira. She blinked once, slow, deliberate. A question. A warning. A dare.

Kira’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. The silence she held was as sharp as any blade, but Yumeko’s phantom laughter lingered in it, echoing through every word her council spilled.

Suki leaned forward, elbows on knees, grin sharpening. “So. What’s the play, Lady Timurov? Because that girl’s not just trouble. She’s theatre. And you know what this school loves more than bloodlines and power?” He let the words hang, eyes gleaming. “A good show.”

The fire popped in the hearth, scattering sparks.

Kira inhaled, slow, deep. She still did not speak. But her eyes flickered—just once—toward the green-lit glass of the lake, as though expecting Yumeko’s reflection to be staring back at her from the dark water.

The silence thickened, gathering in the corners of the room like mist. The only sound was the languid drip of water trailing down the glass and the crackle of firewood biting into itself. Kira’s gaze stayed fixed on the shifting shadows in the lake, her profile a sculpture of patience.

Dori was the first to break. “You’re letting it sit,” she said, amusement lacing her tone. She leaned forward, chin propped on her palm. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re planning.”

Chad shifted, his bulk uneasy in the elegant chair. “Planning? What’s there to plan? She’s a mudblood, Kira. No name, no history, no power. If she’s reckless enough to burn herself out in her first duel, she’s not going to last. Let her crash. She’s not worth your time.”

“Not worth her time?” Michael’s voice was quiet, but it cut clean across Chad’s. His book sat forgotten now, his fingers steepled together. “Half the school is already whispering that Yumeko nearly won. And that was with Kira standing across from her. A Timurov. If Kira ignores her, she allows that version of the story to solidify.” He tilted his head, studying Kira carefully. “And that story, I think, is the one Yumeko wants most.”

Runa, from her seat nearest the fire, let the flames flicker across her face before she spoke. “Stories grow faster than truth.” Her words were clipped, but deliberate. “And hers is already spreading.”

Suki chuckled low, stretching back in his chair as if enjoying every ripple of discomfort. “Exactly. She’s not just trouble, she’s entertainment. And Hogwarts eats entertainment like candy. You let her run free, she’ll have the whole school hooked—cheering her on, following her moves. Maybe even rooting for her against you.”

The words landed heavy.

Riri’s eyes caught Kira’s then, a silent question pressed into the air. Will you let that stand? Her stare lingered, sharper than any spoken challenge, her loyalty to Kira iron but her observation merciless.

Dori laughed again, though quieter this time, her gaze flicking from Kira to the others. “She enjoys it, you know. That madness in her eyes—it wasn’t fear. It was glee. I’d almost admire it if it wasn’t so infuriating. Like she came here just to toy with us.”

Chad slammed a fist lightly against his knee. “Then we show her. We put her in her place before she gets any clever ideas. She’s not untouchable.”

Michael’s voice sharpened. “And if we’re the ones to overplay? What if humiliating her turns into feeding her narrative? What if that’s exactly what she wants?”

The room stirred at that, the tension shifting, not unlike the way the lake’s shadows twisted when something large swam just beyond sight.

Still, Kira did not answer.

Her silence was heavier than their arguments, a silence that commanded rather than conceded.

Finally, she moved—not much, just a slow, deliberate turn of her head back toward the fire. Her gaze lingered on the flames, as though the answer to all of this lived inside the blaze.

And at last, her voice came, smooth, measured, steel wrapped in silk. “She wants to be seen. Then we’ll let her.”

Her council leaned forward as one, the shift in the air immediate, electric.

Kira’s lips curved—not a smile, but the sharp, dangerous suggestion of one. “But no one gambles with me and walks away unscathed.”

Chapter Text

The castle buzzed louder the next morning, as if the duel had wound the whole school tighter. Wherever Yumeko walked, heads turned; whispers trailed her like invisible ribbons. Some gazes were sharp with envy, others dazzled with fascination, but all of them clung—hungry, waiting, as if she were already mid-performance.

She seemed blissfully unaware—or perhaps far too aware. Her steps didn’t carry her to breakfast, or even to class, but toward the noticeboards along the entrance hall. There, a new sheet of parchment fluttered in the draft:

Quidditch Tryouts – This Week.

Names already snaked down the list in hurried ink, eager hands claiming their place in the spotlight.

Yumeko’s eyes gleamed, catching the parchment like it was gilded. Her lips parted, and a ripple of delight curved through her expression.

“Oh,” she breathed, almost to herself, the sound soft, purring. “A game of chance in the open air… and everyone watching. What could be better?”

Her gaze lingered on the bold word Seeker, though she tapped the margin beside Chaser, almost idly. The way she tilted her head, as though weighing invisible odds, made it impossible to tell whether she coveted the broom itself, the danger of the sky, or simply the audience that came with it.

To Yumeko, Quidditch was no children’s sport. It was a wager written across the heavens, bodies darting and colliding while the world held its breath. She could already imagine the roar of the crowd as dice tumbling in her palm, the pitch a table where fortunes turned in the span of a heartbeat.

Coming from a mudblood family did not mean she was blind to the wizarding world’s games. She had listened, learned, absorbed its stories with the same voracity others reserved for textbooks. Quidditch, bloodlines, politics—she knew them all, not because they had been handed to her, but because she had stolen them, piece by piece, like secrets whispered in the dark. To her, knowledge was just another gamble: gather enough, and you could tilt the table in your favor.

So when she looked at that noticeboard, her eyes did not shine with naivety. They gleamed with understanding. Quidditch wasn’t about brooms or balls—it was about who commanded the crowd, whose name echoed in the stands. And Yumeko, mudblood or not, had no intention of remaining unseen.

Ryan, hurrying to catch her stride, nearly tripped over his own robes. “Quidditch? You—you’re signing up?” His voice pitched with panic. “Yumeko, that’s—well, it’s dangerous. Brutal, even. Bludgers, falls, concussions—”

She glanced at him sideways, smile sharp and unbothered. “And stakes, Ryan. The higher the risk, the sweeter the thrill. Don’t you think?”

He paled, stammering something about rules and safety, but Yumeko’s attention had already drifted back to the sheet. Her name spilled onto the parchment in elegant strokes, a signature that looked more like a wager than a declaration.

From behind, Mary’s voice cracked like a whip. “Honestly, Ryan, if you grovel any harder, you’ll need knee pads.”

He whipped around, flushing. “I’m not—! I was just—”

“Pathetic,” she said flatly, the word almost bored. “Even first-years are watching you drool. Do you even hear yourself?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the hallway. Ryan’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, but Yumeko spared him not a second glance. She was still gazing at the tryout list as though it were a deck of cards being shuffled by fate itself.

Her fingers lingered against the parchment. “Quidditch,” she murmured, savoring the syllables like a gambler running her hand over dice. “Yes… this will do.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, her tone dropping, less mocking now and more appraising. “What’s your angle?”

Yumeko tilted her head, finally turning toward her. “Angle?”

“You think you can just waltz in, scribble your name down, and act like you belong?” Mary’s arms folded across her chest. “There’s a hierarchy here. Teams, houses, families. You don’t just… jump the queue.” Her gaze sharpened, distrust flickering like a knife’s edge. “So what is it you really want? To play? To stir chaos? Or are you just stupid?”

Ryan bristled, stepping in between them. “Mary—”

But Yumeko’s smile cut across his protest, faint and amused, like she’d just been offered a bet she couldn’t resist. Her eyes danced with something unreadable, dangerous in its ambiguity.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly, as though the question itself were a challenge.

Mary blinked, taken off guard by the shift. “What?”

“Your name,” Yumeko repeated, voice like velvet. “I like to know who I’m speaking to when they accuse me of chaos.”

For a moment, the corridor seemed to tighten around them. Mary’s scowl deepened, but there was the barest twitch of color in her cheeks. “Mary. Mary Davis.”

“Mary…” Yumeko savored the name the way she had savored “Quidditch,” rolling it on her tongue like a coin. “Lovely. And no—I’m not here to cause chaos.” Her smile sharpened, her eyes sliding back toward the parchment list. “Chaos is simply what follows when people are too afraid to gamble.”

Mary’s brows shot up, incredulous. “That’s what you call it? Gambling?” Her laugh was harsh, quick, meant to slice. “This isn’t some poker table you can bat your lashes at. This is Hogwarts. Bloodlines, tradition, politics. Do you even realize what you’re walking into?”

“I do,” Yumeko said, her tone light, lilting, as if Mary’s warning were a lullaby instead of a threat. She leaned in just a fraction, enough that her hair slipped forward like a curtain of ink. “And doesn’t that make it exciting?”

Mary blinked, then glared harder, as though doubling down could keep her balance. “You’re insane.”

“Or,” Yumeko countered softly, her eyes glinting, “I’m the only one willing to admit that we’re all insane, for playing the games this world demands of us.” She tipped her head, as though pondering Mary with genuine fascination. “You, especially. You see the stakes, don’t you? You feel the weight of them. But I wonder…” Her smile widened, dangerously sweet. “Do you play to win—or just to survive?”

Mary’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. She masked it with a sharp scoff. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Not yet.” Yumeko’s voice curled around the words like smoke. “But I’d like to.”

The tension crackled, a taut string ready to snap. Students drifting past slowed their steps, sensing the static in the air between them.

Ryan, pale and restless, suddenly stepped forward, his hand brushing Mary’s elbow. “All right, that’s enough,” he muttered, forcing a weak smile that fooled no one. “C’mon, Mary. We’re gonna be late for class.”

Mary didn’t move.

“Snape’s class,” Ryan pressed, his voice edging on desperate now. “You really want him breathing down your neck because you were picking fights in the hallway?”

That, at last, made Mary’s lips twitch. Not a smile, but a calculation. She flicked her golden hair back with a sharp tilt of her head, as though brushing away the tension along with it.

“Consider yourself lucky, Jabami,” she said coolly, though her eyes still sparked with a challenge unspoken. “Professor Snape’s glare is a far better punishment than anything I had planned.”

Ryan tugged lightly at her sleeve, urging her down the hall. After a last, long glance at Yumeko—like someone memorizing a rival’s face before the next wager—Mary allowed herself to be led away, her shoes clicking against the stone floor.

Yumeko watched them go, her smile widening, eyes glittering with something closer to hunger than amusement.

Across the hall, a cluster of Slytherins lingered by the stairwell, green-trimmed robes catching the light. Kira stood among them like a sculpted column, still as marble, her council arranged as if gravity itself had drawn them to her.

She remained before the parchment list a moment longer, fingertips brushing the edge as if the names inked there were another hand of cards waiting to be played. A ripple of whispers clung to her even as she turned away, skirts catching the air like a slow flourish in a gamble no one else could yet see.

The noticeboard flapped gently in the draft, her name not yet written but already haunting the parchment like a shadow. She walked with that same measured grace, the kind that left students parting unconsciously, their eyes fixed and their whispers sharp.

Suki leaned lazily against the wall, watching Yumeko with a half-smile that said trouble. Dori’s eyes narrowed, clinical, already tallying angles. Michael’s jaw was tight, calculating consequences. Riri, quiet as shadow, flicked her gaze toward Kira, silent question etched in her stare.

But it was Kira herself who watched the longest. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t blink. Her gaze tracked Yumeko’s pen as it curled across the parchment, scrawling her name with an almost sensual flourish.

The sound of quill on parchment was nothing. Yet in that moment, it was thunder.

The crowd around the noticeboard shifted, murmured, but Yumeko didn’t so much as glance at them. Her fingertip traced the edge of her name as though it were a bet placed at a table, then fell back. She turned, skirts brushing the flagstones, her smile unreadable.

To everyone else, it was bravado. To Yumeko, it was simply the next hand in play.

And Kira Timurov—heiress, Slytherin, untouchable—watched her go, every line of her composure wound tight.

Suki leaned close with a grin like a blade. “She’s really going to do it,” he murmured. Dori’s hands folded more tightly in her lap, while Michael’s jaw flexed as if already weighing the consequences. Kira said nothing, but her gaze was a hook buried deep, following Yumeko down the corridor.

The bell tolled, low and resonant, pulling the stream of bodies toward their next lesson. Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Yumeko flowed with the tide, the faint smile still playing at her lips. Ryan hovered near Mary, half-shield, half-shadow, as if convinced Yumeko might strike lightning at any moment. Mary kept her chin high, but her eyes darted once—just once—toward Yumeko, as though checking whether that smile was still there. It was.

The group converged outside the classroom doors, the air tight with unspoken challenge. The Slytherins claimed their patch of stone like wolves lounging in the shadows, Kira at their center, Suki lounging broad and careless at her side. Mary and Ryan stood opposite, stiff-backed, carrying with them the weight of their house’s pride. And Yumeko—she might as well have been drifting between them all, untethered, as though she’d already dealt the hand and was merely waiting to see who folded first.

Then the doors groaned open, and the current swept them inward.

The classroom swallowed them whole: long tables, dust clinging to shelves stacked with tomes of curses and countercurses, candles guttering in their sconces. The atmosphere was heavy, expectant. At the far end stood Professor Snape, his robes pooling like spilled ink, black eyes gleaming with something colder than disdain.

He did not need to raise his voice.

“Sit.”

The silence in the classroom was brittle as glass. The only sound was the flicker of flames in the sconces and the deliberate sweep of Professor Snape’s robes as he moved to the front. He let the pause stretch until even the bravest students were shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

“Today,” he began, voice soft as silk and twice as cutting, “we address non-verbal defensive spells. An art—” his black eyes swept across the room, lingering briefly, dangerously, on Kira, then Yumeko, “—that requires subtlety, discipline, and restraint. Qualities that, I fear, some of you… lack.”

A ripple ran through the class, half-stifled whispers and quick glances. Snape ignored it, drawing his wand with a lazy flick. A candle at the far end of the room guttered and died without so much as a whisper of sound.

“Observe. A successful defense requires no theatrics, no childish flourishes. Merely will.” Another flick, and the candle flared back to life.

His gaze landed squarely on Yumeko then, sharp as a knife’s edge. “But of course, some of you find it necessary to parade spells better suited for dueling chambers than classrooms.” His voice, though soft, carried venom. “A shameful display of ego. Dangerous. Reckless. And, above all… unimpressive.”

Kira’s hand tightened around her quill, though her expression remained cool, practiced. Yumeko only tilted her head, smile faint, eyes glittering as if Snape’s scorn were a compliment whispered in code.

Snape’s lip curled. “Make no mistake: what occurred in Charms yesterday was not skill. It was stupidity dressed in bravado. Spells of that caliber are banned for a reason. Had Professor Flitwick not intervened—” he let the implication dangle like a blade above their heads, “—we would not be discussing detentions. We would be arranging funerals.”

The class was utterly silent now, the weight of his words pressing down like a vice. Even Ryan, who had been sneaking glances at Yumeko, stared fixedly at his parchment. Mary sat stiff-backed, her scowl fixed not at Yumeko this time but at the floor, as if admitting that even she felt the gravity of Snape’s words.

Snape turned, pacing slowly before the desks. “You will both attend detention. Separate nights. And should either of you feel the urge to flaunt your spells again—” his voice dropped into a dangerous purr, “—I will see to it that your wands are locked away until you’ve learned the humility you so desperately lack.”

His robes snapped as he turned back to the class. “Now. Pairs. Non-verbal shielding charms. If your partner hexes you in the face, consider it a lesson well-earned.”

“Wands out,” Snape ordered, his voice slicing across the classroom like a lash. “Today we will test defensive reflexes in pairs. When you are struck, you will counter. Quickly. Cleanly. Or you will find yourself flattened on the floor.”

His eyes swept the rows of students, lingering long enough to chill spines. “I will not waste my time on incompetence.”

With the flick of a hand, he began naming partners, his tone flat and merciless:

“Michael. Chad. Front.”
“Dori. Suki. By the wall.”
“Runa. Davis.” He gave the briefest pause, his lip curling faintly. “Try not to bore me.”
“Ryan. With Frobisher.”

Students shifted nervously, scraping chairs against the flagstones as they drew into pairs. Wands were clutched tighter; eyes darted sidelong, gauging their odds.

And then, almost theatrically, his gaze snapped to the back row.

“Miss Timurov.”
“Miss Jabami.”

The room hushed at the double call. It was only yesterday their duel had already made the castle hum with gossip, and now the two stood side by side again under the hook of Snape’s gaze.

A faint smirk rippled through Suki’s face; Mary stiffened at Runa’s side; Ryan half-turned, pale with a mix of hope and dread.

But Snape did not pair them. He let the silence stretch, taut as a bowstring, before speaking again.

“No. Not today.”

He prowled closer, his robes dragging like a shadow. “Neither of you will take part.”

The air cracked with whispers. Some gasps. It was unheard of—Slytherin’s Lady Timurov barred from practice?

Snape cut the murmurs down with a single glare. “Let me remind you all. The Dueling Club is not a theatre. It is a place for skill. For restraint. Two qualities entirely absent from our… exhibition the other evening.”

His voice coiled like smoke, directed now at Kira. “Miss Timurov—your precision is admirable. But even the sharpest blade, swung for an audience, is still recklessness.”

Then at Yumeko, his eyes narrowing. “And you, Miss Jabami—recklessness is all you are. Do not delude yourself into thinking fire uncontrolled is brilliance. It is only waste.”

The words clamped like iron around the room. The younger years looked scandalized. The older ones exchanged glances—half-gleeful, half-fearful.

Kira inclined her head with queenly stiffness, her mask unbroken. Yumeko tilted hers with a smile, as if savoring the rebuke like wine.

Snape’s lip curled. “Neither of you will join the Dueling Club for the rest of the term. You will serve detention, and you will sit in this room as examples. Honorable Slytherins,” his voice dropped, dangerous, “but deadly when undisciplined. If there is one thing this house will not tolerate, it is weakness masquerading as power.”

His wand twitched, candles bursting alight all at once. Shadows spiked across the stone walls.

“Everyone else—form ranks. Begin.”

The students shuffled into pairs, the tension between glances thick as fog. But all eyes flicked back, again and again, to where Yumeko and Kira sat—benched queens, forced to watch as the game went on without them.

They sat side by side, though not too close, on the long stone bench at the edge of the classroom. The duelists around them were already flicking spells at each other—Expelliarmus, Protego, Stupefy—the air cracking with light. But the true spectacle, for those who cared to notice, was not on the practice floor. It was here.

Yumeko’s fingers tapped idly against her wand, each beat slow, deliberate, like dice rolling in a palm. She turned her head just enough for her smile to catch the candlelight.

“Well,” she murmured, soft enough that only Kira could hear, “it seems we’ve been made into a lesson. Together.”

Kira’s jaw tightened, her gaze pinned ahead at the dueling pairs, cold and fixed. “Don’t mistake this for kinship. You’re not my equal. You’re my liability.”

The smile widened. “Oh? But wasn’t it your liability that brought you down to this bench? Mine too, I suppose. Funny how quickly one stumble puts us side by side.”

From across the room, Suki barked a laugh at Dori’s half-hearted shield. His eyes flicked over, catching the scene. “Look at them. I almost pity the rest of us; feels like the throne’s right there, and none of us can sit on it.”

Mary, sparring stiffly with Runa, sneered. “Pity? It’s pathetic. Getting themselves benched like children. All that power and they can’t keep it on a leash.” But her eyes, sharp as glass, kept darting toward Kira, as if searching for even the smallest crack in her composure.

Ryan barely muttered Expelliarmus before his partner disarmed him. He stooped to pick up his wand, stealing a desperate glance at Yumeko. She didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

Kira’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “You thrive on spectacle. You need it. That’s why you’re here, floundering for attention like some cheap magician.”

Yumeko tilted her head, eyes alight. “But you keep watching me. Even now. Careful, Kira—if you look too long, people might think you’re entertained.”

The words slithered into the space between them, barbed, sweet.

Dori, mid-duel, risked a glance their way. Her voice carried, low and wary. “She’s baiting you, Kira. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Riri, silent as always, flicked her gaze between the two—an unblinking stare that seemed almost like a warning. She didn’t need to speak; her silence said it all: this was dangerous ground.

Kira finally turned, meeting Yumeko’s gaze head-on. The weight of it was heavy, almost suffocating, yet Yumeko leaned into it, delighted.

“You don’t frighten me,” Kira said, her voice ice.

Yumeko’s smile softened, but her eyes glittered with hunger. “Oh, I don’t want to frighten you. I want to see how far you’ll go to stop me.”

The room pressed in around them, the duelists’ shouts and crackling spells suddenly nothing but background noise. A few students stole glances at the bench, distracted from their own bouts by the dangerous stillness radiating between the two girls.

Kira’s posture was immaculate, her fury hidden behind the mask of a pureblood heiress. Yumeko, in contrast, looked as though she were seated at a gaming table, amused, electric, waiting for the next card to turn. The contrast made the onlookers uneasy—Slytherins were not supposed to fracture in public.

The duels clattered on, wands sparking. Yet Snape’s attention, sharp as a blade, turned from the center of the room. His shadow fell long as he glided across the flagstones, black robes whispering like smoke. The pairs lowered their wands almost instinctively when his gaze cut past them, following the tension coiled on the bench.

He stopped before Yumeko and Kira.

“Curious,” he said, softly enough that the rest of the room hushed to catch it. His eyes—oily, fathomless—rested on Yumeko first. “Two duelists, reduced to spectators. Not for lack of skill.” His lip curled, thin and cruel. “But for… recklessness.”

Kira lifted her chin, silent, meeting him with cold defiance. She would not give him the pleasure of an excuse.

Yumeko, however, smiled as if he’d paid her a compliment. “Reckless? Perhaps. But the spells landed clean, didn’t they?”

A dangerous flicker moved through Snape’s eyes. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Indeed. And how—I wonder—does a mudblood girl with a gambler’s grin come to know such spells? Dark spells, no less. Knowledge you should not have.”

The word mudblood fell like venom. A ripple ran through the room. Ryan froze mid-incantation, Suki’s smirk faltered, even Mary’s sneer curled into something uglier.

Kira’s lips twitched, just once. Not quite a smile, not quite disdain. She didn’t need to answer—the question wasn’t hers. She was Timurov blood. No one would doubt why she knew curses.

All eyes dragged to Yumeko.

Her smile never wavered, though her wand stilled against her thigh. She tilted her head, meeting Snape’s sneer with a gleam of mockery. “Surely you don’t think my blood so weak it can’t hold a secret or two?”

Gasps, a laugh—half-nervous, half-awed—from Suki. Mary’s eyes narrowed, hungry to see Yumeko crushed.

Snape’s nostrils flared. “Arrogance.” His voice sliced. “A Timurov may wield what she wishes. She was raised in it—her family steeped in the Dark Arts before your father’s father even learned to walk. But you…” His gaze raked her, deliberate, cruel. “You reek of pretension. A mongrel child dressing herself in shadows far too heavy for her shoulders.”

Yumeko’s smile softened at the insult, though her eyes glittered dangerously. She bowed her head slightly, as though conceding a hand she’d already decided was worth losing. “Perhaps, Professor. But it seems the shadows don’t mind dressing me.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Kira finally spoke, her voice low, edged with ice. “She plays with matches she doesn’t understand. And she drags our name down with her.”

Snape’s eyes flicked between the two—one cold, one smiling, both dangerous in different ways. His lips thinned. “Bench-warmers, then. And let it be known—this is what comes of pride without restraint. Slytherins are cunning. Ruthless. Calculated. Not children brawling in corridors like Gryffindors with too much bravado.”

His cloak snapped as he turned. “Learn the difference. Or you will learn nothing at all.”

The silence that followed was meant to sting. But Yumeko only let out the softest laugh—barely a breath, yet sharp enough to slice through the air. Her lips parted in a smile that was too wide, too amused, her eyes glinting like lanterns in the dark.

“Ah… knowledge, restraint, consequence…” she murmured, loud enough for the nearest students to hear. “Such beautiful stakes, Professor. I do so love a wager where the loss is everything.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. She could feel the deliberate provocation, the way Yumeko turned even Snape’s rebuke into theatre. The girl wasn’t cowed. She was enjoying herself.

Snape’s head turned, slow as a hinge, and for an instant his eyes cut into her like poisoned steel. His sneer was faint but unmistakable. Insolent. Dangerous. Mudblood.

And yet Yumeko’s gaze did not waver. She let the silence stretch, savoring it like the moment before dice struck the table, until finally she folded her hands in her lap with a little bow—mocking, deferential, and taunting all at once.

–

The common room still hummed with last night’s whispers. News traveled fast in Hogwarts, but scandal traveled faster, and Yumeko Jabami was already becoming both.

Snape had made sure of it.

The detention had been brutal—not in blood, but in humiliation. The two of them, Kira Timurov and Yumeko, forced side by side in the dungeons long after the other students had drifted to sleep. Cauldrons lined the walls, shelves sagged with jars of preserved things that looked more alive than dead. The air smelled of iron, mildew, and something acrid that clung to the back of the throat.

Snape had handed them each a stiff-bristled brush, his tone slicing like a knife.

“No magic. No shortcuts. You’ll scrub until the stone bleeds clean. And if you think to test me—don’t.”

His black eyes lingered on Yumeko longer than Kira. Then, with a swirl of his cloak, he retreated to his desk in the far corner, quill scratching across parchment. His presence was like a blade—sharp, even when sheathed.

They worked in silence at first. The brushes grated against the floor, scraping at years of embedded potion stains. Kira bent over her section with clinical precision, movements sharp and efficient, as if she could turn punishment into performance. Yumeko, by contrast, hummed under her breath, the sound light and tuneful, like she was enjoying herself.

Kira’s jaw flexed. Finally, when Snape rose and disappeared into the adjoining storeroom for fresh ink, her voice hissed low.

“Do you ever stop smiling? You’re scrubbing dirt, not waltzing at a ball.”

Yumeko tilted her head, that same insufferable smile still tugging at her lips. “But isn’t it funny? The great Lady Timurov, reduced to this.” Her brush slowed deliberately, smearing more than it cleaned. “On your knees in the dirt. Almost poetic.”

Kira’s glare could have frozen fire. “Don’t mistake humiliation for poetry. We are not the same, Yumeko. I’ll walk out of here a Timurov. You’ll walk out of here what you’ve always been. Nothing.”

The words were a blade meant to cut deep. Yumeko only laughed softly, eyes glinting with a gambler’s delight. “Oh, but isn’t nothing so much more dangerous? Nothing has nothing to lose.”

Before Kira could answer, Snape’s voice drifted from the storeroom, low and warning.

“Work faster. Or I’ll double your hours.”

The girls bent back to their scrubbing, silence stretching taut. But the words lingered between them, a second duel fought in whispers and barbs, hidden beneath the sound of bristles scratching stone..

“Discipline,” he had intoned, eyes glinting in the torchlight. “Control. Two things you both seem incapable of, though one of you—” his gaze had sliced toward Yumeko, “—has the excuse of poor breeding. The other does not.”

Kira had bent her head, jaw clenched, rage simmering beneath her aristocratic poise. Yumeko, meanwhile, had smiled the entire time, her laughter echoing softly whenever the grime wouldn’t yield, as though she found the whole punishment a game.

The dungeon smelled of damp stone and iron, of old potion spills that had long since sunk into the flagstones. The torches along the walls hissed and spat, their light catching on rows of glass jars that seemed to watch with preserved, clouded eyes.

Kira, rigid and mechanical in her movements, her brush scraping the floor with ruthless precision. Each stroke was clipped, controlled, as though she could will the dirt itself into submission. Her braid slid over one shoulder, gleaming pale gold in the torchlight, and she kept her chin tucked as if the simple act of looking up might betray weakness.

Yumeko, by contrast, sprawled into her work like it was a performance. Her brush arced in languid circles, more smearing grime than erasing it, her skirts pooling messily around her knees. She hummed now and then under her breath—not a tune anyone would recognize, just a rise and fall of sound that seemed designed to needle into Kira’s concentration. Every so often, she paused and tilted her head at a stubborn streak of soot, lips curving into a smile as though she saw some private joke no one else could.

Kira’s jaw tightened with every sound. She tried to drown it out with the bristle-scratch of her own brush, sharper, faster, as though discipline could somehow erase Yumeko’s existence. But Yumeko had a way of filling silence—her laughter didn’t need to be loud; it pulsed in the spaces between strokes, in the tilt of her head, in the way her dark eyes glittered whenever Kira’s hand twitched with restrained irritation.

At one point, their brushes clattered against the same patch of stone, bristles colliding. Yumeko didn’t pull back immediately. She let her hand linger there, pressing until the wood of their brushes locked like crossed blades. Kira’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing into ice. Yumeko just smiled wider, her brush sliding away with a theatrical flourish.

“Funny,” Yumeko murmured, voice so low it barely carried over the scraping. “No matter how hard you scrub, some stains never lift.”

Kira said nothing, but her spine straightened, her strokes coming harder, faster. The stone beneath her brush squealed in protest.

From the storeroom, Snape’s shadow shifted, his presence enough to still the air. Neither dared speak further. But Yumeko, irrepressible, found new ways to provoke. She dipped her brush into the bucket with a sharp plunk, letting droplets of filthy water spatter across the floor—and onto the edge of Kira’s immaculate robes.

Kira’s hand froze mid-stroke. Slowly, she lifted her eyes, the fury in them muted only by Snape’s unseen presence. Yumeko, undeterred, wiped the dripping handle against her palm, smearing a line of dirt across her own pale skin. Then she raised her hand to her face, examining it like a fortune-teller reading her own lines.

“Mess makes everything more interesting, don’t you think?” she whispered, almost gleeful.

Kira’s brush snapped back into motion, the bristles rasping so violently against the stone that sparks of water and grit flew into the air. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she bent lower, jaw tight, a picture of aristocratic fury disguised as obedience. She would not rise to the bait. Not here. Not with Snape’s ears everywhere.

But she felt the weight of Yumeko’s presence at her side—closer than it should have been. Every time Yumeko leaned forward to scrub, their sleeves nearly brushed. Every time she exhaled, there was the faintest ghost of warmth against Kira’s arm. It was infuriating, how aware she was of it. Infuriating, how Yumeko seemed to angle her movements to make her notice.

At one point, Yumeko’s laughter, low and airy, slipped out at the sound of her own brush squeaking over stone. Not loud enough for Snape to scold, but loud enough to curl beneath Kira’s skin. It was laughter that belonged in a casino, not a dungeon—sharp, reckless, unbothered. It made Kira’s pulse lurch despite herself.

The minutes dragged like hours, the punishment less about the grime on the floor and more about the silent war playing out in each movement. Kira’s brush attacked; Yumeko’s caressed. Kira’s shoulders locked in rigid defiance; Yumeko’s rolled loose and languid, like she was dancing to a rhythm only she could hear.

From the shelves, glass jars gleamed with floating eyes and pale roots, silent witnesses to their duel. One slipped loose from its shelf with a faint clink. Kira caught it before it could topple, steady hands restoring it to its place without a word. Yumeko watched the gesture with something like delight, her lips curving as though to say: So careful. So proper. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Finally, footsteps approached, the familiar hiss of robes sweeping the stone. Snape emerged from the storeroom, his expression carved from shadow. His eyes flicked over their work, the floor scrubbed until it nearly shone. Neither girl looked up first; both waited, heads bowed but spines stiff, unwilling to give the other the smallest satisfaction of breaking posture.

“Acceptable,” Snape said at last, his voice a low rasp. “Not good. Never good. But acceptable.” His gaze lingered on them both, sharp and merciless, before sliding toward the door. “Leave. And may you remember the lesson.”

When Snape had finally dismissed them, hours past midnight, Kira emerged tight and silent as steel. Yumeko, by contrast, drifted through the corridors as if she’d won something.

The dungeon halls were cold, their footsteps echoing on the stone as they moved in the same direction. Kira kept her chin high, stride purposeful, though her hands were still raw from scrubbing. The ache bit with each swing of her arms, but she would never let it show.

Yumeko fell easily into step beside her, humming under her breath as if they were on a leisurely stroll, as though Snape hadn’t nearly ground them both into the flagstones with his disdain. Her shoes clicked faintly against the stones, her pace matching Kira’s as if mocking the measured elegance of her stride.

Kira’s patience snapped first. “Do you have to follow me?”

“Follow you?” Yumeko’s tone was airy, amused, the same impossible levity that had carried her through detention. “We’re headed to the same place. Unless, of course, Lady Timurov intends to change dormitories tonight.” She leaned closer, her words brushing Kira’s ear like smoke. “Wouldn’t that be scandalous?”

Kira’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked toward her, sharp as a drawn wand. “You enjoy this far too much. Detention. Humiliation. Being scolded like a child. What is it—are you so used to losing that even punishment feels like a prize?”

Yumeko only tilted her head, smile widening as though Kira’s contempt was an invitation. “Oh, but don’t you see? Punishment is just another wager. How much of yourself can you endure being stripped away before you break? I find it… exhilarating.”

Kira stopped short, the hem of her robes whispering against the flagstones. She turned, staring at Yumeko as if she were some vile curiosity bottled in Snape’s storeroom, pickled in brine and labeled dangerous to touch. “You’re mad.”

“And you’re rattled.” Yumeko’s voice softened, dropping into a tone so intimate it felt like a hand brushing against the underside of Kira’s chin. “That’s why this is fun. If you were truly untouchable, I’d be bored already.”

The corridor bent toward the common room entrance, the torchlight dimming until the stones themselves seemed to swallow them whole. When they reached the looming wall, the silence between them pressed heavier than the dungeon air, thick with damp and unspoken things.

Kira exhaled through her nose, crisp and disdainful. “Serpens.”

The stone wall shifted, grinding open with a low rumble. She swept inside without a backward glance, her cloak flaring as if the very air should part before her. Her composure, her precision—every inch of her was a declaration: You can’t touch me.

Yumeko lingered at the threshold, eyes tracing the line of Kira’s back as it vanished into the emerald-lit chamber. For once, her smile dimmed, curling into something sharper, hungrier.

“You’ll crack eventually, Lady Timurov,” she murmured, her voice low but carrying, threading through the chamber like a curse that couldn’t be dispelled. “And when you do… oh, I’ll be there.”

Then she stepped inside as well, but instead of trailing Kira into the center of the common room, she veered down the side passage toward her own quarters. Her laughter echoed once, soft and knowing, before the door shut behind her with a definitive click.

Kira found herself standing alone in the vast, flickering green of the common room. For all her iron composure, her hands curled into fists at her sides, the raw skin of her palms stinging where the bristles had scraped them raw. She told herself it was only the lingering ache of punishment. That the shiver that ran down her spine had nothing to do with Yumeko’s words.

And yet—when the silence swallowed her whole, it felt far too much like being watched.

Kira drew a steadying breath, forcing her shoulders to square as if posture alone could banish the echo of Yumeko’s laughter. The torches guttered low in their sconces, the dungeon air damp against her skin, and with each step deeper into the common room the silence thickened, cloaking her like a second robe. She pressed forward, chin lifted, refusing to let her unease trail behind her like a scent. If Yumeko’s words lingered, they would do so only in the privacy of her mind.

The Slytherin common room had quieted by then, the hour too late for chatter. Only the fire crackled, green and restless in its grate, throwing shadows across stone and glass. A few of the council lingered, waiting, their eyes lifting as the two girls entered together.

Kira said nothing at first—just strode past, cloak trailing, every step taut with control. But once Yumeko had floated off toward the far end of the room, Kira stopped, turned back to the knot of figures near the hearth, and let the words out like a blade unsheathed.

“Detention. Snape’s floor. All night.” Her voice was clipped, hard. “And she laughed through the entire thing.”

“She laughed through the whole thing,” Michael muttered darkly, his arms folded. He leaned against the stone archway, scowling as though even remembering it soured his mouth.

“Scrubbing filth off Snape’s floor, and she thought it was fun. Like the more he sneered, the more she fed on it.”

Suki chuckled, low and dangerous. “That’s the trick with people like her, innit? They don’t mind losing. Half the thrill’s in being brought to the edge.” He tipped his head back, eyes flicking toward Kira.

“Still. Not a good look, sharing detention with her, Kira. People notice things like that.”

Dori, seated primly on the couch with hands folded, spoke with quiet precision. “It makes her seem equal to you. That’s the danger.”

The fire in the hearth hissed, sparks popping against the iron grate.

Kira’s eyes were fixed on the flames, her posture carved of ice. “She is not my equal.” Each word was measured, deliberate. But her companions knew the truth.Yumeko had unsettled her, not with power, but with unpredictability. And unpredictability had a way of spreading like fire in dry grass.

For a moment, the room held its breath. Then Suki broke it with a sharp grin, leaning forward in his chair.

“So. Quidditch tryouts. That’s where our little transfer thinks she’ll play her next hand, yeah?”

His grin was all teeth. “Flying in on her pretty broom, thinking she can steal the spotlight.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “It’s not just spotlight. Quidditch here isn’t a game. It’s politics. Status. If she gets in, especially as a Chaser or Seeker, she’ll become a face people actually remember. Do we really want that?”

Dori spoke quietly, voice like a whisper cutting silk. “It isn’t a matter of want. She’ll aim for it anyway. Yumeko doesn’t look like someone who waits to be invited. She takes.” Her hands folded tighter. “Which makes her dangerous.”

Kira remained silent, seated perfectly straight in the high-backed chair near the hearth. Her profile was carved in shadow and green firelight, a statue that breathed.

Suki leaned forward, tone mocking. “Oh, come now, Lady Timurov. You don’t need to sit like you’re at your own funeral. You want her broken before she even leaves the ground. Admit it.”

Kira’s eyes shifted toward him. Just once. That was enough. Suki’s grin faltered before he leaned back again, smirk smoothing into something sharper, hungrier.

Michael crossed his arms. “We don’t need anything dramatic. Just… interference. Equipment can go missing. Weather hexes can be subtle. Nothing traceable.”

Dori tilted her head. “But not too obvious. If Yumeko smells sabotage, she’ll gamble higher. And you’ve seen her. She doesn’t mind cutting herself open if it means making others bleed more.”

At that, something passed across Kira’s expression—quick, imperceptible unless you were watching for it. A flicker of memory, of Yumeko’s smile after the duel, faint and secret like a knife pressed to skin. Pride fraying at its edges.

Kira spoke at last, her voice low, even. “Do it cleanly. Nothing traceable. If she fails, it will be her own lack of worth. And if she succeeds…” Her pause was surgical. “Then we’ll know just how much she’s willing to risk.”

Silence followed. Not hesitation—agreement.

The green light from the lake shifted, casting fleeting shadows like scales across Kira’s face. She sat motionless, but her mind was elsewhere. Already measuring, already wagering.

And Yumeko’s name hung in the water-heavy air like a spell waiting to detonate.

–

The Quidditch pitch woke earlier than the rest of the castle. Mist clung low across the grass, curling in pale ribbons beneath the tall hoops. Dew silvered every blade, and the boards of the stands glistened as though lacquered. A brisk wind tugged at the banners left drooping from last season, their colors muted in the gray light.

By the time the sun crept high enough to burn away the fog, students were already spilling into the stands, voices carrying sharp against the empty air. Some came to try out, clutching brooms like weapons. Others came only to watch, eager for the spectacle—the little dramas Quidditch always promised.

At the center of it all, Madam Hooch stood like a hawk at rest. Her yellow eyes missed nothing: a strap half-fastened, a broomstick bristle uneven, a student shoving another too roughly in line. She barked orders, sharp as cracks of thunder.

“Line up by position! Chasers to my left, Beaters to the right, Seekers behind me. You’ll begin with warm-ups before any balls are released. Anyone attempting tricks without my command will be dismissed immediately. Do you understand?”

A ragged chorus of “Yes, Madam Hooch!” answered back, though the muttering in the stands carried a more uneven note.

The Slytherin section was full, green and silver glinting in the morning light. Whispers ran through them like an undercurrent: the new girl, the transfer, the one who had dueled in class. Eyes turned toward her even before she arrived.

Yumeko strolled in at last, skirts brushing the grass, her broom tucked casually beneath her arm. Not the newest model—her Cleansweep was leaner, older, but its polish shone as though it had been handled with care. She moved as if she were already part of the game, her expression alight with a thrill only she seemed to feel.

The crowd’s murmur sharpened.

 “She’s really trying out?”
“A mudblood, on our team?”
“She’ll break her neck.”

Yumeko only smiled faintly as she bent over the clipboard, her name curling onto the parchment like a wager placed at a gaming table. The quill left its blot, and she withdrew as though she’d won something already.

Up in the stands, Kira sat with her entourage. She didn’t need to say anything; her stillness said enough. Suki leaned forward on the railing, cracking his knuckles with a grin too wide. Dori folded her hands, a portrait of composure, though her eyes gleamed with calculation. Michael lounged against the wooden beam, gaze cool, taking stock of every reaction Yumeko drew.

From Kira’s other side, Riri sat silent, expression unreadable. She didn’t join the muttering, didn’t lean forward or back. She only listened, her gaze fixed on the pitch below where Yumeko adjusted the broom’s strap, unaware—or pretending to be—of the eyes clinging to her every move.

Behind them, across the stands, Ryan waved eagerly when Yumeko glanced up, earning a scornful snort from Mary. She folded her arms, muttering to herself about “idiots with death wishes.”

The air thickened as the players gathered, the wind pulling at robes, the smell of churned grass rising already.

Somewhere beneath the noise, quiet glances passed between Suki and one of the Beaters already on the team. Nothing spoken, only a small tilt of the head, a shift of fingers against the railing. The kind of signal meant to disappear in a crowd, invisible unless you knew to look.

Yumeko mounted her broom with deliberate grace, hair flicking in the wind. She looked like someone about to step onto a stage.

And far above, Kira’s gaze locked on her—cold, still, and sharp as glass.

The stage was set.

Madam Hooch paced the length of the pitch, her whistle swinging from its cord. “Laps first. Show me speed, show me control. Three circuits, full pitch. Go!”

The brooms shot forward, air cracking under the sudden surge. Grass flattened in their wake, robes snapping like banners.

Chasers pulled ahead, desperate to prove their stamina. Seekers hung back, conserving energy, eyes darting for any twitch of motion. Beaters cut wider arcs, shoulders tense, as though already imagining the crack of Bludgers.

Yumeko surged with them, her Cleansweep not the fastest but agile, dipping lower and sweeping higher with little flourishes that made the crowd gasp. She wasn’t racing so much as weaving, as if every turn were a risk taken for no reason but thrill.

“Show-off,” muttered a Ravenclaw from the stands.

But Yumeko never faltered. She leaned into every gust of wind like it whispered secrets, banking sharp, then pulling up with just enough space to clear the hoops. Her laughter carried faintly on the air, so soft the crowd wasn’t sure if they imagined it.

Suki, watching from above, smirked. “She’s baiting them already.”

Michael’s arms folded tighter. “Bait only works if someone bites. Let’s see how long before she trips over her own games.”

Madam Hooch blew the whistle again, voice carrying. “Form up! Passing drills for Chasers—others, hold positions!”

Three balls floated from her charmed crate, spinning in the air before zipping into players’ hands.

“Show me precision!”

Chasers broke into formation. Pairs passed the Quaffle back and forth at speed, sharp arcs designed to test timing and balance. Drops meant dismissal. Hesitations meant scorn.

Yumeko’s turn came fast. She caught the Quaffle with startling ease, hugging it to her chest before hurling it across the span of two broom-lengths. The pass was late, almost deliberately so, forcing her partner to lunge—and somehow they caught it, just barely.

A ripple of uneasy laughter rose in the stands. Madam Hooch’s eyes narrowed.

When the Quaffle came back, Yumeko didn’t simply throw. She flipped it underhand, spinning it through the air like dice. Her partner swore, lunging again, and the ball smacked their palms at the last second.

“Reckless,” Michael muttered from above.

“Or brilliant,” Suki countered, though his grin suggested he didn’t much care which.

Kira remained silent, her gaze fixed, her fingers tight against the railing.

Madam Hooch barked from below: “Control, Miss Jabami. This is not a circus trick!”

Yumeko bowed her head in mock obedience, smile widening as though she’d been praised instead of scolded.

And when the Quaffle came again, she cradled it like treasure—before hurling it behind her without looking. The ball cut a clean arc, nearly skimming another player’s robes, before slamming into her partner’s waiting grip.

The stands erupted, gasps breaking into cheers, though Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieked sharp over it.

“Reckless!” she snapped again. “One more of those and you’re off this pitch, do you understand?”

Yumeko hovered lightly, her eyes lifting—not to Madam Hooch, not to the crowd—but to Kira, seated far above. Her smile curved, sly, hungry.

The game was only just beginning.

Yumeko tilted her head, as though savoring Madam Hooch’s reprimand, and then let her gaze sweep the stands.

It wasn’t shy or self-conscious. It was deliberate. Calculated.

Every face she lingered on flushed under her attention—some with irritation, some with an embarrassed thrill. She grinned wider at the ones who frowned, as if their disapproval fed her more than applause ever could.

A Slytherin boy from the younger years cupped his hands and shouted, “She’ll never last a full game!”

Yumeko raised her hand in a mock salute, fingers fluttering like a gambler waving off a bad hand. The crowd laughed, but half of it was nervous, the kind that left a sting in the air.

Her broom dipped lazily, circling lower as if she were bowing to the stands themselves, acknowledging their judgment. But her eyes were never truly with them—every sweep, every flutter, always snapped back toward the Slytherin section, high up where Kira sat.

For a heartbeat, the noise dulled.

Yumeko’s eyes caught Kira’s and stayed. Not challenging, not pleading, but… daring. A look that whispered, You see me, don’t you?

It lasted only a moment, but long enough to needle.

Someone behind Kira muttered, “She’s enjoying herself too much.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. She hadn’t spoken, but the tension in her shoulders, the slight quiver at the corner of her mouth, betrayed what words could not: Yumeko had landed her mark.

Then, as if punctuating the exchange, Yumeko performed a small trick no one had asked for—she let her broom tilt just enough to dip one hand against the wind, her palm skimming air as though she were shuffling invisible cards.

The gesture was fleeting, subtle, but the stands caught it. A murmur swept through—amusement, annoyance, intrigue—until it rolled all the way up to where Kira sat like a silent verdict.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle again, hard. “Enough games, Jabami! Focus!”

Yumeko straightened obediently, her broom steady now. But the smile she wore was unmistakable: she had already played her first hand, and the crowd—and Kira—were hooked.

The whistle shrilled again, sharp and commanding. Madam Hooch’s broom cut a neat arc above the pitch as she raised her arm.

“Obstacles,” she barked. “We’ll see how you fly when the pitch isn’t empty. Chasers—you’re up. Bludgers active.”

The word alone seemed to shift the air. Two heavy black balls rattled ominously in their chains before Madam Hooch struck them loose. With a metallic clang, they shot skyward, alive, their iron surfaces glinting wickedly in the pale light.

The candidates tensed. Brooms dipped lower, grips tightened. It was one thing to circle hoops and toss Quaffles under open sky. Quite another to survive the temper of Bludgers.

“Remember,” Madam Hooch warned, her hawk’s gaze cutting across the line of students. “It’s not only about speed. Control. Anticipation. Team awareness. If you can’t keep your head, you’ll lose it.”

The whistle blew.

They launched.

The pitch erupted into chaos. Bludgers shrieked through the air like cannon fire, forcing candidates to scatter in jagged arcs. The green robes of Slytherin hopefuls blurred against the silver flash of the balls, wood cracking as bats swung, bodies ducked and swerved.

And Yumeko—Yumeko leaned into it.

Where the others avoided danger, she sought it. Her broom dipped under the path of a Bludger so close it kissed the ends of her hair, then snapped upward in a spiral that made the crowd gasp as one. She caught the Quaffle on her upswing, tossing it lazily from palm to palm as though taunting the chaos around her.

Michael, already circling with a Beater’s bat, exchanged a look with Suki across the pitch. Subtle, but sharp. Their arcs tightened, deliberately nudging play toward Yumeko’s side of the field. The Bludgers responded hungrily to each swing, their trajectories redirected with brutal precision.

The first came screaming toward her shoulder. She ducked—too late for safety, perfectly on time for spectacle. Gasps rippled as the iron ball grazed her sleeve, tearing a strip of fabric that fluttered like a banner in her wake. Yumeko only laughed, twisting her broom into a reckless dive.

Above, Kira’s lips curved faintly. Not a smile—something colder. She hadn’t moved since the drills began, her posture regal and aloof. But her eyes tracked every risk Yumeko took, every close call.

And when Yumeko looked up mid-dive, meeting Kira’s gaze again—cheeks flushed, eyes alight—Kira’s knuckles whitened against the railing.

The sabotage was working. The Bludgers were already dancing to her friends’ tune, drawing Yumeko into tighter, riskier corners. One mistake, one miscalculation, and she would plummet.

But Yumeko didn’t look afraid. She looked like she was waiting for the next hit.

The Bludgers screamed through the air, carving black arcs against the pale sky. Most of the candidates hunched low, focused on staying alive, their drills already unraveling into panic. But Yumeko—Yumeko was playing a different game.

She dipped and twisted as though the iron balls were no threat at all, treating each near-collision as though it were a hand of cards laid neatly before her. Every dodge was timed to the brink, every spiral designed to make the crowd gasp, hearts caught in their throats.

And it was working.

The stands had begun to lean into her rhythm, each inhale and exhale following the dangerous sway of her broom. Every time a Bludger missed by an inch, the sound rose—half cheers, half horrified laughter. Yumeko thrived in it, tossing the Quaffle from palm to palm as though daring gravity itself to make a wager with her life.

On the far end of the pitch, Michael’s bat whistled through the air, redirecting a Bludger with sharp, brutal precision. It screamed toward Suki, who caught the cue instantly. His answering swing sent the ball careening on a new trajectory—straight toward Yumeko.

But it wasn’t a clean strike they wanted. No—this was strategy disguised as chaos. The ball angled perfectly to cut off her dive path, a trap designed to leave her two choices: slam into the Bludger head-on or wrench into a suicidal nosedive toward the turf.

“Watch it!” someone shrieked from the stands.

The Bludger closed fast, shrieking like an iron banshee.

Yumeko’s head turned just slightly, her hair catching the light. She saw it—of course she did—but she didn’t swerve immediately. She waited. Waited until the crowd could see the danger, until the gasps swelled into a chorus, until even Madam Hooch shifted uneasily in midair.

Only then did she move.

Her broom snapped downward in a breathtaking plummet, the Bludger grazing past where her skull had been half a heartbeat earlier. The wind tore at her robes, the ground rushing up with terrifying speed. It was the sort of dive that broke collarbones, shattered jaws, left stains on the turf.

But Yumeko didn’t falter. She pulled up with a savage twist at the last possible moment, her broom groaning under the strain. Dirt exploded beneath her heels as she skimmed the grass, Quaffle still tucked under one arm.

The crowd erupted—roars, shrieks, even laughter, unable to decide whether they’d just seen brilliance or madness.

High above, Kira had gone utterly still. She should have felt satisfaction—this was her friends’ handiwork, the stage set for Yumeko’s ruin. And yet when the girl pulled out of that dive, grinning like she’d won a private bet with death itself, Kira’s stomach lurched violently.

Beside her, Dori smirked. “She won’t last another round of that.”

Kira’s eyes did not leave the pitch. “She’d better not.”

And below, Michael and Suki exchanged another glance, already lining up the next strike.

The first strike had not toppled her, but that only made the game sweeter. This time, there would be no graceful escape.

They circled higher, bats poised, exchanging the kind of wordless communication Quidditch Beaters mastered. Michael’s gaze flicked briefly toward Kira in the stands—just enough to catch her unreadable expression before he smashed the Bludger again.

The ball shrieked across the air like a curse. Suki was already waiting, his swing brutal, redirecting it with the practiced cruelty of someone who wanted not a dodge, but a collision. The Bludger curved wickedly, screaming straight for Yumeko’s spine.

But that wasn’t the trap.

Because the second Bludger, the one Michael had been angling moments before, had circled back like a predator. It hurtled in from her blind spot, the air vibrating with its momentum. Two iron beasts converging on a single target—an inescapable pincer meant to break bone and broom alike.

The crowd saw it before she did. Gasps tore through the stands, a wave of panic rolling across the pitch.

“LOOK OUT!” someone bellowed.

Even Madam Hooch surged forward, whistle half-raised to her lips.

For a breath, Yumeko seemed caught. The Quaffle clutched in one hand, two Bludgers screaming toward her, the trap closing in from both sides. It was the kind of setup that left no choice but defeat—an elegant execution disguised as play.

And Yumeko laughed.

The sound cut through the roar of wind and iron, bright and terrible. She loosened her grip on the Quaffle, let it drop, and threw herself sideways off her broom.

The crowd screamed.

Her body twisted in open air, robes snapping like wings, the broom nearly bucking free without her weight. Both Bludgers smashed together where her chest had been an instant before, colliding with a bone-cracking clang that rattled the pitch.

And Yumeko? She seized the broom’s handle mid-spin, swinging herself beneath it like a trapeze artist, boots skimming the air inches above the grass before she pulled back up with an impossible arc.

The Quaffle she had dropped? She snatched it again mid-climb, plucking it from its fall like she had planned it all along.

The crowd was hysterical now—cheers, screams, laughter, the stands practically shaking with disbelief.

On the Slytherin bench, Riri’s hand tightened in her robes, her face unreadable, pale as candle wax. Dori looked smug, convinced this was a matter of time. And Kira—Kira’s heart hammered violently, her nails biting crescents into her palms as she stared at the girl who should have been broken and bleeding on the grass, but instead flew higher, laughing, her eyes bright with the fever of the gamble.

Suki spat into the wind. “Bloody insane.” 

Michael’s jaw clenched. “Then we push harder.”

And in the sky, Yumeko leveled her broom, hair wild, grin sharp as a blade. She looked directly to where Kira sat, bowed her head like a gambler acknowledging a rival at the table, and then shot forward toward the goalposts as though daring the world to try again.

Kira had seen a hundred Quidditch stunts in her life. Champions, professionals, even the reckless showboating of older Slytherins trying to impress the crowd. She knew the lines of the game, the mathematics of risk. She knew when something was calculated, and when it was sheer stupidity dressed up as daring.

And yet—her chest lurched when Yumeko dropped from her broom like a stone. For the briefest instant, Kira felt the bottom of her stomach tear free, a cold surge flooding her veins. It was the kind of feeling she associated with nightmares—the moment before impact, when even magic couldn’t promise survival.

Then, the impossible recovery. The arc, the catch, the laughter that rang like a dare across the pitch. The crowd roared, drunk on spectacle.

Kira forced her nails deeper into her palm, her knuckles whitening, as though pain alone might anchor her back to herself.

Reckless. Cheap theatrics. She’s not skilled, she’s desperate. That’s all this is.

She folded her arms, the picture of cold poise, though the stiffness of her shoulders betrayed her. The girl should have been scattered across the grass, and instead she was climbing higher, grinning, taunting the world—and Kira by extension.

Because when Yumeko bowed her head toward the stands, that glint in her eye searching like a hawk’s, Kira knew it wasn’t to the crowd. It was to her.

Heat prickled at the base of her neck, unwelcome, infuriating. Kira inhaled once, sharply, and let her face settle into something glacial, something untouchable.

“Pathetic,” she murmured under her breath, too low for anyone but Suki beside her to catch. He smirked, misinterpreting it as dismissal, and that suited her fine.

But her gaze never left Yumeko as she shot forward, laughing, daring the pitch itself to kill her.

And Kira hated how she couldn’t quite look away.

The game re-formed around Yumeko’s laughter, but the air on the pitch had shifted. The crowd, still giddy, leaned forward as though knowing something sharper was coming. Players tightened their grips, brooms cutting sharper lines through the sky.

Michael and Suki hovered just out of formation, circling like sharks. The bludgers had already been turned into weapons twice, and both times Yumeko had escaped—no, not just escaped, performed. Every dodge, every plunge had only made her seem larger, brighter, impossible to ignore.

That couldn’t be allowed to continue.

“Next one’s not a warning,” Michael muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on her. He swerved closer to Suki, who met his glance and gave a tight, wolfish grin. No signal was needed; they both knew.

The bludger was there, beating against its chain of magic like a heart gone rabid. Suki cracked his bat into it once, hard enough to send it screaming across the field—not toward Yumeko directly, but toward the chaser formation she was weaving herself into.

A calculated cruelty. If she wanted to play the daredevil, she’d have to gamble with other bodies on the line. A single wrong move now wouldn’t just send her plummeting. It would take another player with her.

Gasps rippled from the stands as the bludger spun off its axis, a brutal missile homing in.

From the stands, Kira’s eyes narrowed. Even she recognized the shift—the difference between a dangerous stunt and a deliberate attempt to corner someone into disaster. The kind of play that could break bones.

And Yumeko was already turning, already laughing, already reaching her hand back as if to welcome it.

The trap was set.

The bludger shrieked through the air, its path unerring, bearing down on Yumeko and the cluster of Chasers she had slid between. One girl yelped, swerving hard; another clutched her broom tighter, panic flickering in her eyes.

But Yumeko didn’t move.

She waited—just long enough for the crowd to think she’d miscalculated, for the other players to flinch away as if she were about to be torn from the sky. And then, with a wild tilt of her broom, she darted into the path of the oncoming bludger.

Gasps erupted from the stands. Someone screamed her name.

At the last possible heartbeat, Yumeko leaned back, body arched flat against her broom, hair streaming as the bludger howled past so close it skimmed a strand free. And then—before it could spiral away—she twisted her body, snatching her hand up in a gesture so fluid it looked rehearsed.

Her fingers didn’t touch it—no one could catch a bludger barehanded—but the illusion was enough. To the watching crowd, it looked as though she had palmed the ball from midair, redirected it like a gambler flipping a coin across the table. The bludger whirled off course, slamming instead toward an empty stretch of pitch.

The crowd roared.

Yumeko straightened, laughter spilling like bells, her eyes bright with feverish delight. She turned in her saddle, not toward the audience, not toward her teammates—but toward the stands, toward the shadowed figure of Kira Timurov.

A gambler’s grin, sharp and unshaken.

The stands rippled with whispers: she wasn’t just surviving sabotage—she was turning it into theatre.

On the field, Michael’s knuckles whitened on his bat. Suki swore under his breath. This wasn’t a dodge. It was a challenge.

The roar from the stands didn’t fade—it swelled, breaking like a wave that seemed to rattle even the enchanted hoops. Students stamped their feet, clapped, shouted her name, the pitch alive with a frenzy that had no place at a simple tryout.

On the ground, Madam Hooch’s sharp whistle shrieked through the din, cutting it back to a ragged hum. She squinted up at the players, her broom tucked under her arm, silver hair gleaming. “What in Merlin’s name—” she barked, voice carrying across the pitch.

But even her reprimand couldn’t quash the electricity buzzing through the crowd. A dozen voices hissed at once: She did that on purpose. She played with it. She nearly caught it!

The Slytherin captain, a broad-shouldered sixth-year with a jaw like stone, was gripping his broom so tightly his knuckles were pale. His eyes narrowed on Yumeko—not with admiration, but with calculation. A gamble like that could win a game—or ruin one. Yet the crowd’s feverish approval made it impossible to dismiss.

“Bloody show-off,” one of the older Chasers muttered, circling back into formation, though her eyes darted sidelong at Yumeko with something almost like respect.

“Show-off or not,” another whispered, “did you see the way she held her line? Like she wanted it to hit her.”

Up in the air, Yumeko dipped low, hovering just above the pitch grass, and raised one hand toward the audience as though she were acknowledging applause at a theatre. The gesture was subtle, almost mocking. She wasn’t just here to impress the captain. She was here to bait everyone.

Her gaze slid sideways—not at her teammates, not at the bludgers whirling in their orbits—but at the shadows beneath the Slytherin stands. Where Kira sat. Watching.

Yumeko’s smile curved wider, daring her, the unspoken words practically visible in the set of her mouth: Was that enough for you? Or should I raise the stakes?

Madam Hooch blew her whistle again, sharp as a blade. “This is not a circus! Focus on the quaffle, or you’ll all be off my pitch before I can blink!” Her eyes, hawkish and unblinking, lingered on Yumeko with a flash of suspicion.

But Yumeko only dipped her head, obedient on the surface, her hands steady on her broom. Yet her shoulders quivered with a laughter that no reprimand could reach.

The wind off the lake tugged at the edges of her robes, teasing her hair across her face, but Yumeko did not flinch. Her eyes, glinting with a mixture of amusement and challenge, swept across the pitch, lingering on the movement of the other players as though each were a card she had yet to reveal. Every flicker of a glance, every ripple in the crowd, became a thread she could follow, a prelude to the next play.

She let the quaffle roll lightly between her hands, the smooth leather warm from the sun, teasing the players around her with a tilt of the wrist and a casual shift of weight that drew gasps from some and frustrated groans from others. The crowd leaned forward, pulled into her orbit, not knowing whether to cheer or hold their breath.

And through it all, her gaze returned again and again to the shadowed stands where Kira watched. Not the broom, not the Bludgers, not the game—her attention was singular, precise. The thrill of anticipation tightened her chest like the coiling of a spring. The next move would come, Yumeko promised herself, and it would be worth every second of the audience's hold on their nerves.

The whistle had hardly faded when something colder threaded the air—an almost invisible hush that made the last of the chatter scrape to a stop. For a heartbeat everything else blurred: the spin of a Bludger, the slap of boot against broom, the rough exhale of the crowd.

From the shadowed banks of the Slytherin stands, a movement so slight it might have been a twitch caught the corner of Kira’s eye. Riri Timurov’s hand slipped from her lap; she did not speak. She never needed to. Her wrist flicked, a motion practised and small, and the pale sleeve of her robe brushed something tucked at her knee. An extra length of cord—thin, silvery, and almost threadlike—uncoiled under that sleeve like a sleeping thing. She released it on a hairline line that flashed toward the pitch.

Nobody quite saw the line leave; everyone saw the effect. Yumeko’s broom shuddered mid-arc as if a fish had bitten through its wake. The Cleansweep dipped, a fraction—enough that a chorus of gasps rose, raw and immediate. For a second the world narrowed to the sight of her weight tilting, the way the leather strap at her ankle caught light. It was the sort of failure that could end a season, a face-plant that lingered on tongues like iron.

The sound of the crowd changed—sharp, sucked-in; a thousand lungs held. Feet stilled on the benches. Even Madam Hooch’s jaw worked as she watched a figure in the stands make a tiny, precise movement then fold her hands again, face unreadable.

Kira’s head turned, then. Not the lazy sweep of someone looking away from spectacle, but the alert, calibrated turn of a predator who had sent a hound and was checking the kill. Her eyes locked with Riri’s for a single breath. Riri’s face, in the green firelight, was unreadable as always; her mouth did not twitch. The thread lay slack between the fingers of her gloved hand—no boast, no flourish—only intent.

Yumeko felt the tug as if it had been seeded under her skin. It arrived first as a whisper along the broom’s spine, then a bright, brutal lurch that would have sent many another flyer spinning. But she did not flinch in the way the crowd expected. She let the broom go a hair further, let the strap bite her ankle, and then—only then—she moved.

It was not magic that righted her. It was a gambler’s calculation: a breath, a shift of hip, a heel hook that forced the broom to rotate beneath her like the final click of a lock. She threw herself forward and up in one fluid arc, wrists flashing, boots finding the foot-rest at an impossible angle. The silver thread snagged on a bristle and snapped harmlessly away, a thin sound like a snapped silk ribbon.

And in the instant she was upright again—hair whipping, grin bright—she did not look to the crowd. She looked up.

Her eyes found Kira’s as if she’d been aiming for that look the whole time. There was no triumph in the way she held Kira’s gaze, only an almost clinical clarity. I saw you. I knew she would try that. I know your methods. It was not a gesture of affection. It was a quiet, precise unmasking.

Kira’s reaction was a small, involuntary intake of breath. She tightened her fingers on the railing until the skin blanched. There was annoyance there—very sharp, very public—and something else, thin and harder to admit even to herself: the sound of her pulse under control, the faint, unpleasant tug that answered every time Yumeko rode the edge.

Around them, the stands erupted again—half-admiration, half-accusation—but a different current ran through the noise now. Where before the danger felt like chance, now it smelled unmistakably of design. People who’d assumed clumsy gamblers and clumsy sabotage began to exchange looks that meant this was engineered.

Suki spat a curse under his breath. “She knew,” he said to Michael, loud enough for the nearest to hear. “She knew it was set up.”

Michael only watched Yumeko. “Either she knew,” he replied, “or she’s the sort of madwoman who rides the rope blind and trusts the fall. Neither is reassuring.”

Riri’s hand went still. She hid her face in shadow, and though she said nothing, the small lift of her chin was like a question flung into private space. Did you see? Did she see?

Yumeko, still circling, let the quiet in her chest settle like a coin in a palm. She tipped her head once, a mock curtsey toward the Slytherin stands, and her lips quirked in a smile that might have been enjoyment, might have been calculation. Then she dove again, lighter, angrier, hungrier, as if the rope had sharpened the game rather than broken it.

Kira watched her go, the green of her eyes pin-pricked with something like curiosity that she would have flattened into scorn if anyone asked. She did not rise to cheer. She did not move to scold. She did not, in any way, mean for what she felt to be recognized.

But beneath the practiced mask, beneath the aristocratic stillness, Kira held a small, unwelcome fact: Yumeko had not only endured the attempt to throw her—she had known it would come and used it to make herself more dangerous, more untouchable. It was an understanding that cut at Kira’s assumptions about control and the rules of the game, and that cut deeper than any bruise the broom might have left.

The whistle blast that ended the scrimmage rang out like the crack of a judge’s gavel. Players drifted down one by one, some with their heads bowed, others muttering angrily under their breath. The crowd’s noise took longer to fade, rippling into applause, boos, and scattered shouts of Yumeko’s name.

On the pitch, the captains stood in a loose knot, grim as generals after a lost battle. The Slytherin captain kept glancing back at Yumeko, whose expression was maddeningly serene—like she hadn’t just turned the tryout into a game of Russian roulette played at broomstick height.

The Ravenclaw captain, arms folded, frowned deeply. “She plays like there’s no ceiling on the risk. That’s not a strategy—it’s suicide.”

“Or genius,” the Slytherin captain countered. His voice was flat, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. 

Madam Hooch cut them off with a glare. “You’re not recruiting for a sideshow act. She’s got reflexes, yes. She’s got nerve, more nerve than sense. But if she pulls that in a real match, it’ll be your season in shambles.”

The judges wavered, trapped between discipline and spectacle.

Meanwhile, Yumeko lingered at the edge of the gathering, broom slung casually across her shoulders. She tilted her head, listening without pretending not to. Every barb, every hesitation—they only made her grin deepen.

When the Slytherin captain finally turned, he didn’t call her name so much as test her. “Yumeko Jabami.”

Her response was instant, bright, almost musical. “Yes?”

He studied her for a long moment, then said, “You’re on the roster. Reserve Chaser. You prove you can play for the team, not the crowd… maybe you’ll go further.”

Gasps shuddered through the group—half disbelief, half outrage. A few players immediately stalked off, muttering about wasted slots.

The crowd, though, roared again, voices chanting her name in rough rhythm: Yu-me-ko! Yu-me-ko!

Yumeko only dipped into a bow, smiling like a performer at curtain call. She wasn’t celebrating selection—she was savoring the fury of those she’d beaten, the resentment now coursing through her new teammates’ veins.

High in the stands, Kira’s eyes glimmered cold as cut glass. Yumeko had survived every trap. Worse—she had thrived.

And Yumeko, tilting her face toward the stands, let her smile stretch wider still, as if whispering across the distance: Try harder next time.

The cheers that followed were loud, almost mocking in their sincerity. First-years stomped their feet, older students muttered, and even a few professors allowed the faint curl of amusement at the corners of their mouths. The air was thick with noise, thick with triumph that did not belong to Kira. She sat amidst it all like a statue carved from frost, refusing to be swept into the current of voices rising for Yumeko.

Kira did not clap when the name was called.

Her hands stayed still in her lap, fingers curled lightly against her skirt, as though pinching fabric to ground herself. Her face betrayed nothing more than a faint downturn at the corner of her mouth—irritation so mild it could be mistaken for boredom. And yet the tightness in her jaw, the faint pulse at her temple, gave her away to anyone who knew her well.

She had expected Yumeko to falter. Not just falter—fall. To expose herself as a reckless fraud before the captains’ eyes. But instead, Yumeko had turned every trap into theatre, and the crowd—idiotic, hungry for spectacle—ate it up.

Kira’s heart had lurched once, yes, at that second dive where death hung close enough to brush Yumeko’s robes. But she’d smothered it in annoyance. Ridiculous. Showy. Vulgar. Whatever flicker of intrigue lingered now was quickly dressed in disdain.

“Unbelievable,” Michael muttered beside her, arms folded tight across his chest. His knuckles were still red from the last bludger. “She should’ve been splattered across the turf.”

Suki kicked irritably at the step in front of her. “They gave her a slot after that? Madam Hooch has gone soft. She’s a hazard.”

Across the row, Chad gave a low whistle. “Can’t deny she’s got guts, though. I’ve never seen anyone ride a broom like they’re betting their life on it.” His tone wasn’t admiring so much as unsettled, like someone staring at a fire that burned too bright.

Runa snickered into her sleeve, though her eyes stayed sharp. “She’s a lunatic. And that’s what makes her dangerous. People love watching lunatics.”

Riri, quiet as always, sat small at the end of the bench. She didn’t speak—never did in these councils—but her gaze flicked briefly between her sister and Yumeko’s beaming figure on the pitch, as though noting the tension threading the space.

Kira inhaled slowly through her nose, exhaled in measured calm. “She won’t last,” she said finally, her voice clipped, cold, dismissing. “The novelty will wear off. The first time she costs the team points—or worse, the match—they’ll toss her aside.”

Her words settled like ice, meant to still the agitation in her friends. But underneath, a private irritation gnawed. Yumeko hadn’t just survived sabotage. She’d turned it into victory.

Kira’s gaze lingered on the girl still bowing theatrically to the stands. That smile—infuriating, unflappable—wasn’t triumph so much as provocation.

And though Kira told herself she was only cataloguing an opponent’s weaknesses, the thought that pulsed unbidden was far simpler, far more dangerous.

She’s not going away.

Yumeko, on the other hand, remained unbothered. Her head tipped just slightly, as though she could feel the absence of applause more keenly than the storm of cheers around her. The noise pressed in, but she sifted through it, her eyes drawn like a magnet to the one pair of hands that had stayed still. Kira Timurov—composed, unflinching, yet taut with the kind of restraint that tasted better than victory itself.

Yumeko’s smile did not widen; it deepened. She let it linger on her lips like a secret, her gaze climbing the stands until it found Kira’s, unblinking. Every cheer in the stadium faded into a hum at the edge of her hearing. What mattered was that flicker in Kira’s jaw, the faint betrayals that no one else noticed.

And so, as the crowd celebrated her triumph, Yumeko savored something rarer, sweeter. Kira’s silence.

Chapter Text

Kira had not clapped.

Everyone else had, of course—first-years squealing like the match was a circus act, Slytherins hissing their reluctant approval through teeth set on edge, even Madam Hooch conceding a curt nod that was practically a coronation. Yumeko’s broom had carved the air as though she had been born with wings stitched beneath her ribs, every movement smooth, predatory, deliberate. The position of Chaser was hers before the quaffle had even kissed her palms.

Kira sat very still in the stands, hands folded like a portrait subject, the perfect picture of aristocratic boredom. Her expression was distilled into polite disdain: lips unmoved, lashes lowered, spine taut enough to cut glass. It was the sort of look she’d cultivated since childhood, the kind that declared to the world, this cannot touch me.

And yet—when Yumeko dived so low her hair nearly brushed the grass, then lifted in a single sweep that cracked the air like a whip—Kira felt it. A lurch, hot and sudden, in the organ she’d always preferred to think of as an ornament rather than a pulse. The heart misbehaving, betraying her with its leap. It was most unbecoming.

Not admiration. Never that.

Annoyance, perhaps—at the theatricality of it all, the way Yumeko had known, even in that split second, that all eyes were hers and had leaned into it with dangerous ease. The very opposite of restraint. It made Kira’s molars ache, how undisciplined it looked, and how dazzling.

Or intrigue. At worst. A creature that could not be named properly yet—something between dread and desire, like recognizing poison by the sweetness of its smell. Yumeko, in her sharp precision, was not merely skilled; she was performing, every flick of the broom a taunt aimed squarely at Kira’s composure.

And Kira, for all her careful folding-in, could not unsee it: the streak of dark hair against the green pitch, the coil and uncoil of muscle as if even gravity obeyed her, and then—that grin. Too quick, too sharp, angled like an arrow loosed straight toward the stands. Not careless, not accidental.

She had aimed it.

Kira felt the thought strike her before she could smother it: Yumeko had wanted her to see.

The realization lodged like glass in the throat. To dismiss it as arrogance would have been easier, safer. But arrogance did not look quite so exact, so scalpel-precise. This was something else—something aimed at her with the accuracy of a curse.

It clung to Kira like a bruise under silk—tender, invisible, impossible to ignore. She could call it irritation, she could dress it in disdain, but the truth of it was more insidious. A hum beneath her skin, low and unshakable.

By the time the whistle blew, Kira realized her fists had curled tight in her lap, crescents dug into her palms, blood singing against the surface. She breathed as though surfacing from water and told herself she had simply been holding her breath out of contempt.

But contempt, she suspected, did not feel quite so much like hunger.

–

Kira told herself she had forgotten the grin by the time she left the pitch. By the time she crossed the flagstones, her spine ramrod-straight beneath her robes, her face an impassive mask polished by generations of Timurovs. She told herself it had dissolved into irrelevance.

But then Defense Against the Dark Arts arrived, and Yumeko was there. Always there. A shadow wearing silk gloves.

The desks gleamed with a merciless kind of order, parchment stacked, quills poised. Candles guttered overhead, their smoke clinging stubbornly to the damp stone. At the front of the room, Professor Snape prowled between rows, his voice a silken thread unraveling through the gloom.

“Counter-curses,” he said, pausing just long enough for the silence to grow taut, “require more than bravado and wand-waving. Precision. Control. Which”—his gaze swept the rows, disdain curling his lip—“most of you will never possess.”

Kira’s quill hovered, then dipped. She meant to lose herself in the neat lines of her script, intent on proving the point Snape had not asked her to prove. Precision was her inheritance. Endurance her dowry.

And yet—there it was. The scrape of another quill, louder than the rest, rhythmic, exaggerated. Mocking.

Yumeko.

Kira didn’t look, not immediately. She felt it instead—the weight of Yumeko’s gaze, steady and intrusive as a hand against her throat. At last, she flicked her eyes sideways.

Yumeko leaned back in her chair, quill twirling idly between her fingers. Her lips curved in that maddening not-smile, half-serene, half-sinister, as if she’d written the script for this moment herself.

“Writing quickly, aren’t we?” Yumeko murmured, pitched low enough to nearly vanish under Snape’s lecture. “Children of dynasties always do. The parchment bends out of duty, doesn’t it, Lady Timurov?”

Kira’s jaw tightened. She bent lower over her essay, the scratch of her quill sharpening like a blade. “What’s your point?” she whispered back, voice flat.

Before Yumeko could answer, Snape’s shadow fell over their desk. His eyes, black and depthless, lingered on Yumeko first, suspicion curled in the corners. “You’ve been here what—a couple of weeks?” His tone slid like oil. “And already so very confident. We shall see if it’s earned.”

Yumeko’s smile only brightened, a flash of teeth as she lowered her gaze in feigned obedience. “Confidence is easier than precision, Professor. But I’m learning.”

“See that you do,” Snape muttered, lingering a beat longer before gliding away, robes whispering across the flagstones.

As his shadow withdrew, Yumeko’s voice slithered back, silk over steel. “Perhaps you’ll match me. Or perhaps not. Shall we test it? Today’s essay, professor’s delight. Whoever earns the higher mark decides the forfeit.”

Kira did not immediately bite. Her quill moved with cold, deliberate strokes, each letter sharp as a dagger-point. “I have no interest in schoolyard dares,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the parchment.

“Oh, but this is hardly a dare,” Yumeko said sweetly, twirling her quill like a coin between fingers. “It’s incentive. You wouldn’t want to grow complacent, would you? Resting on the laurels of old names, old reputations…”

Kira’s lips pressed into a line. “You think me so easily baited?”

“I think,” Yumeko countered, leaning back, voice low and delighted, “that you cannot allow me the possibility of victory without answering it yourself. Pride is such a reliable currency, Lady Timurov. Always in circulation.”

Kira’s eyes flicked up, sharp and narrowed. For a moment, her composure faltered into something darker, as though Yumeko had grazed the rawest nerve. “You presume too much.”

“Then refuse me,” Yumeko whispered, grin widening. “Refuse, and I’ll believe you. But oh—what would the others believe, when I tell them Lady Timurov would not test her mettle against a transfer with nothing to her name?”

The scrape of Kira’s quill paused. Dead silence between strokes. Around them, parchment still rustled, quills still scratched, the ordinary rhythm of a classroom, and yet the air between the two of them was taut, strung like a bow.

Kira set her quill down with care, her hand steady though her pulse quickened beneath her skin. “And your forfeit?” she asked at last, voice clipped, controlled.

“Simple.” Yumeko tilted her head, eyes catching the candlelight. “If I win, you’ll accompany me. To the Prefects’ Bathroom. A soak. A talk. Nothing more scandalous than steam and candlelight. Unless you’re afraid.”

Kira bent over her parchment again, the quill steady in her grip, though her mind was anything but. The Prefects’ Bathroom. A place she had visited before with all the solemnity of duty—steam curling against stained-glass mermaids, the glimmer of candlelight on water so deep it could drown secrets.

And Yumeko had said it so carelessly. A soak. A talk. Nothing more scandalous than steam and candlelight.

Scandalous. The word clung, sticky, like ink spilled on her fingers. Her chest tightened at the image it conjured—the heat of the steam blurring sharp edges, candlelight painting soft gold across bare skin. Not hers. Not hers. Yumeko’s.

Kira’s quill nearly tore through the parchment. Ridiculous.

She forced her gaze back to the ink bleeding across the page, yet traitorous thoughts curled at the edges of her discipline. Yumeko leaning too close, water droplets trailing her collarbone, lips parting around some infuriating taunt—

Kira inhaled sharply and snapped her spine straighter. Enough. This was nonsense. She was imagining things that no Timurov—least of all her—should ever imagine.

Her eyes betrayed her anyway. Sliding sideways, catching the glint of dark brown watching her with that impossible calm, that smile so faint it might have been carved into her.

Kira’s face did not change. Her expression remained cool, precise. But inside, the reprimand was sharp and merciless. Compose yourself. You’ve gone mad. Mad, to picture anything—anything—with her of all people.

Her quill paused mid-sentence before she let the words slip, quiet and cutting, without turning her head. “Why me? Surely there are others eager to… accompany you. Ryan, for instance. He practically drools at your heels.”

For a beat, silence. Then the low curve of Yumeko’s voice—amused, deliberate. “Ryan is dull. He would say yes before I even asked.” A pause, softer. “You, Kira, make everything so much more interesting.”

The words coiled around her, dangerous as smoke. Kira gripped the quill tighter, the nib scratching dangerously against the parchment. If Yumeko had seen her hesitation—and she surely had—then Kira had already yielded ground she could not afford to lose.

And then came the word. Soft, lethal. Afraid.

It struck her harder than any hex. For a heartbeat she thought Yumeko had read her mind, seen the heat she had buried under layers of poise and denial. Afraid. Afraid not of essays, nor wagers, but of the insinuation curled in candlelight and steam.

The only escape was to smother it beneath her pride. She let her chin lift, her voice sharpen, as though it had been confidence all along.

“Fine. But when I win, you’ll learn that names and legacies are not so easily toyed with...” Kira’s voice sharpened, each syllable like glass, “…you’ll pack your things. You’ll walk out of these castle walls and you won’t come back. No more Hogwarts. No more stage. Gone.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavier than the dungeon’s damp air. Then Yumeko laughed—soft at first, then fuller, richer, a sound too alive for the stone walls. Her eyes glittered with something unholy, as if Kira had just dangled the sharpest, most exquisite hook before her.

“Exile?” she breathed, leaning closer, delight curling her lips. “Darling, that’s not a wager. That’s a symphony. To risk everything, to dance on the edge of nothing—ah, Kira…” Her smile thinned into a razor line, hungry and wild. “You do know how to make me fall in love.”

Yumeko leaned forward, her perfume faint and sweet, something floral that didn’t belong in a dungeon classroom. The warmth of her breath brushed Kira’s cheek as she whispered, low enough that the professor’s droning could almost swallow it.

“Delicious,” she said, savoring the syllables as though Kira herself were something to be tasted. Her lips curved just slightly, the smile not broad but sharp, like a secret meant only for her. “Then it’s settled.”

Kira’s hand didn’t move from her parchment. Her quill hovered, motionless, though she forced her jaw to remain set, her expression cold as carved marble. Yumeko wanted a reaction—she always did. And Kira refused to give her the satisfaction. Still, the air between them hummed strangely, as though some thread had been plucked taut and would not stop vibrating.

She dipped her quill again with measured calm, ink blotting dark and thick across the first line of her essay. But it felt less like writing and more like striking back—each word a defense, each sentence a blade.

Yumeko reclined into her chair, but she did not withdraw her gaze. Her fingers toyed with her quill, twirling it lazily, eyes never leaving Kira’s face. Every so often her knee brushed the leg of Kira’s desk—whether by accident or design, Kira couldn’t decide. She only knew it set her teeth on edge.

From the back of the room, Ryan had frozen mid-sentence, his own parchment forgotten. His elbow nudged Mary lightly, eyes darting toward the front row where the tension radiated sharp enough to cut.

“Do you see this?” he whispered.

Mary leaned just enough to follow his glance, her brow rising. Kira and Yumeko were silent—quills moving, shoulders stiff—but the current between them was unmistakable.

Mary smirked, whispering back, “Looks like Lady Timurov found herself a shadow.”

Ryan stifled a laugh, bending closer. “A shadow with teeth. Merlin, she’s bold. Nobody gets that close to Kira and lives.”

“Mm.” Mary’s eyes lingered, thoughtful rather than amused. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Yumeko isn’t afraid of dying.”

Ryan scoffed, though uneasily. “Or maybe she just doesn’t know what she’s playing with.”

The classroom felt too warm, though the torches sputtered faintly against damp stone walls. 

When time was called, the essays were collected in a stack that reeked faintly of ink and tension. Yumeko slid her parchment into the pile last, fingers brushing just close enough to Kira’s sleeve to make the latter’s shoulders stiff again.

“Tomorrow, then,” Yumeko murmured, voice low enough that only Kira could hear. Her smile curved like a blade sheathed in silk. “We’ll see whose ink carries more weight. I do hope you’ve left Snape dazzled.”

Kira’s lips pressed into a line. “My work will stand on its own merit.”

“Mmm,” Yumeko breathed, leaning in as though confiding a secret. “Merit’s such a dry word. I prefer… charm. A touch of seduction, even. Essays, professors—they’re not so different, don’t you think? Both want to be courted.”

Kira’s head snapped toward her, dark eyes flashing. “This isn’t a game.”

“Everything’s a game,” Yumeko countered, unabashed, her gaze holding Kira’s for a moment too long. “And some of us happen to play very well.” She tilted her head, strands of dark hair spilling forward like ink. “I wonder which you’ll hate more—if I win, or if you enjoy losing to me.”

Heat prickled up Kira’s neck, though she masked it beneath a cool lift of her chin. “You overestimate yourself.”

“Or underestimate you,” Yumeko whispered back, and her smile widened. “Tomorrow will tell.”

She turned away at last, leaving Kira with the faint impression of her perfume and the echo of words that tangled, unwanted, in her mind.

The corridor emptied in dribbles of black robes and scraping shoes. The smell of damp parchment lingered, mixing with stone dust. Yumeko’s stride was unhurried, measured, the faintest sway in her hips more an afterthought than intention.

Ryan lengthened his pace to catch her, falling into step with a grin that tried for casual but came out too eager. “So,” he began, low enough to feign conspiracy. “What exactly are you planning with her? Don’t think nobody noticed the way you two were—” he flapped a hand vaguely, “—locking horns back there.”

Yumeko didn’t break stride. Her eyes flicked sideways, a glance so brief it was more like the brush of a knife’s edge. “Planning?” Her voice was honeyed, amused. “You make it sound so… strategic.”

Ryan chuckled, though his nerves twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Come on. Everyone knows she doesn’t let anyone near her. You’ve got half the class buzzing.”

They passed a window. The sun rays stretched across Yumeko’s cheekbones, sharpening her into something too precise to be soft. She leaned just slightly, just enough for her breath to graze his ear. “Ryan,” she murmured, almost pitying. “If you think I’d waste my time on games you can predict, you’ve already lost.”

He blinked, heat rising, though whether from fluster or offense, he couldn’t tell. “So you admit it’s a game.”

At that, Yumeko finally stopped. She tilted her head, studying him as if he were parchment she’d already marked red. Her smile bloomed slow, dangerous. “Oh, everything’s a game,” she whispered. “But not all of us are invited to play.”

Then she stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his lightly—not affection, but dismissal wrapped in silk. The echo of her steps lingered long after she disappeared around the corner, leaving Ryan rooted, throat tight with a question he realized he had no right to ask.

A low whistle then cut the silence. “Well, that was tragic.”

Mary strolled up from behind, her arms folded, expression painted in smug amusement. “Honestly, I think I saw a Hufflepuff handle rejection better last week when their pumpkin pasty got stepped on.”

Ryan shot her a glare, cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you were,” Mary cut in, delight sharpening her words. “Standing there like a lost Kneazle waiting for someone to scratch your ears. Yumeko chewed you up, spat you out, and you’re still wagging your tail.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mary arched a brow, lips curving. “Don’t I? Please. I’ve seen kneazles with more dignity. At least they land on their feet.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice mock-serious. “Next time, try not to drool while you’re being dismissed. It’s a bad look.”

Ryan scowled, but she wasn’t finished. Her smirk turned sly, cutting. “Besides… maybe Yumeko’s just not into your kind.”

With that, Mary pivoted on her heel, striding down the corridor without a backward glance.

Ryan shoved forward, boots squeaking faintly against stone as he hurried after her. “Wait—hold on, Mary. What do you mean by that? You can’t just—drop something like that and walk away.”

Mary didn’t even slow her pace. Her braid swung lazily as she tossed a smirk over her shoulder.

“Relax, Romeo. I only said what you’re too thick to notice yourself.”

Ryan’s scowl deepened. “Which is?”

She stopped suddenly, pivoting half around to face him, lips parted in the beginnings of another cutting remark—only to collide with someone rounding the corner.

The impact jolted them both, parchment scattering like startled owls. Mary caught herself with a laugh, muttered, “Well, hello there—” and then her eyes actually lifted.

Riri Timurov.

The younger Timurov’s gaze snapped to hers, cool and unreadable, but not without spark. Blue like her sister’s, though warmer, sharper, less restrained. For a moment the air between them carried the faintest static charge, neither of them speaking, neither of them moving to break it.

Mary’s smirk faltered—just slightly—but she covered it by dipping down to gather a parchment that wasn’t even hers. “Careful,” she drawled, though softer than usual, “these corridors bite back.”

Riri arched a brow, lips twitching as if she might reply, but she didn’t. She accepted the parchment, fingers brushing Mary’s just long enough to count, and then stepped past with her usual aristocratic poise.

Mary watched her go, longer than she should have, before remembering Ryan was still hovering like a lost Kneazle behind her. She flicked him a glance, mask slipping back into place with a grin too sharp to be casual. “See? Some of us play a very different game, darling.”

Ryan, still frowning, glanced after Riri and then back at her. “What was that supposed to—”

Mary just winked, already striding ahead, leaving him tangled in more questions than answers.

–

The next day arrived heavy with anticipation, though Kira would never admit it. She sat with her parchment neatly aligned, quill capped, spine straight as a lance. It was only an essay, she reminded herself. A simple test of knowledge. Nothing more.

When Snape swept into the room, robes billowing like a thundercloud, the chatter collapsed into silence. He carried the stack of marked essays as though they were contaminated, his mouth curled in distaste.

“Most of you,” he began, voice cutting the air like a knife, “have submitted work that barely scratches the surface of competence. I should have expected no less.” His eyes swept the room, lingering with acid on Gryffindors, dismissing Hufflepuffs entirely, before narrowing into a scalpel’s edge when they landed on Yumeko.

He began calling out names, flicking parchments onto desks with disdain. “Acceptable. Poor. Dreadful. Exceeds Expectations—though only barely.”

When he reached Kira, he paused. The room seemed to hold its breath. “Timurov. Exceeds Expectations,” he said, the words precise, deliberate, like a pin pressed into her pride. He dropped the parchment onto her desk with a thud that echoed far louder than it should have.

For a heartbeat, Kira could only stare. E.E.? Her chest tightened. Impossible. She never fell short. Not here. Not under her name.

Then Snape’s voice oozed on, dripping with loathing. “And as for our… newest addition.” He looked at Yumeko as though she were a contaminant seeping into the stone. “Jabami. Outstanding.”

The word landed like a curse. Snape spat it as if it burned his tongue, yet he could not twist the truth. He cast her parchment onto her desk with visible reluctance, his mouth tightening, as though to admit she had bested even him.

A pause. Then the corner of his mouth curved—cold, sharp, venomous. “How curious,” he drawled, his eyes flicking lazily toward Kira. “A Muggle-born managing what centuries of breeding apparently could not. A lesson, perhaps, Lady Timurov, that bloodlines alone do not guarantee superiority.”

The room erupted. Murmurs, gasps, the scrape of quills against desks as heads turned. Ryan blinked so hard his glasses slid down his nose. Mary whispered, “No way. That’s not possible.” Even Riri, normally the calmest of them, stared between Kira and Yumeko with suspicion prickling sharp as nettles.

Kira sat frozen. Her hand twitched toward her parchment, as if rereading the cruel, damning mark might undo it. Exceeds Expectations. The words blurred, then sharpened again. Her face remained composed, but inside, something splintered.

Yumeko, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair with that same insufferable not-smile. She tapped her parchment once, twice, as though savoring the letter written there. Then her eyes slid sideways, catching Kira’s with merciless delight.

“Seems,” Yumeko said under her breath, “I’ve outcharmed you after all.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. “One essay does not—”

“Ah,” Yumeko cut in softly, “but it was the wagered essay. And you agreed.” Her grin glinted, unhurried, wicked. “The prefect's bathroom… I’ll be expecting you, Kira.”

Across the row, Riri’s gaze narrowed, suspicion threading through her expression. She looked from Yumeko to her sister, lips parting as if to demand an explanation. What did you do? her eyes asked, sharp as any voice.

Kira refused to look at her. Instead, she straightened her parchment into perfect alignment and set her quill across it with surgical precision. She would not flinch. Not in public. Not here.

But the word still burned behind her ribs, unrelenting.

Outstanding.

The murmurs didn’t die down. If anything, they thickened, pressing against her composure like gnats that refused to be swatted.

“Wait—so she beat you?” Chad leaned across the aisle, blinking like he’d misheard. “But—you never—”

Kira’s head turned, slowly, deliberately. The glare that followed was sharp enough to lance through his ribcage. Chad snapped his mouth shut, sitting back as though struck dumb.

Runa, all quick smiles and restless fingers, twirled her quill like it might protect her. “I mean, you must’ve been distracted. That’s the only way. Right, Kira?” Her tone wavered between teasing and nervous.

Kira’s silence was glacial. Her blue lips pressed into a fine line, eyes narrowing until Runa squirmed and found her parchment suddenly fascinating.

From the back, Dori muttered to Suki, “No one tops Kira in essays. No one.” Suki hummed agreement, but his gaze flicked to Yumeko with wary interest, as though the girl had just rewritten a law of nature.

Mary, meanwhile, slouched with arms crossed, watching everything with the sort of flat amusement that always made Kira itch. “Well,” she drawled, loud enough for their corner to hear, “looks like your throne’s got company, Timurov. Careful—it suits her.”

The scrape of Kira’s chair silenced the cluster. She hadn’t moved much, only shifted her weight, but the message was clear. Her stare, colder than the stones underfoot, swept across them one by one.

Inside, though, the silence was anything but still.

Outstanding. The word coiled like smoke in her chest, bitter and choking. It should have been hers. It was always hers. Precision, rigor, perfection—these things belonged to her bloodline, to the weight of her name. Yumeko had no right to trespass upon them. A girl with no legacy, no roots in this castle, no soil of her own to grow from—how could she possibly reach higher than her?

And yet the grade hung there, stamped and undeniable, like an insult carved into stone.

She told herself it was nothing. A fluke. Snape’s theatrics. A petty slight meant to needle her into sharper discipline. It could not—must not—be Yumeko’s triumph.

Kira straightened her shoulders, spine a steel rod against the weight of that thought. Nonsense. Madness. To imagine even for a moment—

Her nails pressed crescents into her palms beneath the desk. Madness, yes. To feel the heat of competition and mistake it for something else. To let Yumeko’s grin echo in her head long after the room had quieted.

No. It wasn’t interest. It couldn’t be. It was insult, pure and sharp. She would burn this humiliation down to ash and scatter it until nothing remained but proof of her superiority.

And yet, somewhere deep beneath the layers of pride and certainty, the bruise of curiosity remained. Faint, poisonous, impossible to ignore.

She gathered her books with precise movements, as if order alone could silence the storm, and rose before anyone else. Her heels clipped against the stone with the rhythm of finality, each step an unspoken command for distance. If anyone tried to catch her eye, they thought better of it. The room itself seemed to lean aside as she cut through, fury wrapped in poise.

The classroom emptied in a shuffle of parchment and mutters, Kira already storming ahead with her chin set like a blade. Yumeko lingered, unhurried, tucking her gloves back on with the same calm that had unnerved half the row during Snape’s lecture.

“Not bad for a first strike.”

Mary’s voice cut through the hallway murmur, dry and deliberate. She sidled up alongside Yumeko, arms folded, blue eyes glinting with something between approval and suspicion.

Yumeko glanced at her, that ever-present smile curving faintly. “A strike? My, you make it sound like a duel.”

Mary smirked. “Isn’t it? Most people take years before they even scratch Timurov pride. You waltz in, scribble a few lines, and suddenly she’s bleeding. Impressive.” She tilted her head, studying Yumeko like she might have a particularly intriguing card in play. “Almost too impressive.”

The compliment dangled, double-edged and obvious.

Yumeko didn’t bite, not exactly. She slipped her gloves into place, tugging at the fingertips as if it were all she had to think about. “Oh, I only write what comes naturally. Perhaps Kira overestimates her ink.”

Mary’s laugh was low, skeptical. “Mm. Or perhaps you underestimate yourself. Either way—you’ve got everyone talking.” She leaned in just a fraction closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial lilt. “New girl bests the crown princess of Slytherin. That’s not nothing. That’s the kind of thing that leaves marks.”

Yumeko’s eyes flicked to hers, bright with unreadable amusement. “Marks fade. Unless someone enjoys keeping them.”

Mary studied her, grin still in place but sharpened now, testing. “So which is it with you? Passing entertainment, or are you planning to dig deeper?”

The corridor had thinned, only a few stragglers left. Their footsteps echoed hollow against the stone, as though the castle itself was leaning closer to listen. Mary fell into stride beside her, tone turning from playful to something edged. “Because I’ve seen plenty come and go. Chasing Kira, chasing the throne. They burn fast, and then they’re gone. You don’t seem like the type to burn out.”

Yumeko let the silence stretch until it bordered on insolence, then tilted her head, eyes shining with that maddening calm. “Maybe I’m the type to leave a trail instead.”

Mary’s smirk softened into something subtler, more calculating. “Interesting. Trails leave evidence. People follow evidence.” She angled her head, voice lowering. “Where exactly did you come from, Yumeko? Because you didn’t just wander into Slytherin by accident.”

For the first time, Yumeko’s smile faltered—barely, but it was there, a fractional crack. She slipped her gloves tighter against her wrists, gaze skimming away before returning. “Does it matter where? You already know where I am now.”

Mary narrowed her eyes, intrigued by the evasion. “It matters,” she said simply, no smile this time. “If you want to keep playing in Timurov territory, it matters.”

Yumeko’s laughter was soft, almost kind. “Then maybe one day, when you’ve earned the story, I’ll tell you.”

The tension hung, sharp as a knife hidden under silk. But not until— “Yumeko!”

Ryan’s voice came bounding down the corridor, eager and graceless. He jogged up, eyes wide, practically wagging his tail. “I—I just wanted to say, you were incredible in there. I mean, to outscore Timurov? That’s insane. You’ve got to tell me how you did it.”

Mary pinched the bridge of her nose, groaning audibly. “Bloody hell, you’re hopeless.”

Ryan ignored her, gaze fixed wholly on Yumeko, who regarded him with the same calm she might grant a curious insect. “Please,” he pressed, voice tumbling over itself. “You’ve got to let me in on whatever you’re planning. I could—I could help, you know. Be useful.”

Mary rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. “Puppy eyes aren’t strategy, Ryan. She’s not handing out biscuits.”

Ryan flushed, stumbling over his words. “I just—I thought maybe, you know, I could… tag along. Learn something. You’ve clearly got it figured out.”

Yumeko slowed, tilting her head at him as though examining an oddly shaped pawn on a chessboard. Her smile was pleasant, but there was no warmth behind it. “You want to learn?” she murmured, voice silk stretched thin. “Then start by watching where you stand. A piece too eager to move is usually the first one sacrificed.”

Ryan blinked, mouth opening and closing. He looked like he wanted to protest, but Yumeko had already turned away, her steps light, deliberate, as if she’d never said a word.

Mary snorted, folding her arms. “Yikes,” she muttered, though her eyes lingered on Yumeko with the same sharp curiosity as before.

Ryan cleared his throat, trying to salvage something of his dignity. “She didn’t have to say it like that,” he muttered, his voice pitched low but not low enough. “I was only trying to—”

“—to what? Impress her?” Mary cut in, brows arched high, the smirk practically carved into her face. “Newsflash, Ryan, Yumeko doesn’t need a knight in drool-stained armor. She’s not damsel material.”

Ryan scowled, color rising to his ears. “I wasn’t drooling.”

Mary leaned in, her tone mock-sympathetic. “You were practically puddling on the floor. Honestly, I should’ve conjured a mop.”

He groaned under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.”

“That’s right,” Mary shot back, quick as a whip. But even as she skewered him, her eyes strayed past his shoulder—slipping, almost absently, toward the far end of the corridor.

There, Riri Timurov walked with the same proud poise as her sister, though softened by a quieter kind of gravity. The Timurov crest caught the torchlight where it hung at her robes, a muted gleam.

For a beat, Mary’s words stalled on her tongue. Blue eyes met green across the distance, the space between them sharpening into something taut, unspoken.

Ryan followed her gaze, confused. “What are you—”

“Nothing,” Mary cut him off, too quickly, straightening her shoulders with a casualness that wasn’t casual at all. Her smirk returned, thinner now, but steady. “Don’t choke on your puppy-love, Ryan. Some of us are watching bigger games.”

She turned back toward the dispersing crowd, though her eyes lingered one last second on Riri before tearing away.

–

The common room simmered with low chatter, firelight pooling green across glass and stone. Slytherins lounged in their usual clusters, though tonight the air was thick with whispers—rumors of Timurov pride dented for the first time in memory.

It was into this hum that Yumeko strolled, deliberate, smiling. She was no intruder here—her own emerald-trimmed robes marked her as one of them—but the way she crossed the room, directly toward Kira’s circle, was audacity made flesh.

Heads turned. Voices dipped.

“Not here,” Chad muttered, shifting in his seat.

“She’ll get hexed,” Dori whispered, eyes wide.

Kira sat perfectly composed, draped in firelight, her expression an immaculate mask. Yet her friends could feel it—the minute tension in the air, the static before a storm.

Yumeko stopped just short of her, all polite grace in posture, but the grin tugging at her lips stripped the civility bare. Her voice was velvet, pitched to carry.

“Lady Timurov,” she purred. “I trust you haven’t forgotten our arrangement.”

The ripple through the common room was immediate, sharp. Riri, quiet until then, fixed her sister with a look—sharp, demanding, suspicious.

Kira’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the arm of her chair. She did not blink. “I do not forget,” she said coolly, each word cut to precision. “But perhaps you mistake audacity for cleverness. That will not serve you long.”

Yumeko’s grin widened, just enough for the firelight to catch the glint in her eyes. “Perhaps. But tonight… it serves me well enough.”

The room stirred uneasily, the silence breaking under the weight of curiosity. Suki, ever too blunt for her own good, leaned forward from her perch on the sofa arm. “What agreement?” she asked, eyes darting between the two girls like a spectator at a duel. “What did you bet this time?”

At once, the tension thickened. Chad made a low sound in his throat, half warning, half intrigue. Mary’s quill stilled in her lap, tapping impatiently against parchment. Even Runa, usually content to spectate in silence, tilted her head as though the words had cut a notch into her curiosity.

All eyes landed on Kira.

Kira’s jaw flexed once, the only crack in her porcelain composure. Slowly, she smoothed her hands against the arms of her chair, rising with the languid precision of a queen granting audience. Her blue-painted lips curved—not into a smile, but into something colder, a warning edged in frost.

“It is nothing that concerns you,” she said, voice as steady as the green flames licking the grate. “A trifle. Quick, and easily forgotten.” Her gaze slid deliberately past Yumeko, dismissing her as one might a nuisance insect.

But Yumeko, unbothered, dipped her head in a mockery of a bow. “Quick,” she echoed, her tone silken. “But perhaps not so easily forgotten.”

A ripple of whispers surged again, like serpents shifting in the dark. 

Kira ignored them all. She gathered her cloak with an elegant sweep, her chin lifting as she spoke to the room at large. “Do not wait up. It will not take long.”

The fire popped in the hearth, loud enough to make several Slytherins flinch. And in the echo of it, Kira strode toward the shadows of the corridor, her every step a refusal to bend.

Yumeko followed, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

The dungeon corridors stretched long and echoing, their footsteps weaving between the hiss of torches. Kira moved ahead with her cloak drawn close, every line of her body sharp with restraint. She told herself she was only leading Yumeko out of duty, only fulfilling a meaningless wager. Nothing more.

But Yumeko was never one to follow quietly.

Her pace was easy, almost lazy, her voice threading between the stones like smoke. “You walk so fast, Lady Timurov. Anyone might think you’re eager.”

Kira’s steps did not falter. “Anyone with sense would know I am efficient. Unlike you.”

“Efficient,” Yumeko mused, her laughter brushing close to Kira’s ear. “Such a dull word. I’d have chosen excited.”

The word jolted through Kira like a spark. She froze, shoulders stiffening, but before she could retort Yumeko was already circling, sliding into her path with feline precision. One step, then another, until Kira found herself against a cold column, Yumeko’s shadow draped over hers.

Her breath caught—just once, just enough.

Yumeko leaned in, her hand not quite touching the stone beside Kira’s head, the space between them charged, unbearable. “Admit it,” she murmured, her voice low, coaxing. “You’ve been thinking about it since the essay. Steam, candlelight, no robes between us. I can see it in your eyes, Kira. You imagine things. Things you’d never confess aloud.”

Kira’s chin lifted, her composure hanging by a thread. “You mistake irritation for indulgence. I do not imagine anything with you.”

Yumeko’s lips curved, sly and devastating. “Then why is your pulse racing?”

Kira’s hands fisted at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. The worst part was Yumeko wasn’t wrong. Heat curled in her chest, in her throat, a burn she refused to name.

“Enough,” Kira snapped, her voice brittle but commanding. “Move.”

For a beat, Yumeko didn’t. She only tilted her head, dark eyes drinking in every flicker of Kira’s restraint, every inch of her unraveling composure. Then—like a dealer folding back a card—she stepped away, laughter soft and dangerous.

“As you wish. But don’t worry, Lady Timurov. I’ll wait until the steam does the work for me.”

Kira swept past her without another word, her heartbeat thrumming like war drums, every step up the stairs feeling less like victory and more like surrender.

Yumeko followed, humming lightly under her breath.

The climb toward the upper floors was quieter than it should have been, the silence broken only by the rustle of their cloaks and the occasional groan of the old castle’s bones. Kira’s strides were measured, her jaw set, eyes fixed ahead as though the torches were her only companions.

Yumeko, predictably, could not leave the silence untouched.

“So tell me,” she began, her voice light, sing-song. “What does it look like? This Prefect’s Bathroom you’re so graciously taking me to. I hear rumors—ceilings painted like night skies, mosaics of mermaids. Is it really that beautiful?”

Kira’s reply was a single, clipped syllable. “Yes.”

Yumeko let the word hang in the air, tasting it. “Hmm. Yes, she says. That’s hardly satisfying.” She skipped a step closer, matching Kira’s pace with deliberate ease. “Do you often go there? Alone… or with someone?”

Kira’s eyes narrowed, though she did not break stride. “Alone.”

“Ah. Alone.” Yumeko tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “How lonely. Imagine all that warm water, all that space, wasted on a single body. Doesn’t it echo?”

Kira’s shoulders stiffened, but she kept her voice even. “It is not meant for indulgence. It is functional.”

Yumeko chuckled under her breath, savoring the sharpness of that answer like a sweet dissolving on her tongue. “Functional. You say the dreariest words, Kira. Essay, efficient, functional. I’m starting to think you like denying yourself. Perhaps you’re afraid of what would happen if you didn’t.”

Kira did not answer. The columned hallway ahead loomed closer, shadows gathering like conspirators.

“And you never invited anyone?” Yumeko pressed, her tone half-curious, half-provocative. “Not even Mary? Or—what was his name—Chad?”

That earned her a look, brief but venomous.

Yumeko laughed softly, delighted. “Touchy, touchy. So it really has only ever been you, then. You and your thoughts. I wonder what you think about in there, all alone.”

Kira lengthened her stride, the swish of her cloak sharp as a blade. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you’re walking me straight there.” Yumeko’s grin flashed as she kept pace effortlessly, her voice dropping to a velvet murmur. “You know, you’re a terrible liar. Your eyes always give you away.”

Kira ignored her, every line of her body taut as a bowstring.

At last, the corridor narrowed, sloping toward the tall stretch of wall with the great framed mermaid painting that marked their destination. The prefect’s indulgence, hidden behind frosted doors of carved oak.

Yumeko’s eyes lit up at the sight, her grin turning wicked. “So it’s real.” She leaned close enough for her breath to fan against Kira’s ear, a whisper as intimate as it was cruel. “I can’t wait to see what you look like with all that steam around you.”

Kira halted before the frosted oak doors, the great gilt-framed mermaid smirking down at them from her painted rock. Her fingers curled, steady, and her voice was a precise murmur of command:

“Scalding Serenity.”

The enchanted lock clicked open with a low hum, the scent of soap and warmth leaking through the crack like a secret set loose.

Kira kept her chin high, her words as sharp as the cut of her lipstick. “Let me be clear—our bet was only to tell you and show you the way. Nothing more.”

Yumeko tilted her head, the candlelight catching mischief in her dark eyes. “Oh? Is that how you remember it?” Her smile curved, feline. “I distinctly recall you agreeing to more than that, hm?”

Kira’s mouth thinned into a line. “You twist words.”

“Do I?” Yumeko’s voice dipped, velvet-smooth. “Because unless I’m mistaken, you have no written proof of that claim. And I, on the other hand, implied—loud and clear—that it involved both of us. Unless, of course, you’d like to argue with me all night in front of the mermaid?”

The painted mermaid, as if on cue, gave an amused giggle and flicked her tail.

Kira’s jaw clenched, the icy steel in her composure thinning at the edges. Cornered. She hated the taste of surrender, and yet there it was—slipping bitter across her tongue.

“Fine,” she bit out. “But make no mistake—I do this under protest.”

“Protest makes it all the sweeter,” Yumeko whispered, gliding past her with a grin that brushed Kira’s shoulder like a touch.

Left in the doorway for half a heartbeat, Kira’s mind betrayed her. For an instant, against her will, she saw Yumeko’s dark hair loosed in the steam, her bare skin gleaming beneath the candlelight. The image was sharp, intrusive, and she shook her head violently to banish it, nails digging into her palm.

Insanity. Sheer insanity. To even imagine that with her of all people.

The door shut behind them with a hollow boom, sealing the world away.

The Prefects’ Bathroom stretched wide, vaulted ceiling glittering with enchanted lanterns that mimicked stars. Columns lined the marble walls, veins of gold curling through white stone. At the center, the bath itself sprawled like a small lake, its surface alive with steam. Colored taps—emerald, ruby, sapphire—circled its edge, each spouting differently scented water or foam, some fizzing into lavender clouds, others hissing into hot mist.

Yumeko slowed her steps, her gaze lifting upward as though she had entered a temple instead of a bathroom. Her lips parted faintly, and her voice came soft, almost reverent. “So this is it.” She padded closer to the water’s edge, the gleam of heat mist softening the sharpness of her smile. “Grand enough for a queen. Or…” she glanced sideways at Kira, “…a Timurov.”

Kira moved with deliberate precision, every step measured. Her hands folded behind her back, chin lifted, refusing to betray the unease curling in her gut. “You’ve seen it now. Our bargain is complete.”

Yumeko turned fully, her grin flickering alive again. “Complete? Oh, Kira. You can’t mean that. We agreed—a soak.” She tapped one polished nail against the marble rim, letting the word soak stretch into something languid, suggestive. “Unless, of course, you’re… afraid.”

There it was again, that word, sliding under her skin like a thorn.

Kira’s shoulders stiffened. She would not—could not—let it show. “I do not bend to such childish dares. But if you’re expecting… companionship in the water, you will be disappointed.”

Yumeko leaned lazily against one of the columns, steam curling like incense around her silhouette. “Disappointed? Hardly. Half the delight is in watching you try not to unravel.”

Kira turned sharply toward the taps, focusing on the intricate serpent handle marked with her house crest. Her lips pressed into a line as she twisted it, releasing a jet of hot water that gushed into the pool, sending steam billowing upward in a dense cloud. Anything to keep her gaze away from Yumeko’s too-knowing eyes.

But it was no use. She felt them—dark, steady, lingering.

Against her will, her thoughts flickered traitorously again: Yumeko stepping into the bath, silk blouse sliding from her shoulders, steam kissing bare skin. Kira crushed the image, swallowing hard, reprimanding herself viciously. Madness. Absolute madness. This is a mudblood—an interloper. Not worth even a breath of thought.

And yet, when she turned back, Yumeko was still watching her. Still smiling. As though she could read every forbidden thread of Kira’s imagination.

The bath filled with a low, steady rush, steam unfurling like veils across the chamber. The air grew heavy, scented faintly of mint and roses from one of the jeweled taps, curling around them in translucent sheets.

Yumeko stood at the edge, hands rising with deliberate slowness to the pale gloves she wore. She tugged at each fingertip one by one, eyes never leaving Kira’s face. The fabric slid off with a whisper, baring her hands as though the act itself were scandalous. She let the first glove fall, then the second, the sound barely audible against marble.

“Strange,” she mused lightly, circling to Kira’s right, her steps measured, unhurried. “Such a place… all this grandeur, all this privacy… and yet you mean to treat it like an errand. Show me the door, the taps, the tiles—goodnight.” Her grin curved as she passed behind Kira, her voice lowering just enough for breath to stir the curls at the nape of her neck. “Hardly satisfying.”

Kira did not move. Her arms folded across her chest, her chin poised high, though the faint tremor at her temple betrayed the tightening of her jaw. “It was never meant to satisfy you.”

Yumeko reappeared at her left side, tilting her head, dark hair brushing her cheekbone as she leaned close. “But isn’t that the point, Lady Timurov? To see if I could bend you. Even a little.” She unclasped the delicate chain at her throat, letting it slip free with a soft clink against the floor. “And here you are, already unraveling. You haven’t even touched the water.”

Kira’s gaze snapped forward, toward the bath, toward the eddies of steam that blurred the stars painted on the ceiling. She would not give her the satisfaction. “I am not unraveling.”

“Mm.” Yumeko’s hum was rich with disbelief. She circled again, fingertips trailing casually along the curve of a marble column, each step sounding deliberate against the tiles. “Then prove it. Come in with me.” She caught Kira’s eyes just as she completed her loop, the candlelight igniting amber flecks in her irises. “Unless scandal is what you’re afraid of.”

The word knifed into Kira’s ribs again. Afraid.

Her lips parted, a retort forming sharp as glass—only to shatter when Yumeko’s hand closed lightly, daringly, around her wrist.

“Yumeko—”

“Shh.” The syllable slid from Yumeko’s tongue like a secret. Her grip was not tight, not forceful, but insistent. Steam curled between them, dampening Kira’s lashes, softening the sharp line of her painted mouth. “You can fight me here until dawn, and still, we’ll end in the same place. The water’s waiting.”

Kira’s pulse betrayed her, hammering just beneath the skin Yumeko touched. She yanked back—or tried to. Yumeko’s hand only followed, twining their shadows together against the marble.

“Excited, much?” Yumeko teased, voice curling into silk again.

That did it. Kira’s composure cracked, if only for a flash—her eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched, her breath catching sharp enough to sting. “You mistake restraint for weakness.”

“And you mistake desire for defeat,” Yumeko whispered. Then, without waiting, she pulled.

The motion was sudden, not rough, but undeniable. Kira stumbled forward with a muffled gasp, the edge of her robe catching on the marble rim. The tug was deceptively light, but the steam-slicked marble betrayed her balance. Kira’s foot slipped first, her body pitching forward before her composure could save her. With a sharp gasp and a flurry of robes, she crashed into the bath.

Hot water swallowed her whole. For one heart-stopping instant, the world was only heat and roses, her limbs heavy, her hair unraveling like dark kelp around her. She broke the surface with a violent gasp, blue lipstick smudged, her glare molten enough to curdle stone.

“Yumeko!” The name cracked like a curse.

But Yumeko was already there—kneeling at the rim, one hand extended in mock gallantry, the other pressed over her own mouth as though to smother laughter. Her eyes, though, betrayed everything: the delight, the hunger, the precise satisfaction of a wager fulfilled.

“My, my, Kira,” she purred, voice low, savoring. “You do dive rather beautifully when pushed.”

Kira surged toward the edge, water sluicing down her robes, clinging to every fold. She slapped Yumeko’s offered hand away with a splash that scattered droplets across marble. “You insolent—”

“—Winner,” Yumeko cut in smoothly, rising now to her feet. She began untying her own robe with leisurely fingers, letting the fabric fall open at her throat, her grin widening. “Don’t look so cross. You did agree, after all. And here we are.”

Kira’s chest heaved, her fists trembling beneath the water’s surface. This is humiliation. Nothing more. That was the mantra she reached for, though it slipped through her like sand. Because when Yumeko shrugged her robe free and the candlelight caught the pale edge of her shoulder, Kira’s throat closed, betraying her.

The bath hissed and rippled around them, as though even the water itself leaned in to watch.

And Kira, drenched and furious, told herself—vehemently—that the heat burning through her veins belonged only to rage.

Yumeko on the other hand slid in with feline ease, the surface rippling outward, sloshing against Kira’s arms. Candlelight caught her as the robe slipped free, shadows kissing her collarbones, her shoulders, the sharp curve of her smile.The sound was soft, almost coy—a sigh of water accepting another body. 

Kira turned instantly, eyes fixed on the opposite wall, chin lifted as though marble mattered more than flesh. “You’ve made your point,” she said coldly, though her voice wavered in the heat. “Enjoy your bath.”

Yumeko’s laugh was low, bubbling like the water itself. “Oh, I will. But why enjoy it alone, when I’ve such… elegant company?” She tipped her head, dark hair plastered damp against her cheek, the steam softening her edges without dulling the glint in her eyes.

She drifted closer. The water shifted with her, each subtle move brushing warmth against Kira’s side, until the heiress was forced to tighten her shoulders against invisible contact.

“How good must it feel,” Yumeko asked lightly, “to sit so high above everyone else? Fullblood. A legacy polished until it gleams. Is it comforting? To know the stones themselves, remember your name?”

Kira’s hands, hidden beneath the water, curled into fists. “Legacy is not comfort. It is duty,” she answered, clipped, every syllable edged to cut. “But then—you wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Yumeko’s smile thinned into something sharper, though her tone stayed playful. She let her fingers skim the water’s surface, ripples fanning toward Kira’s rigid frame. “Control runs in the family, doesn’t it? Until it doesn’t.”

Kira’s eyes darted to her then, quick, defensive. But Yumeko was already leaning back, her lashes lowered, as if the words had been tossed off without weight. Only she knew how they dug.

Her father wore the same mask, once. That same aristocratic stillness. That same cold refusal to bend. Until the mask cracked, and blood was spilled, and nothing golden could hold against the dark.

She watched Kira now, lips tightening against the urge to grin too wide. How long until yours cracks, Kira? How long until the water takes you under?

The bath steamed around them, heavy with roses and silence. Kira stared resolutely forward, but Yumeko caught the twitch in her throat, the subtle flick of her gaze—too quick, too sharp—every time the water brushed their arms together.

And Yumeko, patient as a blade in velvet, only leaned closer.

Kira did not flinch. Her profile might have been carved into the steam itself—jaw sharp, lips a perfect blue slash, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond Yumeko’s reach.

“You talk too much,” she said coolly, each word precise as cut glass. “If you wanted philosophy, you should have joined Ravenclaw.”

“Mm. But then I’d miss this.” Yumeko’s hand broke the water again, ripples circling outward, kissing Kira’s rigid frame. “The privilege of watching a Timurov pretend she’s above notice, when every flicker betrays her.”

“My family does not pretend,” Kira snapped, though her gaze never wavered. “We are.”

Yumeko tilted her head, amused, her damp hair clinging in dark ribbons against her cheek. “So sure. So polished. Like marble that thinks itself unbreakable.” She leaned closer, her breath a whisper against the steam. “But stone cracks. Always. Sometimes all it takes is the right pressure.”

The line slipped out softer than the rest, carrying more weight than playfulness should allow. For a beat too long, her eyes lingered—not mocking, not taunting, but searching, as if she could peel back Kira’s skin and see the structure underneath.

Kira’s lips curved into something frost-edged. “If you think you are the one to provide that ‘pressure,’ you flatter yourself too highly. I’ve seen girls like you burn out faster than a match. Loud, desperate sparks. Gone before the wax even melts.”

Yumeko laughed, quiet and throaty, the sound rippling through the heat like another disturbance on the water. “Then let me be the spark, Lady Timurov. Better to burn fast and leave a mark than to spend eternity gathering dust on a name.”

Her voice dipped lower. “And marks on names… they last.”

Kira’s throat shifted, almost imperceptibly, but she forced her chin higher, her shoulders back, an unyielding sculpture against Yumeko’s creeping warmth. “If this is meant to rattle me, it won’t. I will not be bait for your amusement.”

“Sure,” Yumeko murmured, her smile returned, softer now, almost indulgent. “But you’re in the bath with me. At night. The water doesn’t lie, Kira. It tells me more than you’d ever admit.”

She leaned back then, feigning languid disinterest, though her eyes gleamed like knives beneath the candlelight. She had pressed just close enough, said just enough, to let the shadow of her intent bleed through without shape.

Control. Pressure. Cracks. Names that could be marked, tarnished, broken.

Kira sat taller, clutching her composure like armor, but her silence was telling.

And Yumeko, behind the smile, thought: Not yet. But soon.

Yumeko broke the silence first. She flicked a handful of water toward Kira’s immaculate robes, droplets landing like careless jewels across the silk.

“Oh no,” she said, voice pitched in mock horror, “did I just sully the precious Timurov heirloom attire? What a scandal. What will the portraits think?”

Kira’s nostrils flared, faint but there, as she glanced down at the water-spattered fabric. “You’re insufferable.”

“Well. You said that again.” Yumeko grinned, resting her chin on her folded arms at the bath’s edge. Her eyes danced with a mischievous light, the earlier sharpness dulled to sparkle. “If you truly loathed my company, you’d have swept out by now with all the grace of your ancestors. But instead, you sit. You glare. You… simmer.”

“I do not simmer,” Kira said crisply, though the words came a fraction too fast, like a blade whipped out before it was fully sharpened.

“Mm, denial looks good on you.” Yumeko tilted her head, mock-appraising. “Almost as good as wet silk. Almost.”

Kira’s mouth thinned. She drew herself taller, like that might dry her faster. “If your goal is to humiliate me, you’ll find I am not so easily—”

“Humiliate you?” Yumeko cut in with feigned innocence, widening her eyes. “Darling, if I wanted humiliation, I’d have dragged you in headfirst instead of coaxing you like some stubborn kitten afraid of water.”

Her laughter spilled over the surface, soft but insistent, curling around Kira like the steam itself.

For a moment, it was easier to believe Yumeko’s earlier words—the cracks, the pressure—had been nothing but another layer of her endless game.

And Kira, clutching her dignity like a shield, told herself that was all it was. Just a game.

Yumeko drifted closer through the water, not a deliberate swim but a slow, languid shift—like a cat stretching across a sun-warmed floor. Each ripple trailed outward, brushing Kira’s rigid frame where she sat, immovable as stone.

“Funny,” Yumeko murmured, voice almost idle, “how you sit there as though untouched, yet the water betrays you.” Her fingers skimmed the surface lazily, sending faint currents across to lap at Kira’s wrist. “See? Even when you refuse to move, you leave a trace.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. She drew her arm back an inch. “Your point?”

“Only that you fascinate me,” Yumeko said, smiling as if she’d spoken something harmless. She leaned closer, shoulder grazing Kira’s for a beat too long. “Every gesture of yours screams resistance. Yet—” her grin crooked, eyes half-lidded—“you’ve followed me this far.”

“That was the agreement,” Kira snapped, but softer than intended, as though the words themselves faltered under Yumeko’s nearness.

“Agreements,” Yumeko echoed, turning the syllables over like cards in her mouth. “So stiff, so binding. Tell me, Kira—what would happen if one night, you simply broke them?”

Kira forced herself to meet her eyes, aristocratic pride sharpening her chin, but her breath betrayed her—measured too carefully.

Yumeko tilted her head, watching that tiny slip with the ease of someone who never missed an opening. The smile she gave now was softer, almost conspiratorial, yet it pressed heavier against the space between them.

“Relax,” she whispered, the word a teasing purr. “It’s only steam, and water, and a secret we’ll both keep.”

The ripples reached again, this time Yumeko’s knee nudging faintly against Kira’s beneath the waterline.

And for the first time, Kira didn’t recoil. Not immediately.

The water’s warmth clung like a second skin, yet Kira felt a chill rising up her spine. Yumeko had drawn too close now, her breath grazing Kira’s cheek, the curve of her lips dangerous in their nearness.

Finally, Kira snapped. “Enough,” she hissed, blue-painted mouth taut. “What is it you want from me? What is this obsession, this—this fixation?”

Yumeko tilted her head, as though the question amused her. No direct reply came. Only that smile—wide, knowing, merciless in how it revealed nothing. She trailed her fingers along the water’s surface, drawing the ripples closer to Kira’s body, until they met at the dip of her collarbone.

“Want?” Yumeko echoed, the single syllable drawn out, languid, her lips so close to Kira’s ear that the sound vibrated through her skin instead of simply landing in it. Steam curled between them, blurring everything but the outline of Yumeko’s mouth as she tilted nearer. “If you haven’t guessed yet… perhaps you’re not as clever as you think, Lady Timurov.”

The name—soaked in mockery, in intimacy—slid like a blade under Kira’s ribs. Her nostrils flared, chin rising in a desperate act of defiance, but the gesture rang hollow when Yumeko’s breath fanned across her jaw.

Yumeko didn’t touch her. Not yet. Instead, she circled—slow, unhurried, the water rippling with each lazy shift of her body. Fingers skimmed the bath’s surface, drawing ribbons of light that reflected up her arms, her collarbone, her throat. When she stilled again, she was closer than before, her knee grazing Kira’s beneath the water, accidental only in theory.

Kira’s breath faltered. The steam was suffocating now, or maybe it was the proximity—the way Yumeko’s dark eyes lingered not on her face, but everywhere else, as if cataloguing the tiniest cracks in her restraint.

“Your composure,” Yumeko murmured, voice slipping lower, velvet-dark, “it trembles at the edges. Do you feel it?” Her hand lifted, just shy of brushing Kira’s wet sleeve, so near that the air seemed to hum with contact denied. “I wonder… if I pressed harder, would it shatter?”

Kira’s heart lurched, traitorous and loud, a wild organ trapped in her ribs. She told herself she was stone, but the truth bled in the stillness—her body had gone rigid, not recoiling, not resisting. Waiting.

Yumeko leaned in, closer, until the world shrank to heat and steam and the unbearable nearness of lips that hovered just shy of hers.

Their mouths were a breath apart.

Kira’s poise screamed to push her away—yet her pulse betrayed her, a furious drumbeat that begged otherwise.

Her throat betrayed her, words slipping sharp to mask the tremor beneath. “And what of Ryan?” she bit out, eyes narrowing as though the name itself might anchor her. “Are you even aware of his… fascination? Or do you toy with him blind to the drool on his chin?”

And then—Yumeko shifted, slow as a tide rolling in, her shoulder brushing Kira’s wet sleeve. Steam curled between them, clinging to skin, to hair, to the pulse fluttering visibly at Kira’s throat.

Kira’s chin lifted, a final refuge of hauteur, but Yumeko’s advance made the gesture hollow. Inch by inch, the space dissolved, until Kira could taste the warmth of her breath—tea and something darker, sweeter, a scent that tangled with the heat until it felt like drowning.

“Tell me, Kira,” Yumeko whispered, her lips hovering so close the syllables ghosted across Kira’s skin, “is it jealousy, then? Or fear?” Her hand rose again, not touching, always not touching—hovering at the edge of Kira’s jaw, her collarbone, a mockery of restraint.

Kira forced her voice steady, though it came thinner than intended. “Neither. You mistake irritation for something it isn’t.”

Yumeko smiled at that, slow and merciless, the kind of smile that saw too much. She leaned closer still, until her nose nearly grazed Kira’s temple, her words pouring straight into the hollow beneath her ear. “Then why tremble?”

The water rippled at their knees, betraying every unspoken current. Kira’s body screamed to hold her ground, yet her pulse betrayed her, beating hard enough that Yumeko could surely feel it in the scant air between them.

The silence that followed was worse than words, a taut string pulled to the point of breaking—every breath, every flicker of steam charged with the inevitability of collapse.

And still Yumeko didn’t touch her. Not yet.

The silence stretched, unbearable, until Yumeko finally closed the last of the distance. Her breath skated across Kira’s lips now, the heat of it indistinguishable from steam, yet infinitely more dangerous.

Kira’s heart thundered traitorously, her body frozen in that cruel limbo—rigid, waiting, wanting nothing she would ever admit.

Yumeko’s hand lingered a whisper from her jaw, fingers curved as though she could cup her face, draw her in, make the choice for her. Her lips tilted nearer, hovering a breath away—soft, inevitable, merciless.

Kira’s nostrils flared—her chest rose against the weight of anticipation. Just one tilt forward, and she’d be ruined.

Their mouths nearly touched—barely a heartbeat apart—when a sound fractured the moment.

A muffled giggle. Too close. Followed by the scrape of shoes and a boy’s low murmur.

Kira stiffened instantly. Voices. On the other side of the door.

“Shh, Chad, someone’ll hear us—” a girl’s whisper, followed by a low chuckle.

“Bloody Merlin’s beard,” Kira swore under her breath, every muscle snapping taut. Her head jerked toward the door, panic and fury rising in equal measure.

She rounded back on Yumeko, voice harsh but low. “How long can you last underwater?”

Yumeko blinked at her, lips curling like she’d been waiting for this twist. “Depends,” she teased. “Are you—”

The door creaked.

Kira didn’t let her finish. With a sharp motion, she pressed her palm against the back of Yumeko’s head and shoved her under the surface, water rippling violently as Yumeko vanished.

At that same instant, the door swung wide. Chad ambled in, the girl trailing him, until his eyes caught on Kira’s back—her long brunette hair darkened with steam, the sheen of water clinging to her shoulders.

“Kira?” His brows arched. “You’re—uh—in here? Alone?”

“Yes,” she said flatly, not even turning at first. The single syllable was honed steel.

The girl behind him tittered nervously. Chad stepped further in, gaze narrowing at the way Kira hunched against the water’s edge. “In your robes?”

Kira finally half-turned, letting the candlelight paint her features, disdain writ sharp in her lips. “What I choose to do with my robes is hardly your concern, Chad.” Her tone cut like frost.

The boy hesitated, caught between suspicion and fear of her stare. Behind her back, bubbles trembled to the surface—Yumeko, laughing silently beneath the water.

Kira’s pulse drummed in her ears, not from Yumeko’s near-kiss anymore but from the strain of keeping her under. The water shifted against her back as bubbles pricked the surface, and she dug her nails into the rim of the bath to steady herself.

Chad hadn’t moved. His eyes swept the room slowly, too slowly. They landed on the discarded robes near the basin—Yumeko’s, black fabric gleaming damp in the candlelight.

His brows furrowed. “Strange,” he said, voice testing, almost playful. “For someone alone, you seem to have twice the number of clothes lying about.”

Kira’s lips pressed into a blade-thin line. “I hardly need to explain my belongings to you,” she said icily, her chin lifting, every ounce the Timurov heiress.

The girl with Chad tugged lightly at his sleeve. “Let’s just go. It’s weird enough finding her here—”

But Chad’s eyes hadn’t left Kira. “No, wait. You don’t usually take baths at this hour, do you? And…” He smirked, tilting his head. “Unless robes magically undress themselves, someone else must’ve been—”

“Careful,” Kira cut in, her voice low and venomous. The steam coiled between them like smoke off a fire. “You forget yourself, Chad. Or do you truly wish to learn what happens when you spread rumors about me?”

The threat hit like a lash. His smirk faltered, uncertainty creeping into his eyes. Still, suspicion lingered, circling him like a vulture.

Behind her, the water quivered again. Kira nearly twitched. Another second and Yumeko would break the surface.

She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “Leave.” A command, not a plea. “Unless you want to learn that I hold grudges far longer than you hold breath.”

Silence stretched.

Then the girl yanked his arm again, firmer. “Come on, Chad. She’s not worth it.”

His jaw tightened. He gave Kira one last long look, then scoffed and turned on his heel. “Fine. Enjoy your—robes.” The door creaked as he pushed it open, their footsteps fading down the hall.

The moment the latch clicked shut, Kira released her grip.

The water exploded beside her as Yumeko surged upward, coughing and laughing in the same breath, hair plastered dark against her cheeks. She dragged in air greedily, then flicked water from her lashes, her grin wicked even in exhaustion.

“My, my,” she purred between breaths. “Protective, aren’t we? I’d almost think you cared.”

Kira’s glare was sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her hands were trembling slightly against the edge of the bath, betraying the fury—and something else—still boiling beneath her skin.

Yumeko leaned back against the marble, drawing in a long, exaggerated breath as though surfacing had been little more than theatrics. Her hair clung like ink to her throat, water glistening on her skin, lips curved in a grin that was equal parts mockery and mischief.

“You know,” she said, light as ripples on the water, “you didn’t give me much time down there. A girl likes to savor the drama.”

Kira blinked, heat prickling across her ears. “I gave you more than enough time. You should’ve used a spell if you couldn’t manage.”

Yumeko’s grin widened, devastatingly lazy. “A Bubble-Head Charm? Gillyweed? Oh, I know all the tricks. But with your hands tangled in my hair like that—” her gaze flicked meaningfully to Kira’s still-tense fingers gripping the bath’s edge, “—you really think I was going to remember?”

The implication struck harder than any curse. Kira’s cheeks went scarlet, the steam suddenly suffocating for reasons that had nothing to do with heat. She sputtered, lips parting to retort, but only a sharp breath escaped.

Yumeko tilted her head, eyes glittering as she drank in the reaction. “So red,” she teased softly, like she’d just discovered a new favorite toy.

Kira snapped her composure back into place, spine stiffening, jaw setting as though that brief lapse had never happened. Her voice, when it came, was cold marble again. “Can you not?”

“You’re so adorable when you lie to yourself,” Yumeko shot back, lounging like a cat who knew it had drawn blood with a single playful swipe.

It was then, with cruel inevitability, that Kira truly noticed. The pale curve of Yumeko’s bare shoulder gleaming under candlelight. The trail of droplets slipping down her collarbone, chasing one another over skin too flawless, too soft to belong to someone she had sworn to dismiss.

Her chest constricted. This—this was unthinkable. Never in her life, in her name, in her blood, had she imagined being cornered in such a position. A Timurov heir, soaking in forbidden water with a mudblood who looked at her as though every layer of defense was nothing but silk waiting to be unraveled.

It was madness. Treachery against her own marrow.

Kira surged to her feet, water cascading from her robes, determination hardening her expression. “Enough.”

Yumeko’s voice drifted up, sultry even through the steam. “Where are you going, Kira?”

Kira’s chin snapped higher, the noble ice back in place though her pulse thundered treacherously in her ears. “Out,” she said, clipped, decisive. “This… folly ends here.”

Yumeko did not move. Her body remained half-submerged, languid and unashamed, lips curling in that maddening crescent. “Funny. You sound almost as though you’re running.”

The words stung, more than Kira cared to admit. She clenched her fists, water dripping from her sleeves like blood from a blade, and forced herself toward the edge of the bath.

Her decision was made. She would not—could not—linger in this trap Yumeko spun of silk and steam.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Kira strode from the water in a storm of drenched robes, each step slapping against marble with soldierly precision. She wrenched her cloak from the bench, snapping it around her shoulders like armor reforged, every fold a vow against weakness.

The door loomed ahead, blessedly solid, blessedly final.

But just as her hand found the handle, Yumeko’s voice coiled through the steam—low, lilting, drenched in that unbearable velvet.

“Careful, Kira…” A pause, deliberate, savoring. “The more you run, the faster you end up circling back to me.”

Kira froze. For the briefest, damning second, her pulse betrayed her—an erratic flutter that had nothing to do with anger. She tightened her grip on the door, nails biting into wood, and forced herself not to turn.

Behind her, water rippled with the sound of Yumeko shifting lazily, as if she hadn’t just ignited an inferno in the marrow of Kira’s bones.

“Sweet dreams,” Yumeko added, almost a whisper, almost a kiss.

Kira shoved the door open, its groan echoing like a war drum, and vanished into the corridor with her cloak snapping behind her like a severed flag.

But even as the stones cooled her cheeks, the words followed—burning, clinging, inescapable.