Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

May 14th, 1977.

The greenhouse door creaked open with the familiar groan of old hinges and warm air. Summer was still weeks away, but inside the glass walls of Greenhouse Three, the sun beat down so mercilessly on the glass panes that the air felt thick enough to drink. A blur of green shot past the rows of puffing podworts—Estelle Black, sleeves rolled to her elbows, arms cradling a struggling, vine-wrapped flowerpot that hissed like a deflating cauldron.

Tall and slim, Estelle moved with the wiry grace of someone who always seemed just a little too tense, too ready to bolt. Her black hair was thick and wavy, pulled back into a loose clip to keep it off her flushed neck, though strands curled rebelliously along her jawline.

The humid air clung to her skin, beads of sweat gathering at her temples as the sunlight fractured into sharp, hot diamonds through the panes above. Every breath carried the mingled scents of soil, damp wood, and the faint peppery tang of puffing podwort spores. Somewhere behind her, the soft trickle of the self-watering charm whispered over the roots of flutterby bushes, their translucent leaves shivering in the still air as if in gossip.

A droplet ran down the back of her neck, ticklish, and she resisted the urge to squirm—her hands were full with the writhing flowerpot, and the Squirmleaf seemed to sense her distraction, tightening one stubborn vine around her wrist. The hiss it gave off was oddly… smug.

It was always like this in Greenhouse Three. Not the easy, tidy rows of Greenhouse One, where young first-years learned the names of plants in pots that rarely bit back. This was the mad cousin’s greenhouse, the place where the sun’s heat thickened into something close to oppressive, where the air shimmered over the benches, and where the plants were either too clever, too spiteful, or too bored to stay still.

The floor was patterned with mud prints from boots that had passed through earlier—Sprout’s small, purposeful ones, and heavier scuffs from students who had already fled the heat. A line of glass jars on the far counter contained cuttings suspended in pale green liquid, each casting its own warped reflection. The panes overhead groaned softly as they expanded under the sun, a reminder that while summer hadn’t yet reached the rest of Hogwarts, it had made a premature home here.

Estelle had high cheekbones and a sharply cut jaw that matched her twin’s, though the expression she wore was far less stormy.

It was an expression honed over years of masking—calm enough to keep the curious at bay, pointed enough to warn off the unwelcome. At first glance, Estelle’s composure read like confidence, but anyone who looked longer might see the faint strain at the edges, the quiet watchfulness that came from growing up in a house where words were weapons and silence was often safest. She carried herself like someone who had learned to brace for impact, even when surrounded by friends.

Her hands—slender but calloused from hours spent pruning, chopping, and stirring over cauldrons—moved with precision, even in the middle of wrestling with the Squirmleaf. The ink stains on her fingers spoke to late nights in the library and messy mornings in the greenhouse, where quills were swapped for shears without a second thought.

Her lips—heart-shaped and perpetually chapped—were pressed into a grimace now as she battled the Squirmleaf. She looked far too elegant for the chaos of the moment, save for the dirt smudged across her collarbone and the ink stains on her fingertips.

The smudge had been there since breakfast, when she’d leaned over to whisper something to Lily and bumped against a crate of freshly potted seedlings. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it away. It almost felt like a badge of honor—evidence she belonged in this strange little corner of the castle where life stubbornly grew in every direction, no matter how unruly.

“Can someone—bloody hell—Sirius!” she shouted, wrestling the snappy tendrils of a particularly grumpy Squirmleaf. “If this thing strangles me, you’re explaining it to Mother!”

A bark of laughter came from the back corner of the greenhouse. Sirius Black leaned lazily against a sack of dragon dung fertilizer, all tousled hair and wolfish charm. He had the same high cheekbones and aristocratic profile as Estelle, but where she was sharp and watchful, he was wild-eyed and grinning, all rebellious confidence wrapped in a Gryffindor tie worn too loose. He leaned lazily against a sacks of fertilizer, arms crossed, a grin playing on his lips. “Sorry, Elle, you’ve always had a way with plants. I assumed you two were just getting acquainted.”

“Getting acquainted?” Estelle snapped. “It just tried to get fresh with my throat.”

James Potter ducked behind a row of flutterby bushes, a grin breaking over his freckled face. The flutterby bushes shifted as James moved, releasing their faint, honeyed fragrance into the warm air. Tiny silver insects flitted among their leaves, wings catching the light. James brushed one away absently as he crouched, though it landed right back on his sleeve as if it had some sort of allegiance to him. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple; even Gryffindors weren’t immune to the greenhouse’s suffocating warmth.

The puffing podworts on the far bench let out another rhythmic sigh of spore-laden air, each exhale punctuated by a faint shimmer of golden dust in the sunlight. One cloud drifted lazily toward Peter, who looked as if he might faint from the effort of holding his breath until it passed.

His glasses were slightly fogged, his dark hair messier than usual—though with James, that wasn’t saying much. His hazel eyes twinkled like he was always in the middle of thinking up trouble. “I told you it needed trimming, not a cuddle.”

“Hardy har,” Estelle muttered, finally jamming the pot onto the bench with a thud. The vine gave a wheezing sigh and curled in on itself, as if offended.

Lily Evans swept in behind her, a halo of red hair pulled up in a ponytail, her cheeks flushed from the walk. Her green eyes—always bright, always burning with something—narrowed fondly at the scene in front of her. She smelled faintly of peppermint and parchment, as she always did. “You lot, Professor Sprout’s going to skin us if we wreck her new batch of Squirmleafs. Honestly, Estelle, why do you let them rile you up?”

Estelle rolled her eyes, brushing dirt from her robes. “Because I was raised in a house that trained me to duel by age eight, but tragically neglected to prepare me for a plant that squeals when pruned.”

Remus Lupin chuckled from behind a tall stand of chittering fennel stalks. His sandy-brown hair was tousled, his robes carefully mended at the cuffs. He looked tired, as usual, but there was a kindness in his eyes that made it hard to look away from him. Even when he didn’t speak, Remus had a way of listening that felt like shelter.“Sounds like you’re more traumatized by Herbology than you ever were by the Cruciatus Lecture in Defense.”

“I was unconscious for most of that,” Estelle said sweetly. “Blessing in disguise.”

Peter Pettigrew gave a nervous laugh and ducked as one of the puffing podworts released a burst of spore gas. He was shorter than the rest, round-faced and jumpy, always looking like he was bracing for an explosion—usually of his own making.

It was an unusually warm May afternoon in their seventh year—an afternoon that should’ve been spent revising for N.E.W.T.s or making agonizing decisions about the future. Instead, they had all somehow ended up in Greenhouse Three, surrounded by fussy plants, sassy remarks, and the kind of laughter that made you forget the world outside the castle existed at all.

Outside, that world was already shifting. O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. results loomed for the younger and older students alike. Whispers of unrest—never fully voiced in corridors—slipped in like drafts under the castle doors. But here, in the glass-bottled sun of the greenhouse, there was only the chorus of hissing plants, the creak of wood under shifting weight, and the bright bark of Sirius’s laughter bouncing off the panes.

Even Estelle, the only Slytherin in the room, couldn’t pretend she belonged anywhere else in that moment.

She had found her place, strange as it was—somewhere between the warmth of Gryffindor mischief and the cool shadows of the dungeons. She still wore her green-trimmed robes proudly, but her loyalty stretched across House lines, tangled in late-night wanderings with James, whispered jokes with Lily in the library, and hours spent under the stars with Sirius, neither of them quite willing to talk about home.

Sometimes, in those pauses by the lake or in the corners of the library, Estelle caught a glint in Sirius’s eyes that mirrored her own—an awareness of the shadow their surname cast, even here. They never spoke the worst of it aloud, but they didn’t need to. It lived between them, heavy but unacknowledged, like a locked door neither wanted to open.

She and Sirius hadn’t always been close. Not the way twins were supposed to be, at least. Regulus had always been her mirror—quiet, thoughtful, sharp as a pin. Sirius was fire, she was frost. He stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen; Estelle had stayed a year longer, trying in vain to be a bridge between him and their mother. By the time she left, too, the bridge had long since burned.

But Hogwarts had a way of softening old edges. Laughter did that. Friendship, too.

“Elle,” Sirius said now, tossing her an apple he’d nicked from the kitchens, “remind me again why you’re voluntarily pruning that sad excuse for a weed?”

“Because unlike you,” she replied coolly, catching the apple one-handed, “I intend to pass my Herbology N.E.W.T. with distinction.”

“Oh, Merlin help us if you get any more smug about plants,” James said, mock groaning.

“Merlin help you when I’m a famous Herbologist and you’re still working at the Ministry’s Office of Improper Use of Cauldron Bottoms.”

It wasn’t entirely a baseless threat; James had once confessed over pumpkin juice that the Ministry sounded “dead boring” and that his life’s ambition was to “do something exciting until he dropped dead or was arrested.” Estelle had pointed out those weren’t mutually exclusive, which had only made Sirius laugh so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

James chucked a fistful of soil at her, missing entirely and hitting Peter instead.

Peter squealed. “Oi!”

The greenhouse erupted in laughter again.

Estelle wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, the Squirmleaf finally subdued, its sulking tendrils curling back into the pot like a child punished for mischief. Sirius and James were bickering about something now—whether the flutterby bushes preferred classical music or whatever ungodly sound Sirius called “experimental wand-tapping”—and Lily had gone to rein them in before they set anything on fire.

It was, in short, her cue to leave before someone roped her into supervising.

She slipped away toward the far door, grabbing the potted Squirmleaf under her arm again. It gave a half-hearted hiss, too exhausted to commit to real violence.

“One more word and you’re compost,” she warned it softly.

The plant quivered.

She pushed through the heavy greenhouse door into the hospital-white corridor. The sudden coolness wrapped around her like a blessing. Outside, the air was still humid, but nothing compared to the stifling heat inside. Her lungs welcomed it.

She crossed toward the cluster of outer greenhouses—smaller, older buildings with lead-lined glass panes and warped wooden doors. The Cloroxits were kept back here. Professor Sprout claimed they preferred isolation. Estelle suspected Sprout simply wanted them far from the fragile plants that couldn’t handle their chaotic nature.

She nudged open the peeling door with her foot.

A chorus of clicking noises greeted her immediately—Cloroxits clattering their hard, shell-like petals in greeting, sounding like rainfall hitting stone. Their colors shimmered subtly between gray, pearl, and pale mint.

“Hello, lovelies,” she murmured.

The greenhouse was dimmer, cooler, filled with gentle wafts of mint and chalk dust. She set the Squirmleaf pot down on an empty bench—far from the Cloroxits. They tolerated very few neighbors.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders.

“Running away from us already?”

Remus’s voice drifted in from the doorway.

She startled—just slightly—then turned.

He leaned against the frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, wand tucked casually in the waistband of his trousers. His sandy hair was tousled, his expression unreadable but warm around the edges. Always warm around the edges.

“Not running,” Estelle said. “Strategic relocation.”

He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“It sounds better than ‘abandoning the Gryffindor circus.’” She began inspecting one of the Cloroxits, gently rotating its pot. “Besides, someone had to check on these.”

Remus glanced at the row of plants with fond skepticism. “Estelle, these things bite.”

“Only if you touch their stamens wrong.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She smirked.

Remus walked to her side, hands sliding into his pockets. “Mind some company?”

“Not unless you’re planning to provoke them,” she replied, gesturing to the nearest Cloroxit. “They can smell fear.”

“Ah,” he said dryly. “So I’m doomed.”

She huffed a laugh.

For a moment, neither spoke. The gentle clicking of the plants filled the quiet greenhouse, a calming rhythm like distant rain. Estelle adjusted the light charm on the ceiling globe, letting the illumination warm the soil.

She felt Remus’s eyes on her—thoughtful, quiet, observant. He always watched like he was listening to something deeper than her words.

After a few moments, he cleared his throat. “Want one?”

She looked up to see him holding out a cigarette.

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re offering me one?”

“I nicked the pack from Sirius,” he admitted. “Which felt both irresponsible and necessary.”

“That describes most Marauder behavior,” she said dryly. “But yes.”

He tapped one free and placed it between her fingers. His fingertips brushed hers—barely—and Estelle pretended she didn’t feel the spark of warmth curl low in her stomach.

Remus lit hers first, then his own. The smoke curled upward like a lazy ghost, catching the muted light.

Estelle took a slow drag, letting the familiar heat settle the tightness in her chest.

“That,” she sighed, “is an incorrigible habit.”

“No desire to stop, I assume?”

“None,” she said decisively. “I plan to be buried with one.”

“Should I mention you cannot legally take cigarettes into the afterlife?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m going somewhere legal.”

He choked on smoke, coughing as she grinned wickedly.

“You're impossible,” he said, shaking his head.

“And you love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

He leaned his hip against the workbench. “So. What brings you to the Cloroxits? Besides the oppressive heat in the other greenhouse.”

Estelle shrugged, cigarette dangling between two fingers. “Needed air. Needed quiet.”

Remus tilted his head, studying her face. “You’ve seemed… tense today.”

Her jaw tightened. “You try wrangling a Squirmleaf while Sirius heckles you.”

“I meant before that.”

She hated how easily he read her.

She took another inhale and exhale before answering. “It’s May.”

“That it is.”

“And everything is ending.”

Remus went still.

Estelle didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. N.E.W.T.s, goodbyes, choices about the future—everything loomed like a cliff edge. Some part of her felt carved open by it, the same part that had never been good at endings or change or letting go.

Remus’s voice softened. “You’re not the only one feeling that.”

She flicked ash into a small clay saucer. “Maybe. But Sirius and James are practically bouncing off the walls about graduation. They’re excited. Lily’s already made five post-Hogwarts plans. Peter keeps talking about jobs. And you…”

She turned her gaze on him.

“…don’t flinch when you talk about the future. Not anymore.”

Remus blinked, taken aback by the directness.

She continued quietly, “You’ve found a peace I haven’t.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“I haven’t found peace,” he said finally. “I’ve found acceptance. They’re not the same.”

“Semantics.”

“No.” His gaze held hers, steady and warm and terribly patient. “Peace is pretending. Acceptance is surviving.”

Her breath hitched.

He looked away then, exhaling smoke toward the rafters. “And I don’t flinch talking about the future because… I don’t know how much of it is mine.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

“Remus…” she began.

He cut in gently, smiling—but the smile was sad. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not dying.”

“You’re not living easily either,” she said softly.

They fell quiet again. The Cloroxits clicked, stirring like they sensed the shift.

Remus nudged her boot with his. “You’ll do brilliantly, you know.”

She blinked. “At what?”

“Whatever comes next.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “Whether you become a world-renowned Herbologist or blow up three greenhouses trying.”

She snorted. “Two at most.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“And you overestimate me.”

“That’s because you’re terrible at seeing what you are.”

She frowned. “Which is?”

“One of the bravest people I know.”

Her chest tightened—not painfully, but sharply.

“And stubborn,” he added, as if rescuing her from something too intimate. “Don’t forget that.”

“Incorrigible, you might say?”

“Only when smoking.”

“Oh, so only three-fourths of the time.”

He smiled fully then—the rare kind, the one that made her forget how thin he carried himself sometimes, how tired he always looked.

She stared at him for a moment too long.

Then she looked away.

“You’re going somewhere after Hogwarts,” Remus said at last. “Somewhere good. Somewhere that sees you.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

“And what about you?” she said, flicking ash. “Where will you go?”

“Away,” he said simply. “Anywhere I won’t be a danger.”

“You are not—”

He shook his head. “Please don’t.”

Her jaw clenched.

She reached out, gently tugging the cigarette from his fingers and stubbing it out in the dish.

“You’re not a danger to me,” she said quietly.

His breath caught—barely—but she heard it.

“And you?” he murmured. “You don’t think you’re dangerous?”

She met his eyes. “Only when provoked.”

He huffed a laugh—shaky but real.

The air felt charged now. Not heavy—just thick with something unspoken.

She finally rose from her seat, brushing dust off her robes. “We should go back before they start dismantling the puffing podworts.”

Remus pushed off the bench. “That’s generous. I give them seven minutes before Sirius forces one to explode.”

“Then six minutes to save the greenhouse,” she agreed.

But before she reached the door, Remus’s voice stopped her.

“Estelle?”

She turned.

He hesitated—unusual for him—like choosing his words required careful handling.

“This will matter,” he said quietly. “You and I. Whatever this is.”

Her pulse stumbled.

He didn’t smile. He only looked at her with that same quiet-storm expression she would spend years remembering.

“And I think,” he said, “that someday you’ll look back and know today was the start of it.”

She swallowed.

Her voice came out soft.

“You’re very dramatic, Lupin.”

He smirked. “Terrible influence from my friends.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the door—letting sunlight spill across the cool floor.

“Come on,” she said, stepping out. “Let’s go save the idiots.”

He followed.

Neither looked back.

Not at the Cloroxits.

Not at the abandoned cigarettes.

Not at what had almost been said.

But both of them felt it.

The beginning.

The hinge.

The subtle, inevitable tug of a story just starting to unfold.

Later that night, Estelle sat alone beneath the library’s arched windows, moonlight glinting across the polished tables.

The library smelled faintly of beeswax polish and the faint, dusty perfume of old pages. Moonlight streamed in through the arched windows, cutting sharp silver shapes over the long rows of tables. A candle guttered in a brass holder beside her, its pool of light barely touching the edges of her open book.

The stillness here was different from the quiet in the greenhouses. It was thinner, like spun glass—easily broken by the sound of a page turning, the soft clink of a quill returning to its stand. Estelle had always found comfort in this space, even in moments like this, when the words in front of her swam and tangled without meaning.

Most of the castle had gone quiet save for the turning of pages and the occasional snore from a forgotten corner. Her copy of The Advanced Compendium of Magical Flora lay open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading.

“Still pretending you like them more than your own house?” came a voice behind her.

She turned. Severus Snape stood just past the edge of her table, arms folded over his black robes, pale skin looking even starker under the moonlight. His lank, shoulder-length hair framed his sharp features, his eyes dark and difficult to read. There was something perpetually haunted about him, as though he hadn’t slept properly in years—even though they were only seventeen.

“I’m not pretending anything,” she replied coolly. “And they’re my friends.”

“Your Gryffindor friends,” he said flatly.

She arched a brow. “And what are you, Severus? A friend? A housemate? Or just an old Potions partner?”

He didn’t answer.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. There had always been something unspoken between them—a pull, a thread stretched tight over the years. They’d met in their first year over a shared cauldron in Potions class. Both quiet, both observant, both proud. She’d admired his brilliance early on, how his spells were sharp and elegant, how his mind darted like lightning. And over the years, she’d watched as that lightning turned stormy, twisting into bitterness and ambition.

“You’ve changed,” he said finally.

Estelle blinked. “You mean I smile now?”

“I mean you’ve forgotten where you come from.”

She closed the book with a soft snap. “I haven’t forgotten anything. I just know I don’t want to stay in the dark.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tensed. “They’ll never see you as one of them.”

“Maybe not,” she said, standing. “But they see me. That’s more than I can say for anyone else in the dungeons.”

The silence that followed was charged—not with anger, but something far sadder. Severus’s expression flickered, just for a moment. Then he turned and walked away.

Their final month at Hogwarts passed in a blur of exams and goodbyes. Estelle remembered moments more than days—the way James hugged Lily from behind after their final Charms exam, both of them breathless with laughter. The time Remus fell asleep with his face pressed into a pile of parchment in the library and woke up with ink smeared across his cheek. The night Sirius asked her to sit with him by the lake, both of them watching the moon ripple on the water, neither saying a word.

She remembered Severus, too. How he stood apart at the Leaving Feast. How he never looked back.

Years later, Estelle would remember that last greenhouse day as something bright and bittersweet. A moment sealed in time, just before the world fell apart. Before Lily and James. Before Sirius and Azkaban. Before everything splintered.

In that golden hour of May light, surrounded by hissing plants and too-loud laughter, Estelle Black had been a girl on the edge of adulthood, heart full of reckless hope and aching loyalty.

If she closed her eyes now and tried, she could almost hear it again—the hiss of the Squirmleaf, the hum of her friends’ voices layered over each other, the warm press of sunlight on her skin. Those sounds had lived in her like a heartbeat for years afterward, even when everything else fell away.

It would be a long time before she returned to this greenhouse. Longer still before she felt the same unguarded joy. But that May day would keep its place in her memory, untouched by what was to come, proof that once, before the fractures and betrayals, they had all stood together under the same sweltering glass roof, laughing like nothing could touch them.

And even as time wore down those edges—cutting away joy with grief, love with loss—that day remained untouched. Untamed. Like the Squirmleaf that had tried to throttle her.

Still growing, still wild.

Still hers.

Chapter Text

June 3, 1993.

The apothecary on the corner of Diagon Alley and Knockturn’s edge had a peculiar scent—like roasted sage left too long in the pan, undercut with something darker. Not quite mold. Not quite ash. A scent that settled into Estelle’s sleeves and never left. The kind of smell people forgot to notice unless they were new, or unless they were grieving, or unless they were her.

Twelve years had weathered Estelle Ophelia Black in ways no mirror could quite capture, though anyone standing outside her crooked little apothecary on the border of Diagon and Knockturn Alley might try. Through the frosted glass windows—warped and imperfect—one could glimpse her silhouette moving steadily behind the counter, long-limbed and quick-handed, precise in the way only someone with decades of practice and a deeply rooted grief could be.

She looked older, but not in the way that some did. Not with wrinkles or softness or time’s slow pull toward fragility. No—Estelle had aged like steel. Tempered by fire, sharpened at the edges. Her features had grown more severe, more defined, as if the world had chiseled her from something too delicate and made her stay. Her cheekbones cut shadows across her face beneath the shop’s ever-dim sconces. Her once-rosy complexion had paled to something cool and colorless, like moonlight on pewter. Her eyes, once bright and curious, had darkened—not in color, but in depth. They no longer darted. They studied. They calculated.

Her hair was still long, black as spilled ink, though now it was streaked at the temples with a gray so silvery it almost shimmered in certain light. She wore it in a thick braid wound tightly at the nape of her neck most days, though loose tendrils often escaped to brush her jaw or stick in the collar of her robes. Her robes were simple and dark, functional more than fashionable, though she carried herself with a kind of effortless elegance—the kind born of old blood and ancient etiquette, even if she no longer gave a damn for either.

No one called her “Lady Black” anymore.

That was a name buried in a different life, beneath velvet and rot and the smoke of burning futures.

To most who came into the apothecary, she was simply the witch on the corner. The one who always had the right tincture for nightmares. The one who didn’t speak unless spoken to. The one whose fingers smelled faintly of chamomile and asphodel, even when she wasn’t working.

She didn’t smile often, but when she did, it was a crooked, guarded thing—like a trapdoor that opened only for those who’d earned it.

And her eyes never lied.

That was the most unnerving thing about her. She could read a person like a page in a book, and she let you see her doing it. Her gaze didn’t skim. It settled. It pulled.

People said she was a recluse. That she’d gone half-mad after the war. That she talked to her plants. That she brewed things no one dared ask about. That she’d been in love with someone who died. Or worse, someone who lived.

Estelle never bothered to correct the rumors.

Let them talk.

Let them wonder what a Black was doing scraping glasswort in a back alley potion shop instead of swanning about in satin or draping herself over a Death Eater’s arm.

Let them guess what it cost her to stay kind.

It was easier that way.

On this particular day, the light filtering through the apothecary window was gray and soft, a late September kind of pale. The lamps hadn’t yet been lit. The dust hadn’t yet settled. The fire in the hearth was little more than a memory of warmth.

And Estelle moved through it all like a shadow stitched to the earth. Focused. Silent. Entirely alone.

And thus began the series of events that would end with Estelle Black packing up her silence and heading back to a castle full of ghosts.

The bell above the shop door rang as it always did—too cheerfully for the dim little place. Estelle Black barely glanced up from the mortar in her hands.

“One moment,” she called, the pestle crunching down against a coil of dried fluxweed with satisfying pressure. Her sleeves were rolled high, her fingers stained the faint gray-green of wolfsbane prep. Her apron hung a little too loosely off her slim shoulders, though she barely noticed anymore. She hadn’t filled out the way some of her peers had over the years. She was still all sharp angles and long limbs, all cheekbones and collarbones and restless hands.

She squinted down at the powder she was grinding. Perfect. Almost.

She added a pinch of crushed moonstone. Stirred. Tasted the edge of it magically, tongue to spellthread.

Still bitter.

Typical.

The customer hadn’t spoken yet. That wasn’t unusual—some folk liked to browse, though Estelle couldn’t for the life of her figure out what there was to browse in a shop where everything was labeled in cramped, spidery handwriting and organized by both lunar phase and toxicity level.

She wiped her hands on a rag and looked up.

And froze.

Albus Dumbledore stood just inside the doorway, a plume of dust rising around his boots like mist. His robes shimmered faintly, blue today, embroidered with faint constellations that seemed to move if you stared long enough. His beard, as always, looked like it belonged in a storybook. But the lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered. The twinkle in them, though, hadn’t dimmed a bit.

“Miss Black,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “How lovely to see you.”

She blinked once. Twice. Then said, dry as a cracked cauldron, “If you’re here to buy wartcap powder, I’m afraid we’re out. The supplier’s had trouble with dragonflies again.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Fortunately, I’m not here for wartcap. I was hoping you might spare me a few minutes of conversation. I took the liberty of arriving early, though I can return later—”

“No,” she said quickly, already untangling her apron. “No, please. Merlin. Come in. Let me close up.”

He stepped aside as she moved past him, flicking her wand once to flip the sign in the window from *OPEN* to *CLOSED* and again to dim the lamps overhead. The dust motes swirled gently in the fading light, the shop returning to its usual half-shadow state.

Estelle moved through the motions on instinct—locking drawers, capping bottles, brushing stray petals off the counter. The apothecary, for all its strange hours and stranger patrons, had been home these last few years. A quiet, mossy corner of the world where no one asked questions. Where no one looked at her and saw *Black* with a capital B.

Only Estelle.

Only Elle.

Only the girl who knew the difference between asphodel and ache.

She poured two cups of tea from the kettle by the back bench and handed one to Dumbledore, who accepted it as though she’d offered him a crown.

They sat in mismatched chairs at the little table near the back, tucked between shelves of bundled roots and fermented tinctures. For a moment, the only sound was the low clink of ceramic.

Then Estelle broke the silence.

“You haven’t been in this shop since before the war.”

“No,” Dumbledore said. “Though I must admit, I remember it well. A more curious establishment I’ve seldom seen. The scent alone is… distinct.”

“I know,” she said. “It stays in your skin.”

“Rather like memory.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked at him with those dark eyes that mirrored Sirius’s, though hers lacked the wildness now. Hers were steadier. Sadder.

“Why are you here, Headmaster?”

He smiled at the old title but did not correct her.

“Pomona Sprout is taking a sabbatical,” he said simply. “A research opportunity in the Andes. Peruvian flora. She’ll be gone the full school year, perhaps longer. I am, therefore, in need of a temporary Herbology professor.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow. “You’ve come to offer me the job.”

“I have.”

She set her tea down. “Why?”

Dumbledore didn’t hesitate. “Because you were the most gifted Herbologist to pass through my school in two decades. Because Pomona herself named you as the obvious successor, if only for a year. And because I believe—perhaps wrongly, but I hope not—that it might be good for you.”

Estelle gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Good for me.”

“You have been hidden away, Miss Black.”

“Quietly,” she said. “Peacefully.”

“Lonely,” he added.

She looked away.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” he continued gently. “The students need someone who understands not only the subject but the soil it grows in. And I believe, deeply, that you still care about Hogwarts.”

“I do,” she whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled kindly. “Then come home.”

Estelle sat back in her chair, tea cooling in her hands, feeling as if the walls had just shifted closer. Home. The word was a splinter — easy enough to ignore most days, but now that Dumbledore had spoken it aloud, she could feel it pressing deeper. The thought of Hogwarts was both balm and blade. The greenhouses, the scent of damp earth and dragon dung, the way the glass panes fogged in the winter. The castle halls echoing underfoot. All the ghosts she’d kept at bay by staying here, in this shop, with its walls that didn’t talk back.

“You make it sound simple,” she murmured.

“In some ways, it is,” Dumbledore replied, leaning back, fingers steepled. “In others… perhaps not. But the simple truths are sometimes the most important. You belong among students, Estelle. You belong among people who are living.”

She bristled a little, the automatic defense rearing its head. “I’ve been living.”

“You’ve been existing,” he said, and though his voice was gentle, it landed with the weight of fact. “And I say this not to wound you, but to remind you that you are still young enough to begin again.”

She studied him for a long moment, weighing the sincerity in his eyes against the quiet life she’d carved here. She didn’t think she could leave — until a sharp, almost imperceptible flicker passed through her mind. Sirius. Remus. Harry. Their names were knots in her chest. Hogwarts was where the threads all converged, whether she wanted them to or not.

“You’ve already decided I’ll say yes,” she accused lightly.

Dumbledore’s mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “No. But I hope you will.”

Her heart thudded once, strangely hard.

The shop seemed suddenly too small for her lungs. She rose and began to pace between the counter and the shelves, fingertips brushing the jars of murtlap essence and ground root as though anchoring herself to the familiar. “You’re asking me to step back into a place that knows everything about me. About my family.”

“Places remember only as much as people do,” he said. “And people… well. People forget more quickly than we imagine. Especially children. They will know you for who you are in the present.”

“And the staff?” she pressed.

“They will be as they’ve always been,” he said, with the slightest quirk of an eyebrow, “which is to say, complicated.”

Her laugh was short, unwilling. “Meaning Severus will still be Severus.”

“I trust you two will manage.”

The understatement pulled another reluctant sound from her throat — something between a scoff and a sigh. She stopped pacing and looked at him. “If I agree to this… it will be on my terms.”

“Of course,” he said, and she could see he meant it. “So long as one of those terms includes teaching the students and not hexing the faculty.”

“No promises,” she said, though a corner of her mouth lifted.

After he left, Estelle didn’t move for a long time. She just sat there, fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of tea, staring at the shop walls like she was seeing them for the first time.

The walls were a faded sage green. They’d once been vibrant, she was sure of it. Now they were cracked at the corners, lined with fine threads of dust. A spiderweb stretched lazily between two overhead jars. She could see where the paint had peeled behind the herbalists’ clock. The counter bore a long scrape where she’d dropped a silver cauldron last year.

She noticed everything now.

The dent in the doorframe.

The crooked nail that had never held a sign straight.

The window latch that always stuck.

She stood, slowly, and crossed the room.

On the far wall hung an old photograph. Black and white. A young Estelle, freshly graduated, grinning beside her first harvested lunar lily. It had bloomed the night before Voldemort fell.

She touched the edge of the frame.

“Home,” she murmured.

And for the first time in years, the word didn’t taste bitter.

The next day, she packed her things in silence.

Three suitcases. One crate. Dozens of labeled pouches and sealed jars.

She moved methodically, stripping her life down to what would fit in a few trunks. Every item had to be weighed — not for size, but for meaning. The chipped mug she’d used every morning for tea. The battered leather gloves, stained green from years of repotting venomous tentacula. The little brass scale her father had given her when she’d first begun brewing on her own.

She packed her plants last, each one coaxed gently into enchanted containers. Her greenhouse at Hogwarts would have light and space enough for them to thrive — more than they’d had here. She imagined them stretching out their roots in gratitude.

On the counter, the shop ledger lay open to the last page, her cramped handwriting noting each sale from the week. She closed it with a soft thud, pressing her palm to the cover. The shop had been her sanctuary. But sanctuaries, she reminded herself, were not meant to be prisons.

And a stack of letters she hadn’t burned, even though she’d told herself she should have.

She ran her fingers over the top one.

James’s messy scrawl. A note from before OWLs their fifth year.

Stel, you’re gonna do great. Just don’t hex Snivellus too much in class. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let Sirius name your new Kneazle.

Another from Lily. Ink neat and flowing. Kind. Bright.

A short one from Peter, full of nervous encouragement and a doodle of a puffskein.

And one last letter—never opened. Severus’s handwriting. Precise. Slanted. Her name on the envelope like a wound.

She set it aside.

And then she reached for a bottle of preserved white lily petals—Lily’s favorite, she remembered—and tucked it carefully into her trunk.

Chapter Text

November 1, 1981.

The evening sky over Diagon Alley was smeared with the sleepy oranges and soft purples of early October. The gas lamps flickered to life one by one, casting long shadows across cobblestones still wet from an afternoon rain. A cat darted between crates. A shopkeeper locked his shutters with a weary sigh. And above the apothecary, in a flat that smelled faintly of dried rosehips and scorched nettle, Estelle Black stood barefoot in her kitchen, humming tunelessly to the kettle.

It was a soft, forgettable sort of evening. The kind that came and went without ceremony, a Tuesday, maybe. The kind of evening that would usually pass through her without incident.

She stirred a sprig of chamomile into her mug, then reached for the wolfsbane.

The potion was nearly done.

She’d been brewing it all week, careful as always—she never rushed it. Wolfsbane wasn’t a potion you could take liberties with. One grain too much of aconite, and the brew soured into poison. She’d known that since fourth year, when she’d first made it under a silencing charm in the Hogwarts dungeons, her hair pulled into a messy braid and her heart beating like a snare drum.

Remus had been the first to know she could do it. Or rather, the first to believe she could.

“I trust your work more than I trust mine,” he’d said then, voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t known what to say to that. Still didn’t.

The kettle hissed once, then fell quiet. She poured the water slowly into the flask, watching the liquid deepen from dusky blue to violet. Almost done.

The clock ticked on. Eight twenty-seven.

Remus was due any minute.

She glanced toward the door.

And that was when she felt it—just the barest change in the air. Like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

He knocked three times. Not two, not four. Always three. Quiet. Precise.

Estelle opened the door before he could knock again.

“Moony,” she said, smiling softly.

But he didn’t smile back.

His robes were damp at the hem. His shoulders looked heavier than usual. His face—usually pale—was drawn and colorless, like parchment left too long in the sun.

Her stomach sank.

She stepped aside without a word.

Remus moved past her slowly, like he was made of splinters.

She waited until the door clicked shut behind her.

“What happened?”

His voice was hoarse. “You should sit down.”

“Tell me.”

He didn’t. Not at first. He crossed to the small table in her sitting room, the same table where they’d played chess and passed notes and drank tea in silence during bad weeks. The table where he’d once held her hand without meaning to.

Now, he set both palms flat on it and bowed his head.

“They’re dead,” he said.

Estelle stared. “Who—”

“James. Lily.”

Her lungs stopped working.

“I—” She swallowed. “No.”

He looked at her, and that was worse than the words. His eyes were hollow. Not wet. Not angry. Hollow.

“Last night,” he whispered. “Voldemort found them.”

Estelle couldn’t breathe.

“No,” she said again. “They were safe. They were—Godric’s Hollow—Remus, they had the Fidelius—”

He nodded once, stiffly.

Her hands were trembling. She didn’t notice.

“And Harry?” she asked, voice cracking.

“He lived.”

A sound left her throat—half sob, half breath.

“He lived,” Remus repeated, voice frayed. “Voldemort—something happened. The curse rebounded. James is gone. Lily is gone. But Harry survived.”

She covered her mouth with one hand.

Everything tilted. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor.

Remus knelt beside her.

They sat like that for minutes. Maybe longer. Her fingers curled in the hem of his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

It wasn’t until she could breathe again that she asked the next question.

They sat like that for minutes. Maybe longer. Her fingers curled in the hem of his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

It wasn’t until she could breathe again that she asked the next question.

“Who was their Secret Keeper?”

Remus flinched.

“Was it you?”

“No,” he said immediately, then quieter, “No. It wasn’t me.”

“Then who—” Her voice faltered. “Sirius?”

Remus didn’t answer.

The silence stretched.

Her body went still.

“Remus,” she said slowly, “tell me who the Secret Keeper was.”

He looked at her then, eyes full of something worse than grief.

“I’m sorry, Stel.”

And that was all it took.

The world collapsed.

The breath she took after that wasn’t a breath at all—it was a sharp, involuntary gasp, like being dunked in ice water. Her hands went numb. She tried to stand and couldn’t. Her legs didn’t listen.

“You’re wrong,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound like hers. It came out flat. Mechanical. “You have to be wrong.”

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was something awful in his silence. Not uncertainty—certainty. Quiet, suffocating certainty.

“No,” Estelle said again, shaking her head. “You can’t believe this.”

Remus swallowed hard. “There’s more.”

“I don’t want more.”

“You need to hear it.”

She looked at him with eyes wide and feral. “I need to hear that my twin brother murdered two of the people I loved most in this world? I need to hear that?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He just looked at her like he’d already told himself every version of this conversation a hundred times before walking through her door.

“He convinced them to change the plan,” Remus said. “To switch. Said it would be safer. That no one would suspect—”

He broke off. The next name caught in his throat.

“Peter,” Estelle said numbly.

Remus nodded.

Estelle squeezed her eyes shut, hard. She felt like if she concentrated enough, she could force time backward. Unwind the clock. Undo this entire conversation.

“He was their Secret Keeper?”

“Yes.”

“And Sirius…” She opened her eyes, blinking fast. “He told them to switch? He made them do it?”

Remus’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

She stood up then. On instinct. Staggered a little. Walked halfway across the room. Pressed her hand flat against the windowsill like it might keep her from shattering.

“So Sirius handed them over,” she whispered. “He handed James and Lily over to Voldemort.”

The words tasted like glass.

Remus didn’t respond. Maybe he couldn’t.

Estelle turned toward him slowly, her voice rising. “You believe this?”

“I didn’t. Not at first.”

“Then why now?”

Remus stared at his hands. “Because Peter is dead.”

That stopped her cold.

“What?”

“He’s dead,” Remus whispered. “Killed in an alley this morning. Only a finger left. Sirius—he—there were witnesses.”

Estelle stared at him. Her lips parted. “He killed Peter?”

Remus nodded once.

“Why?”

“To silence him, I imagine.”

Her whole body recoiled. “Don’t say that.”

“Twelve Muggles, Estelle,” Remus said, and his voice cracked. “He blew the street apart. They said he laughed.”

The room spun. Her heart began to hammer. Not the kind of fluttery, frightened thrum she knew from nightmares—but a violent, pounding beat. Like her body was trying to warn her that the foundation had cracked. That nothing would hold.

“He wouldn’t.”

“He did.”

“You don’t know that!”

Remus stood now too. “I know what the Aurors saw. I know what’s left of Peter. I know what’s left of them.”

Estelle took a step back. “He’s my brother.”

“He was my brother, too.”

That broke something. Something deep.

She dropped into the nearest chair like the air had been sucked from the room. Her limbs no longer obeyed her. Her spine curled. Her hands shook.

“He wouldn’t do this,” she whispered. “He wouldn't.”

Remus didn’t argue anymore. He just watched her fall apart.

“He hated Voldemort,” she muttered. “He hated what our family stood for. That’s why he left. That’s why he lived with James—why he practically raised Harry. He would’ve died for them.”

“I think maybe he thought he was dying for them,” Remus said. “By hiding the truth. By misdirecting. I don’t know what the plan was. Maybe he thought no one would come after Peter. Maybe he thought it was the smartest move.”

Estelle laughed. A single, broken sound. “So he was clever about handing them over?”

“No,” Remus said quickly. “That’s not what I—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was suddenly low. Hollow. “He’s in Azkaban, isn’t he?”

Remus hesitated. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask if he had confessed. Didn’t ask how they’d caught him. Didn’t ask what the trial looked like. She just stared at the rug beneath her feet. A bit of lavender had fallen there—something left over from the shop. It felt obscene.

“I keep expecting someone to say it’s a joke,” she whispered. “That James and Lily are at the cottage. That Sirius is going to storm in and start screaming about how the Ministry got it wrong.”

Remus sat again, slower this time. Like his bones had turned to stone. “I know.”

She finally looked at him. And in that moment, she saw it—not just the grief in his face, but the exhaustion. The years it had already taken from him in a single night. The way he hadn’t even let himself mourn—not properly. Because there was no time, no safe space, no air.

“It’s just us now,” she said.

Remus didn’t correct her. He didn’t say ‘what about Peter’ or ‘what about Sirius.’ Because they both knew the answer.

“Just us,” he repeated.

Estelle didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her whole body felt distant, weightless, as though it might float away from itself if she moved even a fraction.

Remus reached into his pocket.

“There's one more thing.”

Her head turned sharply. She stared at him, dread already blooming in her chest.

He held out a small bundle of dark cloth—black wool, frayed at the edges, damp from either sweat or rain. It looked so ordinary. Too ordinary. That made it worse.

Estelle reached out with trembling fingers and took it from his palm.

The fabric was still warm from his hand.

Slowly, she unfolded it.

A glint of silver caught the candlelight.

A ring.

A thick, heavy signet ring—plain except for the carved crest at its face. The head of a grim, jaw open in silent howl. A twisting vine motif encircled the edge. She knew every line of it. Knew the curve of the band. The scratch on the inside where it had once been resized after Sirius had broken his hand in fifth year and it no longer fit right.

He had worn it every day.

Never removed it. Not once.

It had been his one concession to the Black family legacy he so despised—he wore it not as a symbol of heritage, but as defiance. A reminder, he once told her, that he could reclaim what it meant to be a Black. He could redefine it.

And now it was here, in her palm. Cold. Still.

Something inside her shattered.

Estelle pressed the cloth to her mouth, as if she could stop the noise clawing its way up her throat.

Her hand trembled violently as she lifted the ring.

She turned it in her fingers, once, twice, studying it like it might reveal something—proof this wasn’t real. Proof this didn’t mean what it meant.

“Where did they find it?” she rasped.

Remus’s voice was low, flat. “In the debris. The Aurors retrieved it before they took him away.”

She nodded. Once. She couldn’t speak.

With shaking fingers, she slid the ring onto her left hand.

It caught slightly on the knuckle before settling. It was too big—Sirius’s fingers had always been longer than hers—but she pushed it until it rested against her skin, snug above her middle knuckle.

The weight of it was unbearable.

She stared down at her hand, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

“He wore this every day,” she whispered.

Remus sat beside her, silent. Watching. Waiting.

Estelle clutched her hand to her chest and bent forward, folding over her knees like the grief had finally bent her into something breakable.

The sob burst from her before she could stop it.

It tore out of her, raw and unrefined—a sound that echoed in the small flat like a wound torn open in real time.

Remus flinched.

She cried without elegance. Loud. Violent. Her shoulders shook with the force of it. Her breath hitched. Her nose ran. Her face crumpled like parchment set to flame.

She wasn’t crying for James and Lily. Not just them.

She wasn’t even sure this grief had a name.

It was too big. Too tangled.

It was for everything: the war, the cost of choosing the light, the children they would never get to raise, the future they had once pictured and lost. For the friend who became a monster. For the brother who had died without dying.

Remus reached for her, hesitated, then pulled her into him.

She didn’t resist.

Her head dropped against his shoulder, and he held her through it—saying nothing, only bracing her as the wave crashed over and through and past.

The ring pressed against her chest, just over her heart.

She sobbed until she was hoarse.

Until the tears ran out.

Until there was only silence.

A heavy, cloying, impossible silence.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were swollen and red. Her skin blotchy. Her hair clung to her temples.

She didn’t care.

She looked down at her hand again, at the silver ring on her finger.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, her voice ragged.

Remus didn’t respond.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

“I don’t believe it, Remus.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

She closed her hand into a fist. The metal dug into her skin.

“If he did this… if he really did this… then he’s not my brother anymore.”

Her voice was colder now. More steel than salt.

“But if he didn’t—”

Remus looked at her sharply.

Estelle shook her head. “If he didn’t… I need to know.”

He said nothing.

She stared at the ring again, at the way it caught the flickering lamplight.

“I need to know,” she repeated.

Her voice didn’t waver.

And for the first time since the world had collapsed, a sliver of something else rose in her chest.

Not hope.

Not yet.

But something sharper.

Determination.

Resolve.

She reached for her tea, cold now, and took a steadying sip.

Her fingers never once left the ring

And the silence didn’t lift.

She opened a drawer she hadn’t touched in months. Pulled out a photograph—one of the old ones.

James and Sirius grinning like fools, arms slung around Remus’s neck. Lily trying to duck out of the frame. Peter half blinking. And Estelle, just off to the side, laughing, her hair pinned back with a sprig of gillyweed.

She turned it face-down.

---

Over the following weeks, Estelle drifted through life like a ghost in her own skin.

The funeral was unbearable. There were too many people, and not enough of the right ones. Lily’s sister didn’t look at anyone. Dumbledore spoke gently, his words kind and distant and careful. Estelle barely heard him.

She stood beside Remus the whole time. His hand was cold in hers.

Afterward, she returned to the apothecary, to the scent of sage and dust and nothingness. She stopped singing. Stopped laughing. She worked because she didn’t know what else to do. She brewed potions because it was the only thing she could control.

And once a month, Remus still came.

She still made the potion.

She never asked if he still blamed himself.

He never asked if she still wore her brother’s ring on a chain under her shirt.

---

Years passed like that. Slow. Worn. Quiet.

She and Remus saw each other often—always for the potion, sometimes just for tea. Sometimes they talked about the past, but never about Sirius. Never about Peter. Never about what they had lost.

But some nights, when the wind howled just so, she thought she heard James’s laugh echo in the alley.

Sometimes she dreamed of Lily holding Harry, her hair a flame in the dark.

And sometimes—just sometimes—she dreamed Sirius came back, eyes wild with sorrow, mouth full of truths she’d never let him speak.

But she always woke up before he could say them.

June 28, 1993.

It was a Thursday in late summer when Remus arrived at her shop again, twelve years after the world had ended.

He looked thinner than usual. Older. But his eyes were steadier.

Estelle saw him through the front window first—standing just beyond the threshold, not quite ready to knock. He wore a long, weather-stained cloak and carried a satchel slung low on one shoulder, the strap fraying at the seam. His posture was stiff, uncertain. She didn’t open the door. Not right away.

Instead, she watched.

He raised a hand to his temple as if brushing away a headache. Rubbed the back of his neck. Took a half step forward, then back again. It reminded her of how he’d paced in the hospital wing when James broke his arm during a Quidditch match. But this wasn’t Quidditch. And this wasn’t then.

Estelle finally cracked the door open, leaning her weight against it with a sigh. “Are you going to stand there all day looking tortured, or are you coming in?”

He blinked like he’d only just realized he wasn’t alone. Then offered a faint, grateful smile. “I wasn’t sure if you were still open.”

“We’re never closed for you.”

She stepped back and let him in.

He looked around like the place had changed, though it hadn’t. Not really.

“You’ve added a new shelf,” he said.

She followed his gaze. “That was four months ago.”

He smiled again. Tiredly.

She poured the tea. The silence stretched comfortably between them.

Until it didn’t.

“I have news,” he said as she handed him the mug.

She raised an eyebrow. “Not the plague, I hope.”

He smiled faintly.

“Not the plague,” he repeated, staring into the steam.

Estelle sipped her own tea and waited. But he didn’t continue.

“Do I have to guess?” she asked after a minute.

Remus gave a half-shrug, half-sigh. “Wouldn’t be the worst game we’ve played.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re stalling.”

He didn't deny it.

“You always rub your thumb against your middle finger when you’re about to tell me something awful,” she added, nodding toward his hand.

Sure enough, he stopped the motion instantly.

“It's not awful,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“You mean it’s not technically awful, but it’ll ruin my week anyway?”

“That depends.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “Are you dying?”

He huffed a laugh. “Not today.”

“Then it can’t be that bad.”

But her heart had started its slow, anticipatory drumbeat all the same. Because Remus never danced around the truth unless the truth hurt.

“I’m going back to Hogwarts,” he said.

She froze.

Her first instinct was to laugh—because how many times had they joked about storming back into those halls, taking over the curriculum, rewriting the textbooks, setting Peeves straight?

But Remus didn’t look like he was joking.

“Back?” she repeated, slowly. “What do you mean ‘back’?”

“I’ve been offered a job,” he said. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

He looked down at his tea, like it might reveal a second opinion.

Estelle didn’t speak. She only watched him. The familiar lines of his face—deeper now, etched from years of wear—seemed carved into something heavier. His eyes flicked up to hers, then dropped again.

“I haven’t said yes,” he added quickly. “Not yet.”

That told her everything.

She leaned forward slightly. “But you want to.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s not true.”

He sighed, long and slow. “It’s been twelve years, Stel. Twelve years of silence. Of avoiding the places that remember too much. And now Dumbledore’s asking me to walk back into that castle like I’m not still carrying a funeral behind my ribs.”

She was quiet for a beat. “You’ve always been carrying that.”

He didn’t argue.

Estelle watched the tension in his shoulders, the way he gripped his mug like it might steady him. She thought of fourth year—when he first told her what he was. How his hands had trembled the same way. How she had promised, without even knowing what she meant, that she’d never leave him to it alone.

“Do you think you’d be happy there?” she asked.

He laughed bitterly. “I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t the question.”

He hesitated. Then, softer, “I think I might remember how to breathe again.”

Estelle’s heart twisted.

He finally met her gaze. “But I won’t go if you don’t.”

She blinked. “What?”

Remus reached into his coat pocket and held out a letter.

She took it slowly. Recognized the script immediately.

Dumbledore.

She opened it carefully.

The words blurred a little as she read— Please reconsider… Professor Sprout’s sabbatical… temporary position… unparalleled talent in Herbology… request for service… urgent need.

She read it again. And again. Like the meaning might change if she just stared hard enough.

She looked up. “He wants me back.”

Remus nodded. “He said he asked you already.”

“He did.”

“And?”

Estelle hesitated. “I wasn’t sure.”

Remus studied her, the way she’d studied him earlier. “Are you now?”

She swallowed. “If I go back… it’ll be like digging up the whole graveyard.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But maybe it’s time we stop pretending we’re not already living in it.”

The silence between them wasn’t cold. Just long. Measured. Like a breath being held across years.

Estelle closed the letter.

And then, for the first time in years, Estelle Black laughed.

It was a sad laugh. But it was real.

Chapter Text

July 9, 1993.

The front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place groaned open like a thing in pain.

Estelle stepped inside without ceremony, rain still dripping from the hem of her cloak. She shut the door behind her with a thud and stood in the dark entryway for a long moment, water pooling at her boots, the chill of the outside world still clinging to her skin.

The house held still.

Not quiet—still. The kind of stillness that suggested listening. Watching. Waiting.

And then, as if summoned by her presence, the familiar, piercing shriek tore through the hallway.

“Filthy little blood traitor! Shame of my womb, disgrace of the House of Black! YOU—SHAMELESS, WHORISH WORM—"

“Not tonight, Mother,” Estelle muttered. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath.

“TRAMPING ABOUT WITH MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD-TRAITORS, YOU—"

She didn’t bother drawing her wand. She didn’t try to yank the curtains shut or cast a Muffliato. She just stood there, eyes closed, and let the voice screech itself raw.

It was always louder when she was tired. And tonight she was very, very tired.

Eventually, the portrait's voice collapsed into wet, choking gasps. The fabric curtains fluttered and drew themselves closed. The corridor went still again.

Estelle peeled off her cloak, heavy with rain, and hung it on the crooked brass hook by the stairwell. The hallway smelled like mildew, old wood polish, and the lingering perfume of ghosts.

She glanced up the darkened staircase.

Four flights to climb.

Each floor had its own feel, its own flavor of memory. The second had once been Regulus’s domain. The third had been Sirius’s, though he barely spent time in it after they came of age. And the fourth—

The fourth was hers.

The front entry of Grimmauld Place remained suspended in shadow, even after Estelle had climbed out of her rain-soaked cloak and banished her boots to the corner. The air felt denser here, like memory had weight—molecular, molasses-thick. She turned slowly, her fingers brushing along the banister rail, and took in the house with fresh eyes.

The wallpaper, once an elegant damask of forest green and gold, now clung to the walls in curling sheets. Water stains bloomed near the ceiling like bruises. A moth-eaten tapestry of the Black family tree still loomed across the hallway, its scorched holes glaring like the sockets of skulls. Her own name had nearly been burned off of it when she left home her Seventh year — just as Sirius’s had been after he left home after fourth year.  

She passed it without touching it.

But then she paused. The same way one pauses before looking at an old scar—knowing exactly what they’ll see and still wincing at the sight.

She turned back to the tapestry and let her eyes drift upward. It took up nearly the entire stretch of wall between the stairwell and drawing room door, wool threads twisting like veins in a diseased body. The Black Family Tree: a grotesque monument to blood purity, embroidered by hands far more skilled at curses than compassion.

The branches curled and twisted, blooming with names like rot: Cygnus. Druella. Arcturus. Pollux. All of them preserved in gold and green thread, their lineages mapped with military precision. Wives were sewn in as extensions of power; sons marked with comets and crests; daughters linked only when they married well—or were useful.

“Useful,” Estelle muttered bitterly.

Her gaze traveled down toward the scorch marks—dozens of them, each a violent little crater where a name had once been. Some were neat and surgical, others smeared and seared like the aftermath of a duel. Sirius’s was among the oldest—charred through so completely that even the border around his name had peeled back like burnt parchment. And near the bottom corner, in a place most visitors wouldn’t look—

There it was.

That tiny single silver E. Stitched not by Walburga, but by Regulus. 

No line connected it to their parents. No birthdate. No trailing list of potential husbands. Just the letter, alone.

Just “E.” No title. No expectations. Just a whisper of presence before the needle had stopped. She liked that label much better.

She reached out and touched it, her fingers ghosting over the tiny threadwork.

He’d sewn it when they were twelve, after their mother screamed at her for spending too much time with muggleborn friends. That night, Estelle had locked herself in her room and refused to come out for dinner. The next morning, the E was there.

He never mentioned it.

Neither did she.

It was the only thing on the tapestry that had ever made her feel seen.

“I hate this bloody thing,” she whispered.

And she did. She hated everything it stood for. The Black family legacy wasn’t noble—it was poisonous. A history of isolation, violence, and fear dressed up in velvet robes and goblin silver. Her ancestors had clung to their so-called purity while the rest of the world burned, convinced they were chosen, superior. But their greatness was nothing more than fear passed down like an heirloom.

They’d killed their own with silence. Worshipped cruelty and called it tradition.

Estelle traced one of the burn marks—Andromeda’s, likely—and felt a fierce twist of admiration for her cousin. For walking away. For never looking back.

“I hope this whole damned house crumbles,” she murmured, “and the last thing standing is that little silver E.”

She turned from the tapestry then, leaving the legacy behind her, though it clung to her boots like soot.

Upstairs, the house would greet her with ghosts.

But down here, the tapestry would keep watching.

Waiting.

As if daring her to forget where she came from. She continued through the house.

The drawing room door stood ajar. She could make out the faint glint of silver from within—the old goblin-forged chandelier that had not fallen, though it had groaned ominously for years. She stepped toward it and peeked inside.

Everything was as it had always been. The fireplace gaped like a blackened mouth, untouched since the last Christmas Sirius had spent here before Azkaban. The velvet drapes remained drawn, the piano closed and dusty. On the mantle, a row of decanters—some empty, some full of liquors too dangerous to drink—stood like trophies of bad decisions. She closed the door with a soft click.

Her foot touched the first step.

Grimmauld’s staircase curled tightly like a spine, narrow and winding, railing cold to the touch. The sconces along the wall sputtered reluctantly as she passed, their flames flickering blue in protest, like they remembered who she was and weren’t sure if they should help or haunt.

The second floor emerged like a breath held too long.

This had been Regulus’s floor.

She paused on the landing and turned toward the hallway that led to his old room.

The door was shut.

She didn’t open it.

But she stood before it for a moment, caught in memory.

Regulus had been the quieter brother, though not gentler. His cruelty was subtle, barbed in intellect, honed in polished words and cold smiles. But to her—to Estelle—he had once been something else. He had been the brother who taught her the correct wand movement for the Orchidaceous Charm when she couldn’t get it right in third year. The brother who smuggled chocolate frogs from Walburga’s secret stash and slipped them under her door with a knock and no explanation. The one who had stayed up with her on the stairwell the night Sirius ran away, staring down at the front door like he could still see it swinging open in his mind.

He had changed, of course.

They all had.

Estelle raised a hand, hovered it near the door’s surface.

“Goodnight, Reg,” she whispered. “I hope it was worth it.”

The door remained shut.

She climbed the next flight.

The third floor groaned underfoot. This was Sirius’s old domain, though he had never claimed it the way Regulus had. Estelle’s memories of this level were less rooted in permanence and more in chaos—abandoned boots, half-packed trunks, cigarette ash crusting the corners of spellbooks. She remembered once finding a stray cat in the room—fur matted, eyes wild. Sirius had grinned and said he’d summoned it just to see if it would bite him. It had.

The door to his bedroom was open.

She didn’t go inside.

She couldn't.

But she looked.

The bed was still there, sheets gone gray with dust. A hole remained in the far wall from where he’d thrown a bottle during one of their mother’s rants. On the dresser, a cracked mirror stood askew, a jagged line splitting its reflection. There was still a chipped Gobstones trophy tucked into the bookshelf beside a half-melted candle and a photo of the Marauders—one where Sirius had drawn antlers on James and replaced Remus’s wand with a giant quill. 

The room was still.

As if it had been holding its breath for years.

She turned away.

One more flight to go.

The final staircase creaked the loudest. As she climbed, Estelle felt the years peel off her shoulders like scales, as if the higher she went, the closer she came to some past version of herself—young, angry, hopeful. Each step tugged at her with the phantom weight of who she had been before everything burned down.

At the top, the hallway narrowed. The air felt cooler, somehow more honest. Less tainted by the rest of the house’s rot.

This had been her space.

And though the years had changed her—her face sharper, her expression more veiled, the way she moved more deliberate—this part of the house still recognized her. Still wrapped itself around her like a shawl.

She paused outside her room and looked down the stairwell, the memory of each floor pressing into her chest.

Regulus—quiet, devout, desperate to belong.

Sirius—loud, defiant, desperate to escape.

And her—Estelle. The quiet middle of a storm no one survived.

She entered her room and let the door shut behind her with a soft click.

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was full. Full of ghosts, of moments preserved in still air. Full of who she had been and who she might still become.

She crossed the room and pulled the window open, letting the cold air rush in and stir the curtains.

Below, the square glistened with rain, the gas lamps flickering gold in the wet dark.

Grimmauld Place, in all its rot and ruin, had somehow become a place she could return to without breaking.

Her bedroom, which was relatively untouched since the day she’d moved back in three years ago, swallowed her like a sigh.  She couldn’t bare staying up here, so she usually slept on one of the couches in the parlor on the first floor. She hated the trek up four flights of memory lane.

Estelle’s room was not the room of a Black daughter. Not in the traditional sense.

It was warm. Not with light—most of the lamps were soft-glowing or covered with green glass—but with presence. There were dried herbs hanging upside down above the windows: bundles of lavender, yarrow, hellebore, and honeysuckle. Old potion bottles—clean, empty, meticulously labeled—lined the shelf above her desk, their glass catching glints of lamplight.

Her bed was large but unassuming, tucked into the far corner, draped in deep forest green velvet and copper-trimmed linens. At its foot was a weathered travel trunk with initials burned into the leather: E.O.B.

The walls were a blend of soft greys and mossy greens, overlaid with a mess of mismatched frames—pressings of magical plants she’d collected at school, a sketched portrait of Lily she’d done during seventh year, a torn page of botanical runes from the Black family library annotated heavily in her hand.

There were Gryffindor colors, too. Subtle ones. A faded maroon scarf slung across the back of a chair. A golden ribbon Lily had once tied in her braid now looped around a small potted cactus. A photo of James and Remus holding up a banner that read WORST. STUDY. GROUP. EVER. sat framed on her windowsill.

The scent was uniquely hers—lemon balm, lilac, parchment, ash, and something sweetly medicinal, like nettle tea.

Her desk was a blend of order and creative chaos: rolls of blank parchment stacked beside a clutter of quills and dried ink wells. An open copy of Magical Herbal Theory: Vol. II sat beneath a pressed moonflower that had never quite lost its glow.

Atop her dresser sat a small, tarnished mirror and a carved wooden box containing a few keepsakes: a raven feather from a walk with Regulus, the first silver sickle she’d earned making potions at the apothecary, a folded note from Sirius she had never dared to open.

She stepped into the room and exhaled—long, slow, careful.

It felt good to be here. But also unbearable.

She lit the lamps with a flick of her fingers and opened her trunk at the foot of the bed. Dust motes rose lazily in the lamplight. She took her time gathering what she needed. She wasn’t due at Hogwarts for two more days, but packing now gave her hands something to do.

She placed each item carefully:

—Her worn copy of Enchanted Edibles: Advanced Plant Chemistry, still annotated from Sprout’s lectures.
—A sealed collection of seeds and spores, some of which were technically not allowed in castle greenhouses.
—A delicate pair of gold-trimmed pruning shears from Lily, engraved with tiny lilies along the handle.
—Two cauldron stones, smoothed with use, nestled in a velvet pouch.
—A faded photograph of her and Regulus from their third year, both scowling like they'd been caught mid-argument.

She reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bundle of dark green teaching robes, freshly tailored but still smelling faintly of home—if home could be defined by potion smoke and ink.

---

Later, she stood at the window, hands on the frame, staring down at the empty square of Grimmauld Place below.

It was raining again. Thin, quiet rain. The kind that blurred the world into watercolor.

The portrait downstairs had gone silent. The house had settled into its usual hush.

Her breath fogged the glass.

“I’m going back,” she said softly, to no one in particular. To the house. To herself.

The words felt strange in her mouth.

She had left Hogwarts a student and would return a professor.

Twelve years had come and gone, yet something about this house—this room—froze time. It made her feel seventeen again. Still caught between two worlds. Still unsure which one would let her belong.

She brushed her fingers over the windowsill. A line of tiny, carved runes danced just beneath the wood’s surface—her own etchings. She’d made them during one of Sirius’s worst fights with their mother, hands trembling as she pressed the blade.

Protection spells. Silencing charms. Harmless things. Useless things.

But still. She had carved them anyway.

She returned to the trunk and placed one final item inside.

A small, worn journal with a soft green leather cover. Its spine was cracked, its pages frayed, but the ink inside was still crisp.

Inside the cover, a scrawled message in Lily’s handwriting read:

“For when the world is too loud. – L.E.”

Estelle closed the lid.

Snapped the clasps.

And exhaled.

Chapter Text

July 10, 1993.

It took Estelle three hours to decide which pair of boots to pack.

She sat cross-legged on her bedroom rug, wand tucked behind her ear, surrounded by a sea of parchment lists, potion kits, overgrown potted plants, and stacks of folded robes. The room looked like it had been ransacked by a particularly herb-obsessed burglar.

“Two pairs is reasonable,” she murmured to herself. “Three is prepared. Four is excessive.”

She packed all four.

At precisely ten past six the following morning, Estelle stood beside her open trunk, wand in hand, lips pursed in concentration.

“Capacious Extremis.”

A shimmer passed over the battered leather briefcase beside her. Its buckles stretched, hinges sighing slightly with relief. She opened it—and smiled as the space inside yawned like a deep cellar.

One by one, she transferred everything from her trunk into the briefcase: her teaching robes, every book on magical flora she owned, spare gloves, a weatherproof cloak, her battered potions journal, seed packets, pruning shears, her pressed Lily, a box of enchanted chalk, three pairs of socks she hadn’t worn since seventh year but couldn’t bring herself to throw away, and two bottles of firewhisky—one for celebration, one for emergency.

She clicked it shut.

The bag looked like it weighed nothing. The straps dangled as if it carried only parchment.

Estelle slung it over her shoulder and gave her room a final once-over.

Goodbye, ghosts.

Downstairs, the portrait of her mother remained mercifully silent. The stair creaked once beneath her heel. She didn’t flinch.

She pulled on her dark green cloak and stepped out into the weak light of early morning.

The door closed with a soft click behind her.

---

The streets of London were still sleepy when she passed through the wrought-iron gates of Grimmauld Place. Fog curled between the stones like spilled ink. Estelle moved quickly, head down, heart steady.

The Leaky Cauldron came into view just as the city was beginning to stir. A group of suited Muggles passed her without a glance, and she slipped inside the narrow pub with practiced ease.

Tom the barkeep gave her a nod but didn’t ask questions. She appreciated that.

She crossed to the fireplace and reached into her cloak for a small pouch. Pinched a bit of Floo powder between her fingers.

She hesitated, just for a moment.

It had been so long since she’d seen the castle in anything other than memory. Since she’d smelled the forest air, or heard the lake lapping against the rocks below the boathouse. Since the war, Hogwarts had become something sacred and faraway—a myth she once lived inside.

She threw the powder into the grate.

“Three Broomsticks!” she said, voice firm.

The green flames rose, and the world rushed sideways.

---

When she stumbled out into the wide fireplace of the Three Broomsticks, the pub was quiet, still shaking off its morning cobwebs. Sunlight filtered through the leaded windows, scattering patches of gold across the floor.

Estelle dusted herself off, straightened her cloak, and took a deep breath.

“Sweet Circe,” came a voice behind the bar, warm and lilting, “I’d know that jaw anywhere.”

Estelle turned—and laughed.

“Rosmerta.”

The barmaid-turned-landlady crossed the floor with a grace that hadn’t dulled a bit since their school days. Her golden hair was pinned up in a messy knot, her sleeves rolled past her elbows, and her apron was streaked with cinnamon and butter.

“You haven’t aged a day,” Estelle said, embracing her.

“And you still lie like a politician,” Rosmerta replied, laughing. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

They pulled apart, both grinning. For a moment, Estelle felt seventeen again, sneaking out for warm cider and gossip during Hogsmeade weekends.

“Come, sit. I’ve just put on a fresh pot of coffee.” Rosmerta waved her behind the counter. “You’ve got that preterm panic in your eyes. Tell me everything.”

Estelle perched on a barstool and accepted the steaming mug.

“I’m going back,” she said.

Rosmerta raised an eyebrow. “To Hogwarts?”

Estelle nodded.

“Dumbledore roped you in, didn’t he? That old fox. He tried to convince me to teach Charms a few years ago. I laughed so hard I nearly dislocated something.”

Estelle smiled into her cup. “He was… persuasive.”

“Of course he was. He always is.” Rosmerta studied her. “You nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“Good.” Rosmerta poured herself a cup. “Means you care.”

They caught up over clinking cups and old stories. Rosmerta told her about the rough winter last year and how a pair of Weasley twins had nearly burned down her storeroom trying to ferment exploding mead. Estelle shared a tale about nearly poisoning her shop’s delivery boy by mistake—she left out the part where it had been entirely Sirius’s fault, once upon a time.

When the door creaked open again, Estelle knew who it was before she turned.

“Remus,” she said, standing.

He looked less weathered than usual, his robes clean, his hair trimmed, though the ever-present shadow under his eyes hadn’t left him.

“Stel.” He smiled, soft and real.

Rosmerta handed him a mug. “You two walk slow. You’ve got the whole hill to climb.”

“We like to suffer,” Remus said dryly.

Estelle rolled her eyes and slung her briefcase over her shoulder.

“Thank you, Ros,” she said, squeezing her hand.

“You send me your office address,” Rosmerta called after them. “I’ve got a bottle of mulled wine with your name on it.”

The door shut behind them with a quiet chime.

---

The streets of Hogsmeade were damp with mist, the air fresh and sharp with the promise of early autumn. The windows of Honeydukes glittered with new stock, and the post owls above Scrivenshaft’s rustled restlessly in their cages.

They walked in silence at first.

Every stone, every crooked chimney felt familiar, but slightly off—like someone had drawn over a childhood sketch in darker ink.

Estelle tucked her hands into her pockets and tried not to stare too long at anything. She was afraid of what would break her if she looked too closely.

“Haven’t seen it in years,” she said finally.

Remus glanced at her. “Looks smaller, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

They reached the top of the rise, and there it was.

Hogwarts.

Its towers sliced the sky like old sentinels, cloaked in morning fog. The lake shimmered darkly beyond it. Smoke curled from a chimney above the kitchens. The greenhouses were barely visible from this angle, but Estelle felt their pull like a heartbeat.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.

“You can,” Remus said. “You already are.”

They stepped onto the path that led to the front gates.

---

The castle doors were tall and silent as they approached. Before Estelle could lift her hand to knock, they opened with a low groan.

Minerva McGonagall stood waiting in the entrance hall, robes crisp, bun severe, spectacles glinting.

“Professor Black,” she said, nodding.

“Professor Lupin.”

Estelle felt her stomach twist at the title.

“Minerva,” she said. “You look exactly the same.”

McGonagall quirked a brow. “You, however, look underfed and overtired. Welcome back.”

Despite herself, Estelle smiled.

“Dumbledore is in a meeting with the Board of Governors. He sends his apologies, but he asked me to get you both settled. Staff meetings begin tomorrow evening. Classes start September 1st. You’ll have time to reacquaint yourselves.”

She turned sharply and began walking. They followed without question.

The stone corridors were just as Estelle remembered—cold and echoing, smelling faintly of chalk and wax and stone. Tapestries shifted as they passed.

McGonagall led them through a side hall, past the library, and down a flight of stairs Estelle had never taken as a student.

“Your quarters are here,” she said, gesturing to a wooden door carved with ivy leaves. “It backs onto the greenhouses. We thought it fitting.”

Estelle stepped inside.

The room was warm. Spacious. A workbench against one wall, tall windows facing the mountains, a fire already lit in the hearth.

She set her briefcase on the bed and turned back.

“Thank you, Minerva.”

McGonagall gave a brisk nod. “Dinner is at seven. Try not to let the castle eat you alive in the meantime.”

She swept away with a rustle of tartan.

Estelle turned to Remus.

He leaned in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“You all right?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’m getting there.”

He smiled.

And for the first time in twelve years, Estelle Black was home.

Chapter Text

July 11, 1993.

Estelle woke to birdsong and the faint scent of dew on soil.

It took her several seconds to remember where she was.

The room was unfamiliar in its cleanliness, untouched by the dust of Grimmauld Place, the air lighter, the silence peaceful rather than heavy. Her quarters backed directly onto the greenhouses—she could see the tops of tall glass panes and catch the occasional flicker of motion within. The morning light came in slanted and soft through ivy-framed windows.

She rolled onto her side, arm flung across the sheets, and stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. No creaking pipes. No banshee of a portrait downstairs. No ancient house watching her from every shadow.

Just Hogwarts.

She sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. Her feet found the warm rug she’d conjured beside the bed the night before, and she padded across the room to open the window.

Fresh summer air filled her lungs.

It smelled like pine, lake water, wet leaves, and the beginning of something old and steady.

She stood there for a long while before turning back to unpack.

---

Her quarters had the feel of a well-intentioned guest room, only slightly sterile in its current state—warm wood floors, tall shelves, a fireplace, and a carved desk that clearly hadn't been used in some time. Estelle flicked her wand, and her enchanted briefcase floated to the foot of the bed. She tapped it gently, muttering “Finite.”

With a soft pop, the Undetectable Extension Charm lifted. The briefcase groaned as it spilled its true contents onto the bed, floor, and surrounding furniture.

Piles of robes, vials wrapped in thick cloth, books upon books upon books, a satchel of rare seeds, her herb presses, parchment tubes of lesson plans, a three-foot bundle of dried snakeweed, and a snoring puffskein in a sock.

“Merlin’s sake, Periwig,” she muttered, picking up the sock. The puffskein chirruped and blinked sleepily.

Estelle began to unpack with the same deliberation she brewed potions—slow, focused, careful.

She lined her books on the wall shelves by subject: Magical Flora, Herbal Theory, Dangerous Fungi, Potion Additives, and a small stack of Muggle botany texts that she tucked behind a decorative urn.

On the windowsill, she arranged a few of her heartier plants: a bouncing bulb in a polished brass pot, a creeping ivy that purred when touched, and a belladonna cutting she’d propagated herself. She pinned a sprig of yew to the doorway and tied a tiny sachet of protective herbs to the doorknob. Old habits.

Her desk took the longest.

She set her favorite quills in a white marble cup Lily had gifted her on their final Hogsmeade trip, filled her ink pots, and rolled out a stack of blank lesson parchment.

At the very back of the bottom drawer, she tucked away the green leather journal from Lily and the unopened letter from Sirius.

---

By mid-afternoon, the room was hers.

Still strange. Still echoing with newness. But it felt more like a home than any place she’d known since the war ended.

She tied up her hair, slipped into a clean set of robes, and decided it was time to find Remus.

---

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was on the third floor now—moved from the cursed rotation of the ground-level rooms. Estelle found it quickly, tucked behind a tapestry of Circe charming a sailor into a ferret. She knocked on the adjoining office door lightly.

“Come in,” came Remus’s voice, low and distracted.

She opened the door to find him bent over a box of grim-looking textbooks. He had his sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dust on his temple, and a stack of mismatched mugs balanced precariously on the edge of the desk.

“I hope you weren’t planning to use these to charm the students,” Estelle said dryly.

He looked up and grinned. “Only the especially troublesome ones.”

His quarters were smaller than hers—more utilitarian—but somehow cozier. A small fireplace, a faded rug, and a large bookcase stuffed with dog-eared volumes, including Muggle detective fiction and obscure werewolf law scrolls. On the wall above the desk hung a framed photograph of the Marauders—James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter—all young, wild, and grinning with reckless joy.

She swallowed hard.

“Nice place,” she said, brushing dust off the top of a battered trunk.

He watched her carefully. “Your quarters feel like you?”

She nodded. “Less haunted than expected.”

“Give it a few days.”

They both laughed softly.

He handed her a cup of tea from the kettle he’d charmed to stay warm. They drank quietly, leaning against opposite desks, the silence between them full but easy.

“You ready for tonight?” he asked after a while.

“No,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”

---

The staff dinner was set for six in the Great Hall.

Estelle changed into deep emerald robes with silver stitching along the cuffs—subtle Slytherin flair, more for herself than anyone else. She pinned a dried thistle bloom to her collar. A nod to resilience. A habit from older days.

She and Remus walked to the Great Hall together, their footsteps echoing through the quiet corridors. The castle felt different after dark—quieter, older, heavier with memory. She tried not to linger on every stone she recognized.

The Great Hall glowed like a hearth. Candles floated overhead, and the enchanted ceiling shimmered with the pale blush of sunset. The long tables had been reduced to a single horizontal spread lined with crystal glasses, silverware, and a scattering of softly flickering lanterns.

Familiar faces were already gathered: Professor Flitwick, perched on a stack of cushions at his chair, waved cheerfully. Professor Sinistra, robes ink-black and star-dappled, nodded from across the table. Hagrid beamed at her from the end, half a roast chicken already in hand.

“Miss Black,” drawled a voice behind her. “As I live and breathe.”

She turned to find Horace Slughorn, cheeks rosy, mustache twitching, arms already extended.

“Professor Slughorn,” she said, smiling. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Lies, charming ones. Look at you—still scandalously thin and twice as elegant.” Estelle blushed as he leaned in. “The faculty will be on edge. Herbologists always unsettle people. Too quiet, too clever.”

“I’ll try not to be both at once.”

He laughed and waddled off, plucking a lemon tart from the dessert spread.

Estelle eased into a seat beside Remus, her cup already being filled by a charmed teapot.

The hum of conversation rose and fell like a tide.

And then the door at the far end of the hall creaked open.

A hush fell.

Dumbledore entered like a stage direction—robes of shimmering plum and bronze, his beard glinting with candlelight, eyes twinkling beneath half-moon spectacles. He walked slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world.

“Forgive the delay,” he said cheerfully, raising a hand. “Ministerial tedium.”

He took his seat at the head of the table and immediately turned to Estelle.

“My dear Professor Black,” he said, beaming. “You are even more luminous than when I saw you last.”

“Luminous, sir?” Estelle raised a brow.

“I do love a bit of hyperbole,” he said, sipping his tea. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s… more than I expected.”

“I imagine it always is.”

Remus caught her eye and smiled.

Dumbledore chatted with them both for a long while, asking pointed questions about lesson plans, current plant legislation, and the price of powdered belladonna root in Knockturn Alley. Estelle kept pace with him easily, comforted by the rhythm of his mischief-laced intellect.

She was halfway through her pumpkin soup when the door opened again.

Footsteps echoed. Slow. Unhurried.

Estelle glanced up—then froze.

Severus Snape stepped into the room, his long black robes trailing behind him like ink spilled over parchment. His expression was impassive. Pale skin. Greasy hair. The same dark, bottomless eyes. But there was something different now—harder, sharper. More hollow.

He did not smile.

He did not scan the room.

He simply nodded once toward Dumbledore, then took the empty seat at the far end of the table.

Estelle hadn’t known he was here.

She hadn’t known he was still *in* Hogwarts.

She felt her stomach twist.

Remus looked sideways at her.

She schooled her face quickly, blinking once, coolness settling over her like a practiced mask.

Dumbledore, oblivious or pretending to be, clapped his hands once and said brightly, “Ah, good, Severus. You’ll want to get to know Professor Black. The two of you will be working closely this term—Herbology and Potions being, as ever, inseparable dance partners.”

Estelle’s spoon paused mid-air.

Internally, she groaned.

Of course they would be.

She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Across the table, Severus Snape did not look at her.

Dinner carried on with the low hum of crystal, silver, and carefully measured conversation. The candles above flickered steadily, illuminating the long staff table with the golden warmth of tradition. Outside the enchanted ceiling, stars winked into being over the darkening sky.

Estelle picked at her food more than she ate it.

But Estelle could feel it: the slight undercurrent, the way Dumbledore guided conversation like a hand on the rudder of a very old boat.

He moved between topics deftly, shifting from Ministry policy to the price of candlewax in Diagon Alley to a half-joking lecture on the ancient uses of magical cutlery. He was doing what he always did—charming, disarming, folding everyone into a gentle web of distraction. Comfort, when none of them dared say how much the castle had changed—or how much they had.

Across from her, Professor Sinistra was discussing lunar phases and how they affected Divination marks with Firenze, who had been temporarily seated at the far end, drinking red wine from a goblet so wide it resembled a cauldron. To her left, Flitwick and Remus,
were comparing notes on magical soil composition from an experiment in the forbidden forest.

Estelle said little.

She offered the occasional dry quip, nodded when spoken to, lifted her glass at the right moments. But mostly, she watched.

Watched Remus loosen a little more with each story Flitwick told.

Watched Hagrid offer Snape a bowl of something steaming, which was refused with a sharp glance and an arched brow.

Watched Dumbledore sip his tea, eyes darting beneath his lashes as he measured the room.

Watched Severus not watch her.

And yet—he was aware of her. She could feel it.

It sat like static at the edge of her senses.

Halfway through the main course, Remus leaned toward her, speaking quietly so only she could hear.

“Why are they both here?” he asked, glancing toward the far end of the table where Slughorn and Snape sat in relative silence.

Estelle’s brow furrowed.

Dumbledore, ever inconveniently attuned, looked up from buttering his roll and answered as if he’d been listening the entire time.

“Ah, yes. A fair question, Remus. Severus will be continuing in the post of Potions Master, while Horace is with us briefly this week to assist with the transition.”

“You retired last year,” Estelle said softly, surprised she’d spoken at all.

“I did,” Slughorn said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “But when dear Albus told me who my replacement would be, I couldn’t resist popping back for a bit. Just until things settle.”

Slughorn, cheeks ruddy from wine and good cheer, raised his glass. “I’m only here to meddle for a few days, my dear. Nothing more. Severus is more than capable—I’m simply showing him where the ghouls like to nap and which cupboard likes to explode if you open it too confidently.”

From the far end of the table, Severus made no comment. He was slicing into his roast duck with the precision of a scalpel, his expression unreadable.

Estelle nodded slowly. “I see.”

Severus didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

“And you’ll be… staying here?” Estelle asked, glancing at Severus.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “For the year. At least.”

Her stomach tensed.

She didn’t reply.

She picked at her roasted leeks and did not look down the table.

Dumbledore shifted the topic, guiding the conversation like a breeze nudging a boat—light touches, always in control. He moved from curriculum changes to student behavior forecasts to a brief tangent about Cornelius Fudge’s latest press debacle, all with the same calm cadence. It was a masterclass in keeping people comfortable without letting them fall asleep.

Estelle, however, couldn’t relax.

She sat upright, posture perfect, fork in one hand, goblet untouched in the other. Her eyes flicked occasionally toward Severus but never long enough to draw attention. Her plate remained half full. The food might as well have been ash.

Her mind, despite her best efforts, wandered.

---

She and Severus had once shared everything—notes, theories, bitter complaints about house politics, late-night debates about magical ethics that turned into whispered arguments in the Slytherin common room. They had met the first week of first year and quickly discovered in each other a kind of mirroring intellect—sharp, strange, particular.

But they had diverged as they grew. Not suddenly, not with a fight or finality, but in a slow, inevitable unbraiding. He grew more aligned with the purist crowd—Lucius, Mulciber, Rosier. Estelle never followed. She watched. She listened. She worried. But she never stepped into that circle.

She couldn’t.

Not after watching what the dark path did to people like Bellatrix.

To Narcissa, who had once been so achingly beautiful and kind, and now carried a constant tremble beneath her cold smile.

To her cousin Lucius, whose ambition had rotted into something hollow and cruel.

To Severus.

They’d once stayed up until dawn over a cauldron of misbehaving flame-lilies, arguing about infusion timing and the ethics of memory extraction. It had started as a disagreement over a footnote in Roskin’s Theory of Essence Suspensionand spiraled into three hours of spellwork, counterspells, and laughter muffled behind the thick curtains of the Slytherin common room.

She’d loved him then, in a way she couldn’t name. Not romantically, not exactly—but something deeper, stranger. A kinship of minds, a mirror held up to her most brilliant and most broken parts. They had been two odd creatures, unloved in different ways, and they had seen each other.

But Hogwarts had sharpened him.

Each year, he’d returned a little thinner, a little paler, his humor edged with venom, his books scribbled with half-mad notations about hex patterns and poison ratios. He stopped sharing everything. Then he stopped sharing much at all. Estelle noticed the bruises first—then the silence.

And then came them.

Mulciber. Avery. Rosier. The dark constellation of boys who wrapped themselves in pureblood entitlement like armor, who spoke in careful euphemisms and branded the world into categories: power and weakness, blood and mud, loyalty and betrayal.

Estelle had confronted him once, after he’d hexed a Hufflepuff so badly the girl had vomited slugs for an hour. Severus had sneered something cruel about incompetence and “the natural order,” and Estelle had slapped him across the mouth before she realized what she was doing.

The sound echoed.

He hadn’t raised his wand.

He hadn’t spoken.

Just looked at her—wide-eyed, burning—and left.

She had cried that night in the greenhouse, hidden behind crates of moonseed, trembling with fury. She didn’t know who she’d been angrier at—him, or herself for still hoping he'd come back from it.

And then there was Lily.

Of course there was Lily.

It wasn’t something Estelle had known outright, not at first. It was little things—the way his voice softened when he said her name, the way he stared after her in the corridors when he thought no one was looking, the notes passed across tables that Estelle had stopped being invited to read.

It had gutted her.

Not because she was jealous of Lily, but because she had loved them both—Severus with his terrible brilliance, and Lily with her defiant heart—and watching them destroy each other from opposite ends of a doomed path had been unbearable.

The day Lily stopped speaking to him, Estelle had found Severus outside Greenhouse Three, knees skinned, hands bleeding, as if he’d fallen or punched something or both. He wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t speak.

She had sat beside him, silent.

And when he finally turned to her, eyes hollow, mouth trembling, he had said, “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Estelle had believed him.

She still did.

But it didn’t matter. Meaning well wasn’t a charm strong enough to undo what had been said—or what had been chosen.

They never recovered. Not really.

By seventh year, Estelle and Severus barely spoke too.

She had taken the path of the Order. He had vanished into the shadows cast by Voldemort’s growing power.

And yet, even then, she had hoped.

She had watched him from afar—watched him fall, watched him crawl back, watched Dumbledore stake everything on his redemption.

She had watched the man he became.

The spy.

The Potions Master.

The storm-eyed ghost.

Even when they were closest, she’d never fully understood the darkness he flirted with.

She’d wanted the light, even when it hurt to stand in it. 

And now they were here, two ghosts of what they had been, seated at opposite ends of the same table.

The conversation rolled on. Flitwick was now recounting a story about Peeves slipping truth serum into a fifth-year’s pumpkin juice, and the entire table was laughing politely.

Estelle nodded along, eyes distant.

Her wineglass remained untouched.

She could feel Severus’s presence—not his gaze, not yet, but something like a low hum in the air, a magnetic pull of awareness.

She hated that she still noticed.

“Estelle,” Dumbledore said suddenly, “how do you feel about reworking the Herbology-Potions overlap unit? I imagine you and Severus could accomplish something spectacular if you coordinated on harvesting techniques.”

She blinked once, slow.

Her mouth said, “Of course, Headmaster. I’d be glad to.”

Her mind screamed.

Across the table, Severus set down his fork.

Their eyes met.

It was only for a second.

But the force of it stopped the room.

Estelle held her breath without meaning to.

Something unreadable flickered across his face—recognition, irritation, something else.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Estelle turned her gaze back to her plate.

The silence stretched just a second too long.

Then Professor Atwell cleared her throat, Remus made a quiet joke about Flobberworm anatomy, and the table moved on.

But Estelle didn’t.

Inside her chest, her lungs had forgotten how to function.

She could hear the beat of her own heart like a drum in her ears.

Her fork hovered over her plate, motionless.

She counted to five. Then seven. Then ten.

Breathe, she told herself. You are not seventeen. He can’t get in your head.

She let her hand fall to her lap. Closed her eyes for half a second.

Then opened them again.

One breath in.

Two out.

The room had returned to its previous rhythm, none the wiser.

But she had felt the crack. The slip. The trembling edge of something old.

Remus looked at her, brow faintly furrowed, but didn’t press.

Estelle took her first proper sip of wine.

---

The rest of the dinner passed in fragments.

Slughorn guffawed at his own story. Sinistra lectured on solar flares. Hagrid accidentally knocked over a soup tureen and caught it midair with the grace of someone who’d done it before.

And Severus said nothing.

When the final course had been cleared and the candles began to dim, Estelle stood politely, nodded her goodnights, and slipped out of the Great Hall with the same elegance she always wielded.

Remus caught up with her by the fourth torch.

“You all right?”

She nodded once. “Fine.”

He didn’t believe her, but he let it go.

As they walked toward the staircases, their footsteps soft against the stone, Estelle realized she was holding her breath again.

This time, she let it go. Slow and full.

And for a moment, just a moment, she was breathing like she remembered how.

Chapter Text

Mid-July, 1993.

The summer sun poured through the high castle windows, casting golden light across the flagstones and warming the dust in the air to a near glow. Outside, the grounds were at their greenest—lush, fragrant, and humming with the life that always seemed to thrive in the absence of students. The lake gleamed in the distance like a patch of spilled ink, and the Forbidden Forest swayed gently with some secret wind.

It was mid-July.

Classes would not begin for over a month, but Hogwarts was never truly empty. A handful of professors remained on campus year-round—Sinistra charting summer constellations from her tower, Hagrid tending to thestrals that had once been banned from student view, Flitwick reorganizing his curriculum with bursts of enchanted ribbon. The castle pulsed with a slow, steady heartbeat. Quieter than Estelle remembered. But alive.

She liked it that way.

---

Estelle had spent most of the last week reacquainting herself with the place.

She and Remus explored in slow, easy circuits—long walks through the grounds, beneath the stone archways, through corridors they hadn’t set foot in since they were teenagers. They visited the owlery and watched the birds take off in frantic, spiraling bursts. They sat on the Astronomy Tower steps, sipping tea and pointing out places where they’d once carved initials or left contraband for classmates.

And on the fourth morning, they found themselves in the library.

It hadn’t changed.

Madam Pince still stalked the aisles with a permanent scowl, muttering spells under her breath to keep the more aggressive tomes from biting anyone. The tables were still polished to a shine. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and polished cedar.

Estelle ran her hand along the spines of the Herbology section, fingers brushing familiar leather.

“You used to sit there,” Remus said, pointing to the window seat.

Estelle smiled faintly. “Only when it rained.”

“You said it made the plants in your textbook feel more realistic.”

“I stand by that logic.”

They wandered past the tables, past the restricted section—still roped off, still humming faintly with magic—and paused at a dusty shelf near the back.

“This is where we found that cursed alchemy scroll in sixth year,” Remus murmured.

Estelle nodded. “You insisted it was safe.”

“I was seventeen and delusional.”

“You turned green for two hours.”

He laughed.

She did too.

It was quiet and real and felt like something thawing in her chest.

Remus picked up a nearby book and flipped through it absently. “Do you remember the time Sirius convinced you to switch all the covers of the Muggle Studies textbooks with blank ones that shouted insults when opened?”

Estelle gave a soft snort. “He claimed it was performance art.”

“It was chaos.”

“It was Sirius.”

They shared a look.

The moment stretched, not uncomfortable, but edged with the weight of everything unspoken.

Remus’s smile softened. “It’s good to see you here again.”

“You too,” she said. And meant it.

---

Estelle spent most afternoons in the greenhouses.

The warmth there reminded her of the apothecary—humid, fragrant, alive with the thrum of plant magic—but with more space to breathe. Professor Sprout had left behind a meticulous journal detailing each greenhouse’s current population and condition. Estelle read it twice before touching a single root.

She took her time restoring the beds that had gone untended. She replaced cracked pots, reinforced a warding charm that had started to weaken around a patch of Blisterweed, and spent an entire day trying to coax a particularly moody Dittany plant back into bloom.

Her fingers stained with soil, her nails rimmed in green, Estelle felt… herself.

Her robe sleeves were always rolled to the elbow. Her boots were caked in dirt. Her hair frizzed at the edges from the heat, and she tied it up with whatever was nearest—twine, a ribbon, the same golden string Lily once used to bind parchment scrolls.

Every so often, a memory would surface uninvited: Lily brushing her fingers through an Ashwinder fern. James offering to test a venom-neutralizing balm on himself “for science.” Sirius plucking a bloom and putting it behind her ear, grinning like he’d invented flirting.

Estelle shook the memories off like dust and focused on the soil.

She preferred working alone.

But sometimes, when Remus wasn’t preparing lesson plans or poring over dusty volumes in the Defense classroom, he’d sit in the shade outside the greenhouse and read.

Just… read.

No questions. No conversations. Just presence.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t need to.

---

She avoided Severus.

It wasn’t difficult—he spent most of his time in the dungeons, which she had no need to enter. When they passed in the corridors—which happened only twice in ten days—Estelle nodded politely and kept walking. He did the same.

No words.

Not even a glance.

And yet, she could feel him.

Not always. Not sharply. But in the way the air changed when he entered a room. In the way her spine straightened. In the way her thoughts snagged on old conversations and never-quite-healed silences.

Their friendship had ended so quietly.

No fire. No final words.

Only the slow retreat of someone you once trusted with your whole soul.

Now, they existed like opposing magnetic poles—close, but unwilling to touch.

In the evenings, Estelle returned to her quarters with aching feet and dirt-streaked forearms.

She organized her lesson plans—starting with first-years, working her way up. She wrote out diagrams for root systems and charm-sequencing spells. She made a list of every plant she wanted the students to encounter by December.

She read until her eyes burned.

She brewed teas to calm her mind.

She did not cry.

Not once.

One night, she wandered out of habit, bare-footed and wrapped in a too-large cardigan that had once belonged to her brother.

She found herself in the courtyard just beyond the greenhouse, bathed in moonlight.

She sat on the stone bench and stared at the stars.

From here, she could almost forget the war. Forget the way Sirius’s laughter had turned to silence. Forget the way Lily’s voice echoed in dreams. Forget the betrayal that still lived like a knot in her chest.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver signet ring she kept there, smooth and cold.

A promise to a family.

One he never got the chance to keep.

Estelle clenched her fist and closed her eyes.

“I’m here,” she whispered to no one. “I’m still here.”

The wind rustled the leaves of a nearby creeper vine.

A soft, almost understanding sound.

She didn’t stay long.

She never did.

---

In the following days, she grew more comfortable in her rhythm.

The castle was still enormous, still full of corners and ghosts and echoes—but she was learning where she fit again. In the greenhouse. At her desk. In the way the castle smelled just before rain.

One morning, while passing through the entrance hall, she spotted McGonagall speaking sharply to a floating candlestick that had been enchanted to sing. She waved Estelle over without looking.

“Professor Black, I trust the greenhouses haven’t consumed you whole?”

“Not yet,” Estelle said, lips twitching. “Though the Fluttershrubs staged a minor revolt yesterday.”

“Sprout mentioned that. Charming little devils. We’ll be holding our first full staff meeting in a week—longer than usual, but Albus is away until then.”

Estelle nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good. Also…” McGonagall turned to look at her fully. “You’ve done well here already. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Estelle blinked.

That was the closest thing to a compliment she’d ever received from Minerva McGonagall.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

McGonagall nodded and strode off, muttering about musical enchantments.

Estelle stood in the entrance hall a moment longer, letting the warmth of those words settle around her like a blanket.

That night, she and Remus sat together again in the library.

Same window seat.

Same rain tapping against the glass.

He passed her a cup of tea. She accepted it without a word.

Outside, the castle slept.

And inside, something very old and very quiet began to grow back.

Chapter Text

July 30, 1993.

The greenhouse air was heavy with the scent of damp soil and crushed calendula petals. Even in the cooler hours of the evening, the summer heat clung to Estelle’s skin like a second robe, sticky and unrelenting. She didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on the simmering cauldron in the corner of Greenhouse Five—an old cast-iron thing she’d brought from the apothecary, familiar in a way that soothed her even when the rest of her world didn’t.

The Wolfsbane Potion was nearly finished. Just a few more careful stirs clockwise, a sprinkle of powdered vervain, and—

Her fingers froze mid-reach.

“Shite,” she muttered, checking the small jar again. Empty. Not even a stubborn clump left in the corners.

Valerian root.

She cursed under her breath. She should’ve noticed it was low yesterday. No—she had noticed, but had been so sure the greenhouse batch would be ready to harvest by tonight. She glanced toward the far end of the room where the valerian was planted, her heart already beginning to sink.

It wasn’t.

Crossing quickly to the planter, she knelt beside the long wooden trough and examined the stalks. Green. Upright. Still too supple. The roots were young, immature—not even close to the dry, brittle texture required for potion use. She yanked her gloves off and stood abruptly, wiping sweat from her temple.

That left only one option: the potions storeroom in the dungeons.

Estelle didn’t sigh. She didn’t groan or curse the universe for its timing. She just picked up her wand and apron, brushed the dirt from her knees, and marched out of the greenhouse with her jaw tight and her braid half unraveling. She could be quick. Efficient. She’d just get what she needed and go. With any luck, no one would be down there at this hour.

The dungeons hadn’t changed in twelve years.

The same cool, damp stillness. The same sense of being somewhere deeper than the rest of the castle—physically, emotionally. Like the air carried secrets no corridor above ever would. Her footsteps echoed as she moved past the familiar twist of tunnels toward the storeroom. She didn’t let her thoughts wander. Didn’t think about who might still be occupying the Potions classroom next door.

The door to the storeroom creaked faintly as she slipped inside. The scent hit her instantly: old herbs, chalk dust, something vaguely metallic. The shelves towered with neatly labeled jars, bottles, and vials—all arranged with the kind of meticulousness that suggested the current Potions Master had either a compulsive streak or very little tolerance for chaos.

She stepped lightly along the shelves, scanning for the "V" section. Her fingers brushed over glass—Veritaserum, vinegar essence, vinca extract—before she finally found it: Valeriana officinalis.

The jar was sealed with wax, tucked high on the top shelf.

Estelle summoned it gently into her hands, her relief breaking into a small exhale.

Then—

“Interesting choice of ingredient for this time of night.”

Estelle whirled so fast she nearly dropped the jar.

“Bloody—Merlin, Severus!” Estelle hissed, clutching the jar to her chest, “is there a reason you feel compelled to materialize like a phantom?”

Severus Snape stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched in that maddening, practiced way of his. The torchlight carved his features in sharp angles—hooked nose, pale skin, and eyes like dark ink. He had a book tucked under one arm, but otherwise looked entirely like he’d intended to appear and cause a heart attack.

“I could’ve hexed you!” Estelle snapped, clutching the valerian like it might shield her.

“I doubt that,” he said smoothly. “Your wand’s still in your apron pocket.”

She glared.

“It’s a storeroom, not a private parlour,” he said coolly, stepping further in. “And you’re not technically cleared to be in here alone.”

“Do you plan to report me?”

“Should I?”

Their eyes locked. The years fell away for a moment, and Estelle was back in the dungeons of their fifth year, arguing over potion temperatures while pretending not to care that Severus’s hands shook from something he wouldn’t name.

She broke the silence first, turning back to the shelf and slipping the tin into her pocket. “I’m finishing a complicated brew. I was missing an ingredient. I came here.  Didn’t find the need to bother you at this hour. That’s all.”

He tilted his head. “Valerian root. Not exactly a common pick for midnight potion work unless one is brewing—” He paused, then gave her a slow, calculating look. “Something to do with wolves, perhaps?”

Estelle’s spine stiffened.

She slid the jar carefully into her bag. “I’m brewing a calming draught.”

“You don’t look particularly calm.”

“I was, until you slithered out of the shadows like a cursed specter.”

He said nothing. Just watched her.

She tried not to fidget under the scrutiny. Tried to summon her usual calm indifference. But Severus Snape had always had a way of reading her like a scroll left out in the rain—not able to read it’s contents in it’s entirety, but leaving her feeling blurry, torn, and entirely too exposed.

Severus didn’t speak for a long time. She could feel his eyes on her back, assessing, dissecting.

“You always were good with half-truths,” he said finally.

She turned slowly. “And you always liked pretending you could read people,” Estelle rebutted.

He stepped forward now, closer than she liked. His voice dropped low. “Does Remus know you’re brewing Wolfsbane for him in secret? Or are you simply enjoying the fun and thrill of breaking a dozen Ministry regulations?”

Estelle stiffened.  He had seen straight through her. “I don’t need your approval.”

“No, but you may need my discretion.”

Another silence fell between them—this one sharper, colder.

“I trust him,” Estelle said at last, her voice tight.

“Then you’re a damn fool,” Severus murmured.

“Oh shut it.”

His lip curled, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t pretend you don’t still judge me, Estelle. I see it in the way you look at me. Like I’m something you scraped from the bottom of a cauldron.”

“You joined them, Severus. What else should I see?”

That did it. His face hardened, and his voice turned to ice. “And your precious brother, who laughed over a pile of Muggle corpses—where does he fall on your moral spectrum?”

Estelle’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

“Why not? We were all bloody children, Estelle. All of us seduced by shadows. But you seem far more eager to forgive the golden ones who fell than the rest of us who were pushed.”

She flinched. It wasn’t the words—it was the way he said them, with a bitterness too old to be anything but earned.

“I didn’t forgive Sirius,” she said quietly. “I all but buried him.”

That shut him up.

The room felt heavy now. Ancient. As if the ghosts of the last war had crept in behind them and now waited, breathless, to see what they would do.

“I heard rumors,” she said after a moment, trying to regain the upper hand. “A few years back. About you. About Dumbledore. About how you turned.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you?”

His reply was slow. Measured.

“I made… mistakes. Grave ones. And yes, eventually—I turned.”

“Why?”

The single word hung between them like a blade.

Severus looked away, jaw tight. “Because I loved someone who didn’t survive my mistakes. And because Dumbledore offered me the only redemption I didn’t deserve.”

Estelle blinked. His words were so honest she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You mean Lily.”

The name cracked something open between them. Severus didn’t deny it.

Estelle’s voice was low now. Careful. “Did you really hate James that much?”

Severus turned toward the shelf, tracing a line of dust on the wood. “I didn’t hate him. I envied him. For everything he had. For the life I couldn’t touch.”

Estelle stepped forward slightly. Her voice trembled. “You could’ve had our friendship, you know. Even after everything. But you pulled away.”

“So did you.”

“Because I had to,” she snapped. “I saw what that world did to people. I watched Bellatrix twist herself into a monster. I saw Lucius, a boy I knew since I was born, become the kind of man who enjoyed cruelty. I didn’t want to see you, my oldest friend, become that too.”

He said nothing.

“And then you vanished,” she added. “You vanished, and James and Lily died. And Sirius—”

Her voice broke. She didn’t finish.

Severus’s hands were tight at his sides.

“You think I don’t carry that night with me? You think I don’t feel it every time I walk into this castle? Every time I look at the boy with her eyes?”

Estelle stared at him.

“I see you still wear Sirius’s ring,” Severus added softly. His gaze dropped to the chain at her throat.

Her hand went instinctively to the place it lay hidden under her robes. 

“It doesn’t mean what it used to,” she said. “But I can’t let it go.”

“No,” Severus said, voice almost kind. “I suppose you can’t.”

For a moment, they simply stood there, shadows and memory between them.

“The past is thick in this place,” she murmured. “I don’t know if I made a mistake coming back.”

Severus studied her, then turned toward the door. “We never really leave Hogwarts, Estelle. Some of us just haunt it differently.”

Finally, Estelle shouldered her bag, took one step toward the door, and muttered, “Thank you for the root.” Severus held the door for her.

“I didn’t give it to you.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. I know you wouldn’t have done the same for anybody… for him.”

His expression flickered—just slightly. “For Remus?”

She didn’t confirm. Just held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

Then she slipped past him, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

He held the edge of the door, paused, and called down the corridor.

“Be careful with the valerian. Too much and it’ll curdle the potion.”

“I know,” she called back.

He didn’t look back. Just stepped out, the door shutting behind him with a gentle click.

Severus stood alone in the storeroom for several minutes after.

The cauldron welcomed her back like an old friend, the potion inside still a deep, dusky violet. She worked quickly, hands steady again. The valerian crumbled easily into the mix, and within minutes, the potion gave off the right scent—earthy, faintly bitter, just shy of burning.

When it was done, she poured it into a thick glass flask and sealed it with a wax-dipped cork. The full moon was tomorrow. Remus would need it by morning.

Estelle didn’t sit down.

Instead, she stared at the potion, its surface stilling like glass, and thought about the look Severus had given her—sharp and unreadable and tired, in that way only people who’d lived through a war could be.

They weren’t the same people they’d once been.

But the past had a habit of circling back around. And Hogwarts, for all its magic, didn’t allow ghosts to rest for long.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1993

The morning sun sliced through the leaded windows of the staff wing in fractured bands of gold. A breeze crept in with it, fluttering the lace curtain beside the kettle. Estelle stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea and passed the jar across the table to Remus.

“It’s almost too quiet,” he said, stretching his legs beneath the small round table in her quarters. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing the faint bruising still ghosting along his forearms. “I keep expecting Peeves to burst through the wall or James to set off a Dungbomb.”

“Dungbombs were never James,” Estelle corrected. “That was always Sirius.”

She regretted it the moment she said it. The name hung in the air between them like fog.

Remus didn’t flinch. Instead, he glanced toward the window, took a sip of his tea, and said quietly, “It was a good brew this time.”

“I know.” She tried not to sound too proud. “I finally got the aconite to cure just right in the second cycle. You didn’t feel it coming on early?”

“No.” He set down his mug. “For the first time in years, I felt like myself. Like I could breathe.”

Estelle smiled faintly. The silence between them settled again, softer now. They didn’t need to talk about the full moon. They had done this dance too many times to count. The potion had worked, and he was here, in one piece. That was all that mattered.

By the time they made their way down to the Great Hall, the castle had begun to stir in earnest. Sunlight pooled across the long tables, catching the dust in the air. Hagrid’s booming voice echoed faintly from the far end of the corridor as he called after a pair of runaway garden gnomes.

The Great Hall was mostly empty when they arrived, save for Professor Vector already halfway through her second helping of toast and Poppy Pomfrey chatting with Madam Hooch near the staff table. Estelle and Remus took their usual seats near the center, just left of the high table’s midpoint.

Estelle poured herself a cup of black coffee and added a dash of cinnamon—one of the few quirks she hadn’t outgrown from school. She had just taken her first sip when she felt it: a shift in the room.

Remus felt it too. His shoulders straightened.

A figure in dark robes swept through the entryway.

Severus Snape.

He didn’t pause, didn’t glance sideways. Just moved with that same controlled precision—shoulders taut, hands hidden in long sleeves, mouth set in a thin line. His boots echoed against the stone like punctuation marks.

He took a seat three places down from Estelle without a word.

Remus looked over at her. She raised an eyebrow and gave the smallest of shrugs.

“I thought he’d been avoiding the Hall,” she muttered, keeping her voice low.

“He has,” Remus replied. “This is new.”

Estelle’s eyes flicked toward Severus, who had begun ladling porridge into a bowl like it was a punishment. His expression hadn’t changed in twelve years. He still looked like he despised every grain of oatmeal on principle.

Then, as if sensing her eyes on him, he turned.

Their gazes locked.

Just for a second.

But it was enough to make the world stutter.

It was the sort of glance that carried history in it—arguments never finished, words never said, trust never fully repaired. Estelle felt something twist in her stomach. Not guilt, not grief. Something older. Sharper.

It was almost as if he was trying to tell her something over a mere look.

Severus turned back to his breakfast.

Estelle exhaled slowly and turned to Remus. “Well. That was subtle.”

Remus smirked into his teacup. “He’s nothing if not dramatic.”

Before Estelle could answer, the flutter of wings filled the room.

The mail had arrived.

Owls streamed through the high windows like smoke through a chimney, swooping low over the tables. Letters and parcels rained down with practiced grace. A sleek barn owl dropped a scroll into Madam Hooch’s lap. A mottled tawny owl delivered a Howler to Professor Binns, who—as always—ignored it entirely.

Estelle’s own owl, Icarus, arrived moments later.

He was graceful as ever, all golden-brown feathers and glinting eyes, a tan horned owl with an imperial posture. Estelle smiled as he landed neatly beside her plate.

“Morning, you insufferably handsome thing,” she murmured.

He blinked once and dropped the rolled paper onto her toast with a soft thump.

She scratched him behind the ear tufts before he took off again, soaring back into the rafters.

The Daily Prophet was heavy with ink this morning. She shook it open absently, still chuckling at something Remus had said—something about Hooch’s latest rant on broomstick regulations.

Her eyes dropped to the front page.

And her laugh died in her throat.

There, in black and white, was a photograph.

A man. Gaunt. Filthy. His hair hung in oily ropes around his face. His skin was waxy and pale. His mouth was twisted in a snarl, or maybe a scream. His eyes—her eyes—were wild. Completely and utterly mad.

Estelle stared.

Remus noticed first. “Stel?”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned over her shoulder.

“Oh,” he said.

The headline read:

SIRIUS BLACK: MASS MURDERER AT LARGE

The article blurred beneath her vision. Her hands had gone cold. She blinked and tried to read.

Black escapes Azkaban… known associate of You-Know-Who… responsible for deaths of thirteen people… last seen near Hogsmeade… considered armed and highly dangerous…

The words swam.

Remus reached out and gently took the paper from her.

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Her breath came in shallow bursts. Her pulse roared in her ears.

That man in the photograph—he wasn’t her brother. He couldn’t be.

But he was.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I almost didn’t recognize him,” she whispered. Her voice was thin. Hollow.

Remus folded the paper, hiding the photo. “It’s the prison. Azkaban does that.”

Estelle swallowed hard.

“He looks… he looks like our father.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. The worst thing she could’ve noticed.

Remus didn’t reply.

Estelle pushed her coffee away. Her appetite had vanished.

Across the hall, Severus turned another page of his own paper without looking up.

But Estelle had a feeling he already knew.

Knew that Sirius was out.

Knew that she had just been reminded of everything she wanted to forget.

Knew that the world had shifted—again—and they were all, once more, standing on unstable ground.

She didn’t remember excusing herself. Just the moment her fingers clenched around the newspaper, the sound of her breath rising too fast in her throat, and the heavy scrape of the bench as she pushed herself back from the table.

The last thing she saw before leaving the hall was Icarus tilting his golden-feathered head at her, still perched on the back of her chair.

Then the world narrowed.

Stone corridors blurred past her. Her shoes echoed against the flagstone. She didn’t care if anyone saw her. Didn’t care what they thought.

By the time she stumbled into the nearest staff bathroom, her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t undo the lock on the stall door the first time. She slammed it shut behind her and leaned against the cool wood, her chest rising and falling in short, desperate bursts.

It was him. Sirius. But the man in the photo wasn’t her brother. That face—wild, starved, sunken-eyed—was a ruin of the boy she’d grown up beside. There had been a time when she could feel his mood before he spoke, when she could read the tilt of his shoulders or the quirk of his mouth like scripture. But the man in that photo didn’t look like he had anything left in him to read.

Estelle didn’t realize she was hyperventilating until she was already in the stall, the heavy wooden door bolted shut behind her. Her breathing had turned sharp, shallow—like trying to sip air through a straw. She braced both hands against the stone wall of the stall, the cool surface doing nothing to steady her. Her heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might fracture her ribs.

Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.

The image from the paper kept looping behind her eyes—Sirius Black’s hollowed face, his wild eyes sunken in like twin abysses, hair tangled and matted, his expression something between madness and memory. It had been twelve years. Twelve years of silence, of mourning, of imagining his last moments in that alley. Twelve years of trying to reframe the memories, smooth over the raw edges of grief with logic. With blame.

And now—he was out. Alive.

She dropped to the toilet lid, clutching her middle like she could keep herself from unraveling. Her body trembled. Her breath hitched in waves. The walls of the stall felt like they were shrinking inward, pressing her in from all sides. She pressed the heel of her palm to her sternum, trying to calm the chaos, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. It wasn’t just fear. It was grief. It was fury. It was a thousand emotions colliding at once, like tectonic plates shifting under her skin.

A sound ripped from her throat—half sob, half scream—and she bit her knuckle to keep it from echoing. Tears streamed freely now, hot and directionless. She hadn’t cried like this since the day of the funeral. Not even after it all.

She curled forward, elbows on her knees, rocking ever so slightly as though that rhythm might anchor her.

It didn’t.

Her breath hitched again, too fast, too shallow. The stall felt smaller by the second, the air thickening around her like wet wool. Her fingers clawed at her sleeves, desperate for something—anything—to ground herself.

Without thinking, barely aware of her own voice, she whispered:

“Accio cigarette.”

A faint tug of magic whispered through the air. For a moment, nothing happened.

A faint whistle of displaced air answered her.

Something small and thin shot over the top of the stall door and clattered onto the tile at her feet.

Estelle blinked.

It was a cigarette—slightly bent, the paper wrinkled, one end smudged as though it had been shoved into a pocket of a school jumper sometime that morning.

She stared at it.

Of course it worked.
Of course the universe obliged her worst impulses today.

“Fantastic,” she whispered bitterly. “Stealing from children. Really doing great, Estelle.”

But her hands were already moving.

Her fingers closed around the cigarette before she even made the conscious decision to pick it up. She turned it over once, twice, as though inspecting evidence from a crime scene. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus—of some student trying desperately to disguise their vice.

She almost laughed.

“Sorry, whoever you are,” she murmured.

She flicked her wand upward. The tip glowed with a faint, steady flame.

She hesitated for half a heartbeat—long enough to know she was making a terrible decision.

Then she lifted the cigarette, leaned in, and touched it to the flame.

The paper caught with a soft crackle.

She inhaled.

The smoke burned like an old friend.

It scraped down her throat, over the raw edges of her panic, settling somewhere deep in her lungs where grief had been festering for years. Her shoulders loosened by a fraction. Her trembling eased by a margin so small most people wouldn’t have noticed—but she did.

She let the smoke curl out of her mouth in a shaky exhale.

“Twelve years,” she whispered to the ceiling. “And you still find a way to get under my skin.”

Sirius’s face flashed behind her eyes again—sunken, haunted, starved. She took another drag, long and unsteady. The ember glowed orange in the dim stall.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it slowed the spiral.

Just a little.

Her head fell back against the stall wall with a dull thud. Smoke drifted upward, dispersing into the stale air. She stared blankly at the narrow crack between the stall door hinges, watching dust swirl in the sunlight.

Her breath was still uneven, but it no longer clawed at her throat.

The cigarette dangled between her fingers. Her hand trembled.

“You stupid, stupid man,” she whispered into the smoke. “Why didn’t you stay dead?”

She tried to swallow the bitterness. It didn’t go down.

She should stop. She knew she should stop.

Instead, she took another inhale—shaking, deep, desperate—and pulled the cigarette from her lips as the ember flared too bright, too hot.

The burn hit instantly—sharp, bitter, harsh enough to scrape the inside of her chest. She coughed once, then twice, pressing a palm against her sternum as the smoke clawed its familiar path down her throat.

Merlin. She’d forgotten how it felt.

And yet—her next breath came easier.

The panic didn’t vanish, but it receded enough that she could breathe without choking on her own heartbeat. She lowered her head, let her hair fall forward, and took another drag. Her hands were still shaking, but the shaking was manageable now—contained, somehow, inside the ritual.

It wasn’t healthy.

It wasn’t wise.

It wasn’t admirable.

But it was something she remembered how to do—something she could control.

She exhaled slowly, watching the grey plume drift toward the stall ceiling.

Twelve years.
Twelve years since she’d sat on a cold bathroom floor, alone, terrified, grieving something she couldn’t name.

The smoke tasted like the war.

Like rooftops.
Like Sirius stealing cigarettes from her but claiming she was “too young” to smoke them.
Like Remus sitting beside her on the Astronomy Tower steps, taking the cigarette from her hand and flicking it over the railing because he worried about her lungs when he couldn’t do anything about her heart.

Like Severus passing her in corridors with a curl of his lip and muttering, “Vices never chose their owners wisely.”

She swallowed.

Another inhale.

Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and silent.

She wiped them away angrily.

“I don’t get to fall apart,” she whispered to the empty stall. “I don’t get to fall apart today.”

But she already was.

The smoke steadied her breathing little by little, smoothing the jagged edges just enough to keep her from splintering entirely. Her heartbeat began to slow from frantic to merely erratic.

She leaned her head back against the stall door and took one more long drag, the ember glowing like a dying star in the dim light.

She tried to picture Sirius as he had been—laughing, teasing, throwing his arm around her shoulders and calling her “Stellie” in that way that annoyed her more than it comforted her. She tried to picture him unmarred by Azkaban, unbroken by dementors.

But the newspaper image kept flashing behind her eyes—the gauntness, the wildness, the hollow stare of a man whose soul had been slowly devoured.

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled shakily. Smoke curled around her face like a veil.

Her breath caught again.

Another sob rose in her throat, harsher this time. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood and pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out loud.

Her shoulders shook.
Her knees trembled.
The cigarette burned down, ash gathering dangerously near her fingers.

Pull it together, she told herself. You survived worse. You survived James and Lily dying. You survived the war. You survived everything that should have made you break.

But this felt different.

This felt like someone had cracked open the past and forced her to look directly into it.

Her breath hitched again. The cigarette trembled between her shaking fingers.

When she finally whispered, “Stop,” it wasn’t to herself.

It was to the memory.

Her lungs felt raw now, scraped clean. Her chest still ached, but the urge to scream had dulled to a low, trembling buzz beneath her ribs. She ran her sleeve across her face again, wiping away tears, sweat, smoke.

Then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Familiar.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Estelle froze.

She held her breath. But she knew exactly who it was.

The cadence of his stride was too distinct—soft but grounded, a mixture of precision and presence. She could always hear him before she saw him, even when he tried not to be heard.

Her stomach dropped.

Oh, hell.

She didn’t want him to see her like this. Not when she still smelled like smoke. Not when her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Not when her eyes were still rimmed red.

A gentle knock at the stall door. Gentle. Measured. Too familiar.

“Estelle?”

Her breath hitched. The cigarette smoke still hung faintly in the air.

She stared at the ash on the floor.

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath.

Then, louder—cracked, uneven:

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Severus said, calm and maddeningly certain. “May I come in?”

Her throat constricted.

She didn’t answer.

Another knock—soft, patient.

“Estelle.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Of course it had to be him.
Of course he had followed her.
Of course he had seen her leave the Hall shaking like she’d been hexed.

She swiped at her face, swallowed hard, and forced herself upright. Her knees nearly buckled, but she gripped the stall’s metal frame and steadied herself.

Her voice came out raw.

“Why you?”

A silence. Deep. Cutting.

Then, simply:

“Because I saw you leave. And because no one else had the sense to check.”

That gave her pause. She almost laughed—almost. Instead, she slowly unlocked the stall. Her hands trembled around the bolt. When she opened the door, she found him standing a foot back, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked, for once, not irritated or guarded—but oddly... steady. Like he’d already run through every version of this moment in his head.

Her breath broke at the edges. She reached for the latch with trembling fingers.

This was it.

This was the moment Severus Snape would see her—truly see her—in a way she’d never let him before.

Estelle stepped into the doorway of the stall—just enough for him to see her blotchy face, glassy eyes, trembling hands, and the thin trail of smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers.

His eyes dropped to it.

For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

Then his brow arched—delicately, dangerously.

“Well,” he murmured, “isn’t that nostalgic.”

She exhaled sharply, smoke swirling. “It’s an incorrigible habit,” she muttered. “I was going to put it out.”

She moved to tap it against the tiled wall—

But Severus stepped forward faster than she expected, his fingers brushing hers as he plucked the cigarette cleanly from her hand.

Her breath caught.

“What—Severus—”

He brought the cigarette to his own lips with the ease of an old sin and took a slow, contemplative drag.

Estelle stared.

The sight was surreal—Severus Snape, Potions Master, picture of ascetic discipline, inhaling her half-smoked cigarette like the act itself was a calculated statement.

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching her through it.

“Well,” he said dryly, voice low as velvet, “given the morning’s news, I suppose you’re off the hook today.”

Her mouth fell open.

“You—what—Severus!”

He took another drag—shorter this time—and handed the cigarette back to her between two elegant fingers.

The slightest smirk ghosted over his expression—there and gone like a shadow.

“If you intend to self-destruct,” he said, “I’d rather you do it with some degree of supervision.”

She gaped at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm. So I’ve been told.”

She took the cigarette back, her hand trembling too badly to hide. She didn’t raise it to her lips this time—just held it, staring at him as though he had broken some unspoken law of the universe.

He lifted a brow again.

“Put it out,” he said softly. 

She swallowed. Hard. But she obeyed.

She tapped the ember against the tiled wall until it hissed into darkness. The smoke dissipated in the stall, leaving only its lingering scent—burnt, bitter, familiar.

Severus stepped back just enough to let her open the stall door fully.

Her legs felt unsteady, her breath still uneven, but his presence steadied something in her without permission.

Wordlessly, he reached out, offered his arm to steady herself. She thought for a moment if she should take it.

And she did.

“I don’t want pity,” she said weakly, looking at the tile floor.

“Good. I didn’t bring any.” He nodded toward the hallway. “But I did bring something that might help.”

“You left the Great Hall rather quickly,” he said dryly. “If you’re going to vanish like that after every shocking headline, we’ll need to mark a stall with your name.”

He stood in the middle of the tiled bathroom like he didn’t belong there, holding a small corked vial in one hand, and steadying Estelle with the other. His expression was unreadable, but his tone—though droll—wasn’t unkind.

“Calming Draught,” he said simply. “Do you want it?”

She gave a tiny nod and reached out.

He didn’t hand it over.

Instead, his eyes flicked toward her face. “You brewed a full batch three nights ago,” he said mildly. “With valerian root, if I recall. From my stores.”

She blinked at him.

“It was the only valerian root in the building,” Estelle said lamely.

“I noticed,” he replied. “So. I take it you were preparing for a storm.”

Estelle looked at him for a long moment. The humor drained from her face.

Then, quietly, she said, “Severus, you know damn well what I was preparing for.” She knew he was talking about the wolfsbane.

He finally extended the vial.

“Come,” he said. “You shouldn’t stay here.”

She hesitated.

“I’m not dragging you,” he added. “But I’m not leaving you here to dissolve either.”

Something in the evenness of his voice steadied her, and she followed.

The dungeons were quieter than she remembered. The torches flickered with a steadier rhythm, casting gold light against stone that no longer felt haunted, only old. Well-lived. Severus’s quarters were tucked behind an unmarked door near the potions classroom, secured with a whispered password she didn’t catch. He held it open for her without ceremony.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of parchment and cedar oil. The walls were lined with shelves—books, potion vials, jars of dried herbs and glimmering ingredients. A worn but elegant settee sat beneath an arched window that barely let in any light. The room was... surprising. Spare, yes, but clean. Lived in. There was a decanter on the low table, and a kettle warming near the hearth.

He motioned her to the settee. She sank onto it slowly. Her arms wrapped around herself, unsure of whether she was cold or just hollow.

Severus’s quarters were as clean and quiet as she’d imagined—cool stone walls, dark wooden furniture, a few tapestries here and there that looked like they'd been inherited from an old, disapproving relative. There were stacks of books arranged by no discernible logic, and the subtle scent of crushed sage and ink hovered in the air. On a low table near the hearth sat an assortment of potion flasks, most sealed and labeled in Severus’s fine, slanted hand.

The heat from the fire prickled at her face as she finally uncorked the vial and drank.

The effects were almost immediate—cooling fingers of stillness threading their way through her bloodstream, loosening the vice around her chest.

She let her head fall back against the wall. Her eyes fluttered shut for a few seconds.

“You’re going to want this.”

He returned a moment later with a large wool blanket, made of grey and green woven yarn. She took it wordlessly, her fingers brushing his. Their eyes met for half a second—too long—and she looked away.  She wrapped the blanket gingerly around her shoulders.

After some minutes, her shoulders slowly sank away from her ears. The room stopped spinning. Her ribs loosened. Her heartbeat receded from her throat.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He didn’t reply. Just sat across from her, one long leg crossed over the other, elbows resting lightly on the arms of his chair.

“You brewed that calming draught yourself, didn’t you?” she asked after a moment.

“I did.”

A beat.

“I did have some in my quarters, you know. From last month. I could’ve managed.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “I’m aware. Baffled though that that batch wasn’t brewed with valerian from my storeroom.”

She gave him a look. The smallest twitch of a smile tugged at one side of his mouth.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know,” she muttered. “In the potions storeroom.”

“That was hardly my intent.”

“You materialized behind me like a bloody wraith.”

He inclined his head. “Old habits. Move lightly.”

She let the silence settle between them again. The Draught had eased the panic, but not the ache. She stared into the fire, her fingers curling around the empty vial.

Minutes passed. Or maybe longer. Finally, she asked the question she’d been dreading.

“Did the others keep talking about it?”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“No. Not after you left.”

She turned her head slightly. “Really?”

He didn’t blink. “There was some initial chatter. Disbelief. Concern, naturally. But Minerva took charge almost immediately. They’re already discussing new protocols, security spells, potential threat scenarios.”

“Efficient.”

“They’re teachers, Estelle. Not gossip columnists.”

That surprised her. But she didn’t argue.

She exhaled. “How long have you known?”

“I receive the Prophet at six o’clock every morning. Always have. I prefer to be disappointed early.”

She glanced at him sideways. “You didn’t think to warn me?”

“I assumed you’d see it eventually. And I assumed, correctly, that any warning would only postpone the inevitable.”

“Why show up to breakfast, then? You’ve avoided it all week.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I thought you might need someone who understood.”

She looked down at her hands. A long pause passed.

“I don’t know what I feel,” she admitted. “He’s my brother. I hated him for what he did. I mourned him. And now... I don’t even recognize the face on that page.”

“Grief is rarely logical,” he said.

“Neither is betrayal.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was softer.

“We were all betrayed.”

That landed somewhere sharp in her chest. She swallowed hard.

Estelle didn’t reply at first. She kept her eyes on the flickering fire.

“Do you think he did it?” she asked finally, her voice like paper. “All of it?”

Severus studied her. “You already know what I think.”

“I want to hear it again anyway.”

He shifted in his chair. “The man who betrayed James and Lily Potter is not the man I once knew. But yes. I believe he did it. Because I believe in evidence. And there was plenty.”

She looked down. Her hand curled tighter around the edge of the chair. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“He was as good as dead, Severus. For years, I mourned him. And now… now he’s back, and he’s this.”

The quiet hung between them like dust.

Finally, he said, “The past has a way of rotting when buried too long.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Poetic.”

“I heard when you were working for Dumbledore,” she began slowly.

Severus’s gaze flicked up. Something unreadable passed through his expression.

“Yes?”

“You were marked.”

Another silence. His hands steepled, knowing what she was trying to say.

Severus’s expression didn’t change, but his hand curled slightly on the armrest. His black sleeves still shrouded his forearms, but Estelle’s gaze lingered there anyway, as if she could see through the fabric.

“You were marked,” she said again, softer now. “I used to wonder what it felt like.”

He let the silence stretch, but not in avoidance. In consideration.

“You don’t want to know,” he said finally. His voice was low, rough-edged. “It’s not pain, exactly. It’s something colder. A claiming. Like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore, not fully. Not when he calls.”

“So you were.” Estelle’s breath caught. She studied him closely—the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.

“I was.”

She waited, watching him carefully. Eyes flicking down to his left forearm, shrouded in black robes.

“Why?” she asked, finally.

He looked up at her, and for a moment, the walls fell away.

“Because I was young. Angry. Proud. Because I believed things I thought were truths. And because I was wrong.”

Estelle blinked, surprised at the honesty. He didn’t flinch.

“And Lily?”

That name burned between them like a match.

He looked away.

“She was my friend. And I failed her.”

“Does it still burn?”

“The mark or the fact I was wrong?” he asks grimly.

”The Mark.”

”Yes,” he said without hesitation. “When he grows stronger. When he’s close. When he’s angry.”

She shivered despite the fire. “But he’s gone.”

“He is,” Severus said, almost mechanically. “But the mark remains. Like a phantom limb. Or a leash that still chokes, even when the master’s dead.”

The fire crackled. Estelle turned back toward it, watching the shadows dance across the stone walls. She could feel him beside her, carved from granite and guilt, the weight of his past heavy in the room.

“I don’t have one,” she said after a moment. “No mark like that.”

“I know.”

“But that doesn’t mean I walked away from that war clean.”

At that, he turned his head sharply. Their eyes met—hers bright with something quiet but burning. He said nothing, waiting.

Estelle shifted beneath the wool blanket. Slowly, carefully, she reached up and slipped her right sleeve off her shoulder, letting the heavy fabric fall.

There, near the curve of her collarbone, was a long, pale scar—thin and glinting in the firelight like frost on old stone. It carved diagonally across her shoulder, disappearing beneath the neckline of her blouse.

Severus blinked once. His eyes didn’t leave the mark.

Estelle didn’t speak. She let it exist, unspoken.

Then, with the same slow deliberation, she pushed her robe aside to reveal her left knee. Just above it, peeking from beneath the hem of her leggings, was another scar—uglier than the first. A messier wound, half-star shaped, darkened in the center. It looked deep, ragged. Old.

She pulled her clothing back into place, rewrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

“I have more,” she said simply. “But those are enough for now.”

Still, he said nothing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, Severus,” she continued. Her voice wasn’t angry. If anything, it was gentle. “You’re not the only one who made choices. Or who paid for them.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“Who did that to you?”

Estelle looked back at the fire.

“I don’t talk about it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m giving tonight.”

A beat passed. And then, unexpectedly, Severus inclined his head—just slightly, just enough to concede the space she needed.

“I wasn’t forced into this life, you know,” she said, her voice low and unwavering. “Not back then. I was born into it, sure. But I made my own mistakes. I followed people I shouldn’t have. Trusted names that meant nothing. Hid behind the illusion that our family’s legacy could protect us. That it meant anything at all.”

She turned to him again, eyes shining now with something deeper than reflection.

“I didn’t take the mark. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t believe in what some of them were selling. Not all of it. Never the blood purity nonsense. But I thought… maybe I could fix something from the inside. Change it. Be a spy like they said you were. That it might mean something if someone still decent stayed.”

He let out a slow breath. “You can’t fix something designed to rot.”

“No,” she said. “But I had to try.”

A heavy silence filled the room, both of them staring into the hearth like it might grant absolution.

“I think,” Severus said at last, “you’re braver than I gave you credit for.”

Estelle gave a dry laugh, the sound catching in her throat. “Bravery has nothing to do with it. I was just stubborn. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t like the rest of them. That being born into that house didn’t make me another version of her.”

He knew exactly who she meant. The portrait. The screams. The hatred passed down like a family heirloom.

“Does she still shriek at you when you go home?” he asked, almost idly.

Estelle snorted. “Only when I breathe.”

A small smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“I threw a shoe at her last time,” she said.

“I doubt that helped.”

“Didn’t care. It felt good.”

They both laughed then—a tired, dry sound—but it eased the weight between them just a bit.

Estelle exhaled, slow and even.

“I used to think I was the lucky one,” she murmured. “That I got out. That I didn’t get marked. That I didn’t fall as far.”

“You didn’t,” Severus said simply.

She shook her head. “Didn’t I? Look at where we are. Look at us.”

He tilted his head. “Survivors?”

“Haunted.”

He didn’t argue.

“Do you ever wish it had been different?” she asked suddenly. “If you could go back—would you?”

His expression darkened slightly. “If I could go back, I would burn the entire system to the ground before I let any of us near it.”

She studied him for a long moment. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

“And you’re not as untouched as you let others believe.”

Touché.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her eyes now glassy with memory.

“You never pressed about what those scars were from.”

“I assumed you’d tell me when you were ready.”

“That’s very patient of you.”

“I’ve learned some restraint since we were sixteen.”

Estelle smiled despite herself.

“You and I,” she said softly, “we’re more alike than either of us wanted to admit.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

He leaned back in his chair again, but his eyes hadn’t lost that strange sharpness—that intensity that told her he was cataloguing every word, every glance.

“I may not have the Dark Mark,” Estelle said after a moment. “But I know what it’s like to be owned. To be used. To carry shame like a second skin. You don’t need ink for that.”

Severus nodded slowly.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

The silence returned, but it was warmer now. Shared. Something passed between them—not forgiveness, not yet. But understanding.

Estelle exhaled slowly. Her chest ached again—not from panic, but the quiet devastation of shared history. She understood now why Dumbledore had kept him. Why he’d trusted him. But understanding didn’t undo the past.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, “what would’ve happened if you and I had spoken more. After... everything.”

He looked back at her. “Would it have changed anything?”

“I don’t know.”

He stood and crossed to the small shelf near the window. From it, he retrieved another vial—this one a pale green shade.

“For the headache,” he said, handing it over.

She accepted it without protest.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she murmured. “Find me. Bring me here.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I did.”

They sat together for a while longer, the quiet less jagged now.

Estelle didn’t feel better—not exactly. But she wasn’t splintering anymore.

They sat in silence. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the castle, a bell chimed the hour.

Finally, Severus stood.

“I’ll give you a moment.”

She nodded. He turned toward the corridor, then paused.

“Estelle?”

“Yes?”

He didn’t turn.

“You’re not alone.”

And then he was gone.

She stared into the flames until her tears returned—quieter, gentler. Not like before. Not like breaking.

Like remembering.

Like letting go.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1993, continued.

The stone corridor curved upward in long, cool stretches, but Estelle barely noticed. Her legs moved on instinct. Her mind, by contrast, lagged several steps behind, muddled by the conversation she’d just left and the hollow weight in her chest. The castle felt darker than it had that morning, as if the very walls had absorbed the front page of the Prophet and were holding their breath, waiting.

By the time she reached the first floor, the distant sounds of midday had returned—soft voices, the clatter of cutlery echoing faintly from the staff dining room. She kept to the shadows, slipping through a side corridor until the carved wooden door of her quarters came into view.

Her hand hesitated at the knob.

The moment she stepped inside, she was hit with the scent of lilac, bergamot, and parchment—the comforting quiet she’d carved into this space over the past few weeks. The drapes were drawn against the midmorning sun, leaving the room in a soft, amber gloom.

And sitting on her window seat, elbows on knees, face drawn in quiet tension, was Remus.

He looked up the moment she entered.

“There you are.”

Estelle blinked, momentarily stunned. “Remus?”

Estelle had barely closed the door behind her before Remus rose to his feet. He looked startled—then relieved—then something far heavier than either.

"You’re back," he said, like he wasn’t sure if she was real.

Estelle gave a tired nod. Her limbs moved like lead. The trek from the dungeons to her quarters felt longer than it should have been, and now that she was back in her space, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Remus continued, stepping toward her slowly. “You vanished after breakfast. I asked Minerva, Filius, even Pomona. Nothing. Then I checked your quarters and waited. That was four hours ago.”

Estelle blinked. “Four?”

He nodded. “You’ve been gone all morning.”

“I… didn’t realize,” she murmured. The confession sat between them like a stone. “I didn’t think it had been that long.”

Remus didn’t push. He never did. But there was a quiet devastation in the way he looked at her. “Was it the paper?”

Estelle didn’t answer right away. She just moved to the small armchair beside the bookshelf and sank into it, arms curling tight around her middle. She looked off into space.

“It was him,” Estelle said finally. “I knew it was him the moment I saw the photo. But it didn’t look like him. I barely recognized him.”

“Twelve years in Azkaban,” Remus said, his voice brittle. “It doesn’t leave anyone untouched.”

She stared ahead, unfocused. “It wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the expression. He was grinning, Remus. That awful grin.”

Remus sat across from her on the edge of the sofa. He looked like he wanted to say something but was still sifting through the right words.

“What happened after you saw the article?” he asked softly. “You didn’t just leave. You disappeared.”

“I went to the staff lavatory,” she said. “Locked myself in a stall and lost it.”

He winced. “Alone?”

She nodded. “Until Severus found me.”

Remus looked surprised. “Severus?”

“He offered me a Calming Draught. Took me back to his quarters.”

That, apparently, stunned Remus into silence.

“That’s… unexpected,” he said after a pause. “I didn’t know you two were speaking.”

“We weren’t. Not really.” Estelle rubbed her temples, suddenly exhausted. “It’s been awkward. But today… I don’t know. It was strange. Gentle, in its own grim way.”

Remus nodded slowly, absorbing this. “How are you feeling now?”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Like the world’s tilted. Like I’m caught in a story I don’t want to be in.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the late morning light casting soft patterns across the rug. Then Estelle shifted.

“Do you think he’ll come here?” she asked.

Remus didn’t pretend not to understand. “Sirius?”

She nodded.

He considered it. “If he’s truly escaped—and if he’s in his right mind—then yes. I think he might.”

Estelle’s breath hitched. “Because of Harry?”

“Because of everything,” Remus said. “Because of you. Because of me. Because of James. If Sirius is anything like he was, he’ll be drawn back to the places that meant something to him.”

She looked down at her hands. “But what would he do, Remus? What would he say? Could there be any version of this where it makes sense?”

Remus ran a hand through his hair, which was beginning to silver at the temples. “I don’t know. Twelve years in that place… it does things to a person. Even if he was innocent—”

“Was he?” Estelle cut in, her voice sharp. “Was he?”

Remus didn’t answer immediately. “Twelve years ago,” he said carefully, “I believed he was guilty. I watched the street explode. I heard about Peter’s death. I heard Sirius laughing.”

“I’ve heard the story,” Estelle said. “I’ve lived inside it.”

“But something about it never quite fit,” Remus continued, leaning forward. “Why would Sirius give them away just to blow up a street the next day? Why not disappear? Why not run?”

“Because he’s mad,” she whispered. “That’s what they say.”

“But he wasn’t,” Remus said. “Not before. Not when I knew him. When you knew him. Not truly.”

Estelle pressed her palms to her face. “He was reckless. He was impulsive. But he loved James. He loved Lily. And he—he loved Harry.”

Remus’s voice gentled. “And he loved you, Stel.”

She flinched. “Don’t.”

“It’s the truth.”

Estelle sat very still. “If he comes back… if he finds me… I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Remus studied her. “What are you afraid of?”

She hesitated. “That it is him. That he did all of it. That he’ll come here. That I still—still want to see him after all of it. Still need to ask him why.”

The admission cracked something open. A silence fell over them, heavy with pain.

“And what if it wasn’t him?” Remus asked, his voice a whisper. “What if he’s been rotting in that cell for twelve years for something he didn’t do?”

“Then we failed him,” Estelle said. “All of us. Me most of all.”

Remus leaned forward and placed a hand over hers. “We didn’t know.”

“We didn’t ask.”

They sat that way for a while—two broken things trying to stay upright in a world that wouldn’t stop shifting beneath their feet.

Finally, Remus gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”

Estelle’s voice cracked as she nodded. “Together.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Harry,” Remus said. “And on each other. And if Sirius shows up, we’ll handle it. We’re not alone, not anymore.”

“We have Hogwarts,” she said softly. “We have work to do.”

He smiled faintly. “And a staff that gossips more than a knitting circle.”

She managed a weak chuckle. “Sinistra knows everything.”

“Minerva knows more and says less,” he countered.

Estelle finally smiled. “And Dumbledore knows everything and acts like he doesn’t.”

The mood lifted, if only slightly. Enough to feel the air again. Enough to breathe.

Remus stood and stretched. “You should rest. It’s been a day.”

“It’s still morning.”

“Then you’ll need the rest even more.”

He moved to the door but paused in the threshold. “Stel?”

She looked up.

“I meant what I said. We’ll face whatever’s coming. Together.”

“I know,” she said softly. “And thank you.”

The door clicked shut behind Remus with a soft finality. His departure left a vacuum of silence in his wake—one that Estelle felt in the pit of her chest. She remained seated for a long time, curled in the armchair, her knees drawn up beneath her chin like a girl again, small and cold and unsure of the world. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, throwing golden shapes across the walls, but Estelle didn’t notice. Not really. Her thoughts had turned inward, winding tighter with every passing minute.

She hadn’t moved in hours.

The ring on the chain around her neck felt heavier than usual. She held it between her fingers and stared out the window at the sky, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Wondering if she’d see that grin again—not the one from the paper, wild and broken—but the real one. The one that used to make her laugh. The one that meant home.

If he came back, she wasn’t sure whether she’d scream or cry or run straight into his arms.

She only knew one thing.

She had to be ready.

A tray of dinner appeared on her desk sometime around seven, likely courtesy of the house-elves. She didn’t remember asking for anything, but they always seemed to know. A bowl of thick lentil stew, a hunk of crusty bread, and a steaming cup of tea sat waiting patiently beside a cloth napkin folded with careful precision. The sight of it made her stomach flip, though she couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nausea.

“Get up,” she murmured to herself, voice hoarse. “Just eat something. Breathe.”

The moment she stood, the ache in her spine reminded her just how long she’d been hunched in that chair. She stretched slowly, fingers trembling as she reached for the bread. It tore apart in her hands like paper.

She chewed mechanically, tasting nothing. The tea was too hot, the stew too thick. She didn’t want food. She wanted clarity. She wanted answers. She wanted to believe that the image she’d seen on the front page that morning was some cruel joke, some warped version of her brother that had no bearing on the boy she’d once known.

But the truth was harder. The truth gnawed at her like a wolf at the door.

Twelve Muggles dead. Peter, gone. James and Lily, betrayed. And Sirius—laughing.

Laughing.

The way Remus had described it… she could hear it. Could see it—wild eyes, blood on the pavement, smoke curling into the sky as his shoulders shook with hysterics.

She clutched her tea tighter. Her hand burned.

“He couldn’t have,” she whispered, trying to find steady footing in a collapsing house of memory. “Not Sirius. Not my brother.”

But hadn’t he always been reckless? Brilliant and brave, yes—but impulsive to a fault. He made decisions with the speed of a wand flick and the fallout of a curse gone wrong. He never thought of the damage until it was too late.

And he had hated Peter. That much was certain.

If Peter had been the Secret Keeper, if Peter had betrayed James and Lily, would Sirius have hunted him down?

Would he have killed him?

She closed her eyes, trying to steady the pounding in her skull.

The logical part of her—the part that had survived the war, studied under Sprout, trained with poisoners and potion-masters alike—knew what the facts said. The Ministry had declared Sirius guilty. The Aurors had testified to the scene. And the few surviving witnesses on that Muggle street had described a madman howling with laughter among the rubble and the smoke.

But I know that laugh, she thought bitterly. I know it better than anyone.

It was the same one that used to echo through the halls of Grimmauld Place late at night, when he and James had come up with some harebrained scheme to prank their dormmates. The laugh that used to peel from him when he managed to get a rise out of Regulus or made Estelle snort tea through her nose at breakfast.

That laugh had once been joy. Mischief. Life.

Could it really be madness now?

She pushed the stew aside and stood again, pacing her room. Her hand drifted to her collarbone, where the thin silver chain around her neck still held the familiar weight of the signet ring. She hadn’t taken it off since Remus gave it to her. Couldn’t bear to. It was warm against her skin now, pulsing with memory.

“You idiot,” she muttered, clutching the ring in her fist. “What did you do?”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn’t cry again. Not tonight.

Instead, she crossed to the bedside cabinet and retrieved a small vial from the drawer—a calming draught she had brewed herself weeks ago, before the rest of the staff arrived. Just a precaution, she’d told herself then. Something to keep on hand in case the days got too long or the nights got too loud. She hadn’t imagined she’d need it so soon.

She unstopped the vial and drank.

The effect was almost instant. Her racing thoughts slowed just enough to let her breathe again. The tension in her shoulders began to uncoil, not entirely, but enough to keep her from shattering.

She changed into a soft cotton nightgown, pulled back the covers of her bed, and slid beneath them, the sheets cool against her skin. Icarus—her owl—gave a soft hoot from his perch in the corner, as if sensing the unease still roiling beneath her skin.

“I’m alright,” she whispered. “I’m alright.”

It was a lie. But she needed to say it.

She turned onto her side and curled into herself, the ring still clutched in one hand beneath the pillow. Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the last traces of twilight were fading into night.

The castle was quiet. The air was still.

And somewhere beyond the walls of Hogwarts—out in the darkness—her brother walked free for the first time in twelve years.

The thought sent a tremor through her chest.

Was he cold? Was he starving? Was he still himself?

Would she even recognize him if she saw him again?

Would he recognize her?

Estelle’s breath hitched again, but the calming draught dulled the panic, turned it slow and syrupy. Sleep tugged at her bones, even as her mind churned beneath the surface.

She didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again. Not truly.

But for now, in this bed, in this moment, she let herself slip beneath the weight of exhaustion.

She let the darkness take her.

And in the quiet hush of the castle, Estelle Ophelia Black dreamed of laughter—old and warm and unbroken.

Of stars above the Black Lake.

Of voices she hadn’t heard in years.

And of the moment, just before the fall, when everything still felt whole.

Chapter Text

August 1, 1993.

The sun was barely over the treetops when Estelle made her way to the Headmaster’s office.

The castle was quiet at this hour. The hush of midmorning in late summer. No students yet. Just the faint rustle of leaves through open windows and the occasional murmur of portraits shifting in their frames. Estelle’s boots clicked softly against the flagstones as she climbed the familiar staircase to the stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office.

“Celandine honeycomb,” she murmured.

The gargoyle sprang aside. The spiral staircase turned.

By the time she reached the top, Estelle was already bracing herself.

She knocked.

“Come in,” came the warm voice from within.

She stepped inside.

The Headmaster’s office was just as she remembered it: cluttered, cozy, faintly chaotic. Books teetered in stacks beside cabinets of crystalline instruments. The Fawkes perch stood empty, though a few red-gold feathers still clung to the wood. And behind his desk, framed by the tall windows, sat Albus Dumbledore, blue robes speckled with moon phases, and eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

“Ah,” he said gently. “Estelle.”

“Good morning, Professor.”

“Albus,” he reminded her kindly.

She smiled faintly and took the chair across from him.

“I suppose,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “you wanted to talk about the Prophet.”

His smile faded. He didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

There was a long silence.

Estelle stared at her knees. “Is it really him?”

Dumbledore leaned back slightly, hands steepled. “We believe so.”

“Then why… why now? Why escape after all this time?”

His eyes searched her face. “I have theories. But no proof.”

Estelle let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s comforting.”

“I understand this is difficult,” Dumbledore said, his voice gentling further. “He is your brother.”

“He was my brother,” she corrected softly.

More silence.

Then, almost reluctantly, Dumbledore said, “He may try to contact you.”

Estelle didn’t look up. “Remus said the same thing.”

“I trust Remus’s instincts.”

“So do I.” She finally met his gaze. “Do you think I’m in danger?”

“No,” Dumbledore said at once. “Not danger. But… proximity. Sirius may want to explain himself. Or finish what he started. Or perhaps he simply wants to see someone who remembers who he was before.”

Estelle’s breath caught in her throat.

Before.

Before Azkaban. Before James and Lily. Before Peter. Before the betrayal.

“I don’t know what I’d say to him,” she whispered.

“I don’t think you need to know,” Dumbledore said. “Not yet.”

There was a pause.

“Instead,” he continued with a softer smile, “I thought we might speak of more immediate concerns. Such as the fact that you and Severus will be—what did I call it?—ah yes. Dancing partners.”

Estelle blinked. “We’re coordinating curriculum.”

“Indeed. I’m rather fond of the phrase, myself.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t dance, Albus.”

He chuckled. “Neither does Severus. That’s what makes it so compelling.”

---

The actual planning began later that afternoon.

They met in one of the spare classrooms—neutral territory, Estelle had insisted. The greenhouses were her domain, the dungeons his. Neither wanted the other feeling defensive.

The door creaked open.

Severus stepped inside, all ink-black robes and unreadable expression.

“Black,” he said curtly.

“Snape.”

They sat across from each other, a long table between them. A pile of parchment, two copies of the advanced potions syllabus, and Estelle’s own sketched planting grid sat at the center.

She got straight to it.

“I’m revising the layout for greenhouse two,” she said. “If we can set aside one-third of the space for potion-dedicated flora, I can stagger harvests to keep pace with your curriculum.”

He scanned her diagrams in silence. “This assumes second-years can tell aconite from monkshood.”

“They’ll be able to,” she said firmly. “Or they’ll wish they had.”

His lips twitched. “Fair enough.”

Estelle tilted her head. “I’ve also included a short bloom schedule for more temperamental specimens. Mandrakes, venomous tentacula, shrivelfigs—”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” he interrupted, tone sharp but not unkind. “I know the timing of a shrivelfig bloom.”

Estelle crossed her arms. “Then why are you questioning it?”

He didn’t answer.

They sat in silence for a beat.

“Look,” she finally said, “I don’t like this either. But the students deserve the best instruction we can give them. And you and I both know how badly it goes when the greenhouses and the dungeons operate like rival kingdoms.”

He nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

“Then let’s do this right.”

A long pause. Then Severus leaned forward, expression finally softening, just a shade.

“All right,” he said.

---

They worked in relative peace for nearly two hours. Every now and then, they disagreed—on ingredient access, on pickling windows, on whether Estelle’s proposed fifth-year project was ambitious or suicidal. But there was something oddly familiar about it. Familiar, and even—if she let herself admit it—a little comforting. Like they were back as lab partners in their fifth year potions class.

He still had that same sharp edge, the cutting precision in his questions. But it wasn’t cruelty. Not this time. Just clarity.

Eventually, she sat back, exhausted but satisfied.

“Well,” she said. “That wasn’t as awful as I expected.”

“I’m flattered,” he drawled.

She smirked. “I’m not giving you a medal.”

He looked at her then, longer than before. Something flickered across his face—curiosity, perhaps. Or memory.

“Why did you come back?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. “Same reason as you, I’d guess.”

“To haunt old ghosts?”

“To remind them I’m still alive.”

That startled a smile out of him. A real one, however fleeting.

Then it was gone.

“We won’t always agree,” he said after a moment. “But I’ll respect your work.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

They packed in silence.

As she gathered her parchment, Severus said, without looking at her, “I was sorry. About James. And Lily.”

Estelle stilled.

“Even now,” he added. “I am.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Then, softly: “Me too.”

The scraping of parchment and the soft rustle of parchment folding into Estelle’s satchel were the only sounds for several long minutes. The classroom, though lit by mid-afternoon sun filtering in through high arched windows, felt still—hushed in the way only Hogwarts classrooms could be when students weren’t present. Not silent, exactly, but filled with the sort of weight that came from memory.

“How are you?”

The question came unexpectedly, low and quiet, from across the table.

Estelle looked up.

Severus wasn’t watching her. He was straightening a stack of lesson plans, his movements slow, almost deliberate. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice had softened, lacked its usual edge.

“What?”

“How are you?” he repeated, glancing at her now. His dark eyes were neither cold nor calculating—just steady. Honest.

Estelle stared at him, unsure what to say. For once, she didn’t have a prepared answer, no clever dodge or dry quip to toss back at him. Something in his tone—its gentleness, or maybe the fact that it came from him—made the mask harder to hold.

“Not well,” she said finally.

The admission surprised her. It surprised him, too, judging by the way his brow furrowed slightly, though he said nothing in response.

“I didn’t expect to be,” she added, looking down at the grain of the table. “I’ve known since I took the post that being here again would... shake things loose. I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

Severus nodded, folding his arms loosely over his chest. He leaned a hip against the desk beside him. “The castle has a way of excavating what you’d rather bury.”

Estelle gave a soft laugh. It lacked humor. “That’s poetic for a man who once threatened to hex a fourth year for sneezing too loudly.”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t mistake truth for sentimentality.”

She almost smiled, but it faded quickly.

“It’s been difficult,” she said, after a pause. “Sirius’s face... the Prophet…” She exhaled slowly. “I can’t get the image out of my head. That photo. The way he looked that last year, before—before it all fell apart. He was already slipping, I think. Reckless. But I still can’t reconcile it with what they say he did.”

Severus’s expression shifted slightly. His voice was neutral when he replied. “You doubt his guilt?”

“I doubt everything,” she admitted. “The version of him they paint in the papers doesn’t feel like the boy I knew. And yet—how could he not be guilty? Twelve people dead. Peter vanished. James and Lily—” Her voice caught.

She cleared her throat. “He was the Secret Keeper.”

Severus nodded slowly. “So they say.”

“You don’t believe it?”

He was quiet a long moment.

“I believe Sirius Black was arrogant,” Severus said at last. “Impulsive. Hated a lot of things. Willfully blind to the consequences of his actions. But I also believe he loved James Potter more than he hated anything else. More than his hate for me. And that... complicates things.”

Estelle blinked, startled by the rare candor.

“I never expected you to admit that.”

Severus’s mouth curled into something like a grimace. “I loathed him. That hasn’t changed. But even loathing has limits. The man they described in that article…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was peering through fog. “It doesn’t match.”

Estelle’s chest tightened.

“So we agree, then,” she said quietly. “That none of this makes sense.”

Severus gave her a long, unreadable look. “I think,” he said slowly, “that truth and narrative rarely align in times of war. Or in the ruins left behind.”

Estelle folded her arms on the table and rested her chin on them. “I’ve barely slept since the article came out.”

“Understandable.”

“I keep thinking he’s going to show up. That I’ll wake up and he’ll be standing in the doorway. Grinning like an idiot. Smelling as he always did, like smoke.”

There was a long pause.

“And if he did?” Severus asked.

She sat with the question. It was heavier than it sounded.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I really don’t. Part of me would throw my arms around him. And part of me would hex him straight into the bottom of the Black Lake.”

Severus actually chuckled at that.

Estelle smiled faintly. “I don’t think I ever processed the grief. I was so busy surviving it. Putting one foot in front of the other. Learning to make tea in the silence of Grimmauld Place. Watching dust settle on photographs.”

Severus looked at her for a long time, his face unreadable again.

Then, with an almost inaudible voice, he said, “We all survived it differently.”

Estelle met his eyes. “Some better than others.”

Another silence.

“I’m surprised you asked,” she said eventually.

“Why?”

“You’ve spent the last week pretending I don’t exist unless I’m standing directly in your way.”

He gave a slight shrug. “It’s easier not to engage when one expects to be disliked.”

“I don’t dislike you.”

He raised a skeptical brow.

“Okay,” Estelle amended, “I mostly don’t dislike you.”

Severus almost smiled. It was gone before it fully arrived.

“You know,” she said, stretching her arms behind her, “this is probably the most civil conversation we’ve had since fifth year.”

“Possibly ever.”

She looked at him. He looked at her.

There was something deeply strange, and strangely familiar, about this moment. Sitting across from Severus Snape in an empty classroom, talking not about curriculum or potions or syllabi, but pain. Memory. The weight of loss.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “For what?”

“The calming draught. Yesterday. And today—for this.” She gestured at the space between them. “It helps. More than I expected.”

He looked almost uncomfortable. “It was nothing.”

“Still.”

She stood and gathered her notes.

“We’ll have to meet again soon,” she said, voice returning to its usual steady cadence. “We’ve got to sort out the third-year curriculum and finish the harvest rotation schedule.”

Severus nodded. “Thursday?”

“Thursday.”

She walked to the door, but hesitated just before opening it.

“You were right,” she said softly, without turning back.

“About what?”

“This castle excavates what you’d rather bury.”

And then she left.

Chapter Text

Mid-August, 1993.

The days moved slowly through August, thick with heat and something heavier—anticipation, maybe. The castle, half asleep in the summer lull, hummed with quiet preparation. Staff came and went, Ministry letters arrived in neat little scrolls, and the house-elves bustled in the kitchens like soldiers readying for battle.

Estelle preferred the greenhouses.

Out there, time moved differently. The scent of damp soil and sunlight on glass reminded her of early years, when Professor Sprout had trusted her with the rarest specimens. Now, she moved between tables with the easy grace of someone who knew the plants intimately—how much light they liked, when they wanted music, how to coax a bloom from a stubborn root. Her fingers were perpetually stained with earthy green, her arms scratched from wayward bramblevines, her curls tied back with a length of fraying velvet ribbon.

Severus, for the most part, kept to the dungeons.

They exchanged brief, biting words when they had to—coordinating storage needs, assessing drying racks and root fermentation rates, ensuring that no ingredient was wasted. Their new joint curriculum, overseen by Dumbledore with that maddening twinkle in his eye, was shaping into something solid. Efficient. A well-oiled system of mutual benefit. “Dancing partners,” the Headmaster had said, and while Estelle didn’t exactly like the metaphor, she supposed there was some truth in it. They didn’t step on each other’s toes. Much.

It was on the fourteenth of August that Severus caught her in the greenhouse, elbows deep in a cauldron that steamed with a pungent, metallic lavender hue.

The scent was unmistakable.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“Another calming draught?” he asked smoothly.

Estelle startled just slightly, then narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be obtuse.”

His lips curled faintly. “I merely thought you must be unusually tense to require so many batches.”

Estelle stirred the cauldron with exaggerated care. “It’s for Remus.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was surprisingly companionable. She focused on the flame, adjusting it with a flick of her wand. Severus leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with unreadable eyes.

“You could have just said so,” he added after a pause.

“I didn’t think I had to.”

“No. But it’s easier when we acknowledge the truth, isn’t it?”

Estelle let the comment hang in the air. “Does that apply to everything, or just this?”

Severus didn’t answer.

Remus, for his part, was beginning to fray around the edges.

The full moon crept closer with every sunrise, a presence that haunted more than the night. He moved slower, smiled less, and rubbed the back of his neck often, like the pressure in his spine had already begun to build. Estelle noticed the way his eyes flicked toward the windows, how he seemed always half-prepared to bolt. He spent long hours in the library and longer ones alone. He wasn’t unkind. Just… withdrawn.

She didn’t push. But she brewed carefully.

The Wolfsbane Potion was a delicate thing—demanding and temperamental, like trying to stitch a wound that didn’t want to heal. She worked on it day by day, noting the lunar cycle with little tick marks on her calendar. It had become routine. Predictable. And no less painful to witness.

On the night of the transformation, Estelle sat awake in her quarters. She didn’t hear Remus scream—not through stone walls and enchantments—but she felt something shift. Like the air had changed again. Like the castle was holding its breath.

The next morning, Estelle rose before sunrise.

Her steps echoed softly through the corridor as she made her way to the infirmary. She knew better than to knock. Madame Pomfrey had already let her in once before on a morning like this, her eyes tired but not unkind.

This time, Remus was lying on one of the narrow beds, his arms marked with fresh scratches, his breathing slow and shallow. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. One of his wrists was wrapped in gauze, and his ribs moved unevenly beneath the blanket.

Estelle sat beside him and said nothing.

After a while, he stirred.

“You didn’t have to come,” he rasped.

“I always come.”

He smiled weakly, and it broke her heart a little.

“The potion helped,” he added. “I stayed in my mind… mostly.”

She nodded. “But it hurt.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I think it’s getting worse,” he said after a while.

“Or you’re just getting older,” she offered gently.

He winced a laugh. “That’s no comfort.”

“No. But it’s true.”

Remus turned his head to look at her fully. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was something still steady in them. “Thank you.”

She reached for his hand. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.”

They sat like that for a long while, the morning sun casting pale gold across the stone floor.

The door to her quarters clicked softly behind her as Estelle slipped inside. The heavy silence of the room embraced her, thick as velvet, cool as stone. She hadn’t lit the sconces. Let the shadows crowd the corners. Let them take up the space her thoughts were trying to escape.

She set her wand on the bedside table and sank slowly into the armchair near the window, her gaze unfocused, her limbs heavy. Her tea from earlier still sat on the sill, now long cold. She lifted the cup, drank anyway.

The silence wasn’t peaceful tonight. It thrummed. Buzzed. Remus’s scream still echoed in the hollows of her chest, like a bell struck once, then left to vibrate endlessly in a locked room.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

There was something clawing at the base of her ribs. Guilt? Helplessness? Something fouler, deeper. The terrible knowledge that she’d brewed the potion perfectly—every measurement precise, every stir clockwise—and yet it hadn’t spared him the pain. It never did. It only dulled the edge of the blade. It never stopped the cut.

Her fingers twitched.

There was something she hadn’t done in a long while.

She stood slowly, moved on autopilot. Her boots found her feet. Her cloak draped over her shoulders like muscle memory. The door shut behind her without a sound.

The corridors of Hogwarts slept beneath a spell of quiet so profound it felt hallowed. She passed portraits dozing in their frames, staircases murmuring to themselves. The cold bit at her as she rose higher, higher, until the corridor narrowed and the stones grew older. Until she reached the spiral steps of the Owlery.

The scent hit her first—straw and feathers and owl musk, damp from summer rain. Hundreds of amber eyes blinked down at her, sleepy and curious.

“Icarus?” she called softly.

A sharp, familiar screech rang out. A pale-gold form launched from the rafters. Her owl dove like a streak of sunlight and landed on her forearm with a dignified rustle of wings.

“There you are, love,” she murmured, scratching under his chin.

Icarus blinked at her with steady, intelligent eyes, as if he could see straight through the calm on her face to the storm behind it.

She let out a long breath. “I just needed to see you.”

He hooted once, softly.

Estelle looked up through the open windows of the Owlery. The sky was vast and black and endless. The stars were pinpricks in gauze. The moon—waning, pale—hovered behind gauzy clouds.

Without quite deciding to, she began walking to the edge of the tower.

She stepped over feathers and straw. Past the threshold. To the ledge.

She had forgotten how high it was.

Her boots touched stone, her fingertips grazing the carved archway, wind already teasing at her cloak. The air was cool, damp, and thin. Her heart beat once, then again, then again—steady and sharp.

Beneath her, the world stretched wide. The grounds unfurled like a memory—mist curling along the edges of the Forbidden Forest, the glassy black sheen of the lake reflecting starlight. Somewhere down there, Remus was in agony. Somewhere, she couldn’t help him.

Some things could not be fixed with potion.

Some pain was more than chemical.

Estelle climbed up onto the railing.

She stood barefoot now, boots left behind, the stone cool beneath her toes.

Her hair blew across her face. The wind rushed past her ears, louder than her breath. Her heart began to pound.

She closed her eyes.

And leaned forward.

She fell.

The wind stole her name. The stone disappeared. The sky swallowed her whole.

She plummeted like a stone. Like something meant to shatter.

Faster. Colder. Until—

With a final, desperate pulse of her will, her body changed.

Feathers exploded outward. Bones shrank, twisted, realigned. Her scream vanished into a cry—a sharp, eerie caw.

A raven streaked through the air.

She pulled out of the dive three hundred feet down, gliding effortlessly across the night sky, her talons brushing mist as she swept low across the lake’s surface. Her wings beat with power, with memory.

It had been years.

Not since before the war. Not since before Sirius fell into madness and James into the grave and everything in between collapsed. The transformation had once been a comfort. A refuge. Something she shared with her brother, with James, with Peter… all for Moony.

She had been the fourth.

Always the fourth.

The forgotten name on the Marauder’s Map.

Poe.

They’d teased her about it. Sirius thought it was pretentious. James had loved it. Peter hadn’t said much at all.

Her wings caught the wind, tilting her skyward. She climbed. Soared. Cut through the night.

In this form, she didn’t have to be anyone. Didn’t have to worry about what she should do, who she should trust, whether Sirius was out there somewhere plotting her death or trying to prove his innocence. Whether Severus still carried the old darkness behind his eyes. Whether she was enough to keep Remus stitched together, potion or no.

She wheeled around the Astronomy Tower, passing silently above the highest spires. She soared past Hagrid’s hut, past the lake, past the Quidditch pitch—all of it glowing faintly in the starlight like a memory she hadn’t meant to wake.

She flew until her wings ached.

Until her thoughts slowed.

Until she could think of nothing but the wind.

Back in her quarters that afternoon, Estelle collapsed into a chair beside her window. The Wolfsbane vial still rested on the corner of her worktable, the residue clinging like silver threads to the glass. She hadn’t cleaned it yet. Couldn’t bring herself to.

She stared at it for a long time.

Sirius’s face had haunted her dreams again the night before. Half-shadow, half-boy. His laugh twisted into something hollow. She awoke with her heart pounding and her sheets tangled, her chest tight with the weight of a name she couldn’t speak without splintering.

She poured herself a cup of mint tea and curled up under a blanket, trying to remind herself of something real.

There were plants in the windowsill—lemon balm and foxglove and little creeping tendrils of sweetroot. She focused on them. On the way they tilted toward the light. On the warmth of the mug in her palms. On the sound of the distant bells chiming noon from the North Tower.

Her life had become a balancing act.

Remus’s pain. Severus’s presence. The ghosts of Sirius and James and Lily in every corridor.

And still, she stayed.

Because she had chosen to. Because something in her still believed in the work. In the students. In the healing.

Even if healing never meant forgetting.

Chapter Text

August 30, 1993.

The day had started like any other.

The castle buzzed softly with the energy of impending life. Students would arrive in two days. Trunks were being dusted off, lesson plans finalized, and corridors quietly stirred with ghosts preparing for the chaos of another term. The air outside was thick with late-summer heat, the kind that clung to robes and made even the stone walls feel close.

Estelle had been in the greenhouse since morning, cataloguing last-minute cuttings, when a third-year Hufflepuff prefect had approached with a note.

Miss Black,

You are requested in your quarters immediately. There are two Ministry officials seeking your time.
Kindly attend at once.

Albus Dumbledore

Her stomach dropped.

She arrived at her rooms on the first floor, damp curls tied back from her forehead, a smudge of dirt across one cheek. She barely had time to brush her hands on her robe when she stepped inside and found them already waiting.

Two men stood by her window, hands clasped behind their backs. One was tall and waxy, with prematurely gray hair and a gleaming brass pin on his lapel. The other, shorter, had sharp eyes and the lean build of a man used to navigating tight corners.

“Miss Black,” the taller one said, voice smooth. “Apologies for the unannounced visit. I am Auror Ransley Merton. This is my colleague, Auror Bastien Loche.”

Estelle nodded once, her posture crisp. “What can I help you with?”

“It’s regarding your brother.”

Her stomach twisted. “I see.”

The two Aurors didn’t sit. Neither did she.

“We understand,” said Merton, “that you have not had contact with Sirius Black since his imprisonment twelve years ago.”

“That’s correct,” Estelle replied. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him since the day he was taken to Azkaban.”

Loche tilted his head. “You were close, though. Twins.”

Estelle raised a brow. “Yes. Were.”

“Born within minutes of each other,” Merton said, checking a file he pulled from his robes. “Same magical core signature, nearly. Some Department of Mysteries folks believe that kind of twinning creates a sort of... bond.”

Estelle’s jaw tensed. “Not in this case.”

Loche stepped forward, folding his arms as he examined the room. His eyes scanned the stone walls, the fireplace, the shelf of books by her desk. “Nice quarters. Lived in. Comfortable.”

“Is that part of the inquiry?”

“You’d be surprised how much environment reveals about a person,” he said. “We’ve learned to watch the little things.”

“Forgive us,” said Merton, “but we must follow every lead. It’s standard procedure when a family member escapes from a high-security facility.”

Her voice was ice. “So you think he might have come running to his sister? The sister who testified in his defense at his initial hearing and was ignored?”

Merton didn’t blink. “We’re not making assumptions. Only asking questions.”

“Then ask.”

They did.

For twenty-five minutes, they danced through a series of loaded inquiries—where she’d been the night of the escape, whether any unfamiliar owls had visited her lately, whether she’d received coded letters or suspicious parcels. Whether she had… dreamed of her brother.

“Dreamed of him?” she repeated flatly.

“You’d be surprised what slips in dreams,” said Loche.

“I’m not a Seer.”

Merton’s voice was more measured. “You understand, Miss Black, this isn’t personal. We’re doing our due diligence.”

“Yes,” Estelle replied, voice tight, “I can tell how impersonal it is.”

Loche took a step closer. “If he were to reach out—”

“I’d report it.”

There was a short silence. A kind of weight settled into the room.

“Miss Black,” said Merton slowly, “do you believe your brother is guilty?”

Estelle blinked.

It wasn’t the question she expected. Not from the Ministry.

She opened her mouth—and then shut it again.

The truth clanged painfully in her ribs. Did she believe he was guilty? She didn’t want to. But the evidence was impossible to ignore. Peter Pettigrew. Twelve Muggles. The madness in the street.

And now this.

She inhaled through her nose. “I believe Sirius Black is not the man he once was. And if he did what you claim, then I believe he should be stopped.”

Both men studied her face.

Loche stepped even closer. “You’ve been back at Hogwarts how long now?”

“Two weeks.”

“And before that?”

“London. Running an apothecary.”

“Any strange customers?”

Estelle’s lips curled. “I deal in powdered doxy wings and pickled ghoul tripe. Most of my customers are strange.”

Loche didn’t laugh. “Anyone suspicious? Asking after you? After Sirius?”

She took a step back, but held his gaze. “No.”

Merton’s eyes flicked to a photograph on her shelf—Estelle at seventeen, standing with Lily, James, Remus, and Sirius near the lake. All smiling. Alive.

He nodded toward it. “You’ve lost people. That changes a person.”

“So does being hunted down by your own government.”

Loche let the silence hang. Then, deliberately, he produced a small object from his cloak. A slender vial, glowing faintly blue.

“Veritaserum,” he said softly. “We’re not administering it. Not without approval. But the Ministry’s having that discussion.”

Estelle’s breath caught. “You want to force truth from me?”

“If you won’t give it freely,” Merton said, “and the stakes are high enough—we’re prepared to escalate.”

The room seemed to shrink. Her heart beat harder. Louder.

That’s when the knock came.

”Come in,” Estelle called, grateful for the interruption. Her voice cracked.

Severus Snape stepped inside.

He took in the scene at once—Estelle standing stiff-backed, the two Aurors inches from her, the look in her eyes: all frost and tension and something coiled beneath.

“I wasn't aware the Ministry had taken to interrogating Hogwarts staff before term begins,” Severus drawled. His tone was a blade.

Merton turned. “Professor Snape. We're merely speaking to Miss Black regarding her brother's escape.”

“She’s not a suspect,” Severus said, voice soft and dangerous. “So I suggest you step back.”

“Of course,” Loche said tightly. “Just gathering information.”

Severus moved forward with slow purpose. He didn’t touch Estelle, but placed himself just enough in front of her that it felt deliberate. “You’ve had your questions. Your time is up.”

“This is official Ministry business,” Merton said, straightening.

“And this,” Severus countered, waving a hand around flippantly, “is a school. One in which we are trying to prepare for the safe return of hundreds of children. We have precious little time as it is, and you are wasting hers. I truly hope I have misread your intent. From where I stood, it looked like intimidation.”

Loche’s eyes narrowed. “We’re authorized.”

“And I’m authorized,” Severus snapped, “to remove unwelcome guests from faculty quarters. Would you like me to fetch the Headmaster, or will you show yourselves out?”

He stepped more fully in front of Estelle, his black robes cutting across the Aurors like a guillotine. His presence was absolute.

“Again, this is a school,” he hissed. “Not an interrogation room. Leave.”

Merton shifted. “Professor, we—”

“I said,” Severus growled, “leave.”

Loche looked to Merton.

Merton exhaled. “Miss Black, if you do hear from your brother, we expect immediate contact.”

“You’ll be the first,” Estelle said, coldly.

The two men made their exit, robes swishing behind them.

As soon as the door shut, Estelle’s breath left her in a long, deflated rush. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Severus asked.

“No.”

He didn’t say ‘I figured.’ Instead, he glanced at her hands.

“You were shaking.”

“They asked me if I dreamed of him.” Her voice was brittle.

Severus's face didn’t move, but his posture shifted slightly. “That’s not protocol. That’s desperation.”

Estelle leaned back against the edge of her desk, finally letting herself sag.

“Thanks,” she said after a moment. “For stepping in.”

Severus gave a stiff nod. “They were wildly out of line.”

She managed a tired smile. “You were terrifying.”

He glanced sideways at her. “I’m told it’s one of my better qualities.”

That almost got a laugh.

“Why were you coming by?” she asked, after a beat.

“I thought we were due to finalize the planting schedule. But I can come back another time.”

She shook her head. “No, I… I’d rather have something else to focus on.”

He looked at her a moment longer. “Then let’s work.”

---

The dungeon classroom was empty now save for the two of them. Moonlight from the narrow windows spilled across the stone floors, catching the glint of potion vials left to dry and the faint steam still rising from the cauldron between them. The chalkboard was scrawled with brewing ratios and diagrams, the edges of the parchment curling slightly under Estelle’s quill.

Neither had spoken in nearly ten minutes.

They worked side by side in silence, the kind only two deeply tired people could maintain without discomfort. Occasionally their hands brushed as they reached for the same jar of powdered root or red ink. Neither commented.

Estelle finally broke the quiet.

“They were going to use Veritaserum on me.”

Severus didn’t look up from where he was labeling a series of vials. “What?”

“The Ministry detectives. They didn’t say it aloud, but one of them had it in his pocket. I could tell. They were circling the question, giving me outs—but if I’d twitched wrong, or stumbled, I think they would’ve done it.”

Severus put the quill down carefully. “They didn’t have clearance.”

“No,” she said softly. “But they thought I had something worth using it and clearing it up after.”

He turned toward her, his expression hard to read—something between fury and recognition. “You should’ve told me earlier.”

She met his eyes. “What difference would it make?”

“They had no right.”

“I know.”

“They could’ve—” he cut himself off, running a hand down his face. “It would’ve been an invasion.”

“Exactly.”

Her voice trembled slightly on the word. Not from fear, not now, but from the aftershock of it. From the understanding that had settled in her chest like cold stone.

“I wouldn’t have given them anything about Sirius,” she said, more to herself than him. “Because I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him. I haven’t even dreamed of him in years.”

Severus remained still.

“But there are other things,” she said. “Other memories I don’t want anyone forcing their way into. There’s no dignity in having your mind cracked open like a nut.”

“Memories such as..?”

She gave a brittle laugh. “My childhood alone would’ve kept them entertained for hours.”

Severus remained quiet, but he stilled beside her.

“They would’ve seen my mother’s face,” she continued, “every time she called me a curse to the Black name. Every time she made Sirius and I stand for hours, silent, because we dared to be too loud, too full of ourselves, too much like... Potters. They would see the way my father hit Sirius when he stepped out of line, or slap me when I’d break curfew. They’d have seen the fights, the screaming, the way I used to trace the lines in the carpet just to pretend I was anywhere else.”

She paused. “They’d know I hexed my brother Regulus once. He said something cruel about Remus. I made his tongue swell so badly he couldn’t eat for a day. Walburga nearly flayed me.”

Severus’s lips twitched into a ghost of a frown.

“They’d see me sneaking off to Zonko’s,” she went on. “Not to shop, but to steal. James taught me how to distract the shopkeeper, Sirius would slip things into our robes. I have a drawer in my old room that’s still full of joke trinkets I never paid for. If the Aurors had seen that, they’d have twisted it into something rotten.”

”They would see what it meant to be a daughter of the Sacred 28. To go to those horrible parties with horrible people. They’d see the implications of vile betrothals and stolen touches,” her voice grew low and cracked.

She ran a hand through her wavy hair, trying to brush off the memories, her truths. “They’d see me during the war. The fear, the fury. How I thought once—just once—that maybe we should burn Knockturn Alley to the ground, just to be safe. That I wanted blood after Lily died. That there was a week where I dreamed about murder and didn’t feel guilty for it.”

Severus didn’t move.

“And my Animagus form,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “That’s still unregistered. They’d see the night I first transformed. The elation. The danger. The lawlessness of it. They’d make that the story. That I’ve always walked the line between legal and not. That I have the blood of traitors in me.”

She looked up then, meeting Severus’s eyes.

“I didn’t want them to see me, Severus. Not the person I’ve worked years to grow away from.”

Still he said nothing.

“So,” she said after a moment, glancing at him sideways, “what would you fear being pulled out under Veritaserum?”

His gaze snapped to hers.

She smiled faintly. “You don’t have to tell me, of course. But I think it’s only fair. I told you mine.”

Severus stared at her, lips pressed into a flat line.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she repeated, turning back to her parchment.

“I’ve killed a man.”

She stopped writing.

Severus’s voice was quiet, too quiet. “Multiple, in fact. During the war. Before I came to Dumbledore.”

Estelle looked at him carefully, searching his face for irony. There was none.

“I was ordered to,” he said. “And I did it.”

She nodded once. She didn’t say ‘why are you telling me this.’ She didn’t ask who it was. Instead, she waited.

“I still remember the sound,” he added after a moment. “Not the spell. The sound after. The way the air changed. It was immediate.”

They sat in silence again.

“I knew you worked for him,” she reminded. “The Dark Lord.”

He didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know how deep it went.”

“It went deep,” Severus said, a bit of gravel in his tone. “Deeper than I care to admit.”

“And yet you turned.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Severus looked down at his hands.

“It wasn’t one reason,” he said. “It never is. But Lily—”

Estelle stilled.

“She died because I didn’t act sooner. Because I trusted the wrong man. Because I clung to the belief that I could walk in two worlds and not drown in both.”

Estelle’s voice, when it came, was hoarse. “Do you believe Sirius did it?”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that people don’t always wear the faces we remember.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

They stared at each other across the candlelit desk.

Estelle’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted a finished vial to the rack. “I was fourteen the first time I transformed.”

“I remember, we were still close then.”

“Sirius was so proud. He joked that I beat him to it.”

Severus’s voice was dry. “No one wanted to be outdone by the girl.”

“He used to call me Poe, you know. Because of the raven. Because I was always reading macabre stories and quoting lines about death.”

Severus allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Poe…” he said, as if testing the name on his tongue. “No, I didn’t know. It’s… Fitting.”

“Do you remember what you used to call me?”

He blinked. “No.”

“My middle name. Ophelia.”

Severus froze. “I—”

“You liked the way it sounded. Said it suited me better than Estelle.”

There was a silence.

“You were different then,” she added softly. “So was I.”

Severus looked away.

“I’m not looking for absolution, Severus. I’m not trying to dredge up the past to make you squirm.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She took a deep breath. “I think I just needed to say something out loud. Anything. To someone who remembers it all. Who doesn’t need the footnotes.”

He looked back at her, his face unreadable. “I remember everything.”

Estelle offered a tight smile. “That’s what scares me.”

A small laugh escaped him—more breath than sound. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.

“If they come back,” he said finally, “if the Ministry decides you’re worth investigating further… I’ll handle it.”

She met his eyes, something like gratitude flickering behind her tired expression.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. But I will.”

They worked in silence after that. Vials stacked neatly, parchment annotated, notes sorted into careful order. But the quiet now felt like an accord rather than avoidance. A truth buried beneath the surface, yes, but acknowledged.

It was only when they were cleaning up that Estelle murmured, “I still don’t know what to believe. About him.”

Severus didn’t have to ask who she meant.

“Then don’t believe anything yet,” he said. “Just stay alive long enough to find out.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s the plan.”

And for the first time that night, Estelle believed it might actually be possible.

-

They sat at her desk with the greenhouses map spread out, working through logistics in silence for a while—Estelle’s fingers moving more quickly now, Severus’s notations precise. The air settled again. Whatever ghosts the Aurors had brought in with them, Estelle was slowly forcing out with ink and purpose.

But as Severus scrawled a note beside the frost-repelling charms column, he said quietly, “They’ll be back.”

Estelle paused. “I know.”

“They’re watching everyone close to the case. And they’ll be watching you closer than most.”

She said nothing.

“They’ll be looking for cracks.”

“Then I won’t give them any.”

Severus looked at her, something unreadable in his expression. And then, just barely, he nodded.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

August 31, 1993.

The castle breathed with the slow anticipation of a storm.

It was the last evening before students would return. House-elves darted through corridors, polishing lanterns and straightening tapestries. Candles hovered above the long tables in the Great Hall, unlit for now, like stars waiting to be born. The air inside Hogwarts had shifted—still, charged, and expectant.

Estelle was organizing a small drawer of parchment slips, each one scribbled with herbal cross-breeding combinations that she intended to trial this term. She sat curled on the windowsill of her quarters, ankles tucked beneath her, a half-empty teacup resting precariously beside a pile of sharp quills. Her thoughts kept drifting—Remus had looked tired again at breakfast, and she hadn’t seen Severus since their latest curriculum review two nights ago.

A knock at the door startled her.

She unfolded herself quickly and padded barefoot across the stone floor. She opened the door to find an unexpected figure waiting there.

“Headmaster,” she said, surprised. “Is everything alright?”

Albus Dumbledore smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Everything is in motion, my dear. May I come in?”

“Of course.” She moved aside to let him enter.

He stepped into her quarters with the kind of ease that suggested he’d been there many times before—even if he hadn’t. His blue eyes swept over the papers, the steaming pot of tea, the cracked window letting in the dusk. “Still working.”

“There’s always more to do,” she said. “The first years will likely trample my new Valeblossom shoots on day one.”

“That’s what enchanted walkways are for,” he said with a twinkle. “Though I suspect your Valeblossoms will prove more resilient than the students.”

She folded her arms and leaned against the hearth. “You didn’t come here to talk about Valeblossoms.”

“Quite right.” He peered at her for a moment. “I’ve a request. Or rather, a proposal.”

Estelle raised a brow.

“I’d like you to serve as co–Head of Slytherin House,” Dumbledore said simply.

She blinked. “Co–Head?”

“With Severus.”

Estelle stared. For a long moment, the words didn’t settle properly in her mind. “Surely you mean *either* of us, not *both*.”

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back. “I believe the two of you will strike the right balance—intellect, authority, and vision for the House. And, if I may be blunt, Slytherin needs a change in tone.”

Estelle felt something bristle in her chest. “I haven’t even taught a class yet.”

“All the better. Fresh eyes.”

“And Severus?” she said. “Does he know?”

“I’ve asked him to meet me in the staff lounge in ten minutes. I hoped you would join us.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Why now?”

Dumbledore turned to her fully. “Because the House needs direction. And the time is right.”

“Why do you think that?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out her window to where the lake shimmered in the dying light. “Because the world is shifting again. And Slytherin students—ambitious, clever, powerful—will look for something to anchor them. You and Severus have known darkness and made different choices. Together, I believe, you might offer them something new. Not fear. Not blind ambition. But strength, and discernment.”

Estelle folded her arms tighter. “I’m not sure I’m the right choice.”

“I am.”

There was no room for argument in his voice.

She exhaled. “Alright. But I’m telling him it was your idea.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I’d expect nothing less.”

---

They met in the staff lounge as the sun dipped behind the mountains. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the summer heat, and tea steamed in a chipped blue pot on the side table. Severus was already there when Estelle and Dumbledore entered, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable.

“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore greeted. “Thank you for coming.”

Severus gave Estelle a brief glance—something like suspicion mixed with curiosity—but said nothing.

“I’ll be direct,” said Dumbledore, easing into one of the chairs. “I’ve asked the two of you to serve as co–Heads of Slytherin House.”

Severus looked up sharply. “Co–Heads?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “I believe it’s time for a dual approach.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Surely one of us can manage the responsibility alone.”

“Certainly,” Estelle echoed, arms crossed. “You’ve already been here for years. It makes more sense for you to take it.”

“Or you,” Severus said flatly, “if you’re aiming for full reintegration into the school community.”

“I’m not aiming for anything,” she shot back.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

“Children,” he said with infuriating mildness.

They both looked at him.

“You’ll do this together,” he said. “It is not a matter of capability. It is a matter of need. Two voices, balancing each other, can steer the House better than one. Septima Vector will be leading Hufflepuff. Filius, Minerva, and Pomona retain their respective Houses. And Slytherin will have you both.”

Estelle glanced at Severus. His expression remained carved from stone.

“We’ll divide responsibilities,” she said quietly. “Split the rounds. Share correspondence.”

“And students’ discipline?”

“Jointly,” Dumbledore said. “And you’ll meet with me weekly.”

The silence stretched.

Then Severus spoke. “If she becomes insufferable, I’m blaming you.”

Estelle gave a sharp breath of disbelief. “You’re *already* insufferable.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Excellent. I look forward to a productive year.”

He left them with that, robes sweeping behind him.

Estelle and Severus stood in the stillness.

“So,” she said.

“So,” he echoed.

Neither moved.

Estelle glanced at the fireplace. “We’ll need to coordinate dorm visits. And passwords.”

“I’ll handle curfew logs,” Severus said stiffly. “You take inventory on student supplies.”

“Fine.”

Another pause.

Finally, she added, “Don’t expect me to be warm and fuzzy.”

He gave her a look. “Merlin forbid.”

She turned away before he could see the ghost of a smile tug at her mouth.

---

Back in her quarters, Estelle finally collapsed into her armchair. The co–Head of Slytherin House. She had never wanted it. Never expected it.

And yet...

She thought of her old dormitory—of the girls who never spoke much, who wore silence like perfume. She thought of the boys who drifted toward cruelty for lack of direction. She thought of Severus, once brilliant and lost, and of herself, clawing toward light.

Maybe this was Dumbledore’s way of forcing two fractured pieces to become something whole again.

Or maybe it was just a bloody headache waiting to happen.

She closed her eyes and muttered, “Here we go.”

And somewhere down in the dungeon, she suspected Severus was muttering the exact same thing.

-

The hour had passed midnight, and the castle was quiet—eerily so.

Estelle lay in bed, fully aware that sleep would not come. Her thoughts were too loud. The stone ceiling above her felt both far away and crushingly close, as if the entire castle pressed downward, waiting. Tomorrow the corridors would thunder with trunks and chatter, owls fluttering and shoes squeaking on stone. But tonight—tonight was all breath and silence.

She rose with a sigh and pulled on her dressing gown, a rich charcoal green that shimmered faintly in the low torchlight. Her bare feet made almost no sound as she stepped into the corridor and padded silently toward the staircase. She didn’t even need to bring her wand. She remembered every corridor of this castle as if it lived in her bloodstream.

Her path led her deeper into the dungeons.

It had been years since she last walked this way, but the air hadn’t changed. Cool and mineral-rich, tinged with moisture and something ancient. As she passed familiar stone archways, Estelle felt the years blur. For a moment, she was sixteen again, stalking toward her common room after an argument with Sirius in the Entrance Hall. Or fourteen, arms linked with Regulus, whispering jokes as they snuck licorice wands from the kitchens.

The snake-shaped carving on the wall just past the narrow stairwell to the left signaled she was close.

She stopped outside the Slytherin entrance. The wall had no handle, only a smooth expanse of stone with a tiny emerald embedded at eye level. She pressed her hand gently to it.

The stone whispered open.

A rush of green light met her.

The Slytherin common room had always been beautiful in its eerie, underwater way. The ceiling arched high above like the ribs of some ancient sea creature. Long windows lined the far wall, revealing the murky depths of the Black Lake, where shadows swam lazily past and the occasional grindylow flickered like a phantom.

Cool green torches flickered along the walls, casting soft, wavering light over plush emerald chairs, dark leather armchairs, and tall-backed thrones near the fire. A silver chandelier floated overhead, charmed to sway gently with the movement of the lake currents above. Carpets sprawled across the stone floor in patterns of scales and runes, so familiar Estelle could’ve traced them in her sleep.

It was grand, yes—but also secretive. A place built to impress and intimidate.

She let her fingers run along the back of a velvet chair.

Everything was still polished, though no students had occupied the space since June. She passed the fire, still flickering faintly from the enchantments left behind by the house elves, and made her way toward the hallway that led to the dormitories.

The lower levels of the dorm tower descended in a gentle spiral, with the youngest students housed nearest the surface and the upper years deeper in the lake’s shadow.

Estelle took the stairs slowly.

The first-year dormitory was small and tidy—six green-curtained beds arranged in a perfect circle. She smiled faintly at the nervous energy she remembered from her own first night here. Her trunk had been too heavy, her wand clutched tightly in her hand, her new robes too stiff.

The second-year dorms held more space, more books piled by beds, more signs of magic gone slightly wrong—burn marks on the stone from a misfired hex, glitter embedded into the floor. The third-year room was where she’d started to feel at home. She had a sudden flash of late nights with her roommates: Reia Thorne, who always smelled like cinnamon oil, and Anika Velt, who kept a garden of enchanted moss in a shoebox by her bed.

She passed into the fourth- and fifth-year levels, pausing occasionally to peek into the sleeping quarters. The memories came fast and unbidden—duels in the hallways, heartbreaks whispered behind closed curtains, long letters to Regulus or Remus scribbled and unsent.

The sixth-year dormitory felt different.

It had always been her favorite: quieter, deeper in the lake, the water outside the windows darker and more mysterious. This had been the year of transformation—when she’d earned her animagus form, when she and Severus had drifted apart for good.

By the time she reached the seventh-year dorm, Estelle’s heart felt like it carried the weight of all seven years.

Her old bed was still there, at the corner of the room nearest the broadest window. She reached out and brushed a finger across the carved edge of the bedpost. She had etched a tiny rune there in her final term, a private sigil of protection.

It was still there.

Estelle didn’t sit. She wandered back through the rooms, retracing her steps upward until she passed the uppermost levels again.

The Head Boy and Head Girl quarters were a short walk from the main staircase. Estelle had only visited once, when she and James had drunkenly broken in during a game of truth-or-dare in their seventh year. She chuckled at the memory. He had been a menace—but a delightful one.

She turned back toward the common room.

The silence felt heavier now. The lake above swirled gently, casting shifting green shadows across the stone walls.

And that was when she saw him.

Severus stood near the central window, arms crossed, gazing out into the depths of the lake as if the answers to all his burdens were hidden in the gloom. His silhouette was unmistakable—tall, cloaked in shadow, still as a statue.

Estelle froze.

She had seen him in so many postures over the years: hunched over a cauldron, stalking down corridors, shoulders tense and sharp. But like this, backlit by the lake’s otherworldly glow, he looked… softened. Almost spectral.

She cleared her throat.

He didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“No.”

Estelle crossed the room slowly, drawing near until she stood just a few feet behind him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice low.

“I could ask you the same.”

“I used to live here.”

“So did I.”

He still hadn’t turned to face her.

Estelle looked at the lake instead. A shadow passed by—a squid, maybe, or a kelpie. The water shimmered, glassy and alien.

“I forgot how green everything is,” she murmured.

“Enchanted torches,” he said absently. “And the reflection of the lake.”

She studied his profile.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

That earned a faint scoff. “Of course not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I am.”

“You never used to be.”

“That was before I had to teach.” She gave a dry smile. “And before I had to share House duties with *you*.”

That made him glance sideways.

“There are worse fates,” he said after a moment.

She shrugged, watching his expression. “I suppose I’ll find out.”

They lapsed into silence.

The water rippled outside, and light played across the walls in serpent-like ribbons.

Estelle wrapped her arms around herself.

“I always thought it was strange,” she said. “How this room—this whole House—was built under a lake. Like we’re meant to live beneath everything. Watch the surface world from below.”

Severus finally turned to face her, slowly.

“But also shielded from it,” he said. “Harder to reach.”

“Or easier to forget.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Then he asked, “Do you regret being in Slytherin?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I regret what it turned some of us into. But I’ve never regretted the ambition. Or the cunning. Or the loyalty.”

He tilted his head. “Loyalty?”

She looked at him, and for a second, the air between them grew thick.

“To the ones we choose,” she said.

Severus studied her. His face was unreadable, but his voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“You should sleep. Tomorrow will be chaos.”

She nodded. “You, too.”

They didn’t move.

The silence between them wasn’t unfriendly. Just old. Worn-in, like a familiar coat.

Then she turned and walked slowly back toward the common room entrance. The stone wall whispered open at her approach.

As she stepped into the corridor and glanced back, she saw him again—still staring into the deep, the green light framing his face like a phantom in the dark.

And then the wall slid shut between them.

Chapter Text

September 1, 1993.

The silence didn’t last.

By breakfast the next morning, it was as though Hogwarts had taken a breath after a long slumber—and then exhaled in a roar of chaos.

Trunks bumped against stone steps, owls shrieked from the rafters, and the air was thick with laughter, complaints, and shouted greetings. Students flooded the Entrance Hall in clusters, robes whipping behind them like cloaks of battle, voices overlapping in every corridor.

Estelle stood at the top of the marble staircase beside Minerva, who watched the chaos with her usual sharp expression and arms folded tightly across her chest. It was the kind of mess that meant the school was alive again.

“Ready for it?” Minerva asked, flicking a sharp glance sideways.

Estelle took a long breath and said, “No.”

Minerva gave a short snort that might’ve been a laugh. “Good. That means you’re sane.”

Below them, a pair of second-years began dueling with fizzing wands over a spilled potion kit. Filch was already yelling about it from the other side of the hall.

Estelle caught a glimpse of Remus across the crowd, his robes already rumpled, trying to separate a trio of overexcited Hufflepuffs from a first-year who looked like she was about to cry.

Somewhere, Peeves whooped and launched a water balloon over the banister.

Estelle barely ducked in time.

She turned to Minerva. “Tell me again why I agreed to this.”

“Because you love punishment.”

“I thought that was Severus’s department.”

At that moment, Severus strode past behind them, black robes billowing like stormclouds. He didn’t break stride, but said in a dry, low voice, “Remind me to deduct points from Slytherin for that insult.”

Estelle blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

Minerva sighed and muttered, “Merlin help me, we’re not even at the feast yet.”

By evening, the castle had been rebalanced—just barely. The students were shepherded into their places, the House tables gleamed with candles and silverware, and the ceiling of the Great Hall reflected a dusky purple sky bruised with clouds.

Estelle sat at the staff table, her posture collected, but a small knot of tension coiled beneath her ribs. She wore black robes embroidered subtly with dark green trim, her hair pulled into a long braid threaded with silver ribbon. Beside her, Remus was nervously straightening a pile of parchment. On her other side, Severus sipped water with a look of studied disinterest as students gawked at the staff.

Estelle leaned toward him. “They’re trying to figure out if we’re related or dating, I guarantee it.”

He didn’t look up. “Let’s give them a real mystery to obsess over.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

Severus didn’t answer.

The ancient Sorting Hat sat atop its three-legged stool at the front of the Hall, looking more ragged than ever.

Estelle watched from her place at the staff table, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes drifted over the rows of students—some jittery and flushed with nerves, others sprawled with lazy entitlement. First-years huddled by the doors like nervous ducklings, wide-eyed and whispering.

Then the Sorting Hat twitched.

It yawned, the rip of its seam splitting like a grin.

And then it began to sing.

“When Hogwarts rose from ancient stone
Four founders claimed their thrones,
With wit, with courage, heart and guile—
They made this school their home.

The brave were drawn to Godric’s call,
The just to Helga’s care,
To Rowena flew the sharpest minds,
And sly ones Salazar would dare.

But time has passed and tides have turned,
Old ways now feel the strain.
I warn you once, as I did before:
Division breeds disdain.

So choose your path with open eyes,
And mind your House’s name—
For unity may one day hinge
On how you play this game.

Four Houses, yes, but one great school—
That’s how you must remain.
Or else the spark that lights your wand
May flicker out in vain.”

The Sorting Hat fell silent.

There was a pause—heavier than usual—before the Hall burst into polite applause. A few older students glanced at one another. Some of the professors, Estelle noted, looked similarly uneasy.

“Another warning,” Remus muttered beside her.

“They always seem to come before trouble,” Estelle murmured in return.

Minerva rose to call the first name.

Estelle folded her arms loosely, watching the Sorting begin. One by one, the first-years approached the stool. Some rushed forward as though afraid the Hat might vanish; others had to be gently coaxed by Minerva, who wielded patience like a blade.

A girl with trembling hands was sorted into Ravenclaw after nearly five minutes of deliberation. A boy with bright red hair and a dirty smudge across his cheek practically bounced into Gryffindor before the hat had touched his head.

“Sylvia Greaves,” Minerva called next.

A tall, pale girl with wide grey eyes stepped forward. She looked like she was walking to a guillotine. Estelle watched her hesitate before sitting on the stool.

The Sorting Hat didn’t take long.

“Slytherin!”

There was polite clapping from the Slytherin table. Estelle’s eyes flicked to them.

The House she once called home.

They sat a little too upright. Their glances at the staff table were wary, flicking between her and Severus. She recognized that look. Slytherins watched everything—they didn’t cheer blindly like Gryffindors, didn’t bounce in delight like Hufflepuffs. They assessed.

When the final name was called—“Zacharias Twombly”—and the Sorting was done, Minerva lifted the stool and the Hat in one graceful motion. Dumbledore rose as she retook her seat.

Estelle sat straighter.

The Headmaster’s voice was clear and warm. He welcomed the returning students and offered a few words of caution—no magic in the corridors, the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden, Mr. Filch’s ever-growing list of banned items now numbered 437. As he spoke, Estelle let her gaze drift.

Estelle sat stiffly beside Remus. She sipped at her goblet of water, half-listening to the sea of student voices rising and falling in waves. Her heart, surprisingly, beat faster than it should. She hadn’t realized how strange it would feel to be on this side of the hall—to look out over so many new faces and know none of them knew her. And yet somewhere down there—

“He looks just like James,” Remus murmured.

Estelle blinked. “Hmm?”

Remus nodded his chin subtly toward the Gryffindor table. “Third from the left. Across from the twins with the red hair. The boy with the messy hair and round glasses.”

Estelle’s gaze followed. And there he was.

There—at the Gryffindor table, just beyond the sea of heads and flickering light—

Harry Potter.

Estelle’s heart ached.

He looked both lost and luminous.

She hadn’t truly let herself imagine what seeing him would feel like. Not until now.

The boy sat with wide eyes, drinking everything in—the floating candles, the talking ghosts, the nervous chatter of his peers. He leaned toward the redhead beside him—a Weasley, she assumed—his mouth tugging into an incredulous smile. His robes hung a little long, like they’d been handed down twice over, and his jet-black hair refused to stay combed, as though in some cosmic act of rebellion.

But it was the scar that arrested her breath.

A faint line, like a pale bolt of lightning, carved into the boy’s forehead. Half-hidden by his fringe, but unmistakable.

He turned his head to laugh at something, and for the briefest moment, Estelle swore she saw James.

Not just the resemblance—though it was there in the jawline, the smirk, the restless flick of his eyes—but the presence. That stubborn spark. That glint that had once filled the Gryffindor common room with too much noise and too much heart.

Her throat tightened.

“He’s been polite,” Remus said, voice low, as though sensing her storm. “Kind. Curious. He helped a nervous girl find a seat on the train. Asked a lot of questions, but never rudely.”

“You chaperoned the journey?” Estelle asked, still watching Harry.

“I did.” Remus nodded. “Dumbledore asked me this summer. Thought it might help some of the kids to have a familiar face escort them, since the Prophet’s been spreading panic.”

Estelle let out a soft breath. “You didn’t mention you’d seen him.”

“I didn’t know how to describe it,” Remus replied. “The way he looks at the world. Like it might vanish if he blinks. But not frightened—just… like someone who’s never been told he belongs anywhere.”

Estelle’s chest ached.

“He told me about the Dursleys,” Remus added. “Just a little. I don’t think he realizes how abnormal it is. Sleeping in a cupboard. Barely getting birthday cards. He said it like he was reciting facts from a textbook.”

Estelle turned her eyes away, pressing her lips together.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” she asked. “Not really.”

“No. Dumbledore says it’s not time.”

A pause.

“And Sirius?”

Remus shook his head faintly. “He doesn’t know about him either.”

Estelle nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the Gryffindor table. Harry had turned now to listen to something the redhead was saying. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips quirking upward a second later in amusement.

He was so small.

Smaller than she expected. Thin. Pale.

And yet something burned behind his eyes.

Estelle folded her hands in her lap to stop them from trembling.

“I used to hold him,” she said softly, so softly she wasn’t sure Remus even heard. “When he was only hours old. Lily was still glowing. James kept tripping over the bassinet.”

Remus reached under the table and gently touched her hand.

“He’s here now,” he said. “He’s alive. And he’s going to be okay.”

She nodded once.

But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Not entirely.

Not with the past clawing its way back through the shadows.

Not with her brother on the loose.

Still, she watched Harry for a long time, etching the lines of his face into her memory. Memorizing the way he moved, how he laughed, how he leaned forward when he was curious and scowled when he was confused.

If this was James’s son… if this was Lily’s boy…

Then he deserved to be seen.

Just then, Dumbledore stood.

The Headmaster’s robes were a deep midnight blue, adorned with tiny embroidered moons that shimmered faintly as he lifted his arms.

“Another year,” he said, voice ringing warmly through the hall. “Another chance for wonder. For learning. For growth. For far too many cauldron explosions and an unacceptable number of gillyweed thefts.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

Estelle smiled faintly, watching the man who had invited her back into this strange, beautiful world. For a brief moment, it felt okay again. Not simple—but okay.

Dumbledore’s tone shifted as he continued.

“This year, we are joined by not one, but two new professors—familiar faces to some, and fine ones at that. Professor Lupin, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Applause.

“—and Professor Black, our new Herbology instructor.”

A low buzz. More clapping. A few curious whispers. Estelle gave a polite nod.

“And for those of you in Slytherin House,” Dumbledore continued, “you will be glad to know that you are in excellent hands. This year, your House will be led not by one Head, but by two—Professor Snape and Professor Black.”

Estelle’s stomach dropped.

The buzz exploded. Slytherin students craned their necks to look at her and Severus. The other tables reacted with surprise, a few even with discomfort. The idea of two Slytherins—one infamous, one mysterious—at the helm was clearly already fodder for gossip.

Severus muttered, “He could’ve warned us before the announcement.”

Estelle’s fingers tightened around her goblet. “He wanted drama.”

“And he got it.”

The feast began in a flurry of clinking dishes and wide-eyed first-years trying not to embarrass themselves with floating treacle tarts. Estelle picked at her meal, half-listening to the conversations around her. It was too loud, too bright. Too full of people she hadn’t taught yet but would soon know intimately.

After dessert, as the students trickled out toward their dormitories, Dumbledore made his way to Estelle and Severus. His eyes twinkled with a kind of cosmic mischief.

“You’ll do marvelously,” he said.

Estelle opened her mouth to speak, but Severus got there first.

“Why now?”

Dumbledore tilted his head.

“Why us?” Estelle clarified. “Why both of us?”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “Because I think Slytherin House is ready for something different. And I think you two are the right kind of different.”

“That’s not an answer,” Severus said.

“It is, just not a satisfying one,” Dumbledore replied. “Still. I trust you both to find your footing. Slytherin needs leadership with vision—and conscience.”

He turned away before either of them could argue.

Estelle glanced sideways at Severus.

“Vision and conscience,” she murmured. “That’s going to look hilarious on the House bulletin board.”

“We should order matching badges,” he replied dryly.

She almost laughed.

Almost. 

The feast eventually wound down, bellies full and voices hoarse from conversation. One by one, the students filed out of the Great Hall, shepherded toward their dormitories by their Prefects and House Heads.

Estelle stood near the doors with Severus, watching the younger Slytherins cluster together in uneasy excitement. The older students had already begun falling into their familiar rhythms, but the first-years huddled like deer caught in wandlight.

Severus gave a small nod. “Shall we?”

Estelle stepped forward, her voice smooth but firm. “Slytherins, this way. First-years, stay close to the front. The dungeons can be… confusing.”

A few of them looked up at her, eyes wide. The hallways beyond the Great Hall stretched out like dark veins into the heart of the castle, lit only by flickering torches. The further down they went, the cooler the air grew, until a damp chill settled over them like a second robe.

The procession moved in relative silence, aside from the occasional nervous whisper. Estelle noticed a small boy—skinny, with a dark mop of curls—glancing repeatedly behind him as if half-expecting something monstrous to creep from the shadows. She slowed just enough to walk beside him.

“What’s your name?” she asked gently.

“Cassian Avery,” he mumbled.

Estelle nodded. “Avery. You’ll be just fine, I promise. The dungeons look scary, but once you learn the path, you’ll find them comforting. It’s quiet down here. Peaceful.”

Cassian didn’t respond, but he stopped looking over his shoulder.

They arrived at the entrance to the common room: a stretch of blank stone wall beneath a carved lintel etched with the ancient crest of Salazar Slytherin—serpent coiled in a spiral of runes. The torches here burned green, casting long shadows across the students’ faces.

Severus turned to the group.

“This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room. It is not marked. It will not open without the password, which will be changed regularly and communicated to you through the Prefects. Tonight’s password is ‘Vipera Nocturna.’”

As he said the words, the stone wall melted away, revealing a long, low corridor that opened into a cavernous room beyond.

The first-years gasped as they stepped inside.

The Slytherin common room was unlike any other at Hogwarts. Grand, shadowy, and serene, it stretched out beneath the Black Lake like a submerged cathedral. The ceiling arched high above them, supported by emerald-flecked columns carved with ancient serpents. The walls were built of dark stone, and enchanted windows offered a dim, rippling view of the lake—shoals of silver fish darted past in nervous bursts of light.

Deep green velvet sofas curled around low tables of black marble. Silver lanterns floated in the air like hovering moons. There was no fireplace, only enchanted sconces and the gentle shifting glow of the lake beyond.

Estelle watched the students file in, their hushed awe a mirror of what she’d once felt standing in this very spot. The sense of grandeur. Of hidden knowledge. Of power that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

Severus stood at the front, arms crossed.

“I am Professor Snape,” he said curtly. “Potions Master. And this—” he gestured to her without looking, “—is Professor Black. Herbology.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the students.

“Yes, that Black,” Severus added flatly. “And if any of you are foolish enough to think this earns you favor or permission to misbehave, you’ll find yourselves sorely mistaken.”

Estelle stepped forward, her voice cool and even. “We are your Heads of House this year. We expect you to represent Slytherin with pride and self-control. That means discipline. Intelligence. Strategy. The House of ambition is not the House of recklessness.”

Severus picked up seamlessly. “Your common room is yours. Treat it with respect. Keep it clean. Keep it private.”

Estelle nodded. “We do not take kindly to visitors from other Houses, nor do we tolerate the sharing of passwords. If you wish to be trusted, be trustworthy.”

“Curfew is at ten. The dormitory wards activate then, and anyone caught wandering will answer to us.”

She let her gaze sweep the room. “Prefects, you know your duties. First-years, follow them now to your rooms. You’ll find your things already delivered.”

The group began to disperse. As the students drifted away, Estelle remained still, watching their backs, noting the pairings and groupings already beginning to form. It always started early—the shifting tides of House politics.

“Effective speech,” Severus said beside her.

“You didn’t even threaten to poison them. I’m impressed.”

“I save that for the second day. Builds suspense.”

She gave a faint laugh.

When the last student vanished up the staircases—boys to the left, girls to the right—Estelle turned slowly to take in the room again. The walls breathed with memory. Her own adolescence echoed here, ghost-like, in the distant creak of a leather chair or the soft glug of the underwater lamps.

“I haven’t been back here since graduation,” she murmured.

Severus watched her carefully.

“It’s changed little.”

“No,” she said, her voice softer. “But I have.”

They lingered another moment, then finally Severus inclined his head toward the door. “Shall I walk you back?”

Estelle blinked. “Oh—you don’t have to.”

“I know.”

She didn’t argue.

They moved through the torch-lit corridors side by side. The halls were quieter now, save for the occasional murmur of a portrait or the flutter of bats overhead. Estelle found herself aware of the space between them—not close enough to touch, not far enough to ignore.

It felt strange, being walked back like this. Gentle, almost domestic. Something Sirius might’ve done once. Something James would’ve teased her about. But Severus…?

He stopped just outside her quarters.

“Well,” she said awkwardly, brushing a hand over her sleeve. “Thanks for…”

“For not letting you get lost in your own dungeons?” he said with dry amusement.

She smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

A brief pause.

Then, unexpectedly, Severus said, “Good luck tomorrow.”

Estelle looked up, startled.

He didn’t elaborate. Just inclined his head.

She hesitated. “Thank you.”

He turned to go.

And for some reason, her voice caught him before he could disappear around the corner.

“Severus?”

He turned halfway, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

His face didn’t change—but the air between them did. A shift. Subtle. Like something acknowledged, but not spoken aloud.

And then he was gone.

Estelle stood in the corridor for a long moment after, the words she hadn’t expected still ringing in her own ears.

Then she stepped inside, let the door close behind her, and pressed her hand against the wood.

The year had begun.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure whether that thought made her want to smile—or run.

Chapter Text

September 2, 1993.

The castle was awake.

Gone were the heavy, murmuring silences of summer. Gone was the stillness that clung to torch-lit halls like cobwebs, the echoing footfalls of just a few professors and ghosts. Hogwarts, in all its chaotic splendor, had returned to life.

Estelle stood at the tall window of Greenhouse Three just before dawn, watching the lake shimmer beneath a pale pink sky. Her breath fogged the glass as she pulled her long teaching robes around herself. The calm before the storm. She had not taught a single student yet, but her hands were already stained with soil and ink.

By breakfast, the Great Hall was buzzing. Owls wheeled overhead, goblets clinked, and students slouched sleepily into their benches while others bounced with the kind of nervous energy Estelle remembered vividly from her own first days.

At the staff table, Estelle sipped black tea and stole sidelong glances.

Harry Potter was sitting at the Gryffindor table, flanked by a girl with wild brown curls—Hermione Granger, she presumed—and a boy with bright hair that could only belong to a Weasley. Harry looked… ordinary. Pale, slender, with round spectacles and a slight frown of focus as he spooned eggs onto his plate.

But he had James’s eyes.

And Lily’s mouth.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the teacup.

“You mentioned you met him on the train,” Estelle murmured, glancing to her right. “Chaperoning?”

“Of course,” Remus replied, reaching for a piece of toast. “He and his friends found their way into my compartment. Bit of a Dementor scare on the ride—long story.”

Estelle blinked. “Dementors?”

Remus nodded, more serious now. “They’re patrolling the school. Ministry’s orders. You-know-who escaping Azkaban and all.”

Her stomach twisted, but she said nothing.

She watched Harry for a long moment more before finally standing and heading off to her first lesson.

Her first class of the morning was third years—Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, bright-eyed and fidgeting in their seats as she conjured an enormous bulbous plant from the storage cabinet.

“Who can identify this beauty?” she asked smoothly, letting her voice fill the glass-paneled room.

A girl from Ravenclaw raised her hand. “Mandragora officinarum?”

“Very good,” Estelle said with a small smile. “And someone tell me why we must use earmuffs when handling it?”

Hands shot up.

It wasn’t quite the rhythm she remembered, but it was close. There was something grounding about the structure of a classroom: the questions, the notes, the moment a child’s face lit with understanding. It was enough to settle the humming nerves in her spine.

First years came next, squirming with excitement and trying not to spill their ink. Fifth years were tougher—too cool for enthusiasm, too tired to care—but Estelle had a sharp tongue when needed and knew how to snap a rowdy class back into place. And the seventh years… well, they respected her. Or at least they feared what she might assign.

By mid-afternoon, her legs ached from standing and her hands were smudged with compost, but her mind was humming.

She passed Remus in the corridor between classes, and the two exchanged tired smiles.

“Still standing?” he asked.

“Barely,” she replied. “You?”

He gave her a look. “Ask me again after the fourth years.”

They parted with a knowing laugh.

At dinner that night, the staff table was subdued in a way that could only come from collective exhaustion. Estelle slipped into her seat beside Remus, her hair still faintly dusted with pollen.

“Severus,” she said, nodding to where he had just taken his seat. “How were the dungeons?”

“Boiling,” he said dryly, pouring himself a glass of water. “Though a surprising number of students arrived prepared. Someone must be teaching them proper study habits.”

Estelle gave him a thin smile. “Clearly not the third-year Ravenclaws. One girl fainted at the smell of pickled murtlap.”

Remus chuckled, reaching for a slice of pie. “How did the first years handle Devil’s Snare?”

“Terribly,” Estelle said with affection. “I let one of them get tangled just enough to learn a lesson. Nothing too scarring.”

Across the table, Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch were deep in conversation, debating Quidditch team potential. Septima Vector was scribbling figures on the back of her napkin, muttering about rotating Arithmancy tutors. The noise of the hall was warm, alive.

Estelle leaned back in her chair, letting the quiet satisfaction of the day wash over her.

It was only the first day. There would be late essays, exploding cauldrons, midnight patrols, and tearful detentions. But there would also be laughter. Learning. Moments of triumph, however small.

And maybe—just maybe—this year would allow her to begin stitching her own life back together.

For the first time in many years, Estelle did not dread what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

September 3-7, 1993.

Tuesday arrived with a kind of cruel punctuality, dragging Estelle from bed before the sun had even lit the Black Lake. Her chambers were quiet save for the soft hoot of Icarus from his perch and the dull rustling of her heavy teaching robes. She dressed with mechanical care—dark forest green robes cinched at the waist with a silver sash, and a thin braid wrapping over the crown of her head, keeping her black hair out of her face. The rest tumbled freely down her back. She looked every bit the part of a Slytherin professor.

And yet, she felt the same unease she’d worn since returning to Hogwarts.

The day began with first-years, wide-eyed and trembling, trying not to spill soil or faint at the sight of shrieking mandrakes. Estelle softened slightly for them, speaking with patience and a gentle wit that eventually coaxed smiles from the Gryffindor girls and even got a nod of respect from a stony-faced Slytherin boy.

But the real test came during her third class of the day: third-years.

She stood in Greenhouse Two, organizing a series of carefully labeled jars, when the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs filed in. Estelle’s hand paused mid-air as she caught sight of the boy at the front of the Gryffindor line.

Harry.

He looked so young. Younger than she expected, even having seen him at the feast. Up close, the resemblance to James was sharper—but the eyes, those were all Lily. Wide, bright, and already worn by things he shouldn’t have known yet.

He sat beside a girl with a frizzy mane of brown hair—Hermione Granger, no doubt—and a freckled, gangly redhead who could only be Ron Weasley.

Estelle’s voice caught as she started the lesson.

It was meant to be a basic introduction to the properties of flitterbloom, a lively plant with useful applications in calming draughts and anti-anxiety tinctures. Normally, Estelle could have taught it with her eyes closed.

But that day, everything felt skewed.

She found herself drifting into half-thoughts: how Harry furrowed his brow when confused, how he instinctively protected his friends from the plant’s twitching vines, how his laughter was quieter than she remembered James’s ever being. It was a softer sound. More careful.

She had to catch herself more than once.

At one point, Hermione raised her hand with a question, and Estelle blinked as though resurfacing from deep water.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Hermione, clearly startled, repeated her question. Estelle answered her smoothly enough, but the distraction lingered like a film over her eyes.

By the end of the lesson, she was exhausted.

She watched Harry leave with his friends and only allowed herself a single breath of relief once the door closed behind them.

Wednesday passed in a blur of older students and more confident lessons. Estelle found her rhythm again in the seventh-year Ravenclaw–Slytherin class, where she challenged them to identify toxic herbs with only scent and texture. A Ravenclaw girl misidentified venomous tentacula as drakespike and nearly lost a finger—Estelle snatched her hand back just in time with a sharp, “That one bites.”

By Thursday, she began feeling like a real professor. She gave points for cleverness, scolded for recklessness, and—once—magically scrubbed a student’s hands when they refused to wear gloves while handling Bubotuber pus. The boy gagged. Estelle barely held back a grin.

Then came Friday.

Fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. Her last class of the week.
And, apparently, the one that would test her patience most.

Estelle was halfway through a diagram on fluxweed harvesting timelines—her quill drawing a precise oval around the words full moon cycle only—when she heard it.

A faint fizz, followed by a high-pitched POP!

She froze.

The class turned.

From behind one of the larger planters in the back of Greenhouse Three, a cloud of glittering pollen erupted in a shimmering purple cloud, raining down over several students. The unmistakable scent of puffapod blooms filled the air—sweet and dizzying, like candy and overripe fruit.

Estelle slowly turned.

Two redheaded boys sat at their station, blinking innocently through the haze of petals drifting around them like enchanted snow.

Fred and George Weasley.

She could see it written all over their faces. The unrepentant delight, the flash of shared mischief that bounced between them like a silent twin-language. George had a smudge of pollen on his nose. Fred was twirling his wand with the smug energy of someone who expected to be punished and praised in equal measure.

Estelle took a long, slow breath and stalked down the aisle. Her heeled boots echoed against the stone floor, softened only by the moss creeping in from the planters.

The class held its breath.

Fred leaned back slightly, elbows on his desk, as if lounging in a hammock.

George propped his chin on one hand. “Lovely weather for blooming, don’t you think?”

“Puffapods are sensitive,” Estelle said coolly, surveying the carnage. “They bloom only when dropped. Or detonated.”

George gave her a wide-eyed look. “You think we’d detonate flowers, Professor?”

“That’s a strong word,” Fred added. “We prefer… proactive botany.”

A Slytherin girl near them snorted.

Estelle crossed her arms and stared. “Do you think I’ve never met a prankster before?”

They faltered.

The silence stretched long enough for uncertainty to flicker across Fred’s face. George shifted in his seat.

“We thought the puffapods could use some extra attention,” George said, halfhearted now.

“Educational, really,” Fred echoed.

Estelle didn’t smile.

She simply said, “You know, I have a twin too.”

That got their attention.

Fred sat up straight.

George froze, his grin half-formed.

“Do we…” Fred trailed off. “Do we know them?”

Estelle tilted her head. Her dark hair shimmered as it shifted over her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow as if to say, “really?”

Silence.

Actual, echoing silence.

Even the puffapod petals seemed to stop drifting midair. A boy near the front of the class dropped his quill with a soft clatter, but didn’t move to pick it up.

Fred’s eyes went wide.

George’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

They knew. Of course they knew. The entire castle had been humming with it for weeks—Daily Prophet headlines, whispered speculation, auror interviews. Estelle Black, twin sister of the escaped convict. Sirius Black, mass murderer. A name etched into fear, now hanging from her like an old cloak she couldn’t shake.

She let the weight of their reaction settle.

The fear. The awe.

The tension so thick it might have been a potion in mid-boil.

Then Estelle smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“I’m kidding.”

The class exhaled as one.

Fred and George let out matching, strangled laughs.

“That—” Fred gasped, wiping at his forehead. “That was—”

“—horrifying,” George said. “Absolutely awful.”

“Brilliant,” Fred corrected, nodding.

Estelle raised a brow. “So. About the puffapods.”

“Cleaning it now,” George said, leaping up.

Fred followed, summoning a broom with an apologetic flourish. “We’ll have it looking like a greenhouse again, Professor. Swear it.”

Estelle stepped back, letting them scramble. The rest of the class began to stir again, conversation resuming in hushed, jittery bursts.

As Fred passed her, he whispered, “Honestly, though. You had us convinced.”

“I didn’t say which part was the joke,” Estelle replied.

He stumbled slightly.

George chuckled, clearly unnerved but impressed.

And from that day on, the twins never tested her patience again—not because they feared her, but because they’d joined the small, exclusive club of students who respected her.

Because she’d scared the absolute daylights out of them—and made them laugh while doing it.

And that, they understood.

That evening, Estelle found herself back at the staff table with Remus and Severus, nursing a cup of strong tea and trying not to fall asleep in her soup.

“You were quiet today,” Remus said softly, eyeing her from beneath sandy lashes.

“I was tired,” she replied. “Third-years took it out of me.”

“You mean Harry took it out of you.”

She didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t know who you are,” Remus added. “Not really.”

“I know.”

”No preconceived notions,” he added.

”Sure.”

“You looked at him like he was a ghost.”

Estelle stared into her teacup. “He is. Just not his own.”

Remus said nothing.

Severus, across the table, watched her with a flicker of something unreadable.

“Don’t burn out in week one,” he said. “You’ll ruin my bets.”

Estelle blinked. “You’re wagering on staff collapses?”

“Only the most promising ones.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “That’s dark, even for you.”

“It’s realistic,” Severus replied.

Estelle gave a thin smile. “You know, I had my own pool running back in the day. On which professor would last the year.”

“Who usually won?” asked Remus.

“McGonagall,” they said in unison.

They all laughed.

For a brief, shining moment—it felt like the old days.

Almost.

By Friday night, Estelle was collapsed in her armchair, boots off, hair down, Icarus preening smugly on his perch.

She’d survived her first week.

Barely.

She held in her lap a stack of notes from her various classes—corrections to make, lists of plants running low, a scribbled reminder to talk to Severus about a dwindling store of gillyroot. But she didn’t read them. Instead, she watched the candlelight flicker over her walls and thought about the Weasley twins. Their laughter. Their lack of fear.

And Harry.

Who smiled like James but flinched like someone raised in the dark.

She’d need time to make peace with that.

But at least, for now, there was time.

And that had to count for something.

Chapter Text

September 8, 1993.

By Saturday evening, Estelle Black was thoroughly, comprehensively, and almost heroically exhausted.

She sat slumped at the long staff table in the Great Hall, her elbows braced on the edge, a half-drunk goblet of pumpkin juice in front of her. Around her, the other professors were in varying stages of collapse or animation, depending on how their week had gone. Professor Flitwick was cheerily levitating his silverware into neat stacks while muttering charms to keep the napkins folded. Professor Sinistra was rubbing her temples like she could feel the stars spinning. Severus, of course, looked exactly as he had on Monday morning: cold, composed, and mildly disgusted by everyone around him.

Estelle was trying to remember the last time she had eaten a full meal without being interrupted by a question about flobberworms, fertilizer ratios, or the ethics of de-thorning a Venomous Tentacula.

Remus caught her eye across the table and raised a brow.

She nodded—just once—and stood up.

Ten minutes later, they were out on the front steps of the castle. The sun was just dipping low behind the Forbidden Forest, and the wind carried the smell of autumn—crisp leaves, woodsmoke, and the faintest tang of apples gone soft on the trees.

“You look dead,” Remus remarked cheerfully.

“I feel worse,” Estelle muttered. “I think a fifth year asked me today whether Dragon Dung Compost was edible.”

“Was it a Slytherin?”

“Ravenclaw.”

Remus snorted. “Of course.”

They walked in easy silence down the path toward Hogsmeade. Neither had changed out of their robes, though Estelle had thrown on a dark green cloak to keep the wind off. Her braid was unraveling slightly at the nape of her neck, and she didn’t bother fixing it.

“You sure you don’t want the Three Broomsticks?” he asked.

“No. Too crowded. Too… cheery.”

“The Hog’s Head it is.”

They arrived just as the first chill settled into the cobblestones. The Hog’s Head looked as run-down as ever—frosted windows, a crooked sign, and a goat tied to a post that let out an offended bleat as they passed.

Inside, the pub was dim and smelled faintly of smoke, pinewood, and something very old and slightly sour. Aberforth gave them a grunt of recognition and wordlessly poured two Firewhiskies. They took a booth in the far corner, out of earshot from the other patrons—a collection of grim-faced loners and suspicious figures hunched over their pints like they were hiding national secrets in them.

Estelle took a sip and hissed softly at the burn. “Merlin. I forgot what that felt like.”

Remus grinned. “First week done.”

“Barely.”

“How were classes?”

She let her head tip back against the booth. “Chaotic. Charming. Loud. I nearly got decapitated by a potted Puffapod that decided it wanted to bloom mid-lecture.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve had one minor duel, two crying first-years, a Gryffindor who tried to turn a Boggart into his ex-girlfriend, and someone left a sandwich in the desk drawer that sprouted legs and ran off during third-year. All in all? A success.”

They clinked glasses.

For a while, they sat in the glow of quiet satisfaction that only came after surviving something ridiculous. The light flickered gold against the scratched wood of the table. Estelle rested her chin in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

Then Remus said, casually, “How are things with Severus?”

Estelle blinked, then gave a tight, weary smile. “You waited a whole drink to ask. I’m impressed.”

“Professional restraint,” Remus said. “So?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “One minute he’s speaking to me like I’m the only one who understands him, and the next, it’s like I’ve walked into a wall made of ice.”

Remus quirked an eyebrow. “That sounds about right.”

“Is he always like that?”

“To most people, yes.”

“But not you?”

Remus hesitated. “We’ve come to a sort of truce over the years. Professional respect. That’s as much as I can say.”

Estelle ran her fingers along the rim of her glass. “It’s like… he says things sometimes that make me think I really see him. And then he shuts down again. Hard.”

“Secrets?”

Her eyes flicked up. “Maybe.”

Remus leaned forward. “Estelle.”

She held his gaze for a long beat.

And then she shook her head.

“I’m not telling you.”

Remus blinked. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” she said softly. “But they’re not my secrets to tell. And honestly… some of them are tangled up in mine.”

Remus was quiet for a moment, studying her with that thoughtful, slightly sad look he always wore when things got serious.

“Alright,” he said finally. “But if you need to talk about *your* secrets…”

She gave a wan smile. “I’ve talked about too much lately. The Aurors wanted the inside of my soul spilled on their desk.”

He nodded slowly. “You alright after that?”

“No,” she said. “But I will be.”

They sipped their drinks.

A few minutes passed before Estelle, more to herself than anything, muttered, “He asked me if I dreamed of Sirius.”

Remus flinched.

She shook her head. “I didn’t answer. But the truth is, I do. Sometimes. Not in any helpful way. Just memories all jumbled up. Sirius laughing. Sirius bleeding. Sirius with soot in his hair and curses on his lips.”

Remus didn’t speak. Just waited.

“I wanted to scream at them,” she said. “That he used to be good. That we were kids once. That he saved my life more times than I could count. That we built something. That… I still have a feather he gave me when I first learned to shift.”

Remus’s brows furrowed. “You kept that?”

Estelle reached into the inner pocket of her robe. Carefully, she drew out a tiny black feather, soft and curved like a raven’s wing.

“I don’t even know if it’s from him or just something I told myself was. But it’s mine now.”

She set it on the table between them.

“I miss who we all were,” she said. “Before everything went to hell.”

“So do I.”

They drank.

Eventually, Remus leaned back and asked lightly, “So… what exactly did Fred and George do?”

Estelle cracked a smile. “Tried to hex my chalk into drawing lewd pictures on the board.”

He choked on his drink. “And?”

“I told them I had a twin too.”

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say who. Just ‘a twin.’ They went sheet-white.”

He howled. “Estelle!”

She grinned. “I waited five seconds. Then told them I was joking. That I was the one with the sense of humor.”

“And they bought it?”

“Not entirely. But they shut up and started listening. I think I won them over.”

“Merlin help us,” Remus said, “if the Weasley twins start idolizing you.”

“They already asked if I’d show them how to brew a sleeping potion that works on ghosts.”

“Please say you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” she replied. “Yet.”

Remus downed the rest of his drink. “We’re doomed.”

Estelle laughed. It was the first real one in days.

They sat in the flickering light until the night stretched long and their conversation wound through the past, the present, and the strange liminal space of almost-truths between.

Estelle thought, not for the first time, how lucky she was to have someone like Remus. Steady. Honest. Haunted in all the same ways.

And yet, her thoughts still drifted—inevitably, frustratingly—back to Severus.

To the things unsaid.

To the coldness and the cracks.

To the moments of almost-kindness, almost-truth.

To the silence.

Chapter Text

September 9, 1993.

Sunday morning arrived like a breath held too long finally let go. No classes. No meetings. No lesson plans. Just the hum of castle life unfolding around her like steam off a teacup.

Estelle Black rose early.

The halls were still and hushed as she made her way to the staff entrance, broomstick in hand and the sleeves of her flying cloak rolled past her elbows. Her boots tapped softly against stone, and for once she didn’t mind the silence.

The Quidditch pitch was empty in the early morning light, the high golden hoops casting long shadows over the dew-slick grass. Estelle stood at the edge of the field, her broomstick in hand, the bristles still neat from disuse. A faint mist clung to the edges of the stands like ghosts reluctant to let go of the night. She could hear birdsong and the occasional croak of a distant toad, but otherwise, the world was still.

She mounted the broom in one smooth motion, something that had once been instinct, muscle memory written into her bones. As soon as her feet left the ground, she felt a rush—not just of wind, but of memory. The moment her robes began to flap around her boots, Estelle was sixteen again, her hair wind-lashed and wild, the weight of a Slytherin captain’s badge heavy on her chest and ambition in her blood.

The air was cool and clean up here, and the sky wide open. She circled the pitch once, slowly, reacquainting herself with the altitude, the tilt of the broom beneath her, the steady pressure of her knees bracing against the shaft. Then, gradually, she sped up—looping higher, weaving between the goalposts, diving toward the pitch before pulling up at the last second, laughing aloud as her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t the kind of laugh she gave students or colleagues. It was old and unguarded. A secret laugh.

Estelle had played Chaser for six years. Even in her seventh year, when most were ready to hand off their responsibilities and coast toward N.E.W.T.s, she had fought harder than ever to bring Slytherin to the top of the rankings. She’d played in rain, snow, even with a cracked wrist from a failed duel with an overconfident Gryffindor. Her flying had been graceful, calculated—ruthless, if needed. She still remembered the roar of the crowd, the rush of air, the sound of a Quaffle hitting leather.

“Pass to Black!” the echo of a long-ago teammate’s shout rang in her memory. “Go, go, go!”

It wasn’t just sport. It had been her freedom. Her identity. A piece of herself that she’d locked away in the shadows of adulthood and war and grief.

She flew again now with a kind of reverence—diving, twisting, testing the broom’s response, feeling the strain in her arms as she pushed against the wind. She dipped low, skimming just above the grass, then soared upward again with a tight spiral that left her laughing breathlessly at the sky.

And in that moment, she understood why this still felt right.

Flying was the closest thing to becoming the raven.

Her Animagus form—something else long hidden. Something sacred. Flying reminded her of the weightlessness she only ever felt when she let go of the human parts of herself and became something wilder, older, freer. The way the wind pulled at her, the way instinct took over—it was the same. As if her body remembered what her mind tried so often to forget.

The raven form had always given her clarity. And yet there was something uniquely satisfying about flying like this—on a broom, human heart still pounding in her chest, arms aching, cheeks flushed from wind and adrenaline.

She flew for nearly two hours before she finally coasted down to the pitch, landing lightly on the balls of her feet and resting her broom against her shoulder. Her hair was windswept, her braid undone at the edges, but her eyes were brighter than they’d been in days.

For the first time in weeks—maybe longer—she felt something like herself again.

Something alive.

When she finally touched down near the far side of the pitch, she was smiling.

But still not ready to go back inside.

Tucking her broom under her arm, Estelle wandered toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The trees loomed, tall and dark and swaying. Many teachers warned students away from the forest like it was a haunted tomb. Estelle saw it differently.

She knew its paths. Its breath. Its rhythm.

She stepped beneath the canopy with a calm she hadn’t felt in days, laying her broom against a tree near the forest’s edge.

The light dimmed. Birdsong softened. The air grew cool and sweet, thick with moss and the scent of old bark. Estelle walked without aim, letting her boots crunch along narrow trails half-swallowed by undergrowth.

It wasn’t long before she heard the sound of hooves.

Not hurried. Not charging. Just… approaching.

Estelle stopped and waited.

From between the trees, a tall centaur emerged.

His coat was dark as ink, his torso broad and scarred. His hair was braided with twigs and bits of starlight. His eyes—startlingly human, gold-flecked—met hers with neither aggression nor welcome. Simply presence.

“You are not a student,” he said.

“No,” Estelle replied, still and respectful. “Professor Black. Herbology.”

The centaur nodded once. “You walk in stillness. Move lightly. Few do.”

“I was taught to respect the forest.”

“As you should.”

They stood in silence for a beat. Then the centaur stepped closer, nostrils flaring.

“You carry grief.”

Estelle didn’t flinch. “Most people do.”

“But yours is old. Heavy. Not yet put down.”

She met his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

“Grief often is.”

He turned his gaze skyward, toward a patch of filtered light.

“Storms are coming,” he said.

“I’m aware.”

“You think of a boy. The one with the scar.”

That made her stiffen.

“You think of his father. His mother. And of the one who shares your blood.”

Estelle exhaled slowly. “You see too much.”

The centaur’s voice softened. “We see what others avoid. That is our curse.”

Another silence fell.

Finally, Estelle asked, “Do you know what’s going to happen?”

The centaur tilted his head. “We see paths. We see stars. We do not always know how the paths bend.”

Estelle nodded. “Still… thank you.”

He nodded in return. “Walk lightly, Estelle Black.”

And with that, he turned and vanished into the trees.

She stood there for a while longer, heart heavy and light all at once.

Then she turned back toward the castle. Toward the path ahead.

-

Estelle lingered in the greenhouse longer than she meant to. The air was thick with warmth and the rich scent of loamy soil. Ferns tickled her ankles as she moved through rows of enchanted flora, adjusting the light filters above the more delicate seedlings and casting minor charms to prune the creeping vines of a particularly unruly Sopophorous plant.

A nearby Dittany sprig trembled when she passed, reacting to the change in humidity. She touched its leaves with practiced ease, muttering a quiet charm to bolster its roots.

Time disappeared here.

That was the danger—and the comfort—of the greenhouses.

By the time the storm clouds rolled in thick and dark, Estelle emerged blinking into a sudden drizzle, startled by how much the sky had changed. She tossed a shielding charm over her robes and made her way back through the castle.

Instead of returning to her quarters, she found herself drawn somewhere else—an old refuge.

The library.

Its tall arched windows had always been a quiet place to think, and Estelle needed quiet now more than ever. She pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside, grateful for the shift in atmosphere. The warmth of the lamps, the hush of pages turning, the occasional quill scratch or suppressed sneeze—familiar, comforting sounds.

Her favorite window seat was mercifully empty. She curled into it, setting her broom gently against the wall, and watched the storm bloom over the lake. Rain lashed the glass in fits, hissing against the panes and tracing faint rivulets down to the stone sill. Lightning forked in the distance, illuminating the skeletal silhouette of the Forbidden Forest beyond the water.

Estelle didn’t reach for a book.

Her thoughts were too tangled.

The centaur’s words still echoed through her skull like prophecy.

“You will be asked to choose, Estelle Black.
You will be pulled between loyalty and truth.
You will not be spared the weight of either.”

She folded her arms around her knees.

The centaurs did not speak lightly. Their visions were strange, yes—often metaphor wrapped in shadow—but rarely wrong.

What was she meant to choose?

Wasn’t she already torn in too many directions?

Loyalty. To Sirius? To Hogwarts? To Dumbledore, who gave her this chance? To Severus, whose trust she was still puzzling over? To Remus, who knew more of her soul than anyone left alive?

And truth—what truth?

That her brother may have done all the things they said?

That the boy in the Great Hall—the boy with Lily’s eyes—was living under a weight no child should carry?

That no matter how far she’d come, her past still held the reins?

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass, watching the world blur beneath the rain.

A memory surfaced—uncalled for, sharp around the edges.

She and Sirius, maybe sixteen, maybe younger, sneaking out after hours with stolen Butterbeer and a tattered copy of Greatest Quidditch Strategies of the Century. He’d flown loops around the pitch until he dropped the bottle midair. She’d laughed so hard she nearly fell off her broom. He’d tackled her in the grass and called her a menace.

“Don’t go soft on me, Estelle,” he’d said once. “We’re Blacks. We don’t get to be ordinary.”

She blinked hard and sat up straighter, banishing the image.

The storm outside had eased to a gentle curtain of rain, the lake rippling beneath it like a breathing thing. Students wandered in and out of the library in pairs, whispering and giggling, but none came near her alcove.

Eventually, she rose and stretched, brushing crumbs of dirt from her robes. Her hands ached from hours of work, but her mind was no calmer.

She stepped into the hall, moving through the quietening castle toward her chambers. Her boots left faint prints on the damp stone floor.

By the time she reached her room, she was chilled and exhausted.

Inside, the fire had burned low. She tossed a few logs onto it and muttered an ignition charm. The flames responded with a hungry crackle.

Estelle kicked off her boots, lit a few floating candles, and curled up in the windowseat of her own room, drawing her knees to her chest.

Outside, the storm was passing. The lake shimmered in moonlight, broken by the occasional ripple from something beneath the surface. The windows glistened.

She thought about the centaur’s eyes—deep and endless—and the warning she had been given.

She thought about Harry.

She thought about Sirius.

She thought about herself, younger, wilder, crueler in some ways. Before the war. Before Azkaban. Before everything was carved into grief.

And then she rose, crossed the room, and opened her desk drawer.

Inside was a small, stoppered vial.

Her personal store. The calming draught. Brewed perfectly, familiar as breath.

She swallowed a single sip and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets over her shoulders with shaking fingers.

Sleep came slow, then all at once.

But the dreams?

They came faster.

Chapter Text

September 10, 1993.

Estelle drifted in the half-light of another realm—a corridor outside of time. The walls around her stretched too high, made of dark mahogany that gleamed as though wet, and somehow inflated, breathing. The scent of old polish, candle wax, and something musky hung thick in the air. There were no windows, no furniture—just endless hallway, shimmering with dim reflections that flickered in and out of existence. When she looked back, her footprints vanished within seconds; when she looked forward, the hallway stretched farther than it should, as though the castle had rearranged itself around her.

The only sound was her heartbeat—loud, dipped in glass, echoing off invisible walls. She tried to step forward and felt the corridor contract, walls drawing in as if testing her will. Each footfall felt borrowed. She was aware but not present—like a ghost in her own mind.

The air trembled ahead of her. She hesitated, senses heightening until she sensed him before she saw him: a figure at the corridor’s end, backlit by a shadowy glow.

He turned.

The figure stumbled forward; the glow dimmed. She recognized him before his face resolved—tall, lean, dark hair wild. And eyes… oh, those eyes: blazing embers before death. No softness, but pain. The crowd of lost souls she felt hovering behind him receded—he stepped out of their tangle of silence.

He wore a dark coat, long and ragged, its hem melting into shadows. Over one shoulder, he carried something heavy—something wrapped in cloth, his posture bowed to hold it. The corridor’s walls grew wetter behind him, dripping slow rivulets that glistened like tears, falling to puddles that spread their dark stain across the floor.

He stopped mere inches away. His eyes burned, pupils dilated like an animal cornered but willing to fight.

Elle…

The word brushed over her cool skin, soft as silk, as jagged as broken glass.

She reached toward him. Her hand opened, but her fingers passed through him like smoke. He gasped (she could feel it as a tremor beneath her palm). He swallowed something unsaid.

He stepped closer and took her hand—

—not a vision, but her hand, warm with blood and muscle, strong.

She felt the roughness of his palm, calloused from too many years of waiting in prison. She smelled him—smoke and ash, a hint of grassy freedom that defied the bars of his cell. His grip tightened as though she might vanish again if he weren’t certain she was real.

The corridor walls quivered. Shadows slipped along the wood, animated, reaching. Behind him the dripping worsened—each drop echoing like a clock counting down.

Elle…

He said it again. No anger. No anger. Just longing and fear, and something broken, like a piece of him had been chipped away years ago and never truly healed.

Her chest clenched. Her lungs burned. The darkness pressed at her back, urging her to run, but she couldn’t—couldn’t move.

The corridor’s sheen began to warp, as though breathed upon by a million ghosts. The polished floor split into spiderweb cracks that crawled out from under her and Sirius’s feet. Walls bulged, as though swelling with something alive. From one corner, a portrait of ancestors materialized—faces she recognized but couldn't name, coiffed in Victorian garb, eyes hollow, mouths sewn shut. Behind them, laughter of children in the next room—a memory she couldn’t place.

The floor cracked deeper, pooling darkness at their ankles. The puddles pulsed. Sirius’s knots of cloth slipped partially down his arm. Beneath, she glimpsed skin—pale, cold, dead-white. Maybe a second too late, she realized it wasn’t just ragged cloth but the shape of a body—like he’d carried someone inside him.

No. She shook her head.

His fingers curled around hers tighter now. She felt the pulse under his skin—fast. He held her gaze.

They slid to the ground as the floor buckled; she stumbled, but he caught her other hand. His grip caught her breath—familiar. Seeing him again from the prison wigged out reality. He didn’t look free. He looked starved. A worn skeleton of the boy they’d once been, but eyes still burning.

Elle… help me.

His whisper mixed with the patter of raindrops against—no—inside the corridor, like the droplets had invaded the space. They threaded in her ears, drowned her thoughts.

He knelt. She did too. They were chest to chest.

The walls curved in overhead, columns bending to pin them in. A mirror hung above them, vapor-coated—she heard her name in hushed voices along its warped glass. She could barely see her reflection, but she felt it: the twin bond humming between them—a magical thrum that pulsed off him, off her, off the unmoving corridor.

He pressed her hand flat against the broken wood beside her. The broken “quartz tile” floor quivered like a beast about to wake. She could no longer distinguish him from the corridor—something ancient stirring. The walls breathed with their combined heartbeat.

He leaned forward, forehead against hers. His breath cold on her blades of hair.

“I lost him,” he rasped, voice corkscrewed by nightmares. “He was the key. I know he is.” The something he carried shifted, heavier. The air thrummed with the cloth’s loosened corners.

The corridor trembled. A low hum, like a chorus of voices chanting an old name. The tiles cracked wider. A distant echo of a train whistle. Of Hogwarts—of Hogsmeade. The duality of home and prison warred in her chest.

She tried to look clearer into his face—metalled by grief. He stared back, unblinking.

Elle. I know where I am. I can’t leave. I can’t find him.

The corridor dissolved. Mirrors shattered. The tiles shot upward as if liquid. They were airborne. Grainy wind rasped through them. And beneath her feet—no feet—the corridor was gone. They hovered above a cliff edge. Dead trees clawed the dark sky. Moonlight slashed through broken clouds. Below: an endless black sea, roiling with white foam.

His grip snapped tight. Bone-palpable fear.

She recognized the cliff—Blackstone Head maybe? A cliff near an ocean. Not here. Not Hogwarts. Somehow not now. Not her world. Or her past.

He held her there, suspended. He said no more. He stared inward.

Then the wind screamed.

And the darkness rose.

She jerked awake—

Estelle awoke on the edge of something she couldn’t fathom, body pressed against stone. But no stone floor. Just panic and damp fabric against bare skin—cold, choking cold.

She gasped. Her arms shot out. The walls of her bedroom closed in—her tapestry, her bedpost, the moonlight on her walls.

No corridor. No cliff. Just damp pajamas and tangled sheets.

She was safe. And not safe.

Estelle’s chest burned. Sweat dripped down her spine. Icarus, hooting soft and worried from his perch, ruffled as if waking.

It was Sunday.

Too early. But she’d been gone. Her sense of dream-touch still lingering on her fingertips.

She sat up on the bed—barefoot, blanket clutched tight—and stared at nothing.

A dream. Just a dream.

But she could still feel his grip. Hear his voice—Elle—deep in her chest.

She forced her breath, slow and measured at first, throaty and jagged by the end. She stared at the moonlit window until the world wherever that cliff was receded from view. The corridor vanished. The tide evaporated.

It was a dream.

But was it?

Her twin bond pulsed. Ancient and unbreakable. She remembered how, in school, they’d once stretched across a classroom and felt each other’s fright when a friend cast a spell too fast. A laugh they’d shared across common room fires without voice. And now this—something so visceral it had nearly drowned her in sleep.

Cold sweat soaked her night clothes.

She pressed damp palms to her thighs—her own body. Real.

It had been a dream.

She repeated it aloud—for a heartbeat she believed it.

But she couldn’t pretend the corridor hadn’t been real, either. Or the cliff. Or Sirius’s reach.

Estelle swallowed hard.

No Ministry. No Aurors.

She would say nothing. To no one.

It was just a dream.

She would bury it like the rest of her memories.

But—the grip. The voice. The word Elle. Too intimate, too last.

She slid from the bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her bare legs.

She had to shake this. Breathe.

Estelle didn’t leave her room that morning.

The dream clung to her like wet fog, heavy and curling through her ribs with each breath. She hadn’t dared to fall back asleep, and the pale light of dawn now stretched timidly across the stone floor of her quarters. She sat wrapped in a blanket on the edge of her bed, still barefoot, staring at nothing in particular.

The rational voice in her head told her it had been just a dream. But the sensation—of his hand around hers, the corridor that breathed, the weight of the sea below—felt real in a way nightmares usually didn’t. She could still feel the phantom cold in her palm, still hear that voice: Elle.

No Ministry. No reports. No confession. She wasn’t mad.

And she wasn’t going to give them anything they could use.

She finally stirred as the castle roused around her—bells echoing in the distance, the faint murmur of students gathering in the Great Hall. She had no appetite for communal meals. Even the thought of smiling politely across the staff table made her throat tighten.

She padded over to the fireplace and rang the small enchanted bell on the mantle. Within moments, a soft pop echoed in the room, and one of the castle’s older house-elves appeared, eyes wide, ears drooping a little beneath its tea towel turban.

“Mistress Black?” it asked in a hushed voice, bowing low.

“Could you bring me breakfast here, please?” Estelle said, voice softer than usual. “Just something small. Toast, fruit, and coffee—black. Thank you.”

The elf nodded with a tiny snap of its fingers and vanished.

By the time her tray appeared—levitating gently onto the edge of her writing desk—Estelle had already dressed in a thick wool robe over her nightclothes and tied her hair back in a loose braid. She ate in silence, absently chewing her toast while her mind wandered elsewhere.

There was a pull in her chest—not fear, not grief. Something else. Restlessness. Like a tide moving beneath the surface of calm.

She needed something to do.

She glanced toward the side of her room where a tall wooden door stood partially open, revealing the small adjoining greenhouse. Most professors didn’t have private ones, but Dumbledore had arranged it for her given the nature of her work and the upcoming curriculum collaboration with Severus. The space had quickly become her sanctuary.

Estelle rose, rinsed her hands in the basin, and walked barefoot across the floor toward the door.

The greenhouse greeted her with a rush of damp, fragrant air. Mist clung to the windows, and the enchanted ceiling—set to mimic the weather outside—cast a faint silver light through the leafy canopy above. The scent of warm earth and crushed mint filled her nose as she moved through narrow rows of foliage.

She picked a few fresh Moonlace blossoms from the shaded bench—delicate blue petals that shimmered faintly in the dim light—and clipped two sprigs of Bloodroot, careful not to let the red sap touch her skin. From a hanging basket, she harvested a few curled leaves of Whisperfern, used in stabilizing complex reactions. Each movement was measured, automatic, meditative.

As she returned to the main chamber of her quarters, she passed through the arched stone doorway into the brewing alcove she’d built for herself. A smooth obsidian cauldron sat atop a specially reinforced base, surrounded by copper racks lined with jars, phials, and rare vials of powdered minerals and preserved roots.

Estelle lit the fire beneath the cauldron with a flick of her wand and began organizing her ingredients on the slate counter.

This potion had consumed her thoughts for weeks now—an enhanced protective draught. Something different from your standard Antivenin or Shielding Potion. Most defensive concoctions were temporary or reactive—taken after a poisoning or hex had already begun its damage.

But not this.

No, this was designed to anticipate harm.

A ward in liquid form.

A potion that, when consumed, would linger in the bloodstream for days. It wouldn’t render a person invincible—nothing could—but it could significantly dull the effects of common hexes, minor poisons, and even reduce inflammation from curse exposure. Useful for students who practiced volatile magic. Vital for those who fought in wars.

She hadn't yet perfected it, but she was close.

The trick was managing the synergy between the defensive herbs and the catalytic base. Too much reactive compound and it risked poisoning the drinker; too little and the potion would break down before being absorbed.

Estelle measured three drops of Phoenix Ash Elixir into the cauldron. It hissed faintly as it mixed with the already simmering Bloodroot infusion, turning a muted, smoky violet. She crushed the Moonlace between her fingers and added it slowly, petal by petal, stirring counterclockwise with a smooth glass rod.

She worked for hours, losing herself in the precise rhythm of brewing—the sifting, the steeping, the stirring. The world narrowed to temperature, texture, and smell.

And in that silence, she felt her heartbeat steady.

The dream hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer sat so heavily on her shoulders.

She carefully shaved down a sliver of enchanted opal and stirred it in, watching as the potion shifted in hue—darker now, luminous along the edges.

Then came the Whisperfern, curled and shivering. She coaxed it into the brew with a mild heating charm, ensuring it didn't wilt or disintegrate before binding with the base.

The potion swirled.

Still not perfect.

It needed a final binder—something rare, something that would link the effects directly to the drinker’s magic, something not often used in mainstream potioncraft because of its scarcity and unpredictability.

She stared at her supply shelf for a long time.

Then, from a drawer beneath the workstation, she removed a small, silvery phial. A gift. Years ago. Something she'd hoarded all this time.

Dragon tear concentrate.

Not literal dragon tears—those were a myth—but a distillate from the lachrymal glands of an Opaleye, used in some forms of magical bonding. Highly volatile. Temperamental. But if used precisely…

She unstoppered the vial. Just one drop.

It hissed as it touched the potion’s surface.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the liquid turned a deep green, shot through with veins of pearly white that shimmered like wards drawn in ink.

It looked like something alive.

Estelle leaned over the cauldron, peering in, watching the potion settle. The surface grew still. The scent was clean—faintly metallic, with a breath of mint.

She dipped a thin crystal probe into the liquid and withdrew a sample, placing it onto a parchment rune circle she'd drawn for testing. The potion reacted smoothly—glowing only slightly, indicating stability.

No explosions. No burns.

A success.

It would still need refining, of course—long-term effects to be tested, dosages adjusted, secondary enchantments layered. But this was a breakthrough.

Estelle exhaled slowly, feeling a rare thread of satisfaction unwind in her chest.

Something good. Something real.

She looked toward the window above her workstation.

Rain still fell in gentle sheets, casting ripples across the glass. The lake beyond was grey and calm.

And though she still heard the dream echo in her mind, she also felt something else: focus.

This was her work. Her magic.

Her own way of fighting back.

She would tell no one about the dream. But this potion? This she might tell Remus. Maybe even Severus.

If she could find the right moment.

For now, she simply watched the potion swirl, green and gleaming in the firelight.

And for the first time that day, she allowed herself to feel a measure of pride.

Chapter Text

Mid September, 1993.

The rhythm came slowly, like an old song she had to hum under her breath before she remembered the words.

Three weeks into the term, Estelle Black had nearly relearned the choreography of castle life. Early mornings began with sharp tea and the low chatter of the Great Hall. She’d walk down to the greenhouses, boots clicking with purpose, and meet her students among the dew-drenched rows of magical plants. The greenhouses were alive with color and scent—warm with enchantments, abuzz with soft rustlings and bright bursts of movement from vines that liked to tug at shoelaces or nuzzle into pockets when no one was looking.

She found herself developing favorites.

The third-year Hufflepuff girl, Agatha Melk, was painfully shy but had a way with seedlings. They bloomed early for her and often. She never spoke above a whisper, but plants—like Estelle—seemed to hear her fine.

A Slytherin boy named Lyle Travers—no relation to the darker family branch, thankfully—was too clever for his own good and liked to try shortcuts when brewing root-binding potions. Estelle caught him once, brewing under his desk. She took five points, then secretly gave him extra credit for creativity.

In her first-year classes, the students were still trying to impress her—or hide from her entirely. One Gryffindor boy had set his hair ablaze while harvesting volatile snaregrass. Estelle had extinguished it with a flick of her wand and told him he was lucky it was just hair this time. The boy had stared at her like she’d hexed him. The next week, he arrived early, sitting in the front row with his quill already inked.

Even in the dungeons, she was beginning to carve out her place. The students called her “Professor Black” with varying degrees of reverence or suspicion. They’d expected her to be fierce, and she was—but in measured ways. She didn’t flinch from assigning difficult tasks or calling out idiocy when she saw it. But she also handed out praise as precisely as a cutting charm, and they knew it meant something when she did.

She took special care with Harry’s year.

She couldn’t help it.

He and his friends had become a kind of gravity around which much of the school orbited. Estelle noticed it more and more—how eyes followed Harry into rooms, how even professors adjusted slightly when he spoke.

For the first two weeks, Estelle kept her distance in lessons, especially with him. She treated him like everyone else. But sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, she’d catch herself staring. At the way he chewed his lip when he was nervous. At the way he always looked behind him when they left the classroom, like he expected someone to follow.

Some days, it twisted in her chest.

Other days, it made her work harder.

It wasn’t until the third week that she really worked directly with Harry.

The third lesson with the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff third-years had arrived with little fanfare, though Estelle had quietly marked it on her calendar. This was the week she’d planned to do more than simply survive Harry Potter’s presence in her classroom. She intended to teach him, really teach him, without getting pulled under by memory and shadow.

They arrived on time, muddy shoes and all. The greenhouse smelled of damp peat and fresh honeymint, the scent curling around the humid air like steam. Estelle stood at the front, arms folded, waiting until the last student—Neville Longbottom, breathless and pink-cheeked—slipped through the door.

“Today,” Estelle began, “we’re working with Fanged Geraniums. They are not as dangerous as their name suggests—but they are... temperamental.”

There was a collective groan from the Gryffindor side of the room.

She allowed herself a ghost of a smile. “I assure you, the whining will only make them bite harder.”

That earned a few nervous laughs.

She watched as the students paired up and gathered around the long workbenches where the potted plants waited, each of them sporting leaves with serrated edges and disturbingly tooth-like buds.

Harry Potter partnered with Ron Weasley, while Hermione Granger—unsurprisingly—paired with Neville and immediately began lecturing him about proper glove usage.

Estelle moved through the greenhouse slowly, observing the students’ technique.

Harry was scowling at his plant.

“Well?” she asked, coming to a stop beside him.

“It hates me,” Harry said flatly.

Estelle crouched beside the pot, tilting the ceramic just slightly with a gloved hand to inspect the roots. The plant snapped its leaves as if to protest.

“It doesn’t hate you. You’re just giving it too much space,” she said. “Fanged Geraniums like confidence. Treat them like they’re clever, and they’ll try to outwit you. You have to act like you’ve already won.”

She rose and watched as Harry tried to follow her advice. He reached forward with steady hands, speaking in a soft, coaxing voice. The plant quivered, then allowed itself to be repotted with minimal resistance.

“That’s more like it,” Estelle said, impressed.

Harry looked up. “Thanks, Professor.”

There it was again—that flash of James in his grin. And Lily in the softness around the eyes.

It shouldn’t have hurt the way it did.

By the halfway point of the lesson, Ron had managed to spill an entire tray of compost, Neville had shrieked when a geranium tried to gnaw through his sleeve, and Hermione had somehow tamed three plants at once with a charm she wasn’t technically supposed to know yet.

Estelle moved among the tables like a quiet current, correcting, encouraging, and—when necessary—casting a quick immobilizing spell to separate aggressive flora from defensive students.

As the lesson wound down, Harry was inspecting a tiny bite mark on the cuff of his robes. He looked up as Estelle approached.

“You know,” he said with a grin, “I think I like these better than Devil’s Snare.”

“Devil’s Snare at least has the decency to keep quiet,” Estelle replied, eyeing the geranium still snapping at Ron’s elbow.

Harry chuckled. “My mum hated Herbology, you know? Dad used to joke that she could hex an entire squad of Death Eaters, but one gnome and she’d be up on a chair screaming.”

Estelle blinked. Her breath caught.

She hadn’t expected him to speak of them. Not so easily.

“That... sounds like her,” she said softly. “Though she was never afraid of gnomes when I knew her.”

Harry tilted his head. “You knew my mum?”

The words hovered in the air like fog.

Estelle nodded, slow and measured. “Yes. I did.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but curiosity. As though trying to puzzle out who she had been to the parents he barely remembered.

“What was she like?” he asked quietly.

Estelle’s hands froze over the lip of a pot.

“She was brave,” she said. “Unapologetically kind. And clever in a way that made even Ravenclaws jealous. She could be sharp when it mattered, and gentle when it counted. And she loved fiercely. Especially you.”

Harry didn’t speak. His hand rested gently on the rim of his pot, fingers brushing the soil.

Estelle took a breath and added, “Your father, too. Though he was more of a menace.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s what everyone says.”

“He grew out of it,” she said, and her voice was thick with memory. “Eventually.”

The bell chimed, signaling the end of class.

Students began packing up, brushing dirt from their robes and chattering as they left the greenhouse. Estelle remained still as Harry lingered behind.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

“For what?”

“For the story. For not pretending you didn’t know them.”

Estelle nodded. “You deserve to know the truth. Even the small ones.”

Harry gave her a look she couldn’t quite read, then turned to follow Ron and Hermione out the door.

She watched him go, heart aching in that old, familiar way.

That boy had no idea how many people still loved him.

No idea how many ghosts followed in his footsteps.

No idea that she would burn the world down before letting him suffer again.

-

In one memorable fifth-year lesson, she paired Slytherins with Hufflepuffs and challenged them to identify five cursed herbs and one harmless mimic. Chaos followed, but she didn’t interfere until someone triggered a false Mandrake shriek from a booby-trapped planter. Then she cast a silence charm over the entire room and made them reset the tables by hand.

They learned.

She found that most of them could.

Outside class, the castle revealed its old habits.

The ghosts remained the same. Nearly Headless Nick still lingered in the upper corridors, always eager to trade gossip. The Bloody Baron had nodded once at her near the potions storeroom—an unsettling honor, she thought.

The portraits had longer memories than the students. Several whispered about her as she passed.

“She looks like her brother.”

“But not quite so mad.”

“I remember when she hexed the caretaker’s shoes to sing.”

Estelle pretended not to hear them, but sometimes she smirked.

The staff, too, were beginning to show their colors.

Charity Burbage was effusive, bright-eyed, and quick to share tea or laughter. Septima Vector, precise as ever, had already devised a spreadsheet for inter-house discipline tracking and was trying to recruit Estelle into using it.

Professor Flitwick remained his delightful self. He had already invited her to three dueling club demonstrations. “You’d be quite the showstopper, my dear!” he’d chirped. Estelle wasn’t so sure, but she enjoyed his enthusiasm.

Even Severus—grumbling, sharp-edged Severus—had softened in his way. They worked in companionable silence on their shared herbology–potions curriculum. He rarely spoke during their meetings, but when he did, his insights were surgical.

Sometimes she caught him watching her with a furrowed brow, like trying to decipher a difficult rune.

She didn’t ask what he saw.

The greenhouses became her sanctuary.

When students were gone and the castle quieted, Estelle often slipped into Greenhouse Three, the most temperamental of the lot. It was hot and pungent, full of fanged geraniums and venomous nettles. But it was honest. Plants didn’t lie. They didn’t pretend.

She could lose hours there.

Once, she was trimming back a patch of smotherleaf when Remus arrived, leaning in the doorway with an amused expression.

“You always did like the dangerous ones,” he said.

“Only when they don’t talk back,” she replied, wiping sap from her gloves.

They shared a laugh. Moments like that—brief but real—reminded her that she was still part of something.

She hadn’t vanished completely into memory or regret.

Each day, Hogwarts felt a little less like a haunted house of her past and more like something she might call home again.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Mid September, 1993.

The Slytherin common room was quiet when Estelle stepped through the entrance. The air was heavy with greenish light from the lake outside, and the torches on the walls flickered in irregular pulses, as if sensing her mood. A note from the Slytherin prefects had summoned her: incident involving first-years, possibly hexing, possibly Malfoy.

Of course it was Malfoy.

Estelle’s boots echoed sharply on the stone as she descended the stairs from her quarters. Severus had left for the weekend—something about a private meeting with a Potions supplier in the south of France, though he’d been maddeningly vague—and the task of managing Slytherin House had fallen solely to her. She’d accepted the responsibility without complaint, but she hadn’t expected it to rear its head so soon.

She spotted the prefects first—two fifth-years, one boy, one girl, both standing stiffly near the fireplace like guards awaiting orders.

“Professor Black,” the girl began. “We didn’t want to cause a fuss, but…”

“There was hexing,” the boy cut in. “Minor, but… unnecessary. Mostly showboating.”

“Names,” Estelle said briskly, though her jaw already ached with the suspicion she knew what would follow.

“Malfoy,” they said in unison.

Estelle closed her eyes for a breath, then nodded. “Where is he?”

“In the study alcove near the south side. We separated him from the first-years to avoid escalation.”

“Smart. I’ll speak with him.”

She dismissed them with a nod and crossed the common room, skirts whispering around her ankles. The further she went, the quieter the space became—till all that was left was the slow trickle of lakewater beyond the glass and the occasional creak of enchanted stone shifting in place.

She found him seated on a green velvet bench, one knee slung over the other like a miniature aristocrat awaiting a summons to court. Blonde hair slicked to perfection. School robes crisp and freshly pressed. He didn’t even look up when she approached.

Only when she stopped before him did he raise his eyes—steel-grey and cold, disturbingly like another pair she’d once known far too well.

“Ah,” he said, folding his hands. “Cousin Estelle.”

The words were like a slap.

Estelle kept her face neutral. “It’s Professor Black, Mr. Malfoy.”

His smirk didn’t falter. “I was told I’m to be reprimanded.”

“You’re to be spoken with,” she said coolly. “The reprimanding will depend on your answers.”

“I see.” He tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating her like one of his father’s prized artifacts. “You look remarkably young for a professor.”

Estelle arched a brow. “You look remarkably arrogant for a third-year.”

That got his attention. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but only for a second. “I simply meant—”

“You meant to remind me who you think you are. I’m quite familiar with the strategy.”

He sat up straighter. “I didn’t hex anyone directly.”

“But you encouraged others to. Staged a sort of demonstration? For your amusement?”

Draco didn’t answer.

Estelle took a step closer. “You may be used to certain allowances, Mr. Malfoy. Certain indulgences, especially in rooms full of people who owe your father debts of coin or fear. But I am not one of those people.”

He stared at her.

“In Slytherin House,” she continued, voice low and steady, “we foster ambition, not cruelty. I will not tolerate bullying under the guise of magical practice.”

“They were Mud—” he began, then thought better of it.

Estelle’s voice cut like ice. “Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you’re learning Herbology under a charm that turns every venomous plant in my greenhouse loose on you.”

His cheeks flushed.

“I suggest,” Estelle said, stepping back, “you spend the evening writing a formal apology to the three first-years involved. And then one to me for having to deal with this ludicrously idiotic situation on a Sunday. Deliver it to my seat at breakfast tomorrow.”

He opened his mouth—probably to protest, probably to invoke Lucius—but Estelle raised a hand.

“If I do not receive it, you’ll serve detention every weekend for the next month. And I’ll personally supervise.”

He shut his mouth.

Estelle gave him a look. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

He stood, stiff as a statue, and walked off toward the dormitory stairs without another word.

Estelle watched him go. The way his shoulders hunched slightly when he thought no one was looking. The way his fingers curled tightly at his sides.

Too much like Lucius.

And perhaps, underneath, too much like Sirius.

She turned on her heel and walked back toward her quarters, fury and unease mingling in her chest. The past had a funny way of showing up exactly when she didn’t want it to.

Morning came cloaked in fog, seeping through the high windows of the Great Hall and muting the gold and crimson tapestries in a soft grey glow. Estelle arrived early, as she always did, robes still smelling faintly of dandelion root and peppermint from yesterday’s brewing. Her tea steamed beside a plate of toast, untouched, as she opened the envelope propped neatly against her saucer.

The parchment bore a family crest she recognized all too well—Malfoy’s. Her jaw tensed reflexively, but she broke the seal and unfolded the note.

It was, technically, an apology.

But only just.

Dear Professor Black,

I regret that some of my actions were misconstrued as malicious or misinterpreted as threats. I understand that first-years may lack the sophistication required to appreciate certain advanced magical demonstrations, and for that, I am… marginally regretful.
Please consider this my formal acknowledgement of said misunderstanding, and be assured I will strive—within reason—to conduct myself in a manner more palatable to those with… sensitivities.

Sincerely (though not excessively),

Draco L. Malfoy

Estelle stared at the last line.

She sputtered.

Not quite a laugh. More like a sharp, scandalized exhale into her tea. The absurdity of it hit her like a rogue gnome to the shin. “Sincerely, though not excessively”?

She dabbed her mouth delicately with her napkin, trying—and failing—to hide the amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Something amusing, Professor Black?”

Severus’s voice, dry as ever, came from beside her as he slid gracefully into the seat to her right. His robes billowed slightly before settling around him like smoke.

Estelle didn’t look up as she handed him the letter. “Morning. Malfoy left me a love note.”

Severus raised one brow and accepted the parchment. He read in silence, eyes scanning with practiced speed.

A beat.

Then a second.

Then he gave the faintest exhale—a sound that might, in a more generous world, have passed for a scoff of laughter.

He glanced sideways at her. “Merlin’s bollocks. I can’t leave you unattended for twenty-four hours?”

“I suppose I’ve ruined him for life,” she said, sipping her tea. “He’s doomed to a career in sarcastic diplomacy now.”

Severus refolded the letter with elegant precision and returned it to the table. “It’s worse than sarcastic. That is barely-coded contempt. He’s testing your limits.”

“I’m aware.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m debating whether to charm every copy of Hogwarts: A History in the common room to shout ‘I’m sorry!’ every time he walks past.”

Severus gave her a flat look.

“Kidding,” she added. “Mostly.”

Across the hall, movement caught her eye.

Draco.

He sat at the Slytherin table, between two hulking boys who appeared to be arguing about toast. He wasn’t eating. Instead, he was watching her.

Their eyes met.

Estelle offered him the smallest, sweetest smile she could muster.

Then, very deliberately, she shook her head.

No.

Not good enough.

Draco blinked, then looked away with a slight flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Is it just me,” Estelle muttered, “or does that boy walk around with the full weight of a future trial lawyer already wedged in his spine?”

Severus didn’t answer right away. He was still watching Draco, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he said, “He has his mother’s posture. And his father’s venom.”

“That’s hardly comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Estelle picked up her toast at last, chewing slowly. The parchment lay between them like a flag of truce—or a challenge.

“I’ll give him one more chance,” she said. “A real apology. Or he’s reporting to me every Sunday for greenhouse sanitation.”

Severus smirked. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m fair,” Estelle replied. “And he’ll learn the difference.”

Across the hall, Draco slouched a little deeper into his seat.

And Estelle took another sip of tea.

Chapter Text

September 20, 1993.

The full moon loomed on the calendar like a warning bell no one else could hear. For Estelle, the date might as well have been circled in blood.

She met Remus in her chambers late that afternoon, the air thick with the scent of potions and damp stone. Cauldrons bubbled softly all around them, but the one at the far end of the room—sleek black, silver-rimmed, and temperature-enchanted—was reserved for a potion far more delicate than the rest.

“Are you sure about this?” Remus asked, arms folded, his expression pinched with worry.

Estelle didn’t look up from the finely chopped valerian root before her. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “We do this together.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The lines under his eyes looked deeper than usual. “Flying with me during the transformation—it’s not safe.”

“I’ve done it before,” she reminded him. “And you’ve never once hurt me.”

Remus fell silent, eyes dropping to the gently simmering potion. The soft, purple vapor rising from it caught the light in strange ways.

Estelle reached for a silver stirring rod, dipped it in, and gave the mixture a slow, counterclockwise stir—one… two… three. The motion was smooth, controlled, and precise.

The Wolfsbane Potion was an unforgiving brew. One wrong stir, one breath too fast, and it would curdle into poison. But Estelle had brewed it more times than she could count. Not because she had to. Because she refused to let Remus face it alone.

He watched her work with an expression too layered for words: guilt, gratitude, fear.

When it was done, she filled a deep blue goblet to the rim. The potion shimmered faintly, thick like syrup, and smelled of iron and crushed herbs.

Remus took it in both hands.

Estelle met his gaze. “You’ll still feel the pain. But it won’t own you.”

“I know.” He drank.

The potion slid down his throat, leaving a slight sheen on his lips. He grimaced, wiped his mouth with a sleeve, and said nothing more.

They didn’t need to.

---

Night crept in fast.

Estelle met him just beyond the Whomping Willow, where the roots were still and stillness was rare. A few whispered charms froze the tree’s movement, and the tunnel beyond yawned open like the throat of something ancient.

“You know the way,” she said gently.

Remus nodded. “I’ll lock the Shack after I’m inside. You’ll know when to follow.”

She watched as he disappeared into the tunnel, his silhouette growing smaller in the flickering wandlight. When she could no longer see him, Estelle turned and stepped into the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, far enough away from curious eyes, far enough from the castle lights.

And then, with a breath like surrender, she shifted.

Her body bent, cracked, dissolved into feather and claw, sinew and shadow. The raven burst into the air, midnight-black and gleaming, her wings slicing through the moonlight.

It was not pain that accompanied the transformation—it was memory. Her Animagus form had always been her escape, her freedom, her secret. The wind sang past her wings as she banked right, sweeping above the treetops, watching as moonlight spilled over the canopy like silver blood.

The shriek came shortly after midnight.

It wasn’t a human sound. Not quite. A mix of howl and snarl and ache.

The Shrieking Shack lived up to its name tonight.

Estelle circled once, then twice, before spotting movement far below. A shadow bolting from the Shack into the forest.

The wolf.

Lupin.

His gait was limping but strong. The potion was working—he had his mind, his control.

She followed, careful to stay high enough that her wingbeats didn’t disturb him. She would only interfere if he veered too close to the edge. If he turned toward the castle. If he lost himself.

But he didn’t. He ran like he was chasing something she couldn’t see. Or fleeing something he couldn’t name.

Estelle trailed him through the trees for hours, her wings aching but her instincts razor-sharp. Once, he stopped and lifted his nose to the sky. Another time, he sat beneath an ancient oak and let out a low, guttural sound—not quite a whimper, not quite a growl.

It was loneliness. She recognized it.

And then, sometime near dawn, something changed.

Estelle’s feathers prickled.

The air shifted. Cold. Hungry.

The wolf had gone still, head lowered, ears flat.

And from between the trees—fog.

Not natural mist. This was different. It crawled across the forest floor like a living thing, curling around roots and stones, inching forward with unnatural patience.

Estelle’s wings flared. She knew this.

Dementors.

She couldn’t see them, not yet. But the forest pulsed with wrongness. The way the sound dropped out. The way even the trees seemed to cower.

She dove lower, frantically scanning the path ahead of the wolf.

And there it was.

A shape. Cloaked. Floating.

The air turned glacial.

The raven shrieked—once, sharp—and the wolf froze.

It had heard her.

The Dementor glided closer.

Estelle banked sharply, heart pounding. She couldn’t cast a Patronus like this. Not with wings. Not with feathers instead of fingers.

She had one choice.

She darted forward, flapping wildly, feathers brushing the Dementor’s cloak. The creature jerked—only slightly—but it turned. Just enough.

The wolf bolted the other way.

Estelle shot upward, back into the cover of branches, faster than she’d flown in years.

She did not look back.

---

By the time the sky paled with morning, the Dementor was gone. Or had chosen to leave. Estelle never knew which.

She circled twice more before finally landing at the edge of the forest. Her transformation back to human form was slow, trembling.

Her knees gave slightly when she stood. She braced herself on a tree, breathing hard.

The forest was quiet again. Too quiet.

Estelle wiped her brow, fingers shaking.

The first Dementor on Hogwarts grounds.

It hadn’t even been after a student.

It had been after Remus.

Or… her?

No. No, she wouldn’t think about that now.

She pushed herself upright and staggered toward the Whomping Willow, lifting her wand with numb fingers to still the branches again. The tunnel was dark. But she knew the path.

Remus would be waking soon, curled in some far corner of the Shack with bones aching and mind fractured.

She’d bring him water. A cloak. A whispered joke if he could stomach one.

But she wouldn’t tell him about the Dementor.

Not yet.

Not until she knew it was more than a shadow in the mist.

The transformation had come and gone.

Now, all that remained was silence—and pain.

Estelle crouched beside Remus on the warped wooden floor of the Shrieking Shack, her wand hovering over a deep gash running down his side. The boards beneath them were sticky with blood, some of it old, some of it new. Moonlight slanted in through a cracked window, the pale light diffused by the early morning mist. The first hints of dawn clung to the sky beyond, but the shadows still felt close here.

“Hold still,” she murmured, wiping sweat and grime from his brow with the corner of her sleeve.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Remus rasped, his voice hoarse and frayed like old parchment. “Give me… five minutes and I’ll be ready to run a marathon.”

Estelle snorted softly, more breath than laugh. “Don’t tempt me. I’d have you out pacing Dementors for sport.”

Remus winced, not from pain this time. “You saw one.”

“I saw one,” she confirmed, voice low and even. Her hand didn’t waver as she traced a mending charm along his ribs.

Remus turned his head slightly, cheek pressed to the floor. “You alright?”

Estelle hesitated. “It didn’t get close enough. I flew.”

“As the raven?”

She nodded. “They still don’t know how to track Animagi well. I kept my distance. But I felt it.”

Remus exhaled. “It’s different, isn’t it? When you feel it for the first time.”

“Yes.” Estelle’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “It’s not fear. It’s…” She searched for the word. “Emptiness. Cold that goes through the bone.”

“They suck out the warmth first,” he said. “Then they find what hurts. The worst moments you’ve ever lived, like they’re happening all over again.”

She didn’t reply. Her eyes lingered on the deep, bruised bite marks on his shoulder—already half-healed, thanks to the potion, but still raw and angry.

“How many times have you gone through this?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Since I was six.”

She swallowed. “And it’s always like this?”

He gave a weary smile. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

Estelle sat back on her heels, exhaustion rolling over her like a wave. “Why didn’t we talk about this more when we were younger?”

“You never asked.”

“I’m asking now.”

Remus’s eyes flicked toward hers. One was nearly swollen shut, but the other was open and honest.

“You don’t want the real answers.”

“I do.”

He watched her for a long moment, as if measuring her sincerity. Then he shifted slightly, groaning with the movement. “It’s pain. Every time. But it’s more than that. It’s fear, too. I’m afraid of myself. Of what I might do. Even with Wolfsbane. Even with precautions. It never really goes away.”

Estelle’s brow creased. “But you’re you. You’re Remus.”

“Not when the moon’s full. I’m something else then. Something with my face and my voice, but not my mind.”

She touched his hand gently, careful of the torn skin. “You’re not a monster.”

“Sometimes I feel like one.”

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of truth between them not heavy, but solemn—earned.

Estelle reached for a small satchel beside her, pulling out a balm she’d made herself. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

He hissed as she pressed it gently into one of the claw marks on his thigh, and she shot him an apologetic glance.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” he muttered.

“I’m excellent at this,” she said coolly. “You're just terrible at being injured quietly.”

That earned a tired chuckle.

They worked in tandem for a while—Estelle applying poultices, casting healing charms, cleaning the wounds, and Remus offering commentary between winces.

Eventually, she slumped beside him, arms trembling, sweat clinging to the back of her neck. She didn’t realize how much the night had taken out of her until she stopped moving.

“You need sleep,” he said softly.

“So do you.”

He shifted again, this time enough to prop himself up on an elbow. The pale light from the broken window traced the hollow of his cheekbone, the tired curve of his mouth.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” he said. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

Estelle glanced at him, her voice firmer than she felt. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend,” she said simply. “Because you’re the only one left who remembers what we were like before the war.”

He looked down. “It’s not exactly a pleasant memory lane.”

“No,” she said. “But it’s ours.”

Another long silence fell between them. Not uncomfortable. Just full of things neither of them had words for yet.

Finally, Estelle said, “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if things had gone differently?”

Remus gave a bitter smile. “Every day.”

“If Sirius hadn’t been sent to Azkaban. If James and Lily had survived. If Peter—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“If I’d told someone,” Remus finished for her. “If I’d seen the signs. If we hadn’t been so damn trusting.”

She met his eyes. “We were kids.”

“We were soldiers pretending to be kids.”

A beat passed.

“Do you still hate him?” she asked.

Remus blinked. “Sirius?”

She nodded.

He was quiet a long time.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Part of me thinks it’d be easier if I did.”

Estelle looked away.

“I can’t hate him,” she said. “No matter how hard I try. I want to. But I can’t.”

“He was your twin.”

“He *is* my twin,” she corrected, voice tight. “Somewhere. Out there. Breathing.”

They sat like that for a long time. Long enough for the light to shift, for birds to start singing again beyond the boarded-up walls. The world was beginning again, one minute at a time.

Estelle stood first.

“I should get you back,” she said. “Before anyone notices.”

Remus didn’t argue. He let her help him up, leaning heavily on her shoulder as she steadied him.

“I’ll take you through the tunnel,” she said. “You’re not strong enough to Apparate.”

“I’ll be fine—”

She gave him a look.

He stopped arguing.

They moved slowly through the passageway, Estelle holding her wand aloft to light the way. Roots hung like tangled fingers from the ceiling, and dust stirred around their feet. Remus limped, but he didn’t complain.

When they finally emerged from beneath the Whomping Willow and reached the edge of the forest, the castle loomed ahead like a dream.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked him.

“Eventually.”

“Good. I’ll brew more of the balm. You’re going to need it.”

“Thanks.”

Estelle hesitated. Then said, “You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Remus didn’t reply, but his expression softened.

She watched him limp away toward the castle, and for a moment, the early morning light caught in his hair like gold.

Then he disappeared around a corner.

Estelle turned toward the forest again, eyes sweeping over the tree line.

Somewhere, a Dementor had passed too close to the heart of Hogwarts.

Somewhere, Sirius was out there. Maybe watching. Maybe hiding.

And somewhere, deep within her, something had shifted.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.

But she would.

Soon.

Chapter Text

September 21, 1993.

Estelle guided Remus through the deserted corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps light on the polished stone. Every statue’s gaze seemed sharper without students around—a few flickered in and out of moonlight, making them look like silent sentinels in a castle that harbored more secrets than any living soul could count. These were her corridors, etched with memories of laughter and loss. Tonight, however, felt entirely different—saturated with a dark intimacy.

They moved through side passages, away from the watchful eyes of house-elves and staff. Chambers lay dark and still behind heavy doors. The hush was thick enough to hear the soft click of Estelle’s boots and the even slower gait of Remus’s. No one would notice them tonight—but if they did, ignorance would be preferable.

Finally, they reached the door to Remus’s quarters: a snug turret room just off the third-floor corridor, near the old Astronomy Tower. It occupied a forgotten wedge of the castle, and tonight, it was a haven.

Estelle helped him inside, finding him a stool to sit on. She opened a small cabinet and produced a soft grey blanket—tucked it gently around his shoulders. His skin was pale, luate-laceded by the moon’s cruelty.

“Thank you, Estelle,” he said quietly, voice faint. “I—I don’t think I could’ve done this without you.”

She shook her head, fighting to keep her voice steady. “You don’t have to."

He managed a tired smile. “It’s hard to love a monster,” he joked, but the strain in his eyes made his attempt at levity brittle.

“Stop talking like that,” she snapped, more sharply than she intended. She knelt and brushed a stray damp curl from his forehead. “You’re not a monster. You’re my friend.”

Remus sighed, leaning back. “I’m sorry. I—thank you.”

She stood, dusted her hands free of invisible dust, and gave him a firm hug. “Get some sleep. I’ll check again in the morning,” she whispered.

He nodded and she slipped quietly from the room.

Down the corridor, Estelle allowed herself a single, deep exhale. The adrenaline that had driven her through an Animagus flight, a Dementor encounter, and now a midnight rescue eased into exhaustion.

At the door to her own chambers, she froze. Not sleepy yet, but not expecting a visitor—not tonight.

The door was ajar.

Inside, the soft glow from a lantern illuminated her sanctuary. Shelves of dried herbs, a small private greenhouse arching beneath glass, her cauldron, and notes scattered across her desk. The remnants of potion bottles, some empty, some half-full—traces of the Wolfsbane brew she’d begun days ago.

And there, leaning against the doorframe, was Severus Snape. Slim, dark, silent.

Her heart stuttered.

He stepped inside, walking across the rug with echoing confidence that left her too startled to close the door behind her.

“You really should ward this place better,” he said, voice low and even. “Or at all.”

She scowled, freezing in place. “I”—she paused—“I wasn’t expecting you.”

His jaw tightened—a living shadow carved from ice. “Where were you?”

“What I do with my time?” she challenged, recalling Berlioz’s firm posture. “That’s hardly your business.”

He studied her, slow and measured. Then he gestured to her desk, where a nearly empty Wolfsbane flask and the copper-steaming alchemy cauldron sat.

“It seems, however, that some of your... extracurricular activity involved more than just brewing for him.”

Her pulse hammered. “You think I—?”

“Did,” he said flatly. His eyes flickered past her, landing on a single torn leaf of wolfsbane—scorched at the rim. “You coordinated with him tonight.”

“I helped him,” she shot back. “After the transformation.”

He stepped closer, voice sharpening.

“You went out into the forest. You took a full Animagus flight. You knew how dangerous it would be. You risked more than your life—you risked everything.”

Her throat closed.

Severus closed the distance between them, gaze icy. “You put yourself at risk. With him.”

“Because he needed me.” Her voice trembled. “Because I couldn’t let him die—alone. You weren’t there.”

He looked at her for a deeper eternity. Then, still quietly: “Why didn’t you tell me? Send me a note at least.”

“In case you tried to stop me,” she whispered. “Because you would have.”

His face blurred. A breath left him—a growl barely repressed.

Their eyes locked. She watched the cruelty flare—anger that didn’t belong to tonight alone. Something older, darker.

“You imagine I couldn’t handle it,” she said. “You imagine you have to save me from it.”

He swallowed. The moment stretched. Finally, he exhaled slowly, shoulders stiffening.

“Be aware,” he said, voice suddenly colder, “that nothing you do goes unnoticed. Nothing. I know enough to be dangerous.”

She crushed her hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

“Don’t do it again,” he said, turning away. “Not for me. Not for”—he paused—“anyone.”

Estelle didn’t move at first. She stood frozen in the silence that followed Severus’s bitter accusations, her breath catching against the sudden weight in the room. She had known he would be angry—furious, even—but this… this was different.

She turned from the remnants of the Wolfsbane brew and looked at him sharply, eyes glittering with something brittle.

“Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?” Her voice was calm, but it shook faintly around the edges. “We had a good thing going. We were working well together. You’ve been civil—more than civil. And now you’re—what? Angry because I helped someone I care about?”

Severus crossed his arms, but his mouth pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

“I’m not angry,” he said coldly. “I’m disappointed.”

Estelle gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh, how very paternal of you.”

“I’m being realistic,” he snapped. “You don’t get to play at savior, Estelle. Not here. Not with him.”

She took a step forward, hands clenched at her sides. “Why? Because he’s dangerous?”

“Because he’s reckless,” Severus spat, eyes narrowing. “Because he makes you reckless. Because you throw caution and common sense out the window the moment he so much as winces in your direction.”

Estelle recoiled slightly at the venom in his voice.

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” he said, each word clipped and precise. “You’ve always had a blind spot where Lupin is concerned. You pity him. You romanticize his suffering.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” His voice rose. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like he’s some tragic figure in one of your novels. A misunderstood monster who just needs someone to believe in him. You’re not his heroine, Estelle. You’re just his latest fix.”

The words hit her like a slap. Her throat tightened.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered. “You don’t get to stand in my quarters and talk to me like I’m some naïve little girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Severus turned away from her, jaw tight, pacing toward the fireplace like he needed somewhere to direct the rest of his fury. The flames lit harsh lines across his face.

“Then tell me what you’re doing,” he growled. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re sacrificing your better judgment to keep company with a creature who has nearly killed students in the past.”

“You know that’s not who he is.”

“I know exactly what he is.”

“No,” Estelle said, voice rising, “you know what he was. You know what the worst part of him looks like, and you’ve convinced yourself that’s the whole of him. But it’s not.”

Severus turned slowly, face like carved ice. “You think I haven’t seen what he becomes? I saw the scars he left behind.”

Estelle’s voice broke. “So did I.”

That stopped him. Just for a moment. The room pulsed with silence, heavy and raw.

“I was there,” she went on, softer now. “Do you think I haven’t seen the aftermath? Do you think I haven’t helped clean it up? I’ve sat with him after, when he couldn’t speak or move. I’ve seen the way he punishes himself every full moon.”

“Good,” Severus bit out. “Let him suffer.”

Estelle flinched. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s honest.”

“It’s beneath you.”

He stared at her like he didn’t recognize her. Or maybe like he was trying very hard not to.

“You know what’s beneath me?” he said, voice lowering to something more dangerous. “Pretending I don’t care what happens to you. Pretending I didn’t notice when you left your quarters for the entire night. Pretending it didn’t make my skin crawl to realize you were with him. Alone. In the forest. As a raven.”

Estelle blinked. “How do you—”

“I’ve seen you fly,” he said darkly. “Not just on a broom. You forget how well I used to know you.”

Estelle swallowed. Her voice, when it returned, was quiet. “Then why are you treating me like a stranger now?”

Severus’s expression fractured—barely, but enough for her to see it. The hurt beneath the fury. The fear beneath the scorn.

“I don’t know how to do this with you anymore,” he said finally, each word like stone dropped in water. “Not when you keep getting close to people who nearly destroyed everything. Not when you insist on opening old wounds and calling it healing.”

Estelle’s eyes burned.

“You think I don’t carry wounds too?”

Silence.

“I do,” she said, breath trembling. “I carry all of it. Sirius. Remus. James. Lily. You. Me. What I did. What I didn’t do. I wake up every day in this castle and walk past the ghosts of everything we lost. And somehow, I still choose to care. I still choose to try.”

Severus didn’t speak.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t remember,” she whispered. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t still feel it. Any of it.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Then Severus said, voice hollow, “You shouldn’t have to do that alone.”

Estelle met his gaze.

“Then stop pushing me away.”

That cracked something in him. She saw it happen—his shoulders slackened, his mouth parted like he might speak, but nothing came out.

For a second, the fire between them flickered into something softer.

Then his walls slammed back into place.

He straightened. Cold again. Distant.

“None of that changes the fact that you endangered yourself,” he said, back to brittle formality. “What you do on your own time is your business. But if it endangers the students or this school, I will act.”

Estelle nodded, blinking hard. “Of course, Professor Snape.”

He winced at the formality but didn’t correct her.

“I’ll expect your potions log by Tuesday,” he said, pivoting the subject. “I’m curious to see your latest batch. That’s what I stopped here to see.”

Her voice was razor-thin. “It’s on your desk already.”

He hesitated, then turned to go.

He glided to the door, stiff shoulders beneath the cloak. Then he paused in the threshold.

“Good night, Professor Black.”

His return of formality was stinging.

She watched the door click softly behind him. The warmth drained out of her room immediately. Silence followed.

Estelle swallowed. She closed her eyes.

Good night, Professor Black.

And somehow, those words cut worse than Silence Everte.

Chapter Text

Late September, 1993.

By Monday morning, the sky had shed its summer blue for a dull slate grey, clouds curling in soft waves over the turrets of Hogwarts. A crisp bite lingered in the air, not yet winter’s edge but no longer warm. Estelle stood at her greenhouse door, a steaming mug of black tea cradled in her hands, and watched the leaves drift like ash across the castle grounds. The first golden wave of October had begun—crimson, amber, and copper flaring across the treetops like a final act of rebellion before the long sleep of winter.

She drew her cloak tighter and turned to ready her workspace.

Greenhouse Three had been freshly aired, its panes de-fogged by a charm and lined with warming spells. Rows of fresh herbs, enchanted ferns, and creeping vines were arranged according to year-level need. She moved through the aisles with quiet precision, checking the venomous tentacula’s restraints, adjusting a few waning flitterblooms, and muttering under her breath as she re-pinned a rogue snargaluff shoot.

Today’s first class was third-year Slytherins.

And Draco Malfoy.

Estelle smirked as she reached for her lesson notes, still tucked inside her old field journal from her time brewing in the Alps. She had debated revising the day’s topic to something more academically grueling, just to rattle the boy—but decided that would be giving him too much satisfaction. Instead, she would teach as she always did: with rigor, quiet authority, and the full weight of experience. If that unsettled him, so be it.

The bell tolled across the courtyard.

Not long after, the third-year Slytherins filtered in, all black robes and idle whispers, eyes gleaming with the false confidence of students still learning how the world really worked.

“Wands away,” Estelle called out before a single foot crossed the threshold. “No casting in the greenhouse unless instructed.”

A rustling shuffle of robes followed. Draco Malfoy entered last, as though making a deliberate show of indifference. His pale hair was neatly slicked, his expression bored. He didn’t bow his head, didn’t smirk—but his grey eyes flicked up at her with a calculated gleam.

Estelle gave nothing away.

She waited until they were all settled, quills poised over parchment, the faint scratch of ink starting to fill the silence. Then she lifted a hand and conjured a slow, shimmering bloom in the air—a silver-white flower unfurling above her palm, the petals swirling outward as if caught in water.

“Who can tell me what this is?” she asked.

A pause.

A few students glanced at each other.

Draco’s hand went up, smooth and unhurried.

“It’s a snow lily,” he said. “Rare. Used in purity tonics.”

“Correct,” Estelle said, lowering her hand. “And?”

He hesitated. “It also stabilizes blood-based potions… though it loses its potency when exposed to heat.”

“Good,” she said, mildly surprised. “Five points.”

Draco arched a brow—surprised, perhaps, at the reward.

“But,” Estelle continued, stepping between rows of planters, “it’s only found in alpine regions, blooms exclusively under moonlight, and is protected under magical conservation laws. Which means you won’t be harvesting it unless you fancy a lecture from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They’re a dry but rather fierce bunch when it comes to the intricate lines of flora legality.”

A few chuckles broke the tension.

She let the plant vanish, then moved to a side table where a tray of fresh samples waited.

“Today we’re working with purple hemlock. Don’t touch the roots unless you want a week-long case of vertigo.”

There were a few hasty retreats of fingers.

Estelle guided them through the lesson step by step, careful not to dumb it down but also patient with their mistakes. One boy, Nott, nearly spilled his tincture, while another girl over-pruned the leaves. Estelle corrected them gently, her tone brisk but not unkind. She wanted them to learn—not fear.

Draco, to his credit, worked neatly, though she noticed he flicked his wand behind his back once to clean his blade, thinking she wouldn’t see. She did. She said nothing.

Yet.

By the end of the lesson, most of the students had successfully preserved and bottled a small amount of the hemlock’s purified oil. Estelle made her way down the rows, inspecting their work, her mind half elsewhere—already thinking about the wolfsbane residue she still needed to scrub from her cauldron at home.

“All right,” she said at last, “bottles on the rack, gloves off, and no one leaves this room with purple stains on their robes, or you’ll answer to Madam Pomfrey.”

The class buzzed with relieved chatter as they packed up. A few students lingered to ask questions. Draco stayed silent, eyes on her.

She waited until the last of the others filed out.

Then, with a wave of her wand, the door shut and locked behind them.

Draco looked up sharply.

“I’d like a word,” Estelle said simply, walking past him to lean against her desk.

He crossed his arms, that smooth, haughty mask sliding back into place. He stood rigid near the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Estelle leaned against the edge of her worktable, arms folded as well, but more out of patience than posturing. She gave him time to speak first. He didn’t.

“Sit, Draco,” she said finally, gesturing to the stool nearest her desk. “I don’t bite.”

He didn’t move at first. But after a second—more for pride than obedience—he sat. He drummed his fingers on the table, then stopped when he noticed her watching.

“You know why I kept you behind.”

Draco rolled his eyes slightly. “Because I hexed a first year. Allegedly.”

Estelle arched a brow. “According to three prefects, the first-year in question, and the first year’s singed eyebrows.”

A brief, flickering smirk tugged at Draco’s lips before he caught himself.

“If this is about the letter—”

“It is,” Estelle said, voice calm. “Though I was impressed by your creative use of apology language. Comparing my teaching style to a centaur’s back hoof was a bold choice.”

A flicker of color rose to his cheeks.

“I didn’t include that one in the letter…” he said quietly.

”Oh yes, just to Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle at the back of my classroom,” Estelle quipped back. 

“You’ve got your father’s talent for political phrasing,” she went on. “But I’d suggest next time you want to get out of trouble, don’t describe your head of house as ‘aggressively insistent.’”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Estelle pushed away from the desk and stepped closer, her tone softer but no less firm.

“Let me be clear, Mr. Malfoy. I am not your cousin. I am not your ally. I am not impressed by your name or your bloodline. In this room, I am your professor. And you will treat me with the respect I have earned. Not because of who I am—but because of what I teach, and how I teach it.”

Draco’s expression had gone blank.

Still, he didn’t look away.

Estelle nodded slowly, reading the silence.

“I know your game,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen it played better, and crueler, and more destructively than you can imagine. You’re not there yet. And to be entirely frank, I’d rather you never get there.”

Another pause.

Then Draco said, voice low, “Why’d you come back?”

Estelle blinked.

“To teach,” she answered.

“No. I mean… Hogwarts. This place is horrid. Why now?”

There was no venom in the question. Just honest curiosity.

Estelle’s mouth twitched. “Because maybe there are those of us that don’t think of these walls as a prison, Draco. Because I missed it. Because I wanted to do something that wasn’t just surviving.”

He frowned slightly. “You were in the war?”

“I was in a lot of things.”

Draco looked down, his voice quieter. “My father says—”

“I know what your father says.”

The silence stretched.

Estelle finally stepped back and unlocked the door with a flick of her wand.

“Consider this your final warning,” she said. “Next time you get clever with your classmates, I’ll see to it that Severus lets me assign your detention in the greenhouse. I’ve got plenty of Venomous Tentacula that need pruning.”

Draco’s eyes flicked upward, uncertain if she was joking.

Estelle sighed, straightening a pot of honking daffodils with one hand. “I’ve been where you are, you know.”

Draco glanced up.

“Slytherin. Third year. Full of pride. Full of opinions. Taught to lead before learning to listen.”

“That’s rich coming from a Black,” he said before he could stop himself.

Estelle turned to him, eyes sharp. “Exactly.”

Draco blinked.

“You think I don’t understand what it means to be raised as a pureblood heir? To carry a name that commands respect—or fear—before you’ve done a single thing to earn it?” She let the words settle. “You’re a Malfoy. I’m a Black. We were born into a game neither of us asked to play. But we still have to choose how we play it.”

Draco didn’t answer. But something in his posture shifted. His arms fell to his sides. His chin dropped slightly.

Estelle stepped closer. Not threatening. Just present.

“You want to be strong,” she said softly. “Fine. You want to be respected. Also fine. But cruelty isn’t the same as strength. And it isn’t respect if it’s earned through fear.”

Draco bristled at that. “I wasn’t being cruel.”

“You used a hex that causes temporary paralysis.”

“He was mocking me.”

Estelle tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “So? You’ll be mocked a thousand times in your life. Perhaps more. That’s what makes the Slytherin name powerful. We endure. We outlast.”

Draco stared at her, pale brows drawn together in thought.

Estelle gave him another moment, studying his face for a moment. His brow was furrowed and a small scowl was set into his lips. And yet, Estelle could tell he was thinking. She gave him an hard look, her own lips pressing into a thin frown. Estelle crossed to her desk and pulled open a drawer, retrieved a black lacquered tin, and set it down between them.

“My mother gave me this when I turned eleven,” she said, flicking the lid open. Inside were old Slytherin pins, a miniature crest of House Black, and a folded scrap of parchment. “Read it.”

Draco picked up the paper and unfolded it. His lips moved as he read quietly.

“There will be those who hate you because of your name, and others who bow to it. Let neither define you. Make your own legacy.”

He looked up. “Your mother wrote this?”

Estelle nodded. “Walburga Black wasn’t a warm woman. But even she knew that we’re more than the blood in our veins. We have to be.”

Draco stared at the parchment like it was in a language he’d only just begun to understand.

Estelle sat down opposite him, resting her elbows on the table. “You have a choice, Draco. You can be the boy who gets by on his surname. Or you can be the man who earns the right to be remembered for more than it.”

He looked at her then—not with defiance, but with curiosity. Wariness. A flicker of something she hadn’t seen in him yet: doubt.

“You really think I’m like that?” he asked. “The kind of person who just rides on the name?”

“I think,” Estelle said carefully, “that you’re not quite sure who you are yet. And that’s normal. But I also think you’re smart enough to know when you’re being watched. Your existence is delicate.”

Draco’s jaw twitched.

“You think people don’t know what’s expected of you?” she went on. “Lucius Malfoy’s only heir. First Slytherin. Future head of house. You carry all that with you. But you get to decide if that pressure crushes you… or sharpens you.”

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Estelle waited.

Finally, he drew a breath. “I’m sorry about the hex.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“It wasn’t the right way to handle it,” he added.

Estelle smiled—soft, but real. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “You’ll probably still tell my father.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Draco stared. “You wouldn’t.”

Estelle gave a small, sly smile. “If I do, it won’t be out of spite. It’ll be out of necessity.”

“That’s... even worse.”

“That’s life…” she paused for a moment, deciding whether or not to relinquish a bit of her upper hand. “Though…” she chose her words tactfully. “As much as your father may frighten you, I can assure you I have no desire to get in touch.”

Malfoy gave her a look of understanding. They sat in silence for a few seconds, the greenhouse warm and full of soft rustling from the plants around them.

Then Estelle said, “Do you want to know what really made me a proper Black?”

Draco looked at her warily. “What?”

“I stopped caring what they thought of me.”

“Who?”

“My family. The sacred twenty-eight. Everyone who wanted me to be one thing, when I knew I was something else.” She leaned forward. “I’m still a Black. But I’m my kind of Black.”

Draco sat back, arms folded again, but looser now. “You know, you don’t seem like one of them.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Estelle laughed quietly. “You’re young. You’ll figure it out.”

They sat a moment longer, watching as a cluster of fluttervine unfurled in the corner.

Finally, Draco asked, “You were really a Slytherin?”

Estelle tapped the silver ring on her index finger. It bore the Slytherin crest, delicate but unyielding. “Born and raised.”

“You don’t act like the others.”

“Well I’m older than the others around you,” she said. “And maybe a little less concerned with putting on a performance than your fellow peers.”

Draco was quiet again.

Then: “Professor Black?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for not giving me detention.”

“You’re welcome.”

He got up slowly, hesitated, then said, “I’m… glad you’re our Head of House.”

Estelle smiled faintly. “I’m glad too.”

He didn’t say goodbye. Just nodded, and left.

When the door closed behind him, Estelle leaned back in her chair.

She stared at the old parchment her mother had given her, still resting on the table.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered what legacy she was building—not just for herself, but for the students she was meant to guide.

Draco Malfoy might still be arrogant.

He might still need to learn.

But maybe—just maybe—there was hope yet.

Chapter Text

Early October, 1993.

The silence between them was not empty. It was sharp, metallic. It scraped across her days and threaded itself into her evenings like the fine edge of a knife pressed against a pulse point.

Two full weeks had passed since that night.

Since she had slipped through the dungeons, robes soaked from the rain and heart pounding with the ache of Severus’s words. Since she had stood in the flickering candlelight of her own chambers and listened to the echo of the door snapping shut behind him.

And he had not spoken to her since.

Not in the Great Hall. Not in their shared meetings about Slytherin House. Not in the long, hushed conversations about curriculum they were meant to be having, coordinating the potions and herbs their students worked with every week.

He didn’t even look at her anymore.

It was easier in the classroom. Estelle threw herself into teaching with the kind of obsessive focus that once drove her potion brewing in the war. She scheduled extra greenhouse time. She volunteered to supervise weekend study hours. She taught first years the difference between calming draught blossoms and soporific buds with the precision of a duelist, snapping instructions like spells.

The students noticed, of course.

She could hear them whispering when she turned her back. “She’s even sharper lately,” murmured one Ravenclaw. “Don’t cross Professor Black,” said a Slytherin boy after she vanished a Niffler mid-chaos with a single flick of her wand.

She didn’t mind the fear. Fear kept them from asking questions.

The only person who did ask questions was Remus.

“You’ve gone quiet again,” he said one afternoon as they crossed paths in the courtyard between classes. The leaves were beginning to turn—scarlet and amber scattered across the stone like blood and gold.

“I’ve been busy,” Estelle replied, too quickly.

He gave her a look, that particular Remus look—mild, patient, laced with just enough disappointment to dig under the ribs.

“You’re avoiding something.”

“Not something,” she said. “Someone.”

He raised a brow.

She didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t push.

But she saw it in his eyes—he knew exactly who.

The castle was beautiful in early October, if one had the time to notice. Shadows lengthened. The sun set gold through the windows. The Black Lake reflected the trees like a mirror cracked by wind.

Estelle caught glimpses of Severus sometimes in the periphery of her days. A flash of black robes at the edge of the staff table. The scuff of boots on the stone staircase. Once, she nearly collided with him coming around a corner near the potion storeroom. He’d stepped aside wordlessly, barely glancing at her, and swept past like smoke.

She hadn’t slept well since.

There were no new dreams of Sirius. No spectral hands reaching from the dark. But the shadows in her room felt thicker at night. The tea never stayed warm long enough. The silence clung to her like old perfume—faint, haunting, stubborn.

She told herself she didn’t care.

But of course she did.

Of course she did.

It was during a fifth-year Herbology lesson that she finally felt something shift.

They were working on Mandragora Root stabilizers—a tricky, messy potion component with a habit of exploding if touched too early or stored improperly. She had warned the students at least five times about wandless movement near the specimens.

“Don’t even breathe too close,” she said with a pointed glance toward the Hufflepuffs.

Draco Malfoy raised his hand. “Professor, may I use a stasis charm instead of the shield bubble?”

She tilted her head. “If you can cast it without waking the root, you may.”

He smirked, flicked his wand, and—somehow—did it flawlessly.

She let a smile ghost across her lips. “Well done, Mr. Malfoy.”

He looked genuinely pleased.

It wasn’t much. But it reminded her that she still had things in her control. That not all bonds had to fray and rot like old rope.

---

That Friday, Dumbledore passed her in the hall and said gently, “There are only so many doors one can knock on before deciding to wait.”

She didn’t know if he meant Sirius.

Or Severus.

Or something else entirely.

But the words stayed with her all the same.

Autumn had settled across the Hogwarts grounds like a gilded cloak. Leaves twirled in copper and gold spirals, and the air held its first firm crispness of early October. Estelle walked across the courtyard after class, hands tucked into her cloak, her heart still thudding from the impromptu victories of earlier lessons. Today had been one of those rare days when everything—not perfect, but possible—had clicked into place.

But she was far from ready for what came next.

She’d wrapped up a supply run to the greenhouses—checking mandrake saplings and deadheading glowvine—when she heard the soft echo of footsteps behind her. She tensed, half turning, expecting a student who had failed to follow the "no casting" rule.

Instead, she found Draco Malfoy.

He looked more grown-up than usual—cheeks flushed from the chill, shoulders squared, clutching a well-worn notebook. The typical arrogance was still there, but so was hesitation.

“Professor Black,” he said quietly.

Her guard snapped up. “Mr. Malfoy.”

He took a cautious step forward. “I wanted to thank you again… for the talk.”

He glanced around, then met her eyes. For a moment, the castle’s bustle felt miles away.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

He swallowed. “I—I applied what you said. I… made an effort. It wasn’t always easy.”

Estelle’s eyes softened. “Becoming different isn’t easy.”

He looked down at his boots, then blinked up at her. “People treated me… differently. But I—”

A clang distracted her. Some first-years tumbled past with a squished pumpkin, giggling so fiercely that Estelle glanced away for just a second.

That was all Draco needed.

“Regardless,” he said, voice firmer, “I wanted to say thank you.”

He slid the notebook into her hand.

Inside, in spidery handwriting, were reflections—

“Leadership is not strength without mercy…
I can listen when I’m tempted to order…
I don’t want to be remembered for fear.”  The final line was unsigned. Estelle looked up to find Draco’s pale gaze.

She blinked.

Comforted, surprised, proud—she couldn’t decide which hit first.

“You did well,” she said quietly.

He gave a brief nod. Then, softer, “I’ll keep trying.”

And in that moment, Estelle realized she had—maybe—earned something she didn’t expect.

His posture softened as he turned to leave.

She stood still, notebook heavy in her hand, tremors of warmth sweeping her chest.

The next morning at breakfast, word had spread of Draco’s transformation. Between bites of pumpkin-roast eggs and sips of tea, classmates whispered. But the real surprise came later that morning—during Estelle’s first-year Potion Demonstration in the dungeons.

She stood before a long wooden table, covered with cauldrons and freshly harvested hypnotic poppies when a pair of red-haired troublemakers slipped between the lines.

Fred and George Weasley. Smirks perched on their faces.

Estelle froze. These were the self-proclaimed geniuses of prank-practice, the twins behind more Hogsmeade shenanigans than most years combined. She had watched them from afar—dynamic, dangerous, delightful in spells—but never expected a direct encounter.

“Good morning, Professor,” Fred called, voice velvet mischief.

George echoed with a lopsided bow.

The class stifled laughter. Estelle cleared her throat.

“What are you two doing here?” Her voice was threaded with amused steel.

Fred gestured at the cauldrons. “Came for an encore potion. We heard you taught pranking herbs.”

Estelle remembered the mischievous backfiring of puffapods and gillyweed heists. Deep in her chest, something tight twisted at the memory, but she didn’t let it show.

“I teach with caution,” she said. “Pranking is an art—one that demands responsibility.”

George tilted his head. “We prefer creative fizzics.”

Estelle gave them both a sharp look. “Then show me.”

They exchanged a glance—now curiosity flickered behind bravado.

She handed them each a vial of powdered corsican chamomile stem.

“Create a fizz–harmless yet showy,” she instructed. “Twenty points for both of you if it meets precise fizz duration: 30 seconds. Thirty. And it must be safe—no stains, no stink.”

A stunned hush fell across the dungeon. Some first-years gasped. A Slytherin girl dropped her cauldron lid.

Fred winked at George. George grinned back. They dipped wands into the powders, whispering incantations together.

A soft fizzle erupted. A peppermint pink foam shot from the beakers—then twirled into knotty, harmless bubbles that drifted above the cauldron for exactly 30 seconds, popping silently.

Estelle paused her demonstration. Then smiled.

Impromptu applause echoed around the dungeon.

Fred and George beamed like they’d won the house cup. Other students stared in open-mouthed awe.

Estelle clapped too, but kept her tone professional: “Well done. You two have just earned yourself a rare Botswana Bloom tea lesson… and 20 points a-piece.”

The twins exchanged excited looks.

Estelle allowed herself a small, fond smile. The pride was surprising, sudden—but honest.

Word of Estelle’s unlikely mastery spread quickly—staffrooms buzzed the next day.

Minerva McGonagall, her nose pleasantly creased, greeted Estelle with an approving nod. “The twins were practically giddy at breakfast.”

Dumbledore leaned in, twinkling. “It seems your reputation is gaining rather… unusual favor.”

Severus watched from the far wall, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. He said nothing.

Remus smiled gently. “I saw Draco this morning. He looked different.”

Estelle shrugged, cheeks warmed pinkly. “Slytherin boys balance on a knife’s edge.”

Lupin nodded. “Seems you’re helping keep him from cutting himself.”

She laughed quietly.

That evening, she found herself back in her quarters—tired, heart warm, but nerves still buzzing. She placed Draco’s notebook beside her bed, then sank into the armchair with Icarus on her shoulder.

Her mind replayed:

Draco’s unapologetic apology, scribbled honestly at last.
The twins, neat, cooperative, earning praise instead of detention.
The astonished looks of staff who didn’t believe Slytherin herbology could be so transformative.
She exhaled slowly—blushing despite herself.

“What is this?” she whispered to the empty room, voice soft as snowfall. “Me, taming chaos?”

She rubbed her cheek. Then shook her head.

“Maybe… maybe it’s what this castle needs.”

Chapter Text

Early-Mid October, 1993.

October settled into Hogwarts like a slow exhale—golden, crisp, and edged in the scent of hearthsmoke and fallen leaves. The castle groaned with age and comfort as the seasons turned, and Estelle Black, for the first time in years, found herself learning to breathe with it.

Her days were filled with classes, her evenings with marking, and her nights—at least the quiet ones—with tea in her window seat watching mist rise from the Black Lake like spirits called to wander.

Over the next two weeks, Estelle grew into her teaching rhythm. Her lessons were more confident, her students more engaged. She still struggled to keep a straight face when the Weasley twins tried to smuggle prank seeds disguised as Fanged Geraniums into the greenhouse, and she maintained a wary distance from Peeves, who had taken a peculiar liking to dropping dungbombs near her doorway with a cheery: “Welcome home, witchy-witch!”

Some of her best lessons came unexpectedly. In one class, a group of first years gasped in delight when Estelle demonstrated a Venomous Tentacula blooming under duress—its thorny stalks retracting with a hiss when she sang softly to it in ancient Welsh. In another, her seventh years debated the ethics of magical herb cross-breeding after she showed them a hybrid Mandrake she’d been developing quietly for the past decade.

Draco Malfoy had become... less combative. Still full of pride and inherited self-importance, but somehow less rigid. Estelle had kept their discussion private, as promised, but she noticed subtle shifts: fewer sneers, more questions. Once, he had lingered after class to help her gather loose parchment when a gust of wind from an enchanted window scattered them.

As for the Weasley twins—Fred and George had become regular visitors during her third-year classes. Their pranks never disappeared entirely, but Estelle had become a puzzle to them. Someone who could outmaneuver their mischief, charm them into cooperation, and walk away with their grudging admiration. One day in the staff lounge, Professor Flitwick commented with astonishment, “They actually turned in their homework early for once. What on earth did you say to them?”

Estelle had only smiled into her teacup.

The days passed, and the school began to shift toward Halloween. Pumpkins appeared in the corridors, floating candles flickered lower and warmer, and the students grew rowdier, their energy fed by cold air and anticipation.

Then came the first Quidditch match of the season: Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw.

Estelle had attended with no small amount of trepidation. It had been a long time since she sat in the stands rather than flew above them. She wore green out of house pride, her silver-trimmed cloak fluttering as she climbed the steps to the staff section of the stands. She arrived early and claimed a high seat, already occupied by Minerva, who passed her a flask and muttered, “For warmth.”

The match was brutal in a way only early-season Quidditch could be.

Ravenclaw’s new Seeker was a wiry fifth-year girl who moved like she had wings instead of arms, darting and weaving with serpentine grace. Slytherin’s Beaters were enormous, sending Bludgers that cracked through the air like cannonballs.

Estelle shouted herself hoarse when a third-year Slytherin Chaser executed a perfect feint and scored past Ravenclaw’s Keeper. She winced when one of the Slytherin Beaters took a Bludger to the shoulder. It felt like her old self was waking up—heart racing, hands clenched, yelling with no care for her polished composure.

When Ravenclaw’s Seeker finally caught the Snitch in a breathtaking dive that left two players nearly flattened in the grass, Estelle found herself standing and applauding, breathless and laughing. Slytherin lost, narrowly, but she didn't care. For once, it wasn’t about winning. It was about being alive.

The next morning, she woke to aching muscles and a surprising sense of contentment. But reality came knocking in the form of her teaching schedule—and a summons from the Potions storeroom.

It was the end of the month, and the stock lists were clear: they were running low on several rare potion ingredients and Herbology seed strains. Estelle spent an hour combing through her greenhouse inventory and another preparing the requisition list before making her way to Severus’s quarters, parchment in hand.

She knocked once, pushed open the door, and found him hunched over a desk, a dark ink stain spreading across the page he’d been writing on. His hair hung low in his face, and he didn’t glance up when he said, “Come in, Professor Black.”

“Good morning to you too,” she said, settling across from him and dropping the parchment on the desk. “We need to restock. Dittany root, Ashwinder scales, half the Draught of Peace base ingredients—and several of my magical seed stores are low.”

Severus skimmed the list. “You want to go to Diagon Alley?”

“I figured I would.”

“No.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll go.”

“You’re drowning in grading and snapping at students. I can handle a supply run, Severus.”

“You’ve never done one under Hogwarts protocol. There are Ministry regulations now. Watch-lists. Signatures. It’s not as simple as grabbing a basket and playing the role of apothecary.”

Estelle crossed her arms. “I am an apothecary. I’ve run one for the last ten years. I think I can manage a little shopping.”

He sighed, long and heavy. “I’m not saying you’re incapable. I’m saying—”

“What? That I’ll be stopped? Watched? I’ve been watched since I was born. The Prophet made sure to remind me of that these past weeks.”

A pause.

Then, in a rare twist, Severus leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “Fine,” he muttered. “Go. But take your wand, keep your hood up, and use the floo from the Leaky Cauldron. Don’t linger.”

Estelle tilted her head. “That’s a very quick surrender.”

He looked up, and something in his dark eyes startled her.

He looked tired. Older. Like the sleeplessness had finally sunk into his bones. The shadows under his eyes were darker than normal, and the corners had no sense of mirth left on display.

“I have enough to manage here,” he said quietly.

Estelle studied him for a moment longer before she softened. “I’ll go in a couple days. I’ll be careful,” she added.

He gave a single nod and returned to his grading.

Estelle rose and turned for the door. “Try to sleep, Severus.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Outside, the corridors were warming in gold candlelight. Autumn’s final days were upon them.

Estelle made her way to her chambers, already drafting a list in her mind. She’d leave the next morning—cloak drawn, name tucked behind her eyes like a blade.

The month had passed swiftly. And something colder was coming.

She could feel it in her bones.

October 29, 1993.

The sky outside Estelle’s chambers was a soft watercolor of late-October clouds when she woke. A low mist clung to the hills beyond the lake, and the leaves that blanketed the grounds had shifted from gold to deeper hues—rust, amber, and crimson that reminded her of blood and bark and the burn of old hearthfires.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold stone floor. The fire in her room had gone out during the night, leaving only smoldering embers. She murmured a rekindling charm with a flick of her wand and reached for her dressing gown.

On her desk lay the parchment she’d begun scrawling notes on the night before: a growing list of what she and Severus needed for their stores. She’d stayed up far too late with it, checking through her seed inventories, peering over bundled roots, making notations in tidy columns: Name, Quantity, Status, Priority. The organizational neatness was one of her few true indulgences.

She ran a hand through her hair, braided roughly overnight, and settled in at the desk again, chewing on a quill tip as she reread the lists.

From Greenhouse One:
— Devil’s Snare spores (moderate)
— Dittany seedlings (urgent)
— Valerian root (low)
— Mimbulus mimbletonia sap (fresh preferred)

For Severus:
— Fluxweed (mature, harvested under full moon)
— Shrivelfig essence
— Powdered bicorn horn
— Bundimun secretion

—Threstral marrow (Knockturn)

She underlined “Shrivelfig” twice. The batch in the storeroom was nearly useless—dry, crumbling to dust at the touch.

Satisfied, she folded the parchment and tucked it into her satchel. After a quick breakfast of toast and plum jam brought by a kind-eyed house-elf named Fenwin, Estelle pulled on her thickest cloak—forest green with silver trim—and fastened it at the collar. Her breath fogged lightly when she stepped out into the hall.

The walk through the castle was peaceful. Students were either at breakfast or still dozing in their beds, lulled by the promise of a quiet Saturday. Estelle passed through the Entrance Hall, her boots clicking softly against worn flagstones. She pulled her cloak tighter around her as she stepped outside.

The grounds shimmered with dew and fading frost. The air had that first proper bite of the season—sharp enough to make her grateful for the cloak and gloves. She passed the Whomping Willow from a safe distance, the tree’s gnarled branches twitching lazily in the breeze, and made her way along the cobblestone path toward Hogsmeade.

The village rose up ahead like a scene from a snow globe, quaint and sloping, chimneys already puffing curls of smoke into the grey sky. Most shops were just beginning to open. Owls flew overhead in lazy circles. Somewhere in the distance, a kettle whistled.

Estelle’s feet turned instinctively toward the Three Broomsticks.

The inside of the inn was warm and golden, a stark contrast to the cold morning outside. Rosmerta was behind the bar, pouring fresh butterbeer into thick mugs, her curls pinned back in a tight twist. She looked up and smiled broadly when she spotted Estelle.

“Well if it isn’t Estelle Black,” she said with a wink, setting down the tankard she’d been drying. “Back for a bit of warmth?”

“Something like that,” Estelle said, pulling off her gloves and unfastening her cloak. “I’m heading to Diagon Alley—stocking up.”

Rosmerta poured her a mug of butterbeer and slid it across the counter.

“Sit, sit. Let me guess, Severus has you fetching all the nasty stuff, doesn’t he?”

Estelle snorted. “That would usually be an accurate guess. But no, I volunteered for this one.”

She slid onto a stool and let the mug warm her fingers. The drink was spiced and rich, frothy at the top and steaming slightly in the cool air.

“Term going well?” Rosmerta asked, leaning against the counter. “Hogwarts hasn’t eaten you alive yet?”

Estelle smiled faintly. “Not yet. A few students tried to hex each other in my greenhouse last week, but otherwise—so far, so good.”

Rosmerta laughed. “You should’ve seen the chaos back when you were a student. You and Sirius—Merlin help us all.”

Estelle’s smile faltered for half a breath. She masked it quickly with a sip of butterbeer.

“He always got us into trouble,” she said quietly. “Even when he didn’t mean to.”

Rosmerta’s expression softened, but she didn’t push it.

They spoke for another fifteen minutes—about the new students, about how cold the pipes were getting, about how the Honeydukes owners had changed suppliers and were furious about it. When Estelle finished her drink, she stood and tightened her cloak again.

“Thanks, Ros,” she said, setting a few sickles on the bar.

“Anytime, love,” Rosmerta said. “You take care of yourself.”

Estelle stepped into the Floo just beyond the fireplace, braced herself, and threw in a pinch of powder.

“The Leaky Cauldron!” she called.

Green flames swallowed her.

Estelle stepped out of the green flame into the familiar hearth of the Leaky Cauldron, brushing soot from her cloak with a few brisk swipes. The pub was dimly lit, warm, and musty—exactly as she remembered. It hummed with quiet conversations and the clatter of mugs, a comfortingly familiar murmur of wizarding life. She nodded a silent greeting to Tom behind the bar, who gave her a toothless grin in return, before pushing out the creaky door into the bright bustle of Diagon Alley.

The air was crisp with autumn, and the cobblestones gleamed slightly underfoot from a passing morning drizzle. Estelle pulled her cloak tighter, her breath fogging faintly as she moved through the crowds. It was a typical weekday bustle—parents with young children in tow, harried students on errands, and older witches clucking over potion components and wand polishers.

She opened her satchel and checked the parchment list she’d finalized that morning—double-underlined names of herbs, sealed vials, and drying agents scribbled in her looping script. With a flick of her wand, she sealed the satchel shut again. Thank Merlin for extension charms.

Her first stop was Slugs and Wiggens Apothecary.

The shop was dimly lit and cluttered with towering shelves of potion ingredients. The scent of crushed herbs and bitter roots hit her like memory. Inside, a young clerk with wiry hair and ink-stained fingers gave a nervous start when he spotted her.

“Professor Black?” he stammered.

Estelle gave a small, amused smile. “I used to be just Black around here.”

The clerk, clearly intimidated, nodded and went to fetch her requested items—bundles of dried wolfsbane, powdered bicorn horn, and a new jar of doxy spleens. Estelle moved about the shop with quiet familiarity, checking expiration dates, examining glass-stoppered jars for cracks, and muttering mental notes for replacements Hogwarts might need come winter.

From there she made her way to The Old Curio, a newer establishment sandwiched between two aging broom repair shops. Estelle liked it because it carried rare plant-based magical ingredients—some of which were borderline contraband, but invaluable for advanced brewing. She selected a few flame-dried mandrake shavings and a sealed vial of moon-bloom nectar. The witch behind the counter gave her a sharp look and lowered her voice.

“You planning anything... potent?”

Estelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Only the usual miracles.”

By noon, her bag was significantly heavier, though it didn’t show it. She had everything on her list—except one last thing. Something not on the parchment.

Her apothecary.

The front of E. Black’s Apothecary and Herbal Remedies was tucked away on a less-frequented corner of the Alley. The sign hung slightly crooked above the door, its paint faded from years of sun and soot. The shop had been closed since August, and though protected by preservation charms, it felt like it had held its breath in her absence.

She unlocked the door with a flick and stepped inside.

Dust motes danced in the filtered light. The shelves were just as she left them—lined with labeled jars, bundled herbs, thick notebooks of brewing logs, and hand-written signage. A faint herbal aroma still clung to the walls—chamomile, willowbark, and rosemary.

She trailed her fingers over the worn countertop.

This place had once been her lifeline. A place of structure, purpose—something to pour herself into when grief made the rest of the world unrecognizable. Now, standing in the stillness, Estelle wasn’t sure what she felt. Nostalgia, yes. But also something like guilt. She hadn’t meant to leave it so long.

Crossing to the back, she opened the storeroom and began inspecting stock—some potions had degraded; others were intact. She refilled her satchel with a few things she couldn’t find in the other shops—her own blend of restorative tinctures, a small flask of caustic flame-oil, and a precious vial of silverthorn root elixir. She made a note to owl her assistant—well, ex-assistant now—and offer her the keys to open shop again for the season.

As she packed, she paused at a small, framed photo tucked behind a half-full jar of powdered fluxweed.

It was old—creased at the corners—of her, Sirius, and James outside the shop just after it opened. She was laughing, her curls wild in the wind, Sirius half-turning toward the camera with that familiar smirk, and James doing a two-finger salute behind them like a prankster pirate.

Estelle set the photo gently face down on the counter.

Not now.

Outside, the wind had picked up. She pulled on her gloves, cast a warming charm on the collar of her cloak, and stepped back out onto the street, the bell above the apothecary door jingling like a memory behind her.

Diagon Alley bustled around her, unchanged. But Estelle Black walked its cobblestones older now, heavier somehow—but perhaps just a little steadier, too.

Chapter Text

October 29, 1993, continued.

Estelle stood at the edge of the cobblestone passageway, the entrance to Knockturn Alley yawning open before her like a half-forgotten secret. It was still mid-afternoon, but the light dimmed here as though the sun itself hesitated to cast its gaze. Her hands were warm from the bag of pumpkin pasties she’d picked up at the bakery near Gringotts—still fragrant, still soft. A little autumn comfort, wrapped in parchment.

She stuffed the pasties into her enchanted satchel, brushing down her cloak as she stepped into the alley.

The air turned cooler immediately, and thick with a smell she knew too well: coal smoke, damp stone, stale potion residue, and something metallic—iron or blood, maybe both. The shadows here slouched long and low. Windows were shuttered or warped, their glass clouded with dust and grime. Signs creaked overhead, hanging by rusted chains. There was no gentle chime of shop bells here, only the distant scrape of boot on stone and the occasional echo of a closing door.

Knockturn Alley was a place she had been brought to many times as a child—by older cousins, by a House elf under strict orders from her mother, even once or twice by her father. The Black family did not flinch from the darker side of magic. Neither did they advertise it.

She hated the place.

Always had.

She moved with purpose, her heels clicking softly on slick cobbles as she passed shops with names like Borgin & Burkes and Thistle & Hex. Behind a soot-streaked pane of glass, a cage of skeletal birds rattled softly, beaks clicking in some tuneless rhythm. The apothecary she sought lay near the far end, its sign carved into black wood and nearly lost in shadow: Skell & Croft: Purveyors of Rare and Recondite Botanicals.

The door opened with a low groan. A single iron bell above it gave a reluctant chime.

The interior was dark and narrow, walls lined from floor to ceiling with jars, drawers, and twisted bundles of herbs hung to dry. A dozen smells clashed in the air—pungent roots, bitter bark, acrid tinctures, and something that made her nose itch like powdered silverweed. Dust shimmered in the dim wandlight drifting down from enchanted sconces overhead.

Behind the counter stood a stooped wizard with a crooked spine and hands stained yellow at the fingertips.

“Well then,” he rasped, eyeing her without recognition. “Not many brave the Alley this time o’ day. Or wear school colors.”

Estelle let the edge of her dark green cloak fall closed. “Professor Black,” she said. “I’m here on business for Hogwarts.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. “Black, you say. Haven’t heard that name in here for a bit. Come from the old house, do you?”

“My lineage is none of your concern,” she replied with cool precision. “I need five ounces of Thestral marrow, a jar of shrivelfig essence—aged, not fresh—and powdered basilisk scale if it’s still in stock.”

The wizard’s pale brows arched. “No petty draft you’re brewing.”

“No,” Estelle said evenly. “It’s not.”

He muttered something under his breath and shuffled off to gather the order, disappearing behind a low arch of twisted wood and moth-eaten curtains.

Estelle remained at the counter, her hands resting on its surface. Beneath her fingertips, the wood was gouged and sticky in places. Strange stains spread like bruises across the countertop.

This place had not changed in fifteen years.

Not one bit.

A taxidermied crup tail was nailed above a row of vials. A parchment sign scrawled in green ink warned: No refunds for hexed items. From deeper in the shop came the sound of liquid bubbling and a low mechanical wheeze—some brewing apparatus, likely enchanted to keep rare brews at the perfect alchemical temperature.

Estelle’s eyes flicked upward to the highest shelf, where something with far too many legs skittered out of view.

And then—

Chime.

The bell above the door rang again, light and clear despite its age.

Estelle didn’t turn.

She felt the change in the air first.

Like someone pulling the thread of a memory taut across her spine.

Footsteps sounded behind her—two, then three, slow and deliberate. Whoever had entered wasn’t browsing.

“Didn’t expect to see a professor slumming it here,” came a voice, low and male, thick with amusement and something darker beneath. “Unless Hogwarts has changed more than I thought.”

Estelle turned.

And froze.

She didn’t know him—not really. But something about the man sparked a jolt of unease. He was tall, lean, draped in fine charcoal robes that didn’t suit Knockturn Alley. His eyes were a pale, sickly grey-green, and too familiar. Not his face. Not his gait. But the presence. Like someone she’d once known—or should have feared.

She didn’t flinch.

“Strange,” she said coolly. “I was just thinking the same.”

The man’s smirk widened.

“Only looking,” he said, holding up gloved hands. “Though I imagine what you’re buying is far more interesting.”

Estelle didn’t answer. Her wand remained hidden beneath her sleeve, her right hand close to the hilt.

“Shame,” he said, glancing at the shelves. “You always hope the next generation of Blacks might be different. But there’s always one willing to dance in the shadows.”

“Better to dance in the shadows than rot in the light,” she snapped, the words out before she could temper them.

The man’s eyes glittered, but he said nothing more. He turned to inspect a display of dried hag fingers in silence.

The shopkeeper returned just then with a bundled parcel and two jars in a padded case.

“Here we are. Powder’s fresh as it gets. The marrow’s sealed and the essence hasn’t turned.”

Estelle counted out the payment in coins and a single token from her school account. She didn’t glance back at the stranger as she gathered her things and turned for the door.

But she felt his eyes on her the whole way.

Just before she stepped out into the street, he said quietly:

“Careful, Black. Some things in here remember you, even if you’ve tried to forget them.”

The bell chimed again as the door shut behind her.

The bell above the door to Estelle’s apothecary gave a soft jingle as she stepped inside again, the noise oddly loud in the stillness of the darkened shop.

She flicked her wand toward the sconces along the stone walls, and with a muted *fwoomph*, the lights flared to life, illuminating the space that felt more like a memory than a business. Shelves still lined with labeled glass bottles, tins of dried herbs, and racks of bundled plants stared back at her. A thin film of dust still clung to everything, and the faint smell of lavender oil mixed with something musty curled up from the floorboards.

She exhaled through her nose and pulled her cloak tighter, the corners of her mouth turning downward as she made her way behind the counter. Before this morning, she hadn’t been here in nearly three months, not since she accepted the Hogwarts position. And yet, despite the abandonment, the shop still felt like hers. Familiar. Lived-in. Safe.

Until it didn’t.

Estelle shook the thought off and ducked into the back room where her private texts were shelved, her eye after one volume in particular that she’d forgotten this morning. She nibbled on a pumpkin pasty as she sifted through the titles—flicking her wand at the occasional book to slide it across the shelf or down into her waiting palm. The warmth of the pasty filled her mouth with nutmeg and cinnamon, grounding her. She found herself relaxing, if only slightly.

Ah. There it was. Rare Arcana of Elemental Herbomancy. She had been looking for it all morning. It was tucked awkwardly between Mundane and Magical Pustules and A Slytherin’s Guide to Poison, just where she’d left it.

She grabbed the worn green cover and cradled it in one arm, taking another bite of her pastry as she turned back toward the counter.

The bell above the door rang again.

Estelle froze.

She hadn’t relocked it.

The pasty crumbled in her fingers.

She heard the door creak shut with excruciating slowness. Her heart pounded, and she set the book down silently on the counter. Her wand was still strapped to her hip.

She stepped forward, boots whispering against the floor.

The figure who had entered the shop stood in silhouette, backlit by the fading daylight outside, rainwater glistening on the shoulders of a heavy traveling cloak. He did not move right away.

Estelle’s voice came out hoarse, disbelieving. “Amycus Carrow.”

He stepped forward into the light with a slow, deliberate gait. His face had not aged kindly—if anything, the years had honed his cruelty into something sharper, more grotesque. His features were thick and brutish, the sneer on his lips almost permanent. His eyes, small and glinting, were those of a predator who had just found prey where he least expected it.

“Well,” Amycus drawled, voice slick as spoiled oil. “Would you look at this. Lights on in the old place—I thought I’d pay an old friend a visit.”

Estelle’s blood ran cold. She stood very still.

“We’re not friends,” she said, voice low.

He gave a mocking laugh and stepped closer, peeling off his soaked cloak and shaking it like a wolf flinging off rain. “Still dramatic, I see. Even all these years later. Always did have a flair for the theatrical, Elle.”

She flinched at the nickname. No one called her that anymore. Not since Sirius… Not since him…

Her fingers twitched near her wand.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

Amycus gave a toothy grin. “You always were rather hopeful.”

He stepped further into the shop, and as the sconces illuminated him more fully, Estelle’s stomach coiled.

He was still handsome—disturbingly so. The sharp cut of his cheekbones remained intact beneath skin that had grown pale and tight with age and whatever darkness he’d steeped himself in. His jawline was strong, dusted with shadow, his mouth curved into that same wolfish smirk she remembered from their youth. But the boyish charm he'd once wielded like a weapon was now something darker, more jagged. Handsome, yes—but like a painting left in a storm: the beauty distorted, the frame cracked.

His dark hair, once thick and neatly combed, was longer now, swept back carelessly, streaked with silver at the temples. A cruel elegance clung to him—the well-tailored traveling cloak, the high leather boots, the slight gleam of a signet ring catching candlelight on his right hand. But there was no mistaking the violence simmering under the surface.

His eyes were the worst. They had always been cold, but now they burned with a terrible, calculating intensity—pale blue like frost on glass, rimmed in red as if he hadn’t slept in days. They flicked across the shelves and the walls like a predator surveying a cage he’d once broken out of. They landed on Estelle like claws.

Even the way he moved had changed. He still had that prowling gait, the casual arrogance of someone who believed the room—and everyone in it—belonged to him. But there was a stiffness in his shoulders now, a faint hitch in his stride. The war hadn’t broken him, not completely, but it had left its mark. The lines around his mouth were deeper. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And something about the way he held his wand—loose, low, but always at the ready—told her he hadn’t gone soft.

Estelle felt that old, instinctive fear slither up her spine. He was dangerous. He had always been dangerous. But the years had refined that danger into something precise. He wasn’t just cruel now—he was calculated. Controlled. And he hadn’t come here without purpose.

“So you’re out of Azkaban, then,” she said.

Amycus tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her need to state the obvious. “If you can call it that. I prefer to think of it as… released on good behavior.”

He stepped closer, and she caught the faintest scent of bergamot and old woodsmoke—something civilized masking something rotten underneath.

“Not all of us stayed chained to a dying ideology, Estelle,” he said. “Some of us evolved. Some of us adapted. Survived.”

She stared at him, heart hammering. His face was familiar and foreign all at once. The sharp nose, the slight scar just above his brow from a duel long ago, the way he bared his teeth when he smiled—it was all there. But the man behind the features was hollowed, sharpened, and worse—entirely sure of himself.

Amycus Carrow had aged like a blade kept for battle.

It had been twelve years, and now he was back.

“Survived?” she echoed. “You tortured children and carved curses into their skin. You sat firmly on the wrong side of the war.”

His smile widened.

“And yet here I am. And here you are. Shopkeeping. Teaching. How quaint.”

He glanced around the shop, brows raised in mock admiration. He paused, closing his eyes. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, his cloaked shoulders rising and falling as the shop air filled his lungs. “Still smells like lilac and ashes. Just like you always did.”

Estelle tightened her grip on her wand. “Get out.”

“But I only just arrived.” Amycus moved behind the counter like he owned the floorboards. “You don’t miss me? Not even a little? After everything we shared?”

She glared. “We shared nothing. What happened between us wasn’t my choice.”

Amycus’s eyes glittered. “Oh, but your mother and mine worked so hard on that union. Such a waste. Carrow and Black, two pureblood lines, sealed the old way. Sacred magic in the bones of it. But you—always rebellious. Always thinking you were clever.”

“I was clever,” she said. “Clever enough to vanish the first chance I got.”

His face twitched. “I remember. You sent that little note, all noble, all righteous. It was lengthy, a volume, truly. My owl had a limp for weeks.”

Estelle squared her shoulders. “Why are you here?”

“Curiosity,” he said. “Nostalgia. Perhaps a bit of unfinished business.” His eyes raked over the shelves. “You always were clever with plants. Though I always thought you wasted your talents on sentiment and soil.”

She grasped her wand without hesitation. “I said, get out.”

“Oh, come now,” he said, grin twitching. “That’s no way to greet your once-betrothed.”

She felt the breath catch in her throat. “That arrangement was ended the moment I could break it.”

His eyes glinted. “You broke the contract, yes. Quite the scandal, as I recall. Tried to burn the ring, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother threatened me,” he added, almost fondly. “After that night,” he gestured to the thick scar on her shoulder, peaking up over her collarbone from her cloak. “Said if I ever touched you again, he’d tear out my spine and use it to stir his tea.”

“He should’ve done it anyway,” Estelle snapped.

Amycus chuckled and stepped even closer. “I always did admire your fire. That’s why I wanted you.”

“You never wanted me,” she spat. “You wanted to control me. Own me.”

“I wanted what was owed to me,” he said, suddenly sharp. “We were to be a dynasty, Estelle. The Sacred 28. The House of Carrow and the House of Black, united by strength, magic, blood. But you threw it away. For what? For love?” He sneered. “For him?”

“Don’t say his name,” she hissed.

He tilted his head. “Which one? The brother or the werewolf?”

Estelle’s wand was trembling now, though she kept it raised. “You know nothing.”

“I know everything,” Amycus said, almost bored, leaning closer, his breath rank and warm. “You pretend you’ve changed, but deep down, you’re still one of us. A pureblood. A weapon. You were raised to be sharp, and you’ve gone soft in a castle full of children.”

“I protect those children,” she said through gritted teeth.

“From what?” he asked. “From me?”

“From people like you.”

Amycus sighed and leaned back. “It’s starting again, Estelle. You feel it, don’t you? The tension. The fear. The movement beneath the surface. He’s gone, yes—but not for long. The Dark Lord will rise again. And you can either stand with us this time, or be crushed beneath the tide.”

“No,” she said, voice steel.

“You’d turn your wand on your own blood?”

“I did once,” she whispered. “And I will again.”

He gazed at her for a long, breathless moment. Then, with terrifying calm, he said, “You’ll regret that.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t curse you myself.”

Amycus’s grin faded. He stepped closer. Too close.

“Tell me something, Elle,” he said, voice dropping to a low murmur. “When you close your eyes at night, do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like? If you’d done as you were told? Worn the family crest? Birthed the next heir? You and I—we could’ve been powerful.”

“I’d rather die than tie myself to you,” she said, her wand rising between them.

He laughed, sharp and cruel. “Still dramatic. Just like your brother.”

“Don’t—”

“Sirius was always the golden boy, wasn’t he?” Amycus sneered. “Ran off with blood traitors and mongrels. Broke your poor mother’s heart. And now he’s a murderer on the run. I must say, you two have a real knack for betrayal.”

Estelle’s jaw clenched. “Leave. Now.”

But Amycus didn’t budge.

Instead, he looked around again, like weighing the wards on the shop. “You’ve been away too long. The world’s changing, Elle. Old names are rising. You think teaching brats at Hogwarts will keep you safe when it all begins again?”

“I’m not hiding,” she said coldly. “And I’m not coming back.”

“Oh, I’m not here to bring you back.” Amycus tilted his head, his voice dipped with glee. “I came to see what you’ve become. It’s been quite cathartic, really. To see how far the great Estelle Black has fallen. Living like a commoner, teaching Halfbloods—”

Estelle’s wand crackled and sparked red. “Don’t test me, Carrow…”

He was on her in an instant.

The scuffle exploded into motion—a crash of limbs and shouted breath.

Amycus’s hand clamped like a vice around her wand-arm, slamming it against the counter so hard the wood splintered beneath her elbow. A bundle of dried nettles burst behind her, scattering powder and brittle stalks like shrapnel. Estelle cried out, twisting her wrist to free herself, but his grip tightened.

With a snarl, she drove her knee into his thigh. He grunted, staggered—but didn’t let go. Instead, he brought his forehead down hard against hers. The crack of bone on bone made her vision pulse white. Her knees buckled.

“Still stubborn,” Amycus rasped, his breath rancid with cloves and old wine. “Still playing hero.”

Estelle recoiled, blood dripping from her temple, and managed to twist free just enough to hurl herself backward into a shelf. Jars and vails shattered, showering the floor in powdered ginseng and dried belladonna leaves. A cloud of choking dust rose around them.

She raised her wand, fury and fear vibrating in her bones. “Expulso!”

The spell hit the edge of the counter and detonated—wood and metal bursting outward. Shrapnel flew. Amycus dove to the side, a shard of splintered oak tearing through the edge of his coat. His laughter, bitter and low, rang out over the chaos.

“Cute,” he spat, wiping blood from his cheek. “Still half-trained.”

Estelle launched herself across the gap. Her wand flashed with another spell—Relashio!—and a tongue of fire lashed out, scorching the air between them. Amycus snarled, ducked low, and retaliated with a slicing hex. It missed her throat by inches, carving a deep gouge into the shelf behind her.

She dropped low, rolled, and came up swinging—a physical blow this time, her fist connecting solidly with his ribs. Amycus doubled over, wheezing. She took the opening and drove her shoulder into his chest, pushing him backward into the corner. A cauldron stand tipped and fell with a deafening clang.

He retaliated with a knee to her stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. She stumbled, gasping—and Amycus took advantage.

His hand wrapped around her throat.

Her back hit the wall. Hard. Jars crashed around them. One shattered at her shoulder, spraying stinking liquid down her sleeve.

His grip tightened, cold fingers bruising her windpipe.

“You don’t get to walk away from me again,” he hissed, inches from her face.

Estelle’s vision sparked black at the edges. Her feet kicked uselessly at first—then found purchase. She shoved her wand straight into his ribs and whispered, through clenched teeth, “Ventus.”

A gale-force blast erupted point-blank. Amycus was flung back like a ragdoll, skidding across the shop floor and crashing into a rack of drying roots. The entire rack collapsed, burying him in a mess of crushed burdock, thornvine, and splintered pine.

Estelle dropped to her knees, coughing, clutching her throat.

The shop rang with the sounds of destruction: dripping potions, the groan of a collapsing shelf, her own ragged breath.

But it wasn’t over.

Amycus rose again—slower this time, bleeding from a gash above his brow. His wand was in his hand now.

“Should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” he growled.

Estelle staggered upright, wand still raised. “Next time, I will.”

He lifted his wand—and then something shifted.

Perhaps it was something in her face, her stance, stopped him. Maybe it was the way her eyes burned. Maybe it was the truth in her voice.

Amycus stared at her for a long second, chest heaving.

Then he smiled.

A horrible, hollow thing.

“This isn’t over, Elle.”

She caught herself on the edge of the counter, wand up again, breath ragged. “Touch me again,” she hissed, “and you’ll lose those fingers.”

Amycus grinned as if it amused him. “Still fire in you. That’s good. We need fire. We’ll need witches like you soon enough.”

She spat blood from a split lip. “I’d rather burn than fight for your cause.”

“You always were stubborn,” he said. “But you’ll see, in time. Dumbledore can’t protect you. And your precious school?” He scoffed. “It’ll fall, just like everything else.”

They locked eyes, and for the first time, she saw something beneath his fury—jealousy. Loss. Twisted longing.

“You should go,” she said, voice low and dangerous. “Because the next spell I cast won’t miss.”

Amycus’s wand hovered an inch from his belt, but he didn’t draw it. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something small and black.

He placed it gently on the counter.

A charred ring box.

Estelle stared at it, throat tightening.

“You can keep it,” Amycus said. “For old time’s sake.”

She didn’t lower her wand. “Leave, Amycus.”

Amycus studied her, his expression unreadable now. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“This place is too small for you, Elle,” he said as he turned toward the door. “But then, so is this life of yours.”

He reached for the handle and paused. “Say hello to Dumbledore for me.”

The door creaked open, the rain slicing through the silence.

Then he was gone.

Estelle stood there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity. Her wand was still drawn. Her breath shallow. The pasty lay forgotten on the floor, crumbs scattered like ash.

When she looked at them, her stomach turned, and she leant over before violently vomiting on the apothecary shop ground. 

She turned slowly, leaning her weight on the counter, gripping its edge with white knuckles. She wiped her mouth. Her hands trembled. Her heart raced.

She didn’t move for a full minute.

Estelle stood motionless for several long minutes, in fact, the flickering sconces casting her shadow over the cracked glass and scattered herbs on the floor. The scent of crushed peppermint and burnt nettles mingled with the metallic tang of adrenaline and taste of bile on her tongue. The apothecary was a mess—overturned vials, smashed glass, a chair knocked sideways, powdered licorice root dusting the counter in a pale smear. Vomit. But the real damage hung invisibly in the air.

She stared at the ring box where Amycus had left it, still resting on the counter like a curse.

Her fingers curled around her wand. For one heart-stopping moment, she considered incinerating it—reducing it to ash like she should have all those years ago. But she couldn’t bring herself to raise her wand. Not this time. The sight of it was too heavy, too intimate.

Cautiously, she reached out and flipped the box open.

The ring was still there.

A thick band of old blackened silver engraved with the Carrow crest—twisted roots and a withering vine—set with a dull garnet that had once glinted blood-red in the firelight of her family’s drawing room. She remembered the first time she wore it. Her mother’s smile. Amycus’s smirk. The way the metal had felt cold and foreign against her skin, like a shackle.

Now, it just looked old. Heavy. Cursed.

But it was proof—tangible proof that he had found her. That the past was no longer something she could leave behind in the attic of her mind.

Her hand trembled as she closed the box with a soft click.

Then, she placed the ring box in her pocket with a trembling hand, brushing her hands over her teary face before smoothing her hair, gathering her bags, and walked to her fireplace and grabbed a bag from the hook above the mantle. Her movements were mechanical—like slipping back into muscle memory from a darker time.

She vanished the vomit from the ground and waved the glass off of the floor with a flick of her wand. She sealed the ledgers, set the shop’s locking enchantments in place, and whispered a final ward under her breath. The green flames surged to life in the hearth with a quiet whomp as she tossed in a pinch of Floo powder.

She stepped into the fire.

“The Three Broomsticks,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

And in a rush of emerald light and ash, she was gone.

The apothecary stood empty behind her, shadows pooling once again in the corners. The dust would settle. The ring would remain.

But the war she’d tried to outrun had found its way back to her doorstep.

Amycus Carrow was free.
He knew just where to find her.

And war, it seemed, had come home.

Chapter Text

October 29, 1993, continued.

The bell above the Three Broomsticks mantle chimed as Estelle stepped inside, trailing a faint waft of rain and old smoke behind her from the floo. The warmth of the tavern wrapped around her instantly—firelight casting amber glows across the wood-paneled walls, clinking glasses echoing like far-off bells.

Madam Rosmerta looked up from behind the bar and nearly dropped the mug she was drying.

“Estelle?” she said, eyes widening.

Estelle offered her a glum, tired smile. “Don’t worry, Rosie. You should see the other guy.”

Her joke didn’t land.

Rosmerta’s brow furrowed deeply. She started to round the bar, but Estelle held up a hand. “I’m fine. Just a… long day in Diagon Alley.”

Her hair was half undone, her cloak damp and creased, boots spattered with soot. One sleeve was slightly torn, the hem of her skirt frayed where it had caught on something rough. Her cheek had a small, darkened smudge—dust or bruising, it was hard to tell.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Rosmerta asked gently.

Estelle gave a faint shake of her head. She noted the movement hurt immensely. Luckily her cloak covered most of the damage. “Rain check.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left the warmth of the tavern, stepping back out into the cool October dusk. The walk to Hogwarts was short, but every step felt heavy. The castle’s towers loomed in the distance, a promise of safety and quiet and familiarity she wasn’t sure she still believed in.

She kept her head down on the way, eyes fixed on the path, hand tight around the strap of her bag. Each step cut like razors.

When she finally reached the gates, they opened for her with a slow groan. She passed the greenhouses without looking at them and headed straight through the entrance hall. Dinner was just beginning in the Great Hall, her only luck of the afternoon. She slipped past without anyone noticing.

Up toward the moving staircases. Down a forgotten corridor. Left at the tapestry of Wendelin the Weird.

She reached her quarters and unlocked the door with a flick of her wand. It swung open slowly, revealing the flickering lamplight within.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and dried herbs. Her kettle still sat cold on the hob. A half-finished draft of a planting schedule lay abandoned on her desk.

Estelle dropped her bag with a soft thud and leaned against the door, eyes closed for a long moment.

Eventually, she pushed herself off and began taking stock.

The ingredients she’d purchased—bundles of dried belladonna, carefully sealed vials of basilisk bile, crates of valerian, and a pouch of black thistle seeds—all accounted for. A few more fragile items she’d carried in a separate satchel—mothwing roots, powdered obsidian, shimmer bark resin—were intact as well.

She’d gotten everything she needed.

She placed the bag on the counter beside her cauldron and finally removed her cloak. It slipped from her shoulders like a weight, crumpling into a damp heap on the floor.

Estelle turned toward the long mirror mounted above her desk—an antique with a frame carved from ashwood and silver inlay, gifted to her by an old mentor when she first opened her apothecary.

She stopped.

The reflection staring back wasn’t quite hers.

Her eyes, yes. Her features. But there was something fractured in the image—a wrongness both beneath and on the surface.

A flicker in the candlelight made it look as if a shadow passed behind her, but when she turned, nothing was there.

The mirror showed her face—drawn and pale—but it was her eyes that struck her. Wide. Dilated. Ringed with something darker than sleeplessness.

She reached out, hand trembling, and touched the glass.

Estelle stood before the mirror, examining every inch of damage Amycus had inflicted. Her left cheek carried a purple bruise threatening to bloom under her eye, like a bruise silently shouting its presence. She craned her neck and traced the jagged cut along her lip – a red, angry line that throbbed with each heartbeat. She touched it, and tasted copper on her tongue. She wondered if those hollow echoes in her reflection were pain or shame—or both.

But that was only the beginning.

She reached down and rolled up the sleeve of her cambric undershirt. Her wand arm—still entrusted to her grip, but stiff, slow—revealed a faint swelling along the forearm where Amycus had slammed her against the counter. The skin was reddened and shifting beneath the surface, like bruised flesh layered with memory. She took off the soiled shirt.

Then she saw the worst.

Shards.

Dozens of shards of glass from the chaos in the shop—vials she’d dropped, exploded, or had flung across the floor. Tiny spikes glittered in her arms, weaving beneath the skin like malevolent roots. One chunk peeked through her shoulder blade. Another caught in the side of her waist. Another dozen were spread through her back. She swallowed, heart squeezed by the sight of herself like this—blood and bruise and glass and worry.

Estelle bit her lip and reached for her satchel on the desk. Inside lay her healing essentials: a small flask of tincture, a pouch of healing salve jars, and a vial of bloodroot oil. She drew them out and set them on the counter with a soft click.

Using a wand-tipped corkscrew charm, she popped open the tincture: a thin, silvery liquid that glowed with something gentle. She dabbed it on the bruise under her eye, rubbing in slow, circular motions. It stung with magic at first, then cooled like water on hot stone, leaving the purple less angry. She murmured a simple counter-bruise charm under her breath, and watched it tighten with promise.

Next, she uncorked the bloodroot oil, her fingers slick with scent. It seethed as she applied it to her split lip. The healing potion would not only close the wound but prevent scarring. She smothered a layer of balm over it and pressed the lip together.

She moved to the glass shards. A particularly large glint caught her eye in the mirror. It lodged halfway out of her upper arm, about six centimeters across. With breath held, she counted to three—and pulled it out. She swallowed a sharp sound of agony and snapped the fragment between finger and thumb. Blood welled, and she grabbed a long cotton strip to hold to the wound. Press. Press. Calm. Breathe.

Another large shard, this one in her lower back, closer to where her wand arm had collided. She twisted her body for better angle—and gasped when she nudged the shard free. The pain was sharp and sudden, a reminder of how fragile she really was.

After fifteen minutes of picking, of blood, of tears she tried to keep from slipping down her cheeks, she looked like a map of wounds. She sank to her bed to catch her breath. Wherever the shards hadn’t drawn blood, there were footprints etched in lines of red, outlining jagged paths across pale flesh. She’s made progress on the glass, but the was nowhere close to done.

She leaned back on her pillow, deep red blood quickly seeping onto the silver fabric. Her wand arm pulsed whenever she tried to move it too fast. She flexed her fingers—I’m okay. I’m okay.

Her throat burned with exhaustion. She reached under the desk for a cloth-bound flask of infused salve. Using her good hand, she squeezed ointment onto each cut, massaging with gentle care, whispering minor healing charms. Each crease of skin she touched seemed to whisper back, worn and grateful.

The mirror across the room reflected it all: a broken but rising face. It might take weeks for the bruises to fade, longer for the wounds to heal fully. But the reflection hurt less than hearing Amycus say her life would “fall” without him.

She wanted to punch him—even with shards of glass in her hands.

Deciding to focus on dressing cuts on her hands and arms, she pulled a white tee shirt gingerly over her head. Blood quickly seeped through it. She gritted her teeth and sat down at her desk, using her lamplight to guide her work again.

The pain in her arm throbbed rhythmically, dull and deep beneath the surface, as if her very bones were protesting the night she’d had. Estelle sat at her desk, the surface now cluttered with potion bottles, bandages, stained gauze, and shards of glass she’d carefully laid out like grim little trophies. Her shirt—once ivory—was now soaked through with patches of blood and potion, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She hadn’t bothered with trousers, only her underwear and the ruined t-shirt remained. She was too tired to care.

Her wand arm trembled slightly as she extracted another sliver of glass from just below her elbow, biting her lip hard enough to taste more iron. The sting of the antiseptic salve only deepened the pain, but she welcomed it. Pain was real. Pain made sense. Unlike this whole afternoon. Unlike Amycus.

She took a shaky breath and leaned forward to rest her forehead against the edge of her desk. Her hair was tied up in a lazy knot, strands escaping to cling to the sweat and blood on her temples. She closed her eyes for a moment. Just one moment.

The door creaked open.

Her eyes snapped open as she straightened, wand hand halfway reaching for her holster before the familiar voice spoke.

“Bloody hell.”

Severus.

Estelle whipped her head around just as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His usual scowl was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous—shock, tightly reined fury, and a sort of hollow disbelief.

She blinked at him, utterly frozen, her fingers still wrapped around the fragment of glass halfway out of her arm. Her blood dripped steadily down her elbow and onto the hardwood floor.

“I—” she began, but her voice cracked. She hadn’t spoken since she left Hogsmeade.

Severus’s black eyes flicked across the scene. The blood on every surface. The half-dressed state of her body. The ruined shirt clinging to her chest. The potion bottles, the pile of bloodied bandages, the glass, the quivering in her fingers.

His voice dropped an octave. “What on earth happened?”

Estelle opened her mouth. Closed it again. She dropped the shard of glass into the metal dish beside her with a soft clink. “I got everything we needed for the dungeons,” she said instead, stupidly. “Everything on the list. Double quantities, even.”

“Estelle.” He stepped forward like one might approach a wild creature. Slowly. Warily. Calculating each movement. “Your room is covered in blood. You are covered in blood.”

“It’s mostly dried,” she murmured, not looking at him. Her gaze had locked back onto her arm, where a large shard glinted beneath her skin. “Wouldn’t come out with magic. Glass that small just dances under the surface. It’s easier to—”

Severus didn’t move for several seconds.

His eyes took in the scene with unnerving precision—her pale skin marked with bruises, the blood-drenched t-shirt clinging to her ribs, the small silver tweezers gripped in her shaking wand hand as she pulled another glittering shard of glass from her forearm. She winced but didn’t stop.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, he drew his wand and locked the door with a click. The sound might as well have been a thunderclap.

Estelle didn’t turn around, trying to focus on her arm. “I didn’t ward the door.”

“No,” Severus said dryly, “I noticed.”

She flicked her wand at a pile of gauze and potion-stained cloths on the desk. “I’m fine. You can take the supplies and go.”

“I see that,” he said dryly, his voice low and expression unreadable.

She finally turned to look at him. Her expression was composed, but barely. Her lip was still bleeding.

Severus crossed the room in two strides. “Sit.”

“I’m already sitting.”

“Sit and stop pretending you’ve got this under control.” He conjured a stool and pulled it beside her desk, lowering himself with slow care.

She scowled. “I didn’t ask for—”

“You’re covered in blood, you daft woman,” he snapped. “There is half an apothecary worth of glass lodged in your body. If you’d waited another hour, you might’ve bled out or ended up with sepsis.”

Estelle blinked at him.

There was no venom in his voice—just the brittle shell of anger hiding something else. Worry, perhaps. Or guilt.

He reached for her arm.

She hesitated.

“I’m not here to argue,” he said, softer now. “Let me help.”

A long beat passed before she nodded and extended her arm to him. He took it gently, carefully. His hands were cooler than hers, but steady. He examined the jagged cuts, the embedded slivers of vials and glass, the way her skin had reddened around them. He looked at the old scars, too.

“You’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“Not recently.”

She slammed the salve jar shut and turned away, pulling her cloak from the ground with shaking hands to cover her exposed skin.

“Don’t,” Severus said softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

She stopped, though she wanted to disappear into thin air. She dropped the cloak.

“Estelle,” he said again, voice brittle and urgent. “Are you all right?”

Her own voice cracked when she answered. “I’m fine.”

“By all that is uncrossable, this is not fine—”

He reached for her arm. She flinched at the contact. His hand was calm, steady. She met his eyes—a dark ocean of fear and controlled anger.

“Stop.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it was firm.

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

“You are decidedly not fine,” he snapped, advancing now. His footsteps were sharp against the stone. “Where were you?”

“Nowhere—”

“Don’t you dare.”

Estelle inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Knockturn Alley,” she said, swallowing. “After I finished my errands. I stopped back at my old apothecary. Wanted to check on a book I’d forgotten. That’s all.”

“And what? You tripped into a crate of cursed glass?”

There was no humor in his voice, no sarcasm—only fury so tightly leashed it crackled in the air between them.

“I ran into Amycus.”

That stopped him.

“I need to know what happened,” he said. “Now.”

Estelle saw him try to peer at the broken glass on her shoulder, at the bruise under her eye. She took a breath.

“I got into a fight,” she started again. “With Amycus Carrow.”

For a heartbeat, Severus stood utterly still. Then something in him seemed to snap.

“Amycus Carrow.”

Estelle nodded.

Severus’s voice dropped again, this time like a blade. “And you didn’t think to come strait to me? To tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“When you’re half-naked and I’m picking it out of you like you’re picking bloody shrapnel out of your own arm?”

Her face flushed red—not from embarrassment, not fully—but from shame, exhaustion, rage. “Would you have preferred I sent an owl while he was threatening to kill me? I only just got back.”

Severus flinched.

Estelle stood now, slowly, her legs unsteady. “He showed up in my shop, Severus. He was waiting. He still had the godsdamned betrothal ring. And he—he looked at me like he still owned me.”

Her breath shook as she blinked hard against the wetness forming at the corner of her eyes.

A shadow passed over Severus’s face. “He’s out, then.”

“Apparently he never went in. The Ministry never caught him. He just disappeared after the war. And now he’s back.” She paused. “He knew where to find me.”

Severus plucked a shard free with a muttered spell and pressed a clean cloth to the wound. “I thought he was dead.”

“I hoped he was.”

Another silence. Severus continued working in grim concentration, carefully removing the worst of the glass, his jaw tight.

“I thought I could handle seeing him,” Estelle said eventually. “I thought—after everything—I was stronger.”

Severus didn’t look up. “You are. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

She scoffed softly. “He said I should’ve stayed with him. That we could’ve had everything. That I’m a traitor to our blood.”

“That sounds like Amycus,” Severus said, his voice going colder. “Still obsessed with lineage. Still obsessed with you.”

She flinched. “He used to talk about how we’d rule. Our families wanted heirs. Perfect little monsters.”

“You were betrothed before you had your first kiss.”

“I never wanted it. But we were fifteen when it was arranged. He was cruel even then.”

Severus finally looked at her. “I remember.”

Estelle gave a bitter laugh. “You hexed him once in sixth year.”

“For calling you property,” he muttered. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”

She blinked. “I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

The cloth in his hand was soaked with diluted blood. He tossed it aside and summoned another with a flick of his wand.

Severus's face darkened. “Merlin what did he do to you?” He said it more to the air than to her.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” But her voice was thin.

He stepped closer. “Let me see your back.”

“No.”

“Estelle—”

“No.”

She shifted away from him, grabbing one of the towels and pressing it hard to her forearm.

“I can finish this on my own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I said I can handle it.”

“You’ve clearly done a brilliant job so far,” he snapped, stepping toward her desk and grabbing one of the balms. “Hold still.”

She tried to shove him away, but his grip was unyielding, and suddenly he was crouched beside her, wrapping a steady hand around her elbow to hold it still.

For a moment, neither of them said a word.

The air buzzed with tension—old arguments, ancient pain, and something unspoken. His fingers were cold against her fevered skin.

Then he said quietly, “You should have warded your damn shop.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.”

And yet, his hands were gentle as he began to clean the wound. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscles twitching beneath his skin. His hair fell in curtains around his face, shielding his expression.

“He said I belonged to him,” she whispered. “That he still had the ring.”

Severus stopped. His eyes lifted slowly to meet hers.

“You didn’t tell me that part.”

“I didn’t want to say it out loud.”

“Did he… hurt you?” he asked, his voice a knife-edge. She knew what he was trying to ask.

Estelle looked down. “Not… like that.”

Severus pressed his lips together and returned to the wounds on her back. He conjured a second towel to dab the blood and broken glass away. She shivered as he worked, and not from pain.

“I hated watching what he did to you,” he murmured after a long pause. “Back then.”

“I hated living it.”

“Your parents allowed it.”

“They encouraged it,” she whispered. “Black and Carrow—how bloody poetic.”

Severus shook his head. “You deserved better.”

Estelle’s voice cracked. “So did you.”

Another silence.

He finished tending to her arms and shoulders, then stepped back. “I’ll get a proper healing salve. Your back needs care.”

She nodded without looking at him.

When he returned with the balm, Estelle hadn’t moved. She was staring at the small burnt ring box on her desk.

“You kept it,” Severus said, surprised.

“I meant to destroy it. I… couldn’t bring myself to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to remind myself what I escaped.”

He said nothing.

As he spread the balm over her bruised and torn skin, she closed her eyes. The tension eased from her shoulders inch by inch under his touch.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Severus’s fingers stilled. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. I didn’t expect you to come.”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone to do the shopping. Not with everything going on.”

“You were angry,” she murmured.

“I still am. But not at you.”

Estelle turned to look at him. “Then who?”

“Myself. Sirius. Remus. Everyone who let this happen to you.”

Their eyes locked for a beat too long.

It was a shockingly vulnerable confession.

Then Severus cleared his throat and stepped back. “You’ll need Dreamless Sleep tonight.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re never fine,” he muttered.

Estelle smiled faintly. “You know me too well.”

He didn’t smile back. But the air between them had shifted—lighter, somehow. More fragile.

She gathered a few bloodied cloths and empty salve tins and banished them to the bin. The room was still an utter mess, covered in smeared blood and glass. The fire crackled softly behind them.

“He’s dangerous, Estelle.”

“I know.”

“If he comes near you again—”

“I won’t be caught off guard twice.”

Severus hesitated. Then, his voice low: “Good.”

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “A brilliant, reckless idiot.”

She closed her eyes.

“Join the club,” she whispered.

When she opened them again, he was watching her—not with anger anymore, but with something far more dangerous. Concern.

“You really are the most impossible woman,” he murmured.

Estelle gave a soft, bitter laugh.

And then, suddenly, she was crying.

The tears came fast and silent, leaking down her cheeks as she pressed her face into her wrist. The bruise on her cheek throbbed. She didn’t even know what hurt worse—the sting of the glass, the memory of Amycus, or the fact that Severus Snape, of all people, had walked in on her like this.

It was all too much.

He didn’t speak again. Just stayed there beside her in silence, carefully cleaning away the blood on her back as she cried.

And that was worse, somehow—because she hadn’t realized how much she needed it.

How much she had needed someone to see her and listen without judgement.

“I—” She swallowed. “There’s more.”

He didn’t speak, just continued to tend to the last of the wounds in her back. He sat—angled toward her, not crowding, not fleeing. Waiting.

Estelle pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, dragging away the last of the tears. When she looked up, her face had settled into something that wasn’t composure so much as surrender.

“You asked if he hurt me,” she said quietly. “And I said not like that.”

A muscle in Severus’s jaw ticked. He didn’t look away. A dark fierceness crossed his gaze  

“I wasn’t lying,” she continued, voice low, measured, as if each word had to be coaxed out of hiding. “But I didn’t tell you the whole of it either. I never have. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Silence. The fire cracked. Somewhere in the castle, a clock tolled the quarter hour.

She exhaled, slow and shaking, and reached for the collar of her blood-stuck shirt. She pulled it down for a moment, toying with the edge of it. “You’ve seen some of them,” she said, fingers hooking the fabric and pulling it aside, baring the pale, puckered edge of a long, slanting scar that began just beneath the hollow of her throat and crossed her collarbone, disappearing beneath the shirt and spreading out onto her shoulder. The sight of it still made her throat close; it had healed, but the memory never had.

Severus’s eyes snapped to it. He went very still.

“This one,” Estelle said, voice steadying by force of will, “wasn’t a duel. It wasn’t an accident or a lesson or a—” her mouth twisted, “—ritual. It was because I told him no.”

The words hung there, terrible and simple.

“I told him the engagement was over,” she went on, quietly. “I told him I was breaking the contract. He’d come to the house—my parents had gone to France for the weekend, and Kreacher was under strict orders to leave us alone unless summoned. He brought… wine. Too much wine. He always brought something. That night it was a bottle of ’54 Blackthorn Red. He said we should toast to our future. I told him there wasn’t one.” Her fingers tightened in the fabric at her collarbone. “He laughed. Said I was being dramatic.” A bitter almost-smile. “I told him I’d rather set my own house on fire than sign the papers.”

The mask Severus wore—the one he wore before the Dark Lord, before Dumbledore, before the world—fractured. He leaned forward, but slowly, like he was afraid to startle her out of speaking.

“He pushed me onto my back on the dining table,” Estelle whispered. “Pinned me with his knees. Drew his wand. I thought he’d hex me. I thought he’d make it so I couldn’t speak, or couldn’t leave, or couldn’t breathe. He had done all of those before.” Estelle stole a glance at Severus, his hands had stilled on her back. His look was what she could only describe as… Broken. She pressed on.

“Instead, he took a dinner knife. A pretty one. Silver. Engraved with the Black crest for special occasions.” Her eyes flicked to the fire, unfocused. “He said, ‘If you won’t wear the ring, you’ll wear something.’ And then he cut me.”

A sound left Severus that wasn’t quite a word.

“He didn’t cut deep enough to kill me,” she said, a dreadful calm in her voice now. “He knew just where not to sever. But it bled. Everywhere. And he didn’t stop until I said—” She broke off, breath hitching, eyes going glassy again.

Severus’s hands had curled into fists on his knees. The tips of his fingers were bone white.

Estelle forced herself on. “Until I said I would think about it. That’s all it took. ‘I’ll think about it, Amycus.’ Pathetic, isn’t it? He healed it just enough to make sure I didn’t bleed out on my mother’s table. Pulled up my skirt. Had his way with me. Left me there. Went upstairs. Poured himself another drink.”

“Estelle,” Severus rasped. Her name cracked in his mouth.

“It was Regulus who found me,” she said, hoarse. “He came by to—Merlin, I don’t even remember. And he nearly fainted at the sight. He wanted to take me to St. Mungo’s. I nearly hexed him for even suggesting it. I cleansed the wounds myself. He… he sat on the floor and held the basin.”

“Regulus knew,” Severus said, voice hollow.

“He suspected for years,” she replied. “He knew enough to despise Amycus.  But he also despised me for choosing Gryffindors over the family. It was complicated. We were very good at despising each other.” Her mouth twisted again, softer this time. “That night, he didn’t. There was a temporary moratorium. I just remember, well, he just looked… small. He was 15.” 

Severus’s eyes had gone dark and bright all at once. He read between the lines, that meant Estelle was only 17 at the time. He held her gaze. “And your parents?”

“Never asked the right questions,” Estelle said. “When they returned from France I told my mother I’d cut myself on glass in the potions lab. She lectured me about carelessness and how I must protect every drop of my pure blood for an hour. My father told me to be more careful with the family silver.”

He closed his eyes. For a brief, strange second, he looked older than Dumbledore.

Estelle let the shirt fall back into place and shifted, pressing her palms into her knees as if grounding herself. “The knee,” she said after a beat, tone changing to something quieter, almost clinical. “You remember the scar.”

He nodded once, wordless.

“He did that on purpose too,” she said. “Different night. Different threat. I’d told him I was seeing someone.” She realized how that sounded. She didn’t look at Severus when she said it. “Not like that,” she added, a sad smile, answering the question he hadn’t asked. “I was brewing with a Muggleborn girl from St. Mungo’s apprenticeship program. She’d asked for help with a tonic, and I said yes. He saw us together in Knockturn. Pulled me into an alley.” Her thumb rubbed unconsciously over her kneecap, through the thin cotton of the shirt hem. “He kicked it out from under me and cast a Severing Charm on the joint. Shallow enough not to cripple me permanently. Deep enough that I screamed loud enough to rattle the bones under the cobbles.” A breath. “He said the next time I ‘lowered myself,’ he’d make sure I never walked into a lab again without a cane.”

Severus’s face went ashen. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice so soft it was barely audible.

“Because you were standing next to him,” she said—not accusing, just honest. “Because I didn’t know who you were anymore. Because I didn’t want to give you one more thing to use against me if you decided I was a traitor too.” She looked at him then, fully. “Because I was ashamed. And because I knew if I told you, you’d do something catastrophic, and I didn’t want his blood on my conscience too.”

“His blood is already on your conscience,” he said, wiping blood from her forehead. It was a terrible, broken half-joke that didn’t land for either of them, but he said nonetheless, perhaps in an attempt to cut the thick air.

She stared at him for a long moment. “He never… finished what he started,” she said, carefully, the words so fragile they might shatter if she breathed too hard. “Today. Not entirely. Not in the way you feared when you asked me.” Her throat worked. “But he tried. Often. In the past.” She looked away. “There are spells to make the body numb. There are spells to make you forget. There are spells to make you agree. I learned very young how to counter them. Sometimes I was too slow.”

Severus’s hands shook. He hid them by flattening them against his knees again. “If I had known—”

“You didn’t want to,” she said gently, and it was somehow kinder than a reproach. “None of you did. Trust me, it was better that way. It was easier to think I could handle him. That I was a Black, and Blacks don’t break. That I had a mouth like a razor and hexes like teeth. That I would eventually figure a way out and win.”

He swallowed. “It was easier to think you didn’t need anyone.”

“It was a good lie, wasn’t it?” she said, and somehow she was smiling, ruined as it was. “I told it to myself too. Time and time again.”

He leaned forward, elbows to his thighs, hands steepled in front of his mouth. “Estelle,” he said again, as if it were both apology and benediction. “I am… well, ‘sorry’ is immeasurably too small. But I am.”

Her laugh was soft and weary. “You don’t owe me that.”

“I do,” he said flatly. “For years I watched things and did nothing. Not just to you. To so many. I excused it. I stayed unforgivably ignorant. I called it all inevitability. Strategy. Survival.” Estelle cringed as he said “Survival.”  It was the same word Amycus had used.

Severus looked at her, eyes burning. He said, as if talking to no one in particular, to the air or castle again, “I am out of excuses.”

They sat in the quiet for a long time. The fire settled. The storm outside, which she hadn’t even realized was gathering, rolled a low, distant growl.

He was silent for a long moment. The weight in his posture told her more than any words.

“You should get some sleep. Let me help you manage these properly,” he said at last, his voice low and rough.

He moved to her dresser where his cloak was and reached in the pocket. He shrugged it on and returned with a vial of amber potion in his hand.

“A healing draft,” she recognized. “Where did you get it?”

“Madam Pomfrey’s stores,” he said, uncorking it. “This is far more effective.”

He pressed the vial into her hand.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

He hand lingered against her palm, pressing the draught there. “You are most certainly, irrefutably, not okay.”

She looked up. It was the first time he’d fully met her eyes tonight—not the wounded witch, not the negligent teacher, but the friend he’d known before terror and tragedy rewrote both of their lives.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then began to retract his hand. “Take it later then, please.”

She swallowed, feeling his glance linger. For once, he said nothing more about wounds or duty or vials. He just packed the healing draft away in the satchel on her bedside table. When he turned, his cloak snagged a torn hem on her bloodied shirt. He reached out for it instinctively, smoothing it down with the flat of his hand—a silent apology.

“Get some sleep,” he said softly, pulling his hand away. “Then we’ll talk. And for Merlin’s sake, ward your chambers.”

Finally, she shifted, wincing as the movement tugged at fresh-healed skin. “Help me ward it,” she said, voice thin. “Please, a last favor before you go. Though I’m sure I’m out of those after tonight. Properly. Not with what I threw up an hour ago. The old wards. The ones we couldn’t cast at school because Dumbledore would’ve had both our heads.”

A ghost of something—almost a smile—crossed his mouth. “The phylacteric lattice?”

“And the heptagram.”

“Ambitious.”

“I’m tired of being interrupted in my own bloody rooms.”

He stood. “On your feet, then. Left wall first.”

She rose carefully, and he flicked his wand. The chair vanished. The blood and gauze and glass were already gone—banished in those few minutes she’d been talking, as if he couldn’t bear to leave any of it in her sight.

They worked in silence at first, the way they always had when spells were too intricate for chatter. He drew the first sigil—clean, perfect—into the air, and she layered hers over it, sealing the seam. A lattice of moon-silver light stitched itself into the stone, pulsing once, then fading from sight. They moved clockwise, door to window to hearth to ceiling. When she faltered, he steadied her arm with two fingers and no words. When he stumbled over an angle—too sharp, too steep, too much like a Dark rune—she adapted, softened it, made it defensive instead of binding.

By the time they were done, the room hummed faintly beneath the skin. Estelle exhaled, the first real breath she’d taken all night, and pressed her palm to the stone by the door. The ward purred back like a kneazle.

“Better,” she said.

“Safer,” he corrected.

She glanced at him. “That, too.”

He hesitated, then asked, very quietly, “Does Remus know?”

She shook her head. “No. He knows… enough. That Amycus was cruel. That I left. But not this. Not the details. I’m not sure he could stand them. And I don’t want him to have to.”

“You trust him.”

“With my life,” she said without hesitation.

“And me?” It wasn’t a taunt. It was a question, naked and risking.

She looked at him for a long time. His face was as closed as ever, but his eyes weren’t. They were open in a way she hadn’t seen since they were seventeen, arguing about who first discovered moonstone’s stabilizing properties in high-heat potions.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Enough to tell you this. Enough to let you help me. Enough to let you lock the door.”

The breath he let out was slow, and it shook. “Then, for what it’s worth,” he said, straightening, “you are not his to haunt anymore. And if he comes back, I will—”

“I know what you will do,” she cut in, a faint smile ghosting. “Try not to get expelled for murdering a former Death Eater in my sitting room. Not before I can beat you to it,” she added darkly.

“Former?” His brow arched, pretending she didn’t add the latter thought.

She allowed herself a sliver of gallows humor. “He doesn’t strike me as the loyal sort.”

Severus’s mouth twitched. “No. He never did.”

They stood there, two weary, ward-wrapped people staring at one another over too many years and too much blood. The fire guttered low. The storm outside moved on, leaving only rain.

“You should sleep,” he said again, softer this time. “Properly. If you wake, call for me.”

“I don’t need—”

“Call for me,” he repeated. Not an order. A plea.

She nodded, studied him for another moment, and then finally, “All right.”

He turned to go, paused, and then—almost awkwardly—reached into his inner pocket. He withdrew a small balm tin, plain, unlabeled. “For the scar,” he said, not looking directly at her collarbone. “It won’t erase it. But it will… soften it. If you want.”

She took it, fingertips brushing his. She glanced at the label. Essence of Dittany.

“Thank you.”

He inclined his head, turned, and this time, when he opened the door, she didn’t stop him.

“Goodnight, Estelle,” he said, voice low.

“Goodnight, Severus.”

The door clicked shut. The wards whispered, recognizing her as their anchor, him as permitted.

Estelle stood in the center of the room for a long moment, the essence of dittany clutched in her palm, feeling the wards hum through her bones like a second heartbeat. She moved to the mirror without looking and set the dittany down, then crawled beneath the clean blanket he’d summoned without her noticing.

Her hands shook.

But not from fear this time.

From something else. Something like relief. Or rage finally given a place to go. Or the first tremor of healing, horribly late and painfully slow. 

Estelle sank further into her bed, staring at closed door. She traced her fingertips over the bruise on her apple-cheek.

Her reflection in the window caught her eye—a cracked, bloodstained face touched by candlelight.

She lay back, breathing shallow, the full weight of the confrontation settling in.

But there, at least, she was no longer alone.

She rolled onto her side and let the room’s new lattice of light hold her in place.

When sleep came, it was shallow and dreamless.

And somewhere in the dungeons, Severus Snape sat in the dark with his hands pressed over his mouth, trying to breathe around the knowledge of what had been done to the only person left in this castle who remembered the boy he had been—and had told him anyway.

Chapter Text

October 30, 1993.

Estelle awoke to the sound of rain against her window and the distant toll of the Great Hall bell. Morning had come, whether she wanted it or not.

She peeled back the sheets slowly, her body protesting each movement. Her left arm ached fiercely where Amycus had slammed it against the counter. Her lip was split, swollen. The bruises beneath her ribs had blossomed dark and purple overnight, and despite the salves Severus had applied, glass slivers still itched beneath her skin, phantom shards her nerves hadn’t yet forgotten.

She dressed slowly, wrapping herself in a soft jumper and thick socks. Her usual elegance had abandoned her. There would be no tailored robes or perfectly woven braid today—her hair was left loose around her shoulders, wavy and disheveled. Her wand hand trembled slightly as she clipped on her traveling cloak.

Something about the gray light outside made everything feel more brittle. Fragile.

She had no intention of missing her lessons—routine had always been her balm—but the walk to the greenhouses seemed suddenly daunting.

A knock at the door startled her.

She winced as she rose, half-expecting Severus again, though she knew the knock wasn’t his. Too light. Too polite.

When she opened the door, it was Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Black,” she said warmly, though her eyes softened as they took in Estelle’s face. “Albus has asked to see you in his office this morning. If you’re up for it.”

Estelle blinked. “Now?”

“Now,” Minerva confirmed, then added gently, “and don’t worry about your classes today. They’re being covered.”

Estelle stared at her, stunned. “What?”

“Come,” Minerva said briskly. “He’ll explain.”

---

The staircase wound upward toward the Headmaster’s office, spiraling like some ancient helix of memory and stone. Estelle said nothing as she followed Minerva past the winged gargoyle, her thoughts still clouded by the day before.

When they reached the top, Minerva gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. “He’s waiting.”

Estelle nodded, then stepped inside.

The circular office smelled of lemon drops and old parchment. Fawkes shifted silently on his perch. Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, peering over his half-moon spectacles.

“Estelle, my dear,” he said gently, rising to meet her. “Please, sit.”

She lowered herself into the armchair across from him, the warmth of the fire prickling against her skin.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’ve been summoned.”

Estelle gave a small nod. “I assumed it had to do with the Ministry. Or… Sirius.”

Dumbledore smiled softly. “Neither, actually. Not this morning.”

He paused, then offered her a wrapped lemon drop. She declined.

“I’ve spoken with Professor Snape,” he continued. “He informed me—rather begrudgingly—that you may need rest.”

Estelle’s mouth parted slightly. “He what?”

“He noted, quite clinically, that your injuries were significant and that you are not, as he put it, ‘in proper condition to instruct a class full of hormonal third-years attempting to crossbreed carnivorous plants.’” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

Estelle blinked. She had no words.

“He insisted, of course, that he had no personal stake in the matter,” Dumbledore added. “But you and I both know better.”

Estelle looked down at her hands. “He’s… been difficult to read lately.”

“Severus is a man of many barricades,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands. “But that does not mean his care is absent. It simply moves… quietly.”

A strange warmth flared in her chest, then flickered out just as quickly. “He hasn’t spoken to me all morning.”

“I imagine he’s uncertain how,” Dumbledore said gently. “Sometimes, when we care most deeply, we retreat.”

Estelle’s throat felt tight. She pressed a hand to her forehead. “He was there last night. He saw me like that.”

“I know,” said Dumbledore, not unkindly.

“He helped me. Then left. And now—now it’s like none of it happened.”

“Perhaps it’s easier for him that way. To pretend. But I assure you, it did happen. And it meant something to him.”

Estelle stood abruptly and walked to the window. The trees of the Forbidden Forest swayed below. The lake, dark and quiet, reflected nothing but stormclouds.

“I hate that he always closes the door before I get the chance to knock,” she murmured.

“And yet,” Dumbledore said, “he left it ajar just long enough to arrange a day of rest for you.”

Estelle turned back, her brow furrowed.

“Take the day, Estelle,” he said. “Your body needs time to mend. But so does your spirit.”

She exhaled. “What about the students?”

“Professor McGonagall and Miss Vector have agreed to cover your lessons. Between the two of them, I dare say the greenhouses will survive.”

Estelle smiled faintly.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

He inclined his head.

As she reached the door, he added, “Estelle?”

She paused.

“I’ve no doubt that your presence here is already changing this castle—for the better. Keep going.”

She nodded, her throat tight, and descended the stairs.

---

She didn’t go back to her rooms right away.

Instead, she walked the long corridor toward the greenhouses, her fingers grazing the cool stone as she passed windows streaked with rain. The air smelled of damp earth and old memories.

She caught sight of Severus through one of the narrow castle windows as she passed—he was just leaving the dungeons, robes billowing behind him. He didn’t look up.

He hadn’t looked at her all morning.

And still.

He had gotten her the day off.

He had spoken to Dumbledore on her behalf.

He had tended her wounds, sat by her desk, seen her bruises and blood and trembling hands and said nothing cruel.

Behind his icy facade, he had cared.

And now he wore that mask again.

But something in Estelle had shifted—just enough to know: the mask was not the man.

She watched him disappear around a corner, heart aching in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Then she turned away from the window, walked toward the greenhouses, and breathed.

For today, there were no students. No war. No blood.

Only the rain. And the knowledge that somewhere beneath that stone-cold exterior, Severus Snape still gave a damn.

---

Estelle had barely moved from the armchair by the window.

A blanket was draped over her legs, her tea sat cold on the nearby table, and her cheek throbbed faintly in time with the distant toll of the castle bells. A smear of salve on her lip had dulled the sting, but the shadows under her eyes lingered like bruises of the soul rather than the skin.

She stared through the mullioned glass, past the rain-mottled panes, to where the Black Lake swelled and shimmered beneath a cloudy October sky. The trees surrounding the castle had gone from gold to rust, the wind stealing their leaves with every gust.

There was a knock at the door.

Soft, measured, familiar.

She didn’t answer at first. She didn’t have to. A second later, the door creaked open.

“Estelle?”

Remus stood in the doorway, hair windswept, wearing a cardigan fraying at the cuffs and a concerned expression far too warm for the gray day. He closed the door gently behind him, eyes scanning her quickly—too quickly—for damage. They lingered a second too long on the bruise under her eye and the cut at her lip.

“I heard,” he said.

“Of course you did,” she muttered, not unkindly. “News travels quickly in old stone castles.”

He stepped into the room, hesitating for a moment before taking the chair opposite hers. “Severus told Dumbledore. Dumbledore told me. I would have come sooner, but—”

“I know,” she said, voice quiet. “It’s the moon tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Still,” he said after a pause, “I wanted to check on you.”

Estelle looked at him then. Truly looked. Remus Lupin had always carried exhaustion like a second skin, but today it clung heavier than usual. His eyes, though kind, were tired in a way that no rest could mend. And yet—his presence felt like warmth. Like breath after drowning.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He gave her a look. That devastatingly gentle, maddeningly perceptive look.

Estelle sighed. “I’m… functional.”

Remus let that hang in the air a moment. Then: “Amycus Carrow,” he said slowly, as if testing the weight of the name. “I remember him from school. And from... the war.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You never really knew him.”

“No,” he said, “but I knew of him. Of what he did. What he was.”

She exhaled sharply, shifting the blanket off her legs. “He was my betrothed.”

Remus blinked. “You’ve mentioned that. But I don’t think I ever understood what that meant.”

“It meant I was a trophy,” Estelle said, bitterness lacing her words. “A pawn on a bloodline chessboard. The sacred and most ancient House of Black, handing off their only daughter to the Carrows. It was politics. It was tradition. It was… inevitable, back then.”

Remus was silent for a moment. Then, softly, “Did you ever want it?”

She looked up at him, startled. “No. Not for a second. I hated him. He was cruel even as a boy. Manipulative. Always toeing the line between clever and sadistic. I think he liked hurting things just to see how long it would take them to bleed.”

Remus’s mouth tightened.

“I tried to get out of it,” Estelle continued. “Fought with my parents. Screamed. I even tried to get Sirius to say something to them, but he… he wasn’t good at that sort of thing. He just told me to burn the bloody ring and be done with it. So I did.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black box.

Remus stared. “You kept it?”

“I don’t know why,” Estelle said, holding it in her hand like it might burn her. “I thought about tossing it again this morning. But… something stopped me. I think I needed the reminder. Of what I escaped.”

He nodded slowly. “Sometimes the things we hold onto aren’t because we love them. They’re because we survived them.”

Estelle blinked. Her throat tightened.

Remus leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. “You know, I used to dream of normal things. Having a career, falling in love, having a family. And then, after I was bitten… that all vanished. Overnight. No one came out and said it, not really. But it was like the world had written a future for me and then crossed it out in red ink.”

She met his gaze.

“So when you talk about having a path carved for you,” Remus continued, “I don’t know your version of it, but I understand the shape.”

Estelle looked away. “Being a Black meant being used. For power. For connections. Sirius broke free sooner. But I played the game longer. I told myself I had to. That maybe I could steer it. That if I followed the rules long enough, I could change the ending. But you can’t change a house like mine from the inside. You can only burn it down.”

“I think you did,” Remus said gently. “Just by walking away.”

Estelle stared at the fire for a long while. “He called me Elle,” she said finally.

Remus tilted his head.

“Amycus. Last night. It used to be my nickname. From him. My family. No one’s said it in years, but hearing it from his mouth again… it felt like poison.”

Remus’s jaw tightened. “Did he hurt you?”

She looked at him. “He tried.”

There was a silence. Thick. Uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” she added. “Really.”

He gave her a flat look. “You say that a lot.”

“It’s easier than the truth.”

Remus smiled, just a little. “Maybe. But I don’t think you’ve ever been very good at easy.”

She laughed at that, unexpectedly. “Fair enough.”

He leaned forward. “I know I can’t change what happened, Estelle. But I can remind you you’re not alone now. You have Hogwarts. You have your friends. You have—”

“You,” she finished softly.

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Yes. Me.”

Estelle looked down at the ring box again. Her voice was small. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

Remus was quiet for a long moment. “I think if he does… he’ll regret it.”

Her eyes flicked up. “You think I could take him?”

“I think,” Remus said gently, “that you already did.”

The fire crackled between them, warm and golden. Outside, the clouds began to break, letting thin sunlight spill through the glass. Estelle let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She wasn’t healed.

Not yet.

But she wasn’t alone either.

Chapter Text

October 31, 1993.

Estelle woke just before dawn, not with the panic of the days prior, but with a quiet sort of resolve humming under her skin. Her limbs ached dully—reminders of cracked glass and clenched fists—but her mind was mercifully calm.

The mirror above her dresser greeted her with no compliments.

She didn’t blame it.

A marbled bruise colored the skin just beneath her left eye, more green and gold than purple now, but still enough to startle anyone who hadn’t seen her in the past day. Her lower lip was split and scabbed. Her wand arm ached with a deep stiffness, and the healing salves she had applied overnight had only dulled the burning throb in her shoulders. She could still feel the faint imprint of the glass embedded beneath her skin, phantom pain flickering when she twisted just wrong.

But she was breathing.

She was upright.

And she was going to teach.

Estelle chose a high-collared blouse and dark, loose robes that hid most of the damage. She pinned her hair back tightly to cover the worst of the scratches behind her ear. No glamour charms. No illusions. She would not lie about her pain. But she would not flaunt it either.

The castle was quieter than usual that morning—an eerie hush seemed to settle over the stone corridors, as if even the portraits were holding their breath. The torches burned lower, their light strange and flickering, casting elongated shadows over the cobbled floors. Halloween had always had a peculiar pull on Hogwarts, like the walls remembered ancient things this time of year. Ghosts moved more frequently. The staircases groaned more often. The air smelled faintly of burning candles and cinnamon and something deeper—damp stone and old fear.

Estelle made her way to the greenhouses without speaking to anyone, thankful for the solitude.

Her first lesson of the day was with the second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who were learning to propagate venomous nightshade and identify defensive root spells. She caught a few wide-eyed stares when she pulled back her sleeves to demonstrate how to slice the roots—but no one asked. The students worked quietly, diligently, as if they too sensed that something was shifting just beneath the surface of the castle’s calm.

By the third lesson of the day, Estelle’s voice had steadied.

She found herself slipping back into rhythm. The comfort of potting soil. The scent of clove and mugwort in the air. Students grumbling over stubborn tendrils and cheering over flowering reactions. Even the usual mischief of the Weasley twins—who managed to convince a fourth-year that her moon blossom had developed sentience—felt oddly grounding.

Still, by the time her last class ended, Estelle’s limbs were protesting every movement. Her wand hand shook slightly as she scribbled final notes on the chalkboard. When she dismissed the room of seventh-year Slytherins and Gryffindors, she sagged slightly against her desk, exhaling into the empty space.

Then, slowly, she gathered her papers, sealed her potion samples for Severus, and extinguished the lanterns one by one.

The sun had slipped low by the time she returned to her chambers. A faint glow curled across the Black Lake, pale and gilded in mist. The wind whispered of rain.

She changed into fresh robes for the feast—charcoal gray with subtle silver embroidery—and fixed her hair in a simple twist. The bruises had faded somewhat, though the one beneath her eye still pulsed whenever she smiled. She chose not to smile much.

As she descended to the Great Hall, the castle stirred with noise again. Students bustled past in black and orange scarves, chattering excitedly about the Halloween feast, about floating pumpkins and dancing skeletons and rumors that Peeves had turned the entire fourth-floor girls’ loo into a haunted grotto.

When Estelle reached the tall double doors, the scent hit her first—roasted squash and nutmeg, spiced pumpkin juice, melted caramel, chocolate frogs, and roasted chestnuts. The doors groaned open, and she stepped inside.

The ceiling of the Great Hall shimmered like a night sky. Candles floated among constellations. Hundreds of carved pumpkins levitated above the tables, their toothy grins flickering with magical flame. Bats darted between the rafters, and streamers spelled out shifting enchantments of Hallow’s Eve lore. Music drifted from an unseen quartet of spectral musicians floating near the front dais.

She moved into the Hall and toward the staff table, nodding gently to a few students who offered hesitant, respectful glances. Her bruises were less shocking now—news had spread. Estelle Black had been attacked in Diagon Alley. The whispers hadn’t named Amycus Carrow, but the fear in the eyes of certain older students suggested some of them suspected a darker truth.

As she walked alongside Professor Sinistra, Estelle caught Dumbledore’s eye.

He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.

On her other side, Severus Snape stood rigid, pale, his mouth pressed into its usual displeased line. He didn’t really acknowledge her. But she noticed the slight shifting of his robes as he turned a hair toward her, as if checking she’d made it through the day intact.

She nodded once, and for a heartbeat, he met her gaze.

No words.

But something passed between them.

Then she turned back to the Hall.

Students were beginning to settle, the buzz of excitement growing as the enchanted ceiling began to swirl with falling stars.

Estelle exhaled, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

She had survived another day.

But the bruise beneath her eye throbbed still, a reminder that danger was never far behind.

The feast began.

And so did Halloween.

---

The Great Hall had never looked more alive. Candles bobbed overhead among floating carved pumpkins, each one sporting a unique face—grimaces, grins, twisted glee—and the enchanted ceiling above mimicked an autumn sky streaked with purple and gold. Music—harpsichord tones and distant flute—untangled around the tables, spun by unseen spectral musicians. Beneath the surface of celebration, though, a current of tension pulsed: Halloween was always unpredictable at Hogwarts, and tonight was no exception.

Estelle Black entered trailing Severus Snape—who moved like a thundercloud in robes too long for the occasion. He refused to look at anyone.

Remus Lupin sat waiting for her at the staff table, chair pulled close, offering a reassuring nod. Dumbledore was already beaming in his seat, robe embroidered with tiny silver bats that twinkled when he raised his hands. Septima Vector sat prim and straight, her expression mild—Hufflepuff calm. Minerva McGonagall hovered at the edge of the group, logbook in hand.

Estelle’s robes were black with silver ivy embroidery down the sleeves, her hair pinned into an elegant twist. The bruise under her eye looked better in the torchlight, but not gone—Slytherin resilience in colorful ink.

“Good evening,” she murmured to Dumbledore as she seated herself.

“Splendid, isn’t it?” he whispered back. “Halloween at its finest.”

She gave him a small smile, but her stomach fluttered with tired anticipation.

Platters of roasted pumpkin, sage-stuffed squash, cinnamon-glazed root vegetables, and spiced pumpkin juice began to circulate. The first-year ghosts drifted through the tables, rattling chains and offering packets of candied sweetmeats to hesitant students. Conversation bubbled around her—Gryffindors giggled, Ravenclaws discussed potion theories, Hufflepuffs beamed with festive delight, and Slytherins watched with cool-smiled caution.

Severus barely touched his food.

Fred and George Weasley, seated a few chairs down, eyed him like foxes sizing up a sleeping dragon. Dumbledore caught their glance and winked.

Estelle sighed.

Not again.

Barely a minute passed before Fred rose. George mirrored him. In unison, the twins casually flicked their wands—subtle, graceful arcs—and a faint shimmer rolled around the lower edge of Severus’s robes.

Within moments, thin wisping tendrils of green sparks danced up his sleeves, slithered across his arms, tickled his robes. A faint hiss, like a firecracker meeting water, rippled through his clothing—but worse was to come.

Severus snatched out his wand and stomped it on the table—every spark vanished in a blink. He remained in his seat, rigid as a stake, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like a storm ready to break.

Silence.

Then…

POP!

Every pumpkin above flickered—and exploded simultaneously—in a rush of orange flame, showering sparks down across the tables in a harmless but spectacular display.

Students gasped, then cheered. Laughter and applause rippled through the hall.

Estelle jumped, wide-eyed. She glanced at Severus—his black robe steaming lightly as if he’d stood too near the fire—and felt a rush of amusement and sympathy tangled in her chest.

“Bravo,” Dumbledore whispered, his eyes dancing—and perhaps a little angry. “Masterful.”

Fred and George bowed theatrically, smiling wide enough to crack plaster. They sat.

“You!” snapped Severus, voice low enough only Dumbledore, Remus, Minerva, and Estelle could hear. He glared at the twins. “A word after dinner.”

George shrugged. “Perhaps after pumpkins,” he quipped.

Estelle stifled a laugh.

Dumbledore patted her hand. “I quite enjoyed it.”

Estelle glanced at Severus again. His expression was ice, but the brief shift—like steam escaping from a kettle—reminded her he did care. She smiled faintly at him; he did not look back—but, for the first time since yesterday, she saw softness flicker in his posture.

Dinner continued. Tension and joy wove together.

Estelle managed to eat—spicy pumpkin fritters, roasted root vegetables—while still watching the students around her. A Ravenclaw girl sang softly beside her; a Hufflepuff boy fanned a red-faced prefect across the table. Gryffindors exchanged jokes so loud beverages sloshed.

Severus was waiting for Fred and George at the end of the feast—Estelle spotted him silently rising, stalking them with a gaze that could curdle milk. The twins looked sheepish, but resolute—they knew a lecture awaited, maybe detention points, probably a cursed hex or two, but still—they had done it.

Estelle finished her last bit of pumpkin tart with mild regret (it was delicious).

Dumbledore rose and gently tapped his glass with a wand. All conversation stilled.

“Dearest students and honored colleagues,” he began, voice clear and joyous. “On All Hallows’ Eve, we celebrate bravery—learning to face shadows with courage, laughter with respect, and each other with kindness. Let feats of knowledge, friendship, and curiosity mark this night more memorably than mischief.”

He paused, bright eyes resting on every professor at the table, then nodded once and sat.

Estelle felt her spirits lift—something clicked. The twins MIGHT have gone too far, but the laughter recharged her, cleared the fog from her brain. Maybe Halloween was exactly what she needed tonight.

She stayed for a while after—chatted briefly with Minerva about sprouting new frost-resistant mandrakes; sang along with Dumbledore’s spontaneous invocation of Hogwarts Forever; and by the end of the night, she felt… buoyed.

Later, as the students drifted out and ghosts resumed waltzing among the tables, Estelle made her way to the entrance hall and said her goodnights. She spotted Remus waiting by the staircase, coat over his shoulders.

He offered her a flask of spiced apple juice and a grin. “Better?”

“A bit.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

He nodded, the firelight catching gold in his hair. “Tomorrow’s moon. We both know what that means, but tonight… rest.”

She nodded again, warmed by the gesture. They parted with a look that seemed to say: We’ll get through it.

Back in the quiet corridors, Estelle felt oddly strong.

She passed Fred and George—caught them grinning at her; she winked. Fred gave a thumbs-up, George mouthed heroes.

They made her laugh.

She turned onto the staff staircase leading to her chambers.

At her door, she paused. The hairs on her neck prickled—not fear exactly, but that strange tension that lingers after laughter.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Her small sitting area was empty—just the hush of moonlight coming through the window. A faint smell of chamomile tea, the unlit candles flickered their faint afterglow.

“Home.”

She closed the door, pressed her back to it, and let out a breath.

That’s when she heard it—a whisper of movement behind her.

She turned—and froze.

A figure stood just inside, shadowed and tall.

Silver streaked hair. Wide shoulders. Familiar posture.

Heart in flight.

“Sirius?”

His face stepped into the moonlight.

Blue eyes, darker than she remembered—and cold with something she couldn’t place.

Before she could speak, she felt panic rise like bile.

“Elle.”

He said it so softly.

Fear cracked in her throat.

She shook her head. “No.”

He took one step forward.

She took two back.

“Knew you’d come.”

Her scream made dust float in the still air.

And then—

Silence.

The figure didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The lamplight caught his face fully now, and Estelle's breath caught in her throat. The man before her—no, the creature—was not the brother she remembered. Sirius Black had always been lean, restless, half-wild. But this was different.

His skin was gaunt, stretched thin over sharp bones. His cheeks were hollow, jawline ragged with weeks—months?—of unshaved stubble. A tangled mass of black hair hung down past his shoulders, matted in places, streaked with gray. Not the silver thread of aging, but the color of trauma—of what Azkaban did to people. His eyes, once brilliant blue with a devil-may-care spark, were sunken, rimmed in red, and stared out like shards of ice in a broken face.

But it was his mouth that unsettled her most.

Twisted in something not quite a grin. Something feral. Lips chapped, cracked, the corners bloodied, as though he'd been biting them in his sleep—or out of it.

"Elle," he said again, and this time, his voice cracked at the edges like burnt paper.

She took another step back until her shoulders hit the cold stone wall.

"You’re not him," she whispered.

The ghost of his smile flickered. "I am. I swear to you."

"No," she said sharply. Her voice was shaking now. "No, you're dead. You died the day James and Lily—"

His eyes flared, pain seizing the ghost of humor from his face.

"Don't," he whispered, throat thick. "Please don't say it like that."

She reached for her wand, trembling fingers fumbling at her sleeve.

Sirius’s gaze flicked to the movement, and in a flash, his hands were up—thin, scarred, shaking.

"Don’t hex me. Please." His voice fractured. "I—I didn’t come here to hurt you."

Her fingers found the wand and pulled it free.

"Then why are you here, Sirius?"

"To tell you—"

"No!" Her voice rose, sharp as glass. "You don't get to just… appear. Not after twelve years. Not like this."

He took one slow step forward. She raised her wand higher.

“Stop,” she said. “I will curse you.”

“I believe you,” he rasped. “But it wouldn’t change the truth.”

Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt. She could barely keep her wand steady.

“You murdered him,” she said. “You murdered Peter. You handed over Lily. You—” Her voice broke. “You handed over James.  He was your best mate, Sirius.”

Sirius’s mouth opened, but no sound came. The pain in his eyes was unbearable now—raw, naked, like he’d been flayed open from the inside out.

“I didn’t,” he whispered.

“You did,” she snapped. “Remus told me—”

“Remus was wrong!” Sirius shouted, sudden and guttural. The sound tore from him like it had been living in his chest for twelve years. “I loved James like a brother. I never—Merlin, Elle, I never would’ve betrayed them!”

Her wand lowered a fraction. Her breath came in shallow bursts.

"You... You told them to switch," she said, voice hollow. "You made Peter their Secret Keeper."

Sirius sagged, hands falling to his sides. “Because I thought it was safer. I thought—I thought no one would ever suspect him. That if something happened to me—”

“But something did happen,” she said coldly. “You disappeared. And Peter… exploded.”

Sirius shook his head violently. “Peter betrayed them. Not me. He’s the one. The spy. The coward. He—he faked his own death. Cut off his finger and ran.”

Estelle’s throat tightened. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to listen,” he said, stepping forward again. This time, she didn’t raise her wand. “Because I don’t have long. The Dementors—they’re coming. They’re everywhere, Elle. And I—I had to see you first.”

The sound of her name on his tongue—hoarse, desperate—broke something open in her chest. But she didn’t let it show.

"You're mad," she whispered. "You’ve gone completely mad in that prison."

He stepped into the full light, and now she saw all of him.

His robes were ragged, filthy, half-rotted at the hem. His hands were covered in scars—old burns, bite marks, callouses that didn't belong to a man who’d lived safely for even a moment. His nails were cracked and yellowing. His body moved like it remembered how to be human, but only barely.

Her eyes caught on the exposed skin near his collarbone—and there, she saw it: the faint black ink of a number. Azkaban’s mark.

Her stomach turned.

“What do you want from me?” she asked quietly.

Sirius’s breathing hitched. “To tell you I didn’t do it. To tell you I’m innocent. That I would’ve died before giving them up. That I truly did love James like a brother. That I held Harry in my arms and promised—promised—I’d protect him. Just like you did.”

Estelle closed her eyes, once. Slowly.

“I want to believe you,” she said. “But I can’t.”

He looked stricken.

“I can’t,” she repeated. “Because if I do—and you’re lying—then I’ll lose everything all over again.”

“I’m not lying,” Sirius said, stepping forward again. “Ask yourself, Elle. You know me. Better than anyone. Look at me.”

She looked.

Looked past the dirt, the ruin, the madness. And somewhere, somewhere, she saw it. A flicker of her twin brother—the boy who danced through snowstorms, who made stupid jokes in the middle of detention, who hexed tea cozies to serenade her on her birthday.

The boy who used to call her “Elle” like it was a spell.

But that boy had died, hadn’t he?

“I don’t know what I see anymore,” she said.

Sirius’s face crumpled.

“I’m not here to stay,” he murmured. “I know I can’t. Not yet. But… I saw Peter. On the map. At Hogwarts. He’s there.”

Estelle blinked. “What?”

“Peter’s alive. In the castle.”

She stared at him.

And for the first time in twelve years, doubt crept into her certainty like a splinter.

He stepped back now, slowly, carefully. “I’m going after him. I’ll prove it. I swear.”

He turned toward the door.

“Sirius—” she said suddenly. “Wait.”

He paused.

“…If you’re lying—”

“I’m not,” he said, not looking back.

The door creaked open.

And Sirius Black—haunted, skeletal, half-gone—slipped back into the night.

Estelle stood alone in her chambers, wand still trembling in her hand.

The silence that followed was no longer peaceful.

It was full of ghosts.

And not all of them were dead.

Estelle didn’t move.

The moonlight pooled across the stone floor like spilled milk, catching on the glass panes, on the folds of her robes, on the spot where he’d stood. The air hung heavy, laden with dust and disbelief. She could still feel him—his voice, that wrecked silhouette—like a storm had swept through the room and left her untouched but utterly undone.

Her wand slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

She stared at the door for a moment longer, as if it might creak open again. As if he might step back through and confess it was all some cruel hallucination conjured by grief and a decade of longing. But the silence deepened. The shadows grew.

Her knees buckled.

She barely caught herself against the edge of her writing desk. Her hands scrabbled against the wood as the blood drained from her face. The ring—his ring—still circled her finger like a brand, and it suddenly felt so cold she couldn’t breathe.

A shudder passed through her, and her stomach turned. Her body, once coiled with terror, now betrayed her in full. The adrenaline was gone. All that remained was the echo.

Her vision blurred at the edges.

“Sirius,” she whispered, but the name felt alien in her mouth.

He had stood in her chambers. Had spoken her name. Had worn that haunted face, thinner than parchment and madder than myth. But he was alive. Alive.

Alive and telling her that Peter Pettigrew lived. That everything she had believed—had mourned—was built on lies.

She staggered toward the hearth, but the room tilted.

Her feet caught on nothing.

And then the floor surged up to meet her.

A soft, breathless thud.

Her body crumpled like wet parchment across the rug, her limbs splayed in unnatural angles. Her cheek pressed against the cool stone, and she was only vaguely aware of the fibers of the carpet scratching her skin. Her breath came shallow, ragged, as though each inhale had to claw its way free from the wreckage of her chest.

The room spun. Her vision fractured into jagged constellations.

She felt—detached.

As though she were watching herself from a great distance, like a ghost floating just above her own bones.

There were sounds. Distant. A knock? The creak of floorboards?

Or perhaps only the rush of blood in her ears.

Somewhere in her mind, she was a little girl again, sitting at the top of the Grimmauld Place staircase while Sirius and Regulus shouted below. Somewhere else, she was nineteen, holding Lily’s hand in St. Mungo’s waiting room, unaware they were counting down their last months. And somewhere—now—she was thirty years old, lying unconscious on the floor of a cold castle with a traitor’s name ringing in her ears.

Pettigrew.

The thought came like a whisper, a spell, a poison.

He’s alive.

She twitched. A breath scraped from her throat.

Then nothing.

-

The candles guttered low in their sconces.

Outside, the wind picked up across the lake, howling against the windows like a creature mourning something ancient. The ivy scratched at the glass, and the shadows seemed to stretch.

Estelle didn’t stir.

Not until a voice murmured outside her door—low, impatient.

Footsteps. Clipped. Familiar.

A hand, lifting to knock.

Then a pause.

And the door creaked open.

“Estelle?”

Silence.

The voice sharpened.

“Estelle.”

Bootsteps on stone. Then the rustle of robes.

Then—

“Bloody hell—”

A wand lit with a flick. The room flared in golden light.

Severus Snape dropped to his knees beside her, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other already reaching for her pulse.

“Estelle—wake up. Look at me.”

No response.

He muttered a spell, and her eyes fluttered—barely.

A healing draught was conjured with a whisper and tipped gently against her lips.

“Come back,” he said, more quietly now. “Damn it, Elle—don’t do this.”

But she didn’t wake.

And the wind outside kept howling.

Chapter Text

November 1, 1993.

Estelle woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic potions and the uncomfortable stiffness of too-crisp hospital linens.

She blinked, momentarily disoriented, as sterile white and soft blue came into focus—the high arches and pale-glass windows of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Afternoon sunlight streamed in, filtered through a rainy haze outside. It cast watery shadows across the empty beds beside her.

Her heart kicked in her chest.

She sat up far too fast—only to groan and collapse back against the pillows, her temples roaring with pain.

“Easy,” said a familiar voice from the nearby chair.

Remus.

He leaned forward, fingers clasped together. He looked concerned, worn thin by something more than his usual pre-full-moon fatigue.

“You passed out,” he said gently. “In your chambers. House-elves must’ve found you unconscious on the floor this morning when you didn’t come to breakfast. Poppy said your body was in a state of stress exhaustion.”

Estelle swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “Was I… was I harmed?”

Remus tilted his head slightly, brow creased. “Not beyond what Amycus had already inflicted. And a bump on the head from fainting, I suppose.”

Relief surged through her—and then confusion.

Because she remembered him.

The lean shadow. The silver-streaked black hair. The voice. The eyes. Her eyes.

“Elle.”

She’d screamed. She was certain of that.

Estelle stared past Remus, toward the far wall, where sunlight painted trembling lines.

Maybe she’d imagined it. Maybe it was stress. A hallucination, the product of pain and blood loss and potions.

She’d been thinking about him more lately. Maybe her mind had simply… conjured what her heart had not yet accepted.

But then—

“I didn’t want to mention this earlier,” Remus said, slowly, “but you should know—Sirius Black was seen inside the castle last night.”

Estelle turned sharply, the room tilting.

“What?”

He nodded, mouth drawn in a tight line. “He destroyed the portrait of the Fat Lady to get into Gryffindor Tower.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Harry’s tower,” Remus added, almost in a whisper.

Estelle’s breath caught in her chest.

She had seen him.

She hadn’t imagined it.

Her knees curled up slightly beneath the blanket, her body folding in on itself. She felt dizzy again, but not from injury—from the unbearable weight of knowing he had come that close.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said. “I know that must be hard to hear.”

She closed her eyes. Behind her lids, the memory returned with unwelcome clarity. The shimmer of moonlight on the line of his jaw. The unmistakable rasp of her name.

He had been in her room.

He had looked at her. Reached for her.

And she’d screamed like he was a monster.

“I passed out,” she said slowly, forcing the words into place like bricks in a wall. “Because I—I hadn’t slept well in days. I was still healing. It all caught up with me.”

Remus gave her a look—soft, unsure—but nodded. “Understandable.”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Estelle wasn’t ready to say it. Not yet.

Because the truth terrified her: Sirius had been in the castle. In her quarters.

And he hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t even raised his wand.

Just stood there, with that strange haunted look. Like he was searching for something in her face.

She couldn't tell Remus. Not yet. Not until she understood what it meant.

Had Sirius really been coming to see her? Or had he been looking for Harry, and stumbled into her room by chance?

Estelle leaned back against the pillows, heart still racing.

“I think I just need to rest,” she murmured.

Remus rose, hesitant. “I’ll let Poppy know you’re awake. And—just so you know—Dumbledore’s called for an increased security presence around Gryffindor Tower. We’re watching the students closely.”

She nodded numbly.

As Remus turned and walked toward the far end of the ward, Estelle reached for the side table.

There, beneath a glass of water, sat her ring box.

She opened it, almost without thinking.

The betrothal ring still gleamed inside—green tourmaline and black gold, old as the Carrow line and twice as cursed.

Amycus’s past still clung to her skin like smoke.

And now Sirius—her twin, her ghost—had returned too.

Estelle closed the box with a snap.

The past was everywhere.

She was drowning in it.

---

The first full moon of November had come and gone.

Estelle sat on the edge of her bed, watching the horizon fade through her window as dusk slipped into deep night. The bruises that peppered her body still bloomed an angry violet beneath her robes. Her wand arm throbbed with a dull ache, and though Poppy had mended the deeper cuts, the skin along her shoulder blades still itched where the shards of glass had embedded.

But none of that compared to the gnawing fear in her stomach.

Because Sirius had been in her chambers.

She had seen him—gaunt, wild-eyed, hunched like a starving shadow above her. His presence had jolted her like an electric curse, ripped her out of sleep and into a scream. And yet, despite the horror of the moment, despite the fevered shock of waking to his face so close, it hadn’t been fear that lingered most.

It was familiarity.

It was the aching certainty that she had known him—recognized him in a way no illusion or hallucination ever could replicate.

And now, she couldn’t shake the image. Couldn’t quiet the certainty.

Sirius Black had come home. To her.

She’d spent the last night in the hospital wing, trying to convince herself she’d imagined it, until Remus had told her Sirius had been seen in Gryffindor Tower. And everything had shifted.

He had been real.

And he had chosen to find her.

The thought alone made her knees weak.

Estelle exhaled sharply, stood, and moved to her desk. Her chambers were quiet, dimly lit by the fire in the hearth. The air still smelled of calendula balm and salves from her healing. But she hadn’t yet done the one thing she should’ve the moment she got back.

Warding the bloody room.

She retrieved her wand with trembling fingers and began pacing the perimeter of the chamber. She activated the wards Severus help her put up before moving on to a few new wards. She whispered incantations—old ones, strong ones. Wards to detect magical interference. Wards to repel Animagi. Wards against apparitions and uninvited entry, layered like silk and steel over her doors, her windows, even the stone floor beneath her bed.

A silvery shimmer pulsed once and then vanished into the walls.

Only then did Estelle sag, breath catching in her throat.

The silence felt too loud.

A soft knock broke through it.

She startled, wand raising instantly.

“Stel?” came Remus’s voice, muffled through the door.

She lowered her wand, biting her lip.

She crossed to the door, put down her wards, and opened it.

Remus stood there, pale and drawn, a fresh scar across his temple. His shoulders slumped, eyes dark with fatigue, but he offered a small smile.

“I wanted to check on you,” he said.

She opened the door wider without speaking.

He stepped in and looked around. “You warded it.”

“Finally,” she said, voice dry. “Should’ve done it days ago.”

Remus nodded. “It’s good that you did. Especially now.”

He didn’t say Sirius, but she knew he was thinking it too.

Estelle moved to the armchair and sank into it, motioning him to the sofa. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got trampled by a centaur,” he said lightly, settling into the seat. “Better than yesterday.”

“I was going to come find you,” she said, folding her arms over her knees. “But I—”

“You needed to rest,” Remus said. “You’ve had your own full moon, haven’t you?”

She let out a breath that was too close to a laugh. “I suppose I have.”

The silence stretched, thick with unsaid things.

“I never really did tell you about Amycus,” she said softly, voice hoarse.

Remus looked back up, but said nothing.

She continued. “We were betrothed at fifteen. My parents, his parents—some idiotic sacred twenty-eight agreement made before we were born. The idea of merging Carrow and Black bloodlines was too good for them to pass up. His sister, Alecto, was actually supposed to marry Sirius.”

“Did you have any say?”

She shook her head. “None. I thought… at first, I thought I could handle it. That maybe I’d learn to live with it. But he was cruel even then. He hexed cats for fun. Called Muggleborns ‘training dummies.’ He once set fire to a second-year’s robes because she bumped into him. And when I told him I wanted out—he cursed my owl. That poor bird never flew again.”

Remus’s fists clenched on his knees.

“I still have the ring,” she said, voice flat. “I didn’t burn it. I wanted to. But I held onto it like a fool.”

“You weren’t a fool,” Remus said, softly. “You were a girl trying to survive in a world built to cage you.”

Estelle turned toward him, eyes shimmering. “You understand that, don’t you? That feeling? Of a future handed to you without choice?”

Remus nodded slowly. “Every full moon, I remember. Every time someone looks at me with fear. I didn’t choose this life—but I’ve had to live with it anyway.”

Their eyes met.

There was a weight between them—familiar, worn.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not seeing how hard it’s been. For being caught up in my own mess when you’ve always carried so much.”

He smiled. “We all carry something. At least we don’t have to carry it alone.”

They didn’t say more.

They didn’t need to.

The fire crackled.

Outside, the wind howled against the castle walls.

“Stay,” Estelle said quietly. “Just for the night.”

Remus nodded, standing to grab a blanket from the back of the couch. He folded it over himself and settled in.

Estelle watched him, and for the first time in days, she felt the faintest glimmer of safety.

He was here.

And she wasn’t alone.

Not tonight.

The logs in Estelle’s fireplace cracked and popped, their soft hisses curling around the dimly lit sitting room. The flames cast a flickering glow over the stone walls and glinted off the half-drained mug of tea on the low table. Remus sat with his long legs stretched out before him on the hearthrug, his sleeves rolled up, revealing bruises in various stages of healing.

Estelle leaned against the arm of the couch, one knee tucked up, her head resting on her hand. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over her lap, one she had summoned from the foot of her bed without a second thought. Her left arm still throbbed dully from where Amycus had slammed it down. The balm Severus had left helped—Merlin help her, the man did make an excellent restorative cream—but her muscles still ached with memory more than damage.

“Do you remember,” Remus said, staring into the fire, “when we were fifteen and you hexed Rosier so badly he missed a week of classes?”

Estelle snorted softly. “He tried to undo the buttons on my blouse in the corridor.”

“He claimed he tripped,” Remus murmured, grinning.

“And his wand just happened to be pointed straight at me? Please.” She rolled her eyes. “It was a mild hex.”

“Mild?” Remus turned toward her. “He had scales.”

“He deserved scales.”

They fell quiet again, only the crackle of fire and the wind moaning faintly against the windows filling the silence. The castle was asleep, but neither of them could bring themselves to go to bed. They were both too raw, too worn. Estelle sipped her cooling tea and flexed her fingers around the handle.

“He wrote to me once,” she said quietly.

Remus didn’t look at her, didn’t ask who. He knew.

“Amycus,” she clarified anyway, voice thin. “Years after the war ended. After Azkaban. I was living in Bruges then. Teaching potioncraft to children who couldn’t afford Hogwarts. The letter found me through my apothecary contact.”

“What did it say?” he asked softly.

She traced a finger around the rim of her mug. “That he forgave me. For what, he didn’t say. For breaking the betrothal, maybe. For betraying the Carrows, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the whole pureblood world. Or maybe just for surviving.”

Remus was quiet.

Estelle’s voice dropped. “He wrote, ‘You would’ve made a fine dark lady, Estelle. I regret that you chose the losing side.’”

Remus made a low, disgusted sound.

“I burned the letter,” she added. “After memorizing every word.”

Remus leaned his head back against the armrest of the couch, looking at her upside down. “He had no right to say any of that.”

Estelle shrugged. “He was always good at knowing exactly where to dig the knife in.”

“He hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.

She met his gaze. “He didn’t have to strike me to do that.”

Remus’s expression darkened. “But now he has.”

She looked away.

A long silence stretched between them again, neither of them speaking. The fire crackled and shifted, sending embers floating lazily upward.

“You ever wonder,” Remus said eventually, “what your life would’ve looked like if none of this had happened?”

Estelle tilted her head. “You mean if I’d married Amycus and gone on to birth the next generation of blood purists?”

He flinched, and she softened. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“I meant before all that,” he said. “Before the war. Before expectations.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wonder what I would’ve done if I wasn’t—well, you know.”

“A werewolf,” she said without flinching.

He nodded.

“You would’ve done what you’re doing now,” she said. “You’d be teaching. Helping children.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d be raising sheep in the Scottish highlands.”

“Only if the sheep were trained in defensive dueling.”

Remus laughed, his voice hoarse and weary. “Fair point.”

They both stared into the fire again, watching it ebb and swell. Shadows danced on the stone walls, and the warmth seeped into their skin like slow, drowsy magic.

Estelle shifted, reaching for the mug, but her muscles tensed mid-movement. The deep bruise on her side made her wince.

Remus noticed. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she lied.

He didn’t press her, and she was grateful.

“Do you think it’s starting again?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“This… undercurrent. Amycus showing up. Sirius escaping. You can feel it in the air, can’t you?” She looked at him, eyes hollow. “It feels like the edge of something.”

Remus nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ve felt it for weeks now. There’s something coming.”

She rubbed her arms. “I thought I had more time before any of it touched me again.”

“It never really left, did it?”

She blinked and looked down.

“You were so young,” he said gently. “All of us were. But you… Estelle, you were raised for something you didn’t believe in.”

She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “I was bred for it. I was supposed to marry Amycus. My brother was supposed to marry Alecto. Two perfect little twin couples. The sacred tradition of pureblood unions. Our parents were smug for years.”

Remus looked genuinely ill.

“You should’ve seen the day I burned the ring,” she said. “My mother screamed like I’d torn out her soul. My father didn’t speak to me for months.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t feel like it at the time,” Estelle murmured. “I felt like I was tearing down a cathedral brick by brick with my bare hands.”

“You were. And you did it anyway.”

She swallowed hard, raising one arm from beneath the blanket and rubbing her temple, which continued to throb.

Remus stirred slightly, glancing toward the fire, then turned his head to study her more closely. His brow creased.

“You keep zoning out,” he said softly. “Is it the pain? Or… something else?”

Estelle blinked, caught off guard. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head, unconvinced. “When I feel like that—hollow, distant—sometimes it’s not just exhaustion. Sometimes it’s after a transformation, or too much exposure to… well.” His voice lowered. “Dementors. Pain. All kinds of things. There’s a trick, actually. Stupid and small, but it works.”

She looked at him.

“Chocolate,” he said simply.

Estelle huffed a quiet, tired laugh. “You want chocolate?”

“I mean it,” he said, and there was something gently insistent in his voice. “It helps. Not just with the physical side of things. It does something to the brain—pushes back the dark a little. It’s grounding.”

She considered that. “I think I’ve got some in the drawer by my bed.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You? Keeping sweets in arm’s reach? That seems oddly… domestic.”

“I’ve always liked chocolate,” she said, rising stiffly and crossing to her bedside table. She opened the drawer and pulled out a wrapped bar—dark, slightly melted at one edge, but still intact.

Remus accepted it with both hands like it was something sacred.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She sat beside him, and he broke the bar neatly in half. “Fair’s fair.”

Estelle took her portion, the warmth of his fingers brushing hers as he passed it. For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

The chocolate melted on her tongue, bittersweet and earthy, like winter itself.

Remus leaned back against the cushions, his eyes closing for a second. “I used to keep a stash of Honeydukes’ finest hidden behind a loose floorboard in the Gryffindor dormitory.”

Estelle smiled faintly. “Of course you did.”

“Sirius found it once. Replaced it all with Dungbombs.”

“Typical.”

“I hexed his pillow to whisper compliments about me for a week straight.”

She laughed, an honest sound that surprised even herself. “What did it say?”

“‘Remus has a voice like velvet. Remus’s hair is windswept and intellectual.’ That sort of thing. Drove him mad.”

Estelle pressed the back of her hand to her lips to stifle more laughter. “You never told me that story.”

“Some memories are too precious to share,” he said with a mockingly dramatic sigh. “Until now, of course.”

They fell into a silence both warm and comfortable.

After a while, Remus’s voice softened again. “I meant what I said. Chocolate helps. But it’s more than that. It’s a reminder that there’s still sweetness. Even when things are unbearable.”

Estelle studied the flicker of firelight across his face. He looked older in this light—tired, but still fighting. Always fighting.

“You do that for people,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Remind them of sweetness.”

He looked away, a faint flush blooming at his cheeks. “You give me too much credit.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You never ask for thanks, or attention. But you carry more than anyone. And you still find time to help others breathe again.”

Remus swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the fire.

Estelle reached out and touched his hand, the gesture small but sincere.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then his fingers curled around hers, warm and trembling.

“I don’t know what’s coming next,” she whispered. “But whatever it is, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice low.

She nodded.

The chocolate was gone, but the comfort lingered—coating the quiet between them like warmth in the cold.

And for the first time since Sirius’s ghost had returned to her life, Estelle felt like she could exhale.

She wasn’t alone.

Not while Remus was here.

Remus shifted up onto the couch, settling beside her. His presence was grounding, like the firelight. Quiet, steady. The kind of companionship that didn’t ask for explanations or solutions—just space.

Estelle leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you ever think about running away?”

“All the time.”

“Where would you go?”

“Somewhere green,” he said. “Where people don’t know my name. Where no one expects me to save anything.”

She smiled faintly. “Take me with you.”

His laugh rumbled against her cheek. “You’d be bored in a week.”

“I’d be thrilled to be bored.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in silence and firelight and everything unspoken.

Eventually, Remus’s breath slowed. She could feel it against her temple—steadier, softer. His head tipped back against the cushions.

Estelle didn’t move. Her teacup had gone cold. Her muscles ached. Her wards were set. She was safe—for now.

But still, she couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the bruises, or the memory of Amycus’s voice hissing in her ear. Not even because of what she hadn’t told Remus.

It was Sirius.

He had been in her chambers. She knew it now with bone-deep certainty. The warmth of his hand. The shape of his face. The shadow that haunted her waking mind.

And he had looked at her like he wanted to speak.

What had he come for?

Why her?

Estelle stared into the dying fire.

Remus shifted beside her, murmuring something incoherent in sleep.

She turned slightly, just enough to study his face. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes. Bruises around his collarbone. His body was a battlefield, same as hers.

She reached over, pulled the blanket over both of them, and curled closer. She wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not until she knew why Sirius had come.

For now, she would rest.

Just for a moment.

The flames guttered low in the hearth, casting shadows that danced quietly over their sleeping forms.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned low, reduced to a warm orange glow that painted the room in flickering shadows. Estelle blinked awake first, her neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle on the couch. The scratchy wool blanket Remus had tugged over them in the night was still clutched loosely in her lap. She shifted slightly and winced at the ache in her side—a dull reminder of glass shards and bruises yet to heal.

Beside her, Remus Lupin stirred with a faint groan and blinked up at the ceiling, hair mussed and cheeks still pale from his recent transformation. There was a comfort in his presence—quiet and steadfast. For all her reluctance to admit it, she’d slept more soundly with him there than she had in weeks.

A knock shattered the silence.

Both of them sat bolt upright.

It was early. Too early.

Estelle glanced at the enchanted clock on her wall—it was barely half-past six. Sunday morning, the castle still half-asleep.

She threw off the blanket, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded to the door in bare feet. Then she cracked the door open.

Severus Snape stood on the threshold.

Damn it all, she forgot to put up her wards again after Remus came by last night.

His face was unreadable, his eyes glittering like obsidian under his brow. His robes were impeccably fastened, as always, though there was something sharper than usual in the line of his shoulders—something coiled.

Estelle blinked, momentarily thrown. “Severus.”

His gaze swept over her—still in the oversized jumper she’d pulled on over her sleepwear, her hair wild and her voice hoarse from sleep. He raised a brow.

“I require a handful of dried monkshood root,” he said evenly. “Your personal greenhouse has the most viable crop this time of year.”

“Oh. Right.” Estelle shifted, stepping back instinctively. “Of course. Come in, I’ll grab it for you—”

He stepped past her before she could finish.

And froze.

His boots landed heavy on the stone floor, echoing in the sudden silence. Across the room, Remus was rising slowly from the couch, the blanket slipping from his shoulders, revealing his shirt rumpled from sleep and the deep shadows under his eyes. He moved carefully, as if unaware his every motion was being cataloged.

Severus’s eyes locked on him like a curse.

The air chilled.

Remus was still on the couch, stretching and yawning, blanket slipping from his shoulders. He looked up and met Severus’s gaze head-on.

Snape’s eyes narrowed into slits.

The room seemed to drop a few degrees.

Remus, ever calm, offered a polite nod. “Morning.”

“Lupin,” Severus said, voice tight as piano wire. “Didn’t realize you’d taken up permanent residence.”

Estelle closed the door quietly behind her and turned to face them both, heart sinking.

Estelle closed the door softly behind them, her throat dry. “Remus stayed after the full moon. He wasn’t fit to be alone.”

Now he turned to her.

“Ah, and of course,” he drawled, quiet and scathing, “your quarters were the most logical place for him to convalesce - the only sanctuary available in all of Hogwarts?”

Severus’s gaze whipped to her. 

The question hung in the air like a slap.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

A pause. A flicker of emotion—too quick to name—ghosted across Severus’s face. Then it vanished, smothered beneath that merciless mask.

Estelle’s spine straightened. “It was my choice, Severus.”

A long, tense pause. Then his lip curled faintly, almost sneering. “Of course it was,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Remus sat up straighter. “I can leave,” he offered calmly, sensing the rising tension. “Sorry, Stel, didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

But Severus wasn’t listening. His eyes never left Estelle.

“You let him sleep here?” he asked.

It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict. An accusation.

“I let him rest,” Estelle snapped, sharper than she meant. “He stayed here after the full moon. He could barely stand.”

“I see,” Severus murmured. “And now, apparently, he can.”

Remus stood. “Severus—”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Severus interrupted, turning on him with that old, familiar snarl. “You’ve always known exactly how to make yourself indispensable.”

Remus stood, slowly, hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. “Look, I’ll head out. Didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, don’t be modest, Lupin,” Severus interrupted coldly, his voice laced with disdain. “We all need someone who can tend our wounds, don’t we?”

Remus furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Severus,” Estelle said warningly.

But he ignored her. His voice dropped an octave—quiet, furious, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Did you patch his wounds too?” he asked her. “Hold his hand while he wept? Tuck him in beside you with a mug of Wolfsbane and lullabies?”

“Enough,” she snapped.

But he didn’t stop.

“You didn’t even flinch when I walked in,” he said bitterly. “Like this was something normal. Like this was expected.”

He finally turned to her, and the rage she saw in his eyes was no longer cold. It burned.

“Did you expect me to bring tea as well? Join you by the fire?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, voice shaking. “Remus is my friend.”

“And what am I?”

That silenced her.

The question cut deeper than the insult.

“What am I, Estelle?” he demanded again, louder now. “Some sullen shadow you run to only when you’re bleeding? A convenient secret in the dark? Because Merlin knows, I’m never invited to tea.”

Remus moved forward, placing a calming hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “Severus. You’re out of line.”

Severus’s eyes snapped to that hand.

And then, without thinking, he drew his wand.

The motion was subtle, not quite a threat—but not harmless either.

Remus didn’t move. His hand didn’t falter.

“Lower it,” Estelle said, her voice low and dangerous.

It was all she needed to say.

He did.

Slowly.

Silently.

And then he turned to the door.

“I’ve lost my appetite for monkshood,” he said.

“Severus—”

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Just… don’t.”

He yanked the door open.

The silence that followed crackled like dry ice.

Then—

“Wait.”

She crossed the room in three quick steps.

He stopped with one hand on the handle.

“You know you can still use the greenhouse,” she said. “It’s your crop too.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Wouldn’t dream of intruding,” he said coldly.

The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the wall hangings.

Estelle stood rooted to the floor, barely breathing.

Remus exhaled slowly. “That went… well.”

She gave a dry, humorless laugh.

He stepped beside her, concern creasing his brow. “He’s angry.”

“He’s jealous,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

Remus arched a brow but didn’t press. Instead, he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and moved toward the door. “I should go. Let the castle start whispering about the right things again.”

Estelle followed him a few paces. “Thanks again. For last night.”

He smiled gently. “Anytime, Stel.”

And with that, he was gone.

Estelle was left standing in the center of her quarters, the dying fire casting long shadows across the room. Her arm ached again, her ribs sore, her mind racing.

Severus’s face haunted her thoughts more than she wanted to admit.

So did Sirius’s.

The war had returned. And nothing—nothing—was simple anymore.

—

After Remus left, Estelle stood in her quarters for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a hard line. She was still barefoot, the sleeves of her jumper tugged over her hands, the remains of sleep clinging to her shoulders like cobwebs. Her thoughts raced—not just about the strange tension that had hummed between her and Severus like a live wire this morning, but about everything. Amycus. Sirius. Remus. Herself.

She sighed and ran a hand over her face, then through her hair. “Enough brooding,” she muttered. “Be the grown-up.”

Her gaze shifted toward her personal greenhouse, just visible through the enchanted glass doors on the far wall. The monkshood would be ready. If Severus was still stewing, fine. He could stew. But he needed the damn ingredient.

Estelle stepped into her boots and tossed on her long green overcoat, then crossed the room and opened the greenhouse door. Cool air met her face, rich with the scent of loam and pine bark and something faintly herbal. She moved like muscle memory through the rows, fingers brushing over plant labels, until she reached the patch of monkshood—deep indigo flowers trembling slightly despite the still air.

“Let’s get this over with,” she murmured.

She bundled a generous clutch of the plant, wrapped it carefully in enchanted parchment to preserve its potency, and tucked the package under her arm. The castle was quiet as she made her way down to the dungeons—early enough that most students were still in bed, and only the occasional echo of footsteps broke the silence. Her own felt heavy on the cold stone.

The air grew damper as she descended, torches flickering on with a whisper as she passed. The halls of the dungeons were always too still, too watchful. The walls pressed in.

She reached the door to Severus’s quarters and hesitated. Part of her wanted to just leave the parcel and go. But she wasn’t a coward. And frankly, he’d already seen her at her worst.

She knocked, sharp and short.

A pause.

Then the door opened.

Severus stood there in his usual black robes, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been running a hand through it. His eyes, dark and unreadable, landed on the package in her hands before flicking up to her face.

“You didn’t have to bring it yourself,” he said coolly.

“I know,” Estelle replied, holding it out. “But I did.”

He took the parcel without inviting her in.

For a second, neither spoke.

Estelle cocked her head. “Going to thank me?”

“You were already awake.”

She smiled, humorless. “Lovely. I’ll be sure to remind myself not to be decent again.”

Severus’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers twitched slightly around the package.

Estelle glanced past him, noting a steaming cauldron and several potion vials uncorked on the counter inside. “Wolfsbane?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Among other things.”

“I know how hard it is to keep the supply up,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t ask for help,” he snapped.

Estelle blinked. “Right,” she said slowly. “Of course not. Merlin forbid someone try to support you.”

Something in her voice made him flinch—just barely—but he turned away and set the parcel on a side table with surgical precision.

She stepped a foot over the threshold. “You came into my quarters uninvited, you know. And now you’re acting like I’ve wronged you somehow.”

He whirled back to her, expression stormy. “You had Lupin there. Don’t play dumb.”

Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“Early morning visits from old flames,” he hissed. “Sharing tea, sleeping on your couch. What am I meant to think?”

“Whatever you like,” she said coldly. “You made it very clear I’m not your concern.”

“That didn’t stop you from letting me patch you up when I found you bleeding out in your chambers,” he snarled.

“No,” she said, voice dropping. “And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t give you the right to scold me like I’m some foolish girl sneaking boys into the dormitory.”

There was a beat of silence.

His nostrils flared.

“You’re right,” he said finally, voice a notch quieter. “I’m not your concern either.”

Her lips parted, but she had nothing to say to that.

She took a half-step back.

“I’ll go,” she said.

She turned, but just before she could disappear down the corridor, his voice caught her again.

“I meant what I said,” he muttered. “About tending wounds.”

She froze.

He didn’t elaborate. Just stood there, gaunt and guarded, as if any further vulnerability might cause him to unravel.

Estelle turned slowly back, eyes narrowed.

“That quip you made in my chambers—‘we all need someone to tend our wounds.’”

His jaw clenched.

“You were talking about me,” she said softly.

Silence.

“You’ve been acting like you don’t care. Like what happened—patching me up, seeing me like that—was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

Her heart thudded.

“It wasn’t nothing,” he said again, quieter this time. “But I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to… be around you. After.”

She stepped back into his doorway.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Just stop freezing me out.”

He looked away.

She lingered.

“I miss my friend,” she added, barely above a whisper.

His eyes found hers again. Something flickered there—longing, maybe, or regret. Then, he nodded once, curtly.

“I’ll see you at the staff meeting.”

Estelle turned to leave the dungeon, fingers still tingling from the contact with the cool glass vials she’d just handed over. Severus hadn’t said a word as he took them, just stared at her with that storm-dark intensity that made her skin itch. His silence was no longer cold—it was biting.

She had made it halfway to the door when she stopped. A flicker of heat rose in her throat. No. Not this time.

She pivoted, chin tilted, hair loose from its bun and falling in ink-dark waves down her bruised shoulders.

“News flash, Sev,” she said, voice as smooth as silver and twice as cutting, “you’re Slytherin. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

It landed like a thrown dagger.

Severus’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “Jealousy?” he repeated, incredulous, as though the word itself offended him. 

Estelle leaned against the stone doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with sharp eyes. Her new approach seemed to be working. “You’ve been acting like an ice sculpture with a vendetta every time something doesn’t go your way. Things were fine, dare I say good between us up until ten minutes ago. You flipped it back on the second you saw Remus in my chambers.”

“Forgive me if I was surprised to find you entertaining werewolves in your private quarters at dawn,” Severus snapped. His voice had risen without his consent, tight and sharp. “You have a history of... questionable judgment where strays are concerned.”

Her lips twitched in something not quite a smile. “A stray? That’s what you’re calling him?”

“Do you deny it?”

“I don’t need to deny anything to you.” Her voice had cooled. “But for the record, Remus has been there for me more in the past few weeks than you have in years.”

That got under his skin—she could see it. His jaw twitched. His eyes, black as ever, sparked.

“I patched you up after Amycus left you bleeding,” Severus said, his tone low and fast, too quiet to be anything but a threat of emotion. “You spilled your guts to me for hours. Or have you forgotten that bit?”

“No,” Estelle said. “I haven’t forgotten. But you’ve made damn sure I regret needing you.”

“You didn’t need me. You needed a Healer.”

“I needed a friend,” she snapped, finally stepping back into the room fully. Her voice cracked at the edges. “And you were halfway there, until you shut the door on me again.”

He turned away sharply, his robes flaring behind him. He walked to his desk as if distance could smother the tension. It couldn’t.

“Why do you always do this?” she pressed. “You let me close and then freeze me out the second it gets uncomfortable. The second it feels like it means something.”

“Because it does mean something!” Severus snarled suddenly, whirling back to face her. The words echoed off the stone like an explosion. “It means something, and I don’t know what to do with that!”

Silence fell like a spell between them.

Estelle blinked.

Severus, panting slightly, looked horrified at himself. He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to take the words back, rewind time, dissolve the crack he’d let show.

But Estelle didn’t retreat.

She took a slow, measured step forward.

“You think I don’t understand what that’s like?” she said, voice quieter now. “You think I haven’t pushed people away because I was scared? Because I thought I didn’t deserve them? Merlin, Severus. I was betrothed to a Death Eater. My entire childhood was a prison built out of polished silver and poisoned promises. I know what it’s like to not know how to live free.”

He didn’t answer. His expression was unreadable—shielded, but not empty. The rage had subsided into something darker, sadder.

“I’m not asking you to confess to anything,” she added softly. “But don’t look at me like I’ve done something wrong just because someone else showed up for me when you didn’t.”

Severus’s voice, when it came, was low. “You’re not the only one afraid of ghosts.”

She shook her head, once. “No. But I refuse to let mine make my choices for me anymore.”

She took a final look at him—still standing rigid, wounded, infuriating—and turned again for the door.

This time, he didn’t stop her.

But just before the heavy oak shut behind her, he spoke—so quietly she almost missed it.

“I don’t want to lose you, Elle.”

She paused, hand on the handle.

But she didn’t turn around.

“Then don’t,” she said.

With that, Estelle turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the dungeon corridor. And Severus, still clutching the parchment-wrapped monkshood, watched her go like he didn’t know whether to call her back or let her vanish entirely.

Behind him, the cauldron boiled.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Severus stood motionless in the threshold for what felt like an eternity. The parchment crinkled in his clenched hand, crushed now beneath fingers that had stitched and salved her wounds only days ago. He hadn’t meant to say it—not like that. Not in the hall. Not with her already halfway gone.

“I don’t want to lose you, Elle.”

The words had slipped past the dam of his control, too raw to be dressed in irony or silence.

And she had walked away anyway.

He slammed the door, the sound rattling the jars on the shelves and sending a puff of smoke up from the simmering cauldron.

Estelle’s boots hit the flagstones of the corridor in a steady rhythm—one-two, one-two—but by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, her pace had slowed, each step dragged by the weight in her chest.

She shouldn’t go back. She couldn’t.

But her hand twitched at her side. The bruise on her cheek aches. And after another step, she spun on her heel and marched straight back to his door.

She didn’t knock this time.

She flung it open.

Severus whirled, wand half-raised in alarm until he saw her.

Her expression was carved from stone.

“What exactly do you think I’ve done?” she demanded, her voice raised and sharp. “What crime have I committed in your infuriatingly labyrinthine mind? Because clearly, I’ve offended you so deeply that you’d rather gut me with glares and freeze me out again than say it out loud.”

His jaw worked. “You didn’t offend me.”

“You’re right,” she snapped. “I didn’t. Because there’s nothing to be offended about. Remus stayed because he needed help. Because he’s my friend. Just like you’re supposed to be. Or were. Merlin knows what we are now.”

“You told me things,” Severus said, quietly. “Things I didn’t… deserve to hear.”

Her brow furrowed, confused. “And you listened. You helped. You stayed.”

“Yes,” he hissed, suddenly moving. “And then I walk in this morning and find you curled on a couch with the man who left you alone to fight the ghosts I had to bandage.”

Her mouth opened—and closed. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not?” he sneered. “You bled all over my hands, Estelle. You showed me the worst of what Amycus did to you, and I—” His voice faltered. “I have not slept since. Not properly. Not in two days. And yet you give that dog softness, that safety, to him?”

“Because I needed it!” she yelled back, stepping forward. “And because he gave it freely, without lashing out afterward!”

“I never asked you to need me.”

She reeled back as if slapped.

He instantly regretted it, but the words hung between them, thick and bitter.

“I never asked for Amycus,” she said, her voice trembling now. “I never asked for what happened to you, or Lily, or James, to Sirius. I never asked for my scars, for my broken bones, for those I lost, for any of this. But I got it all. And I survived it all. And when I needed someone the other night, you showed up. And here you are, recoiling yet again. Like touching me has cost you something.”

“It did!” he exploded.

Silence fell again. The potion behind him hissed as it boiled over, forgotten.

Estelle’s hands curled into fists. “What could it possibly have cost you?”

Severus looked at her—truly looked at her. Eyes wide, raw, furious, ashamed. 

“My distance,” he said finally. “My detachment. The very thing I’ve spent twelve years constructing so I wouldn’t fall apart again. And you—bloody you—in just a few hours you tore through it like it was nothing.”

Her throat worked around a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh or a sob.

“Do you think I wanted you to fall apart?”

“I think I can’t be near you without remembering who I was when I should’ve stopped him,” he said. “When I stood beside people like Amycus and said nothing. Did nothing. And now I see you—strong, and scarred, and more whole than I will ever be—and I don’t know how to exist next to that.”

Estelle swallowed, stunned.

She stepped forward, slower now, not out of anger but gravity.

“You’re not the only one who failed someone,” she said. “I stayed with him for two years, Severus. Two years. Because I thought I couldn’t escape. Because I thought I deserved him. We all make our excuses to survive.”

His head dropped.

“I was jealous,” he admitted, so quietly it could’ve been a breath. “Of Lupin. Of how easy you are with him. Of the way you let him see the parts of you I thought I had earned.”

Her eyes burned. “You did earn them. But here you are, once again, giving them back.”

He looked up.

And there it was—her truth, hers alone. Held not in bitterness but grief.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, honestly.

She shook her head, eyes shimmering. “Maybe don’t try to fix it. Just… be honest. Stop twisting the knife with every word. Stop punishing me for surviving something you hate. I told you my truths were a hard reality. Don’t make me regret letting you in on them.”

He stared at her for a long, long time.

Then, slowly, he nodded. Just once.

She stepped closer—close enough to feel the heat of the cauldron at their backs, the air thick with steam and something heady and burning.

“We are not what we were,” she said softly. “But we’re not nothing. Just because something bad happens, doesn’t mean it’s all bad. Things change. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared.”

“I’m always scared,” Severus said. “I just hide it better than most.”

Estelle reached out. Her hand brushed his sleeve, fingers curling around the worn fabric.

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” she said. “I just need you to stop running.”

He exhaled through his nose.

Then he did something shocking—he reached up and covered her hand with his.

Not possessive. Not desperate. Just present.

“Then you must stop walking away,” he said.

A breath passed between them. And for the first time in days, it wasn’t jagged.

She smiled, barely. “Deal.”

He let go first.

She stepped back.

The world didn’t right itself. The past wasn’t rewritten. But for a moment, they stood in something like peace.

Estelle turned for the door once more, then paused.

“Oh,” she said, hand on the handle. “You still owe me a thank-you.”

He raised a brow. “For what?”

She gestured toward the crumpled parchment-wrapped monkshood, still in the grasp of his left hand. “For that.”

Severus allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.

“Thank you,” he said. And then, because some part of him still couldn’t help himself: “Now get out of my lab. And put up the wards on your damn door.”

Estelle’s laugh echoed all the way down the corridor.

And this time, it didn’t sting.

Though in the silence that followed, even after it all, neither of them felt quite so certain about where they stood.

Chapter Text

Early December, 1993.

The silence between them wasn’t loud—it was glacial.

It filled every inch of the greenhouse as Estelle knelt beside a tray of Wolfsbane seedlings, fingers stained with loamy soil. The late November sun filtered through the glass overhead in pale golden streaks, but it did nothing to thaw the frost hanging in the air between her and Severus. He stood at the far bench, grinding dried billywig stingers with exaggerated precision, as if every flick of his pestle could grind her nerves, too.

They had hardly spoken beyond clipped instructions.

Not since the monkshood.

Not since she called him out.

Jealousy doesn’t suit you.

It had landed harder than she expected. Since then, Severus had locked himself behind an emotional rampart so thick, she could practically hear the bricks mortaring themselves into place.

Still, they worked. Herbology lessons had to be planned, greenhouse inventories maintained, and potion schedules kept in sync. Neither of them were foolish enough to let their bruised pride jeopardize their students’ education.

“Wolfsbane still looking strong,” Estelle said casually, brushing dirt from her fingers. “We’ll be able to repot these before winter break.”

Severus didn’t look up. “Assuming they’re not trampled by idiotic first-years on their way to sneak dungbombs into the corridor.”

She arched a brow. “You need to start eating breakfast before we meet. Your sarcasm is running low on nutrients.”

His lip curled faintly, but he said nothing. Estelle rolled her eyes and pushed herself to her feet, brushing her hands on her apron. The rustling of the trees outside caught her attention—bare branches clicking together in the cold like the bones of an old giant. It was almost the end of the month. Winter was nearly here.

And still, Sirius hadn’t shown himself again.

Not in her chambers. Not in the castle. Not to her, at least.

Not since Halloween.

But he had been there. She was sure of it now—no delusion could leave that kind of mark. Her scream, the open window, the rush of cold wind, the scent of damp forest on her sheets. Sirius Black had been real and reaching for her.

And she hadn’t told a soul.

She couldn’t. Not until she knew what he wanted. What he was searching for.

Until then, it would fester beneath her skin like a splinter.

“Bring the plants inside tonight,” Severus said abruptly. “There’s frost coming.”

His voice was as cold as the forecast.

Estelle nodded and reached for the watering charms. “Already planned to.”

Their eyes didn’t meet. Their hands didn’t brush. The work went on.

---

Classes moved like clockwork through the winding weeks of late November. The students—jittery after the Halloween breach—had started to settle back into their routines, though the sight of increased patrols and occasionally barking portraits kept them on edge. Peeves, delighted by the drama, was louder than usual, dropping shrieking garlands from the rafters and painting “SIRIUSLY SCARY” in floating script over the stairwells.

Estelle taught her way through it. Calm, focused, and distant.

She poured herself into the greenhouses, into her syllabi, into the drying racks of fungi and herbs that needed sorting. Each lesson she planned with Severus—every shared parchment or list of ingredients—was tense, like walking a tightrope. The students didn’t notice. But Estelle could feel it in her bones.

Still, the work remained good. Productive. Even when Severus refused to meet her gaze.

She’d see him in the dungeons during a shared lab, hunched like a vulture over some particularly stubborn fifth year’s cauldron. Or she’d catch him drifting down the corridor with his robes flaring behind him like a storm cloud. Once, she saw him snap at a second-year for sneezing in his direction.

She smirked.

He was just as grumpy as ever.

But different, too.

More guarded.

Like he didn’t trust her anymore. Or worse—like he did, and hated himself for it.

---

Late in the afternoon the Thursday before the full moon, Estelle was standing in the corridor outside Greenhouse Three, watching the light fade behind the mountains. Her wand was tucked in her sleeve. Her fingers were cold.

Footsteps approached—measured and sharp.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Are you planning to let the shrivelfigs freeze to death?” Severus said flatly.

“Are you planning to freeze me to death?” she muttered, then sighed. “Never mind. I’ll move them.”

He paused beside her, just close enough to share the silence.

“You shouldn’t be standing out here alone,” he said eventually.

Estelle turned to him. “Why?”

His jaw twitched. “Because he’s still out there.”

She didn’t ask who *he* was.

Because they both knew.

She gave a small nod. “I know.”

Severus looked at her then—really looked. His dark eyes held something unreadable. Caution, maybe. Or fear. Or the ghost of that protectiveness she’d glimpsed in her chambers after Amycus.

But whatever it was, it passed. He turned away and strode back toward the castle without another word.

Estelle stood watching the mountains until the last light drained from the sky.

---

Back in her quarters, she warded her door again and dropped her bag on the table. A copy of *Advanced Potions for Unpredictable Weather* lay open on the armchair beside her fire. She ignored it.

The warmth of the common room made her ache.

Bruises still marred her arm and shoulder from Diagon Alley, though they were fading now to greenish yellow. The glass had been mostly removed. Her cheekbone was still a faint shadow beneath her eye.

But she was healing.

She was getting through.

Even if Severus wouldn’t look her in the eye anymore.

Even if Sirius was still a ghost.

Even if war was whispering at the window.

She was still here.

And tomorrow was another day.

---

Late November gave way to the first, steady snow of winter. It came silently, as though the castle itself exhaled in relief, drawing a hush over every courtyard, dark corner, and tower spire. By morning, the Hogwarts grounds were soft and white, icicles hanging from ledges, rooftops crisp with frost. The Black Lake mirrored a fog-rimmed silver sky.

Estelle stood at a high window in her quarters, watching flurries spiral past. Her breath fogged the pane. Below, statues and gargoyles wore hats of snow, and the willow’s branches drooped heavy. Hogwarts felt clean. Still. Beckoning.

She closed the window, heart oddly light.

---

A note lay waiting on her desk, edged in deep green ink, unmistakably elegant:

Estelle Black,

Please join Hagrid in the forest at mid‑morning to help select holiday trees for the Great Hall display. First snow of the season—it will look magical.

Thank you,

Albus Dumbledore

An hour later, wrapped in her thickest scarf and a cloak lined with fur, Estelle made her way down through the castle toward Hagrid’s cottage. The corridor torches flickered softly by torchlight, their warmth reflecting on the dripping snowflakes outside. The hush between classes made her aware of her boots padding on ancient stone, a solitude she’d begun to crave.

Outside, the grounds were silent except for crisp footsteps in white. She crossed the courtyard and followed a path trampled by moonlight.

Suddenly the door to the cottage swung open with a low groan.

“Esh‑TELla Black!” boomed Hagrid’s voice so loudly it echoed across the snow. A broad figure in a massive moleskin coat and scarf the width of a small blanket appeared in the threshold. A swirl of steam escaped his shoulders in the cold air.

“Hagrid,” Estelle said softly, stepping forward.

“Good t’see yeh! Come right in—mind the puddles, yeh’ve snow on yeh.”

She ducked inside. Warmth immediately surrounded her, a rush of woodsmoke, sweet damp nurseries of potted seedlings, and something baked in a near hearth—honey and spice.

“You’ve never done this before,” Hagrid said, offering her a thick pair of mittens and a wool cap. “Plucking Christmas trees from the forest, I mean.”

“I haven’t,” Estelle replied, slipping into the mittens. “I left Hogwarts before inside‑forest duty became a custom.”

He grinned. “Ah, well—time to learn.”

He opened the door and stepped out easily into the slowly falling snow. A great boarhound ambled forward just beyond his throat-high coat.

“This here is Fang,” Hagrid said, crouching to pat the dog’s brindled flank. Fang made a low grunt and sat, tongue lolling.

“Hello, Fang,” Estelle murmured. The dog snuffed at her boots and let out a satisfied groan. The barn‑yard warmth was contagious.

---

Together they walked into the beginning fringe of the forest. Snow thickened overhead and carpeted the forest floor, turning the trees into silent pillars of white. The air smelled of pine and damp rot and evergreen teases of resin. Owl calls drifted from tree hollows as they moved deeper.

“You said Dumbledore wants the first prize trees in the Great Hall?” Estelle asked.

“Aye,” Hagrid replied, voice softening. “Something fresh to remind everyone home’s not all war and worry. And the light off the snow—that’ll make the Hall glow.”

Estelle nodded, stepping carefully between ferns and frost-laden bramble. Her old Herbology instincts never dulled. She knelt to inspect a cluster of young silver fir, noting branch distribution, symmetry, and strong trunks that bowed into shape.

Hagrid huffed a chuckle. “You’ve got the eye. I just hack t’get the biggest.”

She smiled, brushing the tips of a branch. “It takes more than size to make something feel like Christmas.”

They continued, measuring, sharing quiet commentary on the best shapes. Estelle paused at a spruce whose lower branches stretched in gentle arcs, and its trunk stood perfectly straight—she tapped a mittened finger along the bark.

“Strong core,” she said. “Balanced, hardy. That one.”

Hagrid nodded. “Good. Now let’s find a few more; Dumbledore said he wants three big trees, and maybe a dozen smaller.”

---

They spent hours in the hush of the forest, snow falling in soft sheets around them, until Estelle’s cloak had gathered too much weight and Hagrid’s breaths steamed in plumes behind her. They cut branches carefully, topping each selection with care, leaving roots intact to prevent scarred forest.

Fang, after a long interval, padded between their feet, nosing at dropped saplings and occasionally barking at a squirrel higher in the branches.

During a pause, Estelle looked up.

“Hagrid,” she began, glancing at him beneath the brim of his hat, “thank you. For thinking to include me.”

He smiled, wide and sheepish. “Dumbledore told me yeh were gifted with plants. Said I should make sure I had someone besides my own two hands pick the trees. He says this is your first year back—wanted yeh t’feel included.”

Estelle felt a sudden flush in her chest. She nodded, eyes drifting over the tall firs and soft hollows. “It’s good to feel… part of it.”

---

By midday they’d loaded the final tree into Hagrid’s enchanted carriage—two will‑o‑wisp lights floating overhead to guide them through the snow-back corridors. Estelle sketched shapes and notes in a blueprint spread across her knees: height, branch counts, shade variations, durability. Hagrid watched her, boots braced with sled friction.

Back at the castle, the snow continued, and Estelle turned to her greenhouses—some glowing with frost-resistant enchantments, others dormant on cold benches. She catalogued how long each stock would take to regenerate once winter lifted.

Later that evening, as carved jack-o’-lanterns dimmed and the cold pressed in, 60 four-paddle wreaths lay across her windowsills, festive yet solemn. Snow drifted outside in bluish pools of moonlight.

Estelle pressed snowflakes off her sleeve, turning to glance at Fang’s pawprints in the corridor. Hogwarts felt like something trying to remember itself again—quiet, magical, hopeful.

---

The snow had settled into a soft hush over the Forbidden Forest by noon—a white desert of silence and silver shadows. Estelle Black worked beside Rubeus Hagrid in the midst of tall firs and ancient oaks, the only sounds the scrape of boots through drifts and the metallic whisper of snow falling from branches above.

They’d paused for a moment, gathering their breath next to a particularly elegant young spruce, its trunk straight and sprays delicate but strong. Estelle still wore Dumbledore’s blue inked note—a sense of purpose wound around her shoulders like her fur-lined cloak. Hagrid crouched beside the tree, hands heavy with rope, casting a care spell to mark it when he’d returned with the carriage.

She looked up, breath misting in the cold. Hagrid’s cottage must be far behind them now, the smoke from its tall chimney lost in the snow-blurred light.

Hagrid exhaled. “Listen to that,” he whispered gently. Something echoed through the firs: soft hooves on snow, a drifting hum of ancient breath. “The centaurs are stirring.”

Estelle shivered, not from the cold. She remembered her own quiet encounter with the same centaur—those gold-flecked eyes, that cautious warning. Storms are coming. Walk lightly. The memory made her chest tighten.

Hagrid placed a huge hand on her arm. “No need t’ be afeared. They watch all, but rarely walk into our business.”

They stood still, breath fading out as wind, until the horse-bodied Arithmancer emerged from between two trunks. Taller than even Hagrid, noble and fierce in frame, his dark stable coat shining with frost, braid filigreed with twigs and what looked like starlight. He recognized Estelle instantly—she noted with heart‑stinging surprise—and inclined his long, narrow head slightly.

“Good morning,” Hagrid called softly in his deep voice. “We have come to select trees for the Hall. Professor Black is helping.”

The centaur studied her: Estelle Black, child of a Black he once encountered at night under pale moons. His eyes flickered in that elegant centaur way—evaluating. Then he nodded. “You walked purposefully, Estelle Black. You respect the forest.”

Estelle swallowed. “You told me once—to walk lightly.”

He inclined again. “I gave you warning you might need. As I will give it again now. Take care, both of you. The snow is new. The forest is brittle.”

“Thank you,” Estelle said quietly. “May I… may I ask your name?”

He turned his great head. The snow glittered on his braid. “I am Bane.”

Bane. The name slipped into Estelle’s mind as a quiet pulse—strength, memory, warning. As if a bell had rung softly. She realized she now had an echo between her and the forest: Do not provoke what cannot be seen, but cannot be ignored.

She kept the moment silent. They bowed their heads—stranger, protector, friend.

Hagrid wrung his gloves together. “We’ll only take what the Hall needs,” he promised. “We’ll leave saplings for the forest, leave roots intact.”

Bane’s gaze flickered to the spruce bases, then back to them. He snorted, a smoky, patient sound. “Leave them well. Walk lightly. Return if you must—but disturb not the heart.”

They nodded, and Bane passed between the trunks like a grey shadow, disappearing into the snow‑woven underbrush.

The rest of the mission unfolded under a quiet reverence. Every tree they marked—not just the big triad destined for the Hall’s end-by-porch corners, but the dozen smaller pines for archways and banners—elicited Hagrid’s careful chant or Estelle’s whispered wandtag enchantments: Firmus! Lantara! Magical labels only forest-friends could trace later.

Hagrid asked questions about her life at Hogwarts—what her fresh feeling of home felt like, how the greenhouses had been this year, how the students were adjusting to winter and a more guarded castle.

Estelle found herself surprised by how much she enjoyed talking with him: his voice wrapping around the cold in warmth, his laughter echoing faintly in the hush of trees. She was comfortable explaining botanical quirks, naming rare frost‑hardy blooms, and giving suggestions for salts or essences that preserved the festive scents of holly beneath the Hall’s high ceiling.

He listened—really listened. His wide brown eyes flicked from her robes to the cedars overhead, warmth in each nod.

By the time they halted at the edge of a grove deep in the heart of the forest, Estelle realized the day felt lighter—not just in spirit, but in her chest. Something had shifted under all those years of grief and shutting herself down.

Snow had thickened overhead into dancing crystals; the wind bled slowly from a pale western horizon. Estelle blinked, gloved fingers numb but refusing to stop gathering grasses for decorations.

Hagrid lifted one of the Great Hall’s long‑handled hauling pulleys—an enchanted mechanism small enough to fit through the tree line, but large enough to pull heavy trunks magically. He attached it to the marked trio.

Estelle flicked a charm:

“Dirigo radices guided grove‑way!”
The pulleys hummed to life, twisting over stones and avian nests, anchoring themselves around the marked roots.

Hagrid chuckled. “Magical machines, they are. Saves hours of digging.”

With a gentle twist, the trunks uprooted themselves cleanly, leaving mossy growth around—roots slumbering still in their fungal dirt. The trees aligned and pulleys anchored them.

She gave a soft chant to ensure fresh sap flow — the trees would survive transport.

By nightfall, they’d gathered everything Dumbledore needed—and perhaps a little bit more: a small cluster of dwarf firs charm‑wired to look silver; tendrils of ivy tipped with frozen dew; branches of winterberry bright enough to draw smile lines across even the Great Hall’s heighted gloom.

The return journey felt triumphant. The empty hush of snow made every sound clear: grunt of pulley, rattle of sled reins, scuffs of heavy boots, Fang’s scratchy panting.

Back at the castle gate, the carriage slowed to a halt. Estelle unhooked her cloak: limbs numb, cheeks flushed. The complexity of frost still felt odd on her bones—like a memory she’d never quite remembered.

She turned to Hagrid, wanting to say something that felt bigger than words. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Instead she nodded.

He smiled. “You did good,” he said simply. “Forest thanks you too.”

“I—thank you, Hagrid.” She pressed wind-blown gloves to her chest, brushing a handful of snow off her hair. “For trusting me.”

He touched her shoulder with a giant calloused hand. “You belong here,” he said. “Whether you’ve felt it or not.”

Inside the castle, Estelle cleaned her frosted boots by the fireplace in the entrance hall, carefully re‑setting her blueprint table with new notes about table placement and tree-light extraction. A few students passing commented on the wagon-lugged firs queued at the gates; first years whispered about someone choosing magical silver branches and golden snaked ivy. Estelle realized she’d overseen a project that would fill the Great Hall with winter’s glow.

At the hearth, she studied her gloves, brushed snow from sleeve cuffs, and exhaled in slow resolve. Hogwarts felt bigger somehow—vaulted in possibility.

Of course, beyond all that magic lay Sirius Black’s name in every corner of the castle news, the war-tinged whispers, and an icy fear that still pulsed beneath her ribs. She’d made no move to tell anyone what she had seen—or that she now felt seen again.

She’d tuck the truth between frost and burrowing confidence.

Chapter Text

Mid-December, 1993.

The week before Christmas arrived with a hush of frost and anticipation that wrapped the castle in shimmering enchantments. Snow flurried steadily outside the tall windows, catching on every stone ledge and spire like icing on a gingerbread palace. Hogwarts felt quieter, lighter somehow—as if it, too, exhaled after a long and weary term.

Estelle Black wandered through the halls with her usual brisk stride, robes cinched against the cold, her wand tucked securely beneath one sleeve. She’d made her decision two days prior, standing at her window in the Slytherin quarters while snowflakes ghosted down onto the Black Lake.

She would return to London for the holidays.

Twelve Grimmauld Place awaited her—shuttered, dust-choked, and deeply haunted by the past. Still, it was hers. She’d always gone home for Christmas as a child, even in the most strained years. And though she half-dreaded the silence, she also craved the space. Hogwarts—vibrant and lovely as it was—held reminders on every floor: Severus’s long silences, the scar beneath her lip from Amycus’s visit, and the memory of Sirius’s shadow bending over her in the dark.

She needed a pause from it all.

---

"You're early, Professor Black!"

Estelle turned to see Professor Flitwick standing atop a stack of enchanted books in the center of the Great Hall. He waved his wand in a flourish, sending a string of sparkling golden baubles whirling toward the rafters, where they clicked into place among garlands of pine.

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” she replied, stepping forward and pulling off her gloves. Her cheeks were already flushed from the morning wind. “You didn’t think I’d let you climb ladders in here alone, did you?”

He chuckled, his voice as bright as the tinsel weaving itself along the arches. “Well, I had no doubt you’d come. You seem to take the holiday spirit seriously.”

Estelle gave a wry smile. “Something about the way Hogwarts does Christmas… it reminds me of the better parts of childhood. I suppose I want that preserved.”

Together, they began their work in quiet coordination. Flitwick summoned ornaments with delicate levitation charms, while Estelle focused on long-range glimmers—spells that would shift the snowflake-patterned ceiling every hour, twinkling with enchanted starlight or the illusion of gentle snowfall. They animated strings of holly and charmed candles to drift lazily above each table.

“You have a gift for ambiance, you know,” Flitwick said, admiring the twinkling snowfall illusion above them.

“I’ve had practice,” Estelle said softly, thinking of lonely nights in Grimmauld Place, learning to charm warmth into empty rooms.

---

By late afternoon, they had made their way through most of the castle’s decorations. The Hufflepuff common room now glowed with a honey-colored light and smelled sweetly of clove and oranges. Ravenclaw’s windows shimmered with icy blue wreaths of enchanted frost. Even the Slytherin common room, draped in evergreen boughs and silver serpentine tinsel, felt strangely inviting. Estelle had hesitated before casting the final illusions there—memories of her childhood house trickling in—but ultimately completed them with a sense of quiet pride.

Gryffindor Tower was their final stop. The Fat Lady, still grumpy after the Halloween incident, gave a suspicious glare before swinging open. A few straggling students sat by the fire, and one—a freckled third-year—gasped in awe as Flitwick floated a giant, golden-trimmed wreath onto the hearth.

“Best part of staying over,” he whispered to his friend, “is getting to see the professors actually do magic.”

Estelle glanced at the boy and felt a strange warmth rise in her chest. Let them have magic now, before the world complicates it.

---

After the last charm was cast, Estelle and Flitwick stood at the threshold of the Great Hall once more. The tables were trimmed in velvet red runners. The ceiling swirled with an aurora of snowy stars. The trees stood proud and tall, dusted in living silver.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

Flitwick smiled and touched her sleeve. “Are you sure you’re going home, Estelle?”

“I think I need to,” she replied, her voice gentler now. “Even if it’s just to remember what I’m walking away from.”

He didn’t press. “We’ll miss your presence here.”

“And I’ll miss being here.” She forced a small smile. “You’re staying, then?”

“Someone has to make sure the mistletoe doesn’t start matchmaking too aggressively.”

She laughed at that, and the sound felt surprisingly easy in her throat.

---

That evening, Estelle packed slowly, folding her winter robes, carefully bottling the remaining Wolfsbane potion she’d prepared for Remus, and stacking a small parcel of dried herbs she promised to deliver to Madam Pomfrey. Her trunk sat ready at the foot of her bed, charmed with an Undetectable Extension spell, stuffed with everything she’d need for the two weeks away.

She stood at the mirror longer than she meant to, studying her face—the bruises had finally faded, but she still felt them, phantomlike beneath the skin. She hadn’t spoken to Severus in days, beyond clipped words about class schedules or potion ingredients. Whatever strange warmth had flickered between them after the Amycus incident had cooled again, hidden under layers of silence and misinterpreted looks.

Let him stew, she thought. Let me breathe.

---

On the morning of her departure, she took one final walk around the grounds. The frost glittered across the fields and the lake was frozen over, a mirror of sky. She watched from a distance as a few first-years tossed snowballs near the greenhouses. In the distance, Hagrid’s cottage smoked gently against the white backdrop. She waved once toward it, and though she wasn’t sure if he saw her, it felt right.

Remus caught her just as she was returning to the castle.

“Off to London?” he asked, falling into step beside her.

“I suppose it’ll always be home.”

“Don’t let the ghosts get you down.”

She smiled sideways at him. “No promises. But I’ll try.”

He hesitated before offering her a wrapped parcel. “Figgy pudding. Made by the elves. I told them it was for a friend who deserved something sweet.”

She blinked. “You’re a menace, Lupin.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

---

As Estelle walked down the spiral staircase and out toward the gates with her trunk floating behind her, she felt the castle watching her—not with suspicion, but with something warmer. Hogwarts, for all its magic and ghosts, had a way of cradling people when they needed it most.

She touched the castle stone once before she stepped through the gates. “I’ll be back,” she whispered.

The gates creaked open, and the wind lifted her cloak like a flag.

The holidays awaited. Grimmauld Place awaited.

And perhaps, somewhere out in the snow-slicked shadows…

So did Sirius Black.

---

Snow blanketed Hogsmeade in thick drifts that turned each rooftop into a gingerbread house and each streetlamp into a beacon of warmth. Estelle pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped out of the Three Broomsticks, a small parchment list clutched in her gloved hand. She had delayed this trip as long as possible, haunted by memories of Amycus Carrow and the glass-strewn floor of her apothecary, but Diagon Alley was out of the question. This little village was safer. Homier. She hoped.

Frost curled around the edges of her breath as she set off down the cobbled path, glancing at her list:

* Minerva
* Sinestra
* Filius
* Dumbledore
* Hagrid
* Remus
* Severus (???)

The question marks were hers.

She made her way into Tomes and Scrolls first. For Minerva, she selected a beautiful, leather-bound edition of The Collected Essays of Emeric Switch, with clever margin commentary by various modern Transfiguration theorists. A small brass clasp sealed the pages, and a bookmark woven in tartan wool peeked from the top. Estelle smiled. Minerva would appreciate the academic rigor—and the nod to her Scottish roots.

Aurora Sinestra was trickier. Estelle wandered the shop, tapping her chin, until she found a slender volume bound in navy velvet: Star Songs: Celestial Myth and Music Through the Ages. It contained translated stargazer poems and ancient compositions inspired by constellations, including a spell-imbued page that played a soft melody when opened under moonlight. Perfect.

Next was Filius Flitwick. In Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, she found an ink set designed to change hue depending on the writer’s tone—a rare, whimsical invention called Moonscript. She added a set of charmed parchment that automatically proofread for spelling, though not grammar. Flitwick would be delighted.

Dumbledore’s gift found her. Estelle was browsing through a dusty corner of Gladrags Wizardwear when she saw a pair of socks so bizarre, so flamboyant, she knew it was fate. One sock had phoenix feathers embroidered in shimmering threads. The other depicted a lemon drop wearing spectacles. Estelle burst out laughing. Dumbledore.

She stepped into Dogweed and Deathcap to pick up a few enchanted potted evergreens for the castle staircases, and left with her arms full of gifts and supplies. The snow had started again, fine and silvery. She paused to let a group of third-years pass, their cheeks red and hands clutching sweets from Honeydukes.

That left Hagrid, Remus, and Severus.

For Hagrid, she wandered into the Hogsmeade Post and Menagerie, eventually choosing a hand-carved brush and grooming set for magical creatures. The bristles were spelled to de-tangle without tugging, and the handle adjusted to fit any beast’s paw or hoof. It came with a companion book called Beastly Beautification: A Guide for Gentle Grooming. She wrapped it in mossy green paper and tied it with twine.

Remus was next.

She hesitated outside Dervish and Banges, then walked in with purpose. On a high shelf, nearly hidden behind a box of Sneakoscopes, was a weathered compass enchanted to always point home—not north, but home. The shopkeeper explained it was keyed to the bearer’s deepest sense of belonging. Remus had lost so much. Maybe this could offer him some steadiness. She held it in her hand for a long time before purchasing it, adding a small leather pouch and a silver charm engraved with the full moon.

She lingered in the shop, stalling.

One name left.

She nearly walked back to the castle then and there.

But instead, Estelle wandered toward the old Potioneers’ Nook, tucked between the second-hand bookstore and a cobbler’s stall. It smelled of chamomile and mint, with faint notes of burnt oak and ash. In a glass cabinet, behind protective runes, she saw it: a set of rare crystal stirring rods—each attuned to different moon phases. Delicate, precise, and sharp-looking.

Just like him.

She added a bottle of aged ashwinder ash and a notebook made of recycled potion parchment, each page lightly imbued to resist spills. She didn’t include a note. She didn’t need to.

Outside, the snow thickened.

She stood still for a moment in the middle of the path, her arms full of magic and memory, watching the soft flakes drift down from a sky the color of pewter. The bells of the village chapel rang faintly in the distance, mingling with the sounds of distant laughter and the warm, crackling glow of the windows all around her.

Estelle closed her eyes and exhaled.

This year, she was alive.

She would see the tree in the Great Hall.

She would wrap her gifts in silence and frost.

And she would, somehow, carry on.

Chapter Text

December 22, 1993.

Snow had woven itself into every inch of the castle grounds, tracing white lace across the windows of Estelle’s quarters. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the hearth, a half-drunk cup of tea going cold on the stone beside her and bits of ribbon clinging to her sleeves. Parchment, twine, holly sprigs, and enchanted wrapping paper fluttered around her like a nest built by an absentminded magpie.

She wrapped each gift with care, her wand dancing over the packages to charm the seals and secure the folds. Minerva’s book was done first—pressed flat and bound in tartan ribbon, with a tiny holly charm on the knot. Filius’s inks and parchments followed, then Sinestra’s moonlit melodies, and Dumbledore’s ridiculous socks, each lovingly tucked into gift boxes with their names written in swirling, golden script.

She reached for the box she’d set aside last—tucked furthest from her, as if it had crept there of its own accord.

Severus.

The crystal stirring rods and the potion-stained journal sat inside the smallest box. Simple. Elegant. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful.

Estelle stared at the gift for a long time, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line.

He had been cold again. Unreachable. A locked door she didn’t know how to knock on. After Amycus, after the firelight and glass and balm on her arms—after his hands on her skin, gentle and precise—he had slammed the door shut.

And she, like a fool, had brought a key wrapped in paper and tied with silver ribbon.

She snorted softly to herself, pressing a knuckle against her temple. “You idiot.”

But she didn’t throw the gift away.

She didn’t burn it or unravel the ribbon or vanish it with a flick of her wand.

Instead, she fastened the lid closed, neatly and quietly, and wrote his name on the tag in sharp, exacting script.

Then she set it on the mantel.

It sat there, heavy and silent, as if judging her.

Estelle rose with a stretch and paced toward the window. Outside, laughter echoed across the courtyard as students in heavy cloaks hurled enchanted snowballs at one another. The crisp air carried the smell of roasted nuts from the kitchens and the sound of someone charming carols from a flute. Flurries danced between towers, and the forest stood still beneath its winter veil.

The last few days of term were flying by.

In the corridors, students buzzed like bees in a late bloom. Young ones sprinted toward common rooms to hang last-minute garlands. Seventh-years trudged through the snow with books clutched against their chests, muttering about essays due before the break. Peeves sang off-key carols from chandeliers, replacing verses with very rude interpretations of holiday cheer.

Estelle walked the halls, watching it all with an ache that she couldn’t quite name.

Hogwarts during the holidays had always enchanted her. And yet—this year—everything felt heavier beneath the sparkle.

The sight of the Fat Lady’s portrait still made her pulse hitch.

The memory of Sirius leaning over her still played behind her eyes like a fever dream.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Not Remus. Not Minerva. Not Severus, not Dumbledore. She wasn’t even sure she could. Not until she knew why he’d come.

He had looked older. Wild. Not quite himself and yet undeniably her brother.

He had been there. Really there.

And still—he had left.

Estelle ran her fingertips along the bannister as she descended toward the greenhouses. Her breath came in clouds, her boots crunching against fresh snow.

She needed a distraction. Something ordinary. Something alive and green.

Inside Greenhouse Three, the air was warm and mossy. Her students were already inside, giggling over the way the seasonal Shrinking Figs had turned red and plump in anticipation of solstice. One third-year waved his arm wildly. “Professor Black, look! Mine’s humming!”

Estelle smiled and knelt beside him. “That means it’s ready to be harvested. Gently now—like this.”

The class passed quickly in a flurry of laughter and fig juice, with only one minor explosion.

In the following days, she moved through Charms and Defense classes, traded warm glances with Remus over lesson plans, and helped Minerva scold a group of fifth-years trying to animate their holiday sweaters. She joined Sinestra one evening on the Astronomy Tower for cocoa and comet watching, and helped Hagrid hang twinkling orbs from the trees in the courtyard.

But every so often, when the castle got quiet—

When the laughter died down and the stars blinked coldly above—

She’d think of the gift still sitting on her mantel.

The one for a man who healed her arms and then vanished behind his walls.

Severus Snape was as much a mystery as her brother.

And Christmas was coming fast.

The Great Hall was quiet—unusually so for Hogwarts—early that morning. Most students had already departed for the holiday journey, and only a stray prefect or two drifted by, yawning and waving Rueben’s Woolens shopping bags. The long House tables were still laden with last night’s footprints of tinsel and molten wax from enchanted candles, but the House elves had cleared away much of the breakfast debris and reset plates with an economy that felt celebratory and worn with ritual.

Estelle Black entered at the staff table just as Professor Dumbledore paused before his empty place setting and tapped his fork against a teacup. The sound echoed like a chime. She let herself in at the end of the row, just past Professor Sprout, near where Professor Sinestra sat quietly sipping golden tea. Remus was already there, waiting with warm eyes and a thick parchment-wrapped gift beside his plate. On the other side, a stack of envelopes leaned against a goblet of warm milk—cards from the students.

Estelle took a deep breath.

Across the table, Severus Snape was already seated, shoulders squared, the hunters of frost-sealed robes draped across the crimson plush chair. His eyes flicked toward her, and she caught a glimmer of something—fatigue, perhaps, or distant regret—but quickly blinked away the interpretation and seated herself.

A hush fell as Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“Before we begin proper breakfast,” he said, voice bright as peppermint, “I think there’s someone here who has promised gifts for each of you.”

Estelle’s chest tightened.

She reached under the table with shaking fingers and pulled the stack of small parcels from her mantle-robes—they were wrapped in soft green and silver-grey paper, each labeled in precise calligraphy: Professors McGonagall, Snape, Lupin, Flitwick, Sinestra, Dumbledore, Hagrid.

She refused to look at Severus’s gift.

Dumbledore reached first, unfolding a pair of socks with flaming phoenix feathers and lemon drops wearing spectacles embroidered in gold. He laughed softly and lifted them. “Marvelously ridiculous.” He hugged the package close, sending her a fond, lopsided grin she would remember for months. Estelle felt her throat squeeze. She managed, “Happy holidays, sir,” in a voice steadier than she felt.

Dumbledore carefully set the gift on his plate. “For you,” he said, reaching across the table to hand her a tiny, intricately carved snowflake ornament. Engraved on its center was the script: To Estelle, who brings winter alive. She tried to take it gracefully and nearly choked on the sweetness of it.

Flitwick had a book with margin notes—he flipped it with delight. Sinestra unwrapped Star Songs and blinked when she discovered the enchanted melody page. Professor Sprout got a book bound in green serpent-grass leather: Flesh-Level Healing Plants of Scotland. Tears formed in her eyes—Estelle caught McGonagall’s nod of approval from halfway down the table.

When it came to Remus Lupin, Estelle’s breath caught. She slid the field journal across the table; Remus’s hand curled around it like an anchor. He looked at the embossing—the raven—and then back at her. The air thinned.

“Stel,” he said quietly, voice thick—so thick she thought he might cry. She wished she could hug him but sat rooted to her chair.

He slid the gift he’d gotten for her back across as a thank-you: a deep-emerald scarf, hand-knit by Hagrid himself, designed to withstand midwinter wind without choking the wearer. As Estelle unfolded it, eyes scanning every stitch, and then looked back at Remus, mouth trembling.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

He swallowed. Words dried on his tongue. Instead he nodded, and looked away.

The moment faded, swallowed up by the rhythm of greeting others and conversation drifting around Herbology winter rot and students staying behind for extra credit. Yet—the space lingered between them all morning, unspoken and heavy.

Then there was Severus’s turn.

She felt her knees go cold as Dumbledore reached for his gift. She watched the wrapping paper slip away. Her heart felt hollow as he peeled away the final ribbon to reveal the crystal stirring rods and potion parchment notebook.

His face remained unreadable, hands steady. He lifted the vial inside it, fingers curling around the notebook’s leather cover. He didn’t look at her immediately.

When he did, his gaze met hers briefly—eyes dull, expression stormy and unread. Then he set it down and said, just:

“Thank you.”

The words were small. Profound in their distance.

Estelle—once again—found her breath trapped.

She nodded. The chill remained on her tongue.

Across from her, Dumbledore lifted his teacup and said, pleasantly, “To a merry Christmas at Hogwarts, and to those of us staying to keep watch.”

Others echoed him.

Estelle forced herself to drink her copper mug of spiced tea. Warmth spread across her chest, unsteady and bittersweet.

After breakfast, she found herself descending the grand oak staircase alone, wrapping her scarf tighter, shoulders trembling. She stopped halfway and took the ring box out of her pocket. Its weight was unbearable against her fingers, and she tucked it back inside without giving it another thought—some decisions didn’t need reflection just yet.

When she reached the bottom, Remus intercepted her in the corridor.

He offered her one hand—a coordinating gesture of departure. After yesterday’s exchange and breakfast’s quiet intensity, they needed solid footing back in reality.

“You alright to travel tonight?” he asked.

She nodded, touching the black evergreens pinned at her neckline.

“And your brother? Your… other family things?”

She closed her eyes fast, inhaled. When she opened them, she said, “I’m doing it, Moony.”

He hesitated, then offered a rare, gentle half-smile. “Good.”

They walked in companionable silence the rest of the stretch to her quarters, packing final items. Estelle climbed up to her chambers quietly after he left, pausing in front of the mirror and bracing herself for what lay ahead.

Estelle stood at the foot of her bed, staring at the open trunk that had once belonged to her mother. The deep mahogany lid was propped open, its brass hinges creaking slightly in the draft from the high dungeon windows. Her belongings were stacked neatly inside — woolen scarves, charmed dueling gloves, several worn but beloved books, a few potion ingredients too volatile to leave behind unattended.

Her gift from Remus — a leather-bound field journal with a raven embossed on the cover — lay safely tucked between folded robes. His note had been quietly slipped between the pages, and Estelle hadn’t quite found the courage to read it again. Not yet.

She added one last thing to the trunk: her copy of Rare Arcana of Elemental Herbomancy, the one she’d nearly lost in Diagon Alley during her encounter with Amycus. Her hands paused on the spine, thumb trailing over the faint claw marks on the leather cover. She could still see the reflection of her bloodied cheek in the apothecary’s glass window. Still feel the fear of him standing across from her. Still smell the sulfur and old iron in the air.

Her fingers curled tightly around the book, then loosened. She placed it gently beside her journal and shut the lid.

When the lock clicked shut, it sounded final.

She looked around her quarters one last time.

The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only glowing embers in the grate. Her chair near the hearth still held the faint indent from where Remus had sat the night before last, half-asleep and quietly humming to himself. The windowpanes were traced with frost, casting fractal shadows across the stone floor. Her greenhouse key hung on its hook beside the door. The room smelled faintly of pine needles and dried lavender.

Estelle reached for her cloak.

As she drew it over her shoulders, her fingers brushed the edge of the small pocket in the lining — the one where she’d tucked away the ring box.

She paused.

The velvet still felt soft under her fingertips. Untouched. Unreal. As if the last few weeks had been a fever dream.

She didn’t take it out.

Instead, she closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and pulled her trunk toward the fireplace.

She stood there a moment longer than necessary, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the jar of Floo powder. The weight of the castle behind her felt heavier than she expected. Heavier than she wanted to admit.

A knock echoed at the door.

She stiffened.

A second knock — softer this time. Hesitant.

She turned, heart ticking faster than it should have.

When she opened the door, Severus Snape stood there.

He looked as he always did — tall and severe in his long black coat, hair damp from the snowfall, eyes unreadable. And yet something about him looked… different. Frayed at the edges, like a spell barely holding together.

They stared at each other in silence.

“Leaving, then?” he asked coolly.

Estelle nodded, clutching the edge of her trunk. “I said I’d be gone by sundown.”

He looked past her, eyes scanning the dimly lit room, the packed bags, the hearth. His mouth pressed into a line.

“I see.”

“You came to check?” she asked, quieter than she meant to.

He looked at her then — properly looked. His eyes flicked to the fading bruise on her cheekbone, the still-tender cut on her lip. He said nothing.

“I’m fine,” she added. “I’m going home for a bit. Just a few days.”

Severus nodded slowly, but didn’t move.

Estelle waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. The silence stretched between them, familiar and brittle.

“Was there something you needed?”

He hesitated.

Then, almost awkwardly, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small package wrapped in deep green paper and bound with silver twine.

“I—" he cleared his throat. “I meant to leave this with your things during breakfast.”

Estelle blinked. “Is that… for me?”

He looked exasperated. “No, I’m in the habit of hand-wrapping gifts to leave them in strangers’ trunks.”

A breath of a laugh escaped her, and her fingers closed around the gift before he could change his mind.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, already looking away, already turning.

“Safe travels,” he said over his shoulder.

She almost let him leave.

But something in her twisted — sharp and sudden.

“Severus—” she called.

He turned back, brows slightly raised.

“I’m not…” she faltered. “I’m not running away.”

His expression darkened, unreadable.

“I know,” he said at last, voice quiet. “That’s what makes this harder.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken things. Her hand tightened around the gift he’d given her.

“Happy Christmas, Sev.”

He didn’t smile. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.

“And to you, Stel.”

With that, he turned and vanished down the hall, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke.

Estelle closed the door, locked it behind her, and turned back to the fire.

Her hands shook as she unwrapped the gift.

Inside was a slim glass vial of potion — silvery blue and swirling gently, like moonlight caught in liquid.

There was a note beneath it, folded tightly.

For nightmares. You’ve earned a peaceful night or two.

She swallowed hard.

The gift blurred as tears welled in her eyes.

Then, she placed the note back in the box with a trembling hand, brushing her hands over her teary face before smoothing her hair, gathering her bags, and walking to her fireplace.

She grabbed a bag of Floo powder from the mantle, tossed it into the flames, and watched them flare green.

She whispered her destination.

And stepped inside.

Chapter Text

December 22-25, 1993.

As she tumbled and twisted through the floo, Estelle thought back to a hour ago.

She had stood in the entryway of Hogwarts, her travel cloak clasped at the neck and her wand tucked securely into her pocket. The sky outside was low and gray, heavy with the promise of snow. Students bustled about with trunks and cages, saying their final goodbyes and chasing after the last sweets from the Honeydukes cart before it rolled away. Laughter and excitement echoed through the stone corridors, but Estelle felt oddly still, a world apart from the chaos.

Remus met her at the doors, hands in his coat pockets, brow furrowed.

“I still don’t like this,” he said quietly, eyes sweeping her face. “Grimmauld Place is—well, it’s Grimmauld Place. It’s isolated.”

“And protected,” Estelle replied, trying for a calm she didn’t fully feel. “The Fidelius still holds. The enchantments on the front door are intact. And Sirius can’t get in. He was disowned, remember? He’d need an invitation.”

Remus didn’t look comforted. His eyes, always so full of quiet concern, searched hers. “I just… after what happened. After what you saw. After Amycus—”

“I need space,” she said. “It’s the only place that feels like mine.”

Remus nodded slowly. He understood that, even if he didn’t like it.

He stepped forward and pulled her into a gentle hug. “Send me an owl if anything feels off. And take the dreamless sleep potion. That’s what it’s for.”

Estelle hugged him back, longer than she meant to. “I will.”

Then, without another word, she stepped outside, felt the cold bite her cheeks, and Disapparated to Hogsmeade.

After flooing into a pub at the edge of Camden, Estelle got a bite to eat at one of her favorite muggle cafés before apparating to Grimmauld. She needed something to settle her stomach. Something about floo travel and apparition always made her feel sick.

The air around Grimmauld Place was thick with winter damp, and Estelle Apparated just past the wrought-iron gates, her boots crunching on a thin crust of ice. The row of townhomes stood tall and somber, cloaked in their enchantments, Number Twelve nestled invisibly between Eleven and Thirteen. She let out a breath, reached into her cloak, and touched her wand to the hidden door.

It shimmered, then revealed itself with a groan of old magic.

Inside, the house was dark and cold. But familiar.

Estelle stepped in and was immediately met by the horrific shriek of her mother’s portrait.

“FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR!” Walburga Black bellowed. “HOW DARE YOU RETURN TO THIS SACRED HOUSE WITH MUDDY BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS!”

Estelle didn’t flinch. She flicked her wand at the curtains. “Silencio.”

The portrait sputtered into mute rage.

“Nice to see you too, Mother.”

She walked up the staircase, each step groaning like a memory. The walls were just as she remembered: dark paneling, tarnished portraits, and the faint smell of long-extinguished fire spells.

On the third floor, her bedroom waited like a ghost trapped in amber.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The space was cleaner than she expected. The house elves—whichever had remained—must’ve kept it somewhat tidy. Her old four-poster bed was draped in green velvet, the canopy still covered in faded star charms she’d stuck there at age eleven. The shelves were lined with worn books on potions and herbology, and a glass case still held her old wand cores, carefully labeled and arranged by type.

For the first time in weeks, Estelle exhaled. It was quiet. Still.

Safe.

The first few days passed in a haze of silence and snow. Estelle spent her time reading by the fire, patching old notes in her potions journals, and nursing the last of her bruises. She cooked simple meals and took long baths. She even dared to smile once or twice.

The first afternoon at Grimmauld Place passed in a strange kind of quiet—haunted, but not hostile. Estelle had expected more resistance from the house itself, more bitterness in its bones, but it greeted her like a long-absent relative returned after exile. Dust clung to every bannister, but the wallpaper seemed less faded than she remembered. The floorboards still creaked the same under her boots. The chandelier above the main hall still swung faintly with no breeze. She could almost pretend it was the house breathing.

She slept in her old room, though she hadn’t stepped foot in it for nearly a decade. The door still bore her name—“Estelle Ophelia”—scrawled on a tarnished silver plaque her mother had insisted on when she was seven. Inside, the room was exactly as she’d left it, right down to the overstuffed bookcase of old Potions journals and the crumpled drawing of the Hogwarts Express her brother had made her when she was six and he was six and a half. The parchment had faded, but the color still showed: a messy, crooked train in red ink, with a blob meant to be her waving from the window.

She had touched it gingerly and then left it exactly where it was.

In the morning, Estelle set about cleaning. The act of motion—of scrubbing the old grime from the sitting room windows and banishing the cobwebs from the upper landing—was almost meditative. She used her wand for the worst of it, but often she opted for manual labor instead, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a knot atop her head. The rhythm of it calmed her. It gave her hands something to do. It gave her mind a wall to beat against.

Kreacher had long since abandoned the house—or vanished into whatever corner of madness he’d been hiding in after Sirius was imprisoned—and Estelle didn’t call him back. She preferred the solitude, even if the silence unnerved her.

The portrait of her mother, however, did not share the sentiment.

“FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR,” Walburga Black screeched the first time Estelle passed the hall without using a Silencing Charm. “YOU DARE SHOW YOUR FACE—IN MY HOUSE—”

“Oh, would you shut up,” Estelle muttered, wand out in a flash. “Silencio.”

The portrait flailed but went mercifully quiet.

Estelle stared at the painted woman a moment longer than necessary. Her mother’s lips still moved behind the magic, red with rage. For the first time in years, Estelle found that she didn’t flinch when she saw her. She wasn’t scared anymore.

She had survived Amycus Carrow. She had seen her brother in the flesh. And she had walked back into this house willingly.

She was not the frightened daughter who fled in the middle of the night all those years ago. She was not the pawn in the sacred, poisoned games of the pureblood elite. She had outlived them all—at least in spirit.

Still, on that first evening, it crept in.

The loneliness.

Grimmauld Place was quiet in the sort of way that didn’t feel restful. It felt watchful. The rooms groaned in the dark, the firewood hissed as if trying to whisper secrets, and no matter how many lanterns she lit, the shadows always gathered in the corners like old gossip.

She lit a fire in the main sitting room and curled under an old tartan blanket, a mug of tea in hand, her long legs stretched across the threadbare chaise. A book on wandlore rested on her lap, but her eyes hadn’t moved from the same paragraph in twenty minutes.

Sirius used to sprawl on the rug here, back when they were both home for the summer between years at Hogwarts. They used to roast chestnuts in the fireplace until the room filled with smoke and Walburga screamed herself hoarse. They used to steal ginger wine from the cellar and giggle into their sleeves like idiots. She used to think they’d be old together someday. They’d paint the walls. Change the name on the door. Make it something else.

Now, he was on the run. And she was here alone.

Was he watching her even now?

Estelle glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see a shadow of a dog on the street below, even though the curtains were drawn. She shifted and took a long sip of tea.

The front parlor held dozens of heirlooms and oddities she hadn’t had the courage to examine yet. There were shelves of Black family portraits and keepsakes, old jewelry boxes locked with spells she didn’t recognize, and a cabinet that rattled ominously when she walked too close. She stayed out of the study entirely. That room had been her father’s. She didn’t need whatever ghosts lived in there.

Instead, she busied herself with restocking the pantry, reorganizing the potions cabinet in the cellar, and leafing through the ancient house records for clues to spells she’d forgotten or charms she might renew. Each task was a distraction. A way to keep Sirius out of her thoughts. A way to push down the dread.

She should tell someone. She should tell Dumbledore that Sirius had been in her room. But she didn’t. Not yet.

She needed to understand what he wanted. Why he had come to her.

Why he had left without a word.

The next day, the snow came. It was Christmas Eve.

It powdered the rooftops and softened the sharp edge of the house’s brick façade. The iron gate gleamed with frost. The street was muffled, the world quieted by the snowfall in a way that was almost kind. Estelle stood in the drawing room, a hand pressed to the window, watching the flakes fall with a strange ache in her chest.

This had always been the time of year she and Sirius were closest.

Solstice mornings. Winter break. Long talks under piles of blankets with the wireless playing. Sneaking hot cocoa into their rooms and toasting marshmallows with a wand flame. He used to call her Elle then, in the gentle way—not the way Amycus had.

He used to braid her hair when she was sad, and she used to hold his wrist when their mother shouted.

The snow kept falling.

Grimmauld Place was a haunted house, yes—but it was her haunted house. A place full of ghosts she’d named and accepted. A place where she didn’t have to hide her scars or sidestep Severus’s moods or pretend she didn’t hear whispers about her brother. For a few fleeting moments, she almost believed she’d made the right choice.

Until she stepped outside.

The evening of Christmas Eve when Estelle decided she’d had enough of tinned soup and stale crackers. The small market just past the park would be open for another hour. She threw on her cloak, charmed the wards back into place, and stepped into the thin sunlight.

London was quiet. The streets were dusted in frost, and smoke curled from chimneys like old songs. Estelle kept her head down as she walked, boots scuffing the pavement, breath fogging in front of her.

She picked up bread, apples, tea, and a tin of treacle toffee. The grocer—a squat man with eyes like peeled onions—gave her a small smile and wished her a happy holiday.

She was halfway back to Grimmauld Place when she first felt it.

That sensation—like static behind her neck. Like being watched.

Estelle turned, slow and measured. Nothing.

The paper bags crinkled against her gloves as Estelle rounded the corner onto Grimmauld Place. Snow slushed beneath her boots, half-melted by the grit laid down by Muggle workers earlier in the day. The dull hum of London traffic seemed muffled here, subdued under the hush of falling snow and the quiet of a street that, despite being in the heart of the city, always felt a little forgotten. Unseen. Like it existed a step to the left of time. Elle shook her head and continued toward Twelve Grimmauld Place.

She adjusted her grip on the bags, one arm aching slightly under the weight of potatoes, tea tins, and a tin of treacle tart she didn’t remember choosing. The thought of warmth, of the fireplace inside the old house and a proper cup of tea, pulled her forward.

Then she stopped again.

There was no sound. Just the tickle of wind and the crisp coolness of the snowfall.

Something in the air changed. It wasn’t a smell, not quite. Not a sound either. But Estelle had spent her life learning to pay attention to the silences—the gaps between one breath and the next. And in this moment, the world exhaled.

Her skin prickled.

She turned slowly, almost as though unwilling to confirm what some part of her already knew.

Across the narrow street, half-obscured by the snow-covered silhouette of a parked car, stood a dog.

No—a beast.

It was enormous, easily the size of a small bear, with fur the color of ink and eyes like molten pewter. It stood utterly still, legs braced, as though waiting. Watching. Snow dusted its snout, clung to the tufts behind its ears.

Her mouth went dry. The bags sagged in her grip, nearly slipping.

She blinked.

It was still there.

The breath left her body in a single, shivering gust. The air between them crackled. A thousand memories surged at once—childhood summers, burnt toast in the kitchen, the sound of Sirius’s laugh when he managed to steal Regulus’s broom, the feel of his hand gripping hers under the dinner table when their parents shouted. And then: Azkaban. Blood. Screaming. The broken frame of James and Lily’s front step.

She took a step forward without meaning to, her hand twitching toward her wand.

The dog’s ears perked. It didn’t move.

“Sirius?” she whispered, absurdly.

The street remained still. Time held its breath.

Then the creature took a single step back.

And another.

And then—

Gone.

It slipped behind the lorry in a blink, as soundless as a shadow. By the time she lunged forward, nearly dropping her groceries as she half-ran into the street, the alley was empty. No footprints. No dog. Just a hush of snow and the distant sound of someone laughing in another life.

Estelle stood alone, chest heaving, hair falling in damp curls around her face.

He had been there.

Not in her head. Not some hallucination born of potions or fear.

Sirius Black had been standing in the snow, watching her.

And he had chosen not to speak. Not to approach. Not even to run.

He had just disappeared.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

A car honked distantly. The city returned, indifferent to her.

She turned on her heel, grabbed her bags, and stormed back into Number Twelve with snow melting down the back of her collar.

The door slammed behind her.

Once inside, she reset every ward she could think of, double-checking them for cracks, for weaknesses, for anything.

Then she lit a fire with shaking hands and took out the small, square bottle from her travel bag. Dreamless Sleep. A gift from Severus. She stared at it for a long moment.

Then uncorked it and downed it in one gulp.

The warmth of it hit her chest first—then her head grew light.

She stumbled to bed, too tired to undress, too tired to even pull the covers all the way up.

Sleep, for once, came without dreams.

When Estelle woke the next morning, the fire had gone out. Her groceries were still stacked near the kitchen, the treacle tin unopened. The memory of the dog still clung to her like mist.

But she’d made it through the night.

And that, at least, was something.

Chapter Text

December 26, 1993.

Estelle woke to the sensation of too much stillness. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers so faint she almost didn’t notice the red glow in her room. The curtains were drawn tight, the air stale and cold. Her head throbbed with dull heaviness, her body ached in places she didn’t want to remember. Her dreams had been mercifully void, but the sleep potion left behind something dense—like sinking into syrup during the night.

When she finally roused herself, light spilled in slowly once she drew back the curtains—gray and pale, as though the world had not fully woken yet. Estelle pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her left cheek throbbed where Amycus had struck her; the corner of her mouth still tasted faintly coppery. A dull ache in her arm crept in with every movement. She winced and rested a hand on the bedpost.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Five counts in, five out. But the dark swirl of panic was still nestled deep in her chest. She assessed what was left of her damage: the bruise beneath her eye, the split on her lip, and the sore that pulsed where her wand had been slammed into her arm. Most of it was healing; none of it looked infected. She thought of the shards of glass embedded in her arms and back—flickers of danger still hidden under skin. But she couldn’t focus on that now.

She didn’t have the strength to keep track of the injuries. She pressed a hand to the tapestry at the foot of her bed instead and looked across the room. The door was locked. The wards excavated. Everything as she left it. As she hoped it would remain.

Estelle wasn’t sure when the knock came at the Floo—abrupt, solid, echoing against the empty fireplace. She didn’t hear the knock at first. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, and then the embers flickered bright, and green light spiraled upward.

Remus stepped through, robes damp from Hogsmeade snow, eyes significantly softer than usual. His hair was wind-whipped, and he carried his satchel loosely. He hesitated only a second before crossing the room, concern pooling in his gaze.

“El—Estelle,” he said quietly. “Merry Christmas.”

Her throat tightened, a sudden catch she couldn’t clear.

“Morning, Moony,” she whispered.

He set his satchel down carefully and looked across the room. He didn’t comment on her face, though she knew the evidence was hard to hide. Instead, he moved to the mantel and opened the wood box by the fire. He set a small wrapped tin of roasted chestnuts down, then leaned heavily against the mantelpiece.

“How are you feeling?” he asked after a few breaths.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the bed frame. She looked at him.

“Horrid,” she admitted. Her voice rasped. “My back looks like a map of ruined roads.”

Remus nodded, his jaw tight. “Your face looks better,” he qualified.

“Better,” she added with a forced laugh. “It’s nearly gone, I suppose.”

“They’ll take time,” Remus said quietly. “And your arm.” He came closer and gently touched the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. To have left you alone over the holiday.”

“Not your fault,” she said, looking away. “You can’t help others… at every hour.”

He studied her face, then finally said, “I should’ve come earlier.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want that.

Instead she pivoted and asked, “How’s teaching been? It’s been a while since we’ve just caught up about Hogwarts.”

Remus sighed. “Frantic. Students bounding off walls with holiday excitement. And little drama: a couple of duels nearly broken out in Herbology yesterday, some first years drinking too much firewhisky cider—someone tried to light the pumpkin sparkler themselves.” He shook his head, but a small grin lit his expression. “You know my class. They’re all mouth and no thought sometimes.”

Estelle managed a tired smile. “Bet they glued malleable good-luck charms to a few trousers.”

Laughing, Remus nodded.

They settled into quiet, sipping tea from chipped crockery that still sat on her desk. It was bitter and muddy, but somewhere between chest pain, exhaustion, and holiday dislocation, it felt grounding.

Remus set his cup down and picked up the tin of chestnuts. He offered her one. She took it, the warmth surprising, the crunch sharp in her mouth.

“We should’ve come there sooner,” he repeated, but softer. He traced the rim of his tin with a snowy finger.

She swallowed and exhaled. The memory of London, the slippery snow, the black dog outside—she shuttered. “I needed time,” she said finally. That felt honest. And incomplete.

Remus studied her over the fog of the steam rising above his cup. “I miss… before.”

Estelle’s heart wrenched. She nodded once, silently.

Before Sirius. Before betrayals. Before grief became riddled with scar and rumor and fear.

Remus spoke then, softly, pulling from the past with cautious lips.

“She was something different before. You both were.” His voice cracked. “It used to feel peaceful here. We used to laugh.”

The bones of that truth pulled at her: the summer nights, the star-flecked fireflies in the yard, the scent of her mother’s rage chasing them up the stairs—and Sirius’s uncovered grin at midnight.

She squeezed her mug like a lifeline.

Summoned courage, she looked back at him. “And now?”

He sighed, eyes vacant. “Now I keep waiting for something to break. And I know it already has.”

Estelle drew her knees to her chest. “So we keep going.”

Yes, they did.

Remus leaned forward and rubbed his temples. After a moment, he looked back at her.

“How are you doing… inwardly?” he asked carefully.

She blinked. He didn’t ask what she deserved. It was softer. More careful.

“I’m not well.”

Remus nodded. “I know.”

“You don’t know the half.”

He didn’t answer.

From the corner of her eye, Estelle recognized the distant portrait of Walburga flickering with silent rage. But Remus’s presence felt like a buffer. She chose not to react.

Instead, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and turned toward him. “The house is… easier than I thought it would be. Even though I warned it about you everywhere.”

Remus smiled small. “We could’ve warded this place like Fort Knox.”

She snorted.

“You used to love it here,” he said after a heartbeat. Quiet, observant.

“Yes,” she replied. “I did.”

Silence settled between them like persistent snow.

After a while, Remus stood and gathered his things. She met him at the fireplace. She hated goodbyes now—they felt… final, somehow.

He paused. His eyes flicked toward the floor.

“I…” he said, voice tight. “I worry.”

She nodded. She couldn’t say more.

Something unspoken held between them—cracks and history and grief they both carried. But he stepped forward and hugged her.

“Rest,” he said into her hair. “If things get worse… send an owl.”

“I will.”

He pulled back and stepped into the green flames. They shimmered—bright, hopeful for a moment—and then were gone.

Estelle closed her eyes for a second and let her head fall against the mantle beside the dial home before she turned away.

She wrapped her blanket tighter.

Walk lightly.

She almost said it out loud.

Her mother’s portrait—and floorboards—would hate that. But her soul still remembered what Bane had told her. And when you’re not sure who’s coming back…

You walk lightly.

Once Alone, she sat in silence again.

But now the ache felt… slower. Less urgent.

She stood, turned the fire up.

Made fresh tea. Cast a ward around the door.

Then looked around the room and wondered how long she’d stayed hidden in her own shadows.

Grimmauld Place was hers, in some way now.

Broken, old, haunted—but still hers.

Chapter Text

December 27, 1993 - Early January, 1994.

The days blurred after Christmas.

Outside, the snow turned grey at the edges of the square. Dirty slush lined the stone curbs, left behind by enchanted salt that some Ministry department sent out for Muggle-facing neighborhoods. But inside Number Twelve, time folded in on itself.

Estelle didn’t light the lamps much anymore. The gloom had a way of settling over her shoulders like a shawl—cool, oddly comforting. She left the curtains drawn. Let the dim winter light slant through the gaps and cast long, misshapen shadows along the staircase.

The portrait had gone nearly mute. Perhaps even it had grown tired of hearing its own hate.

She didn’t venture out again after the sighting of the dog—not to the corner grocer, not even for fresh air. Something about that moment stuck with her, crawled under her skin like a splinter too small to tweeze. She wasn’t sure what unnerved her more: the possibility that she’d imagined it… or that she hadn’t.

Instead, she rationed what food she had left—dry lentils, a stubborn head of cabbage, a bit of cheese that had developed a rind too thick to ignore. She brewed soup in old iron cauldrons and sipped it in silence beside the fire. Fang’s drool still stained the shoulder of her overcoat from their trek in the woods. She hadn’t washed it.

The house creaked sometimes at night. Not from ghosts, she thought. Not really. Just from age.

Sometimes she spoke aloud just to prove she still had a voice.

"Back to the castle soon," she whispered on the 30th of December, standing barefoot in her old bedroom. Her breath fogged the window as she looked out into the square. "Back to pretending I belong somewhere."

The words felt fragile. Hollow. Like glass too thin to hold.

She spent most of her time preparing. Sorting through old notes, retightening the seals on her potion satchels, reviewing lesson plans she’d written and rewritten half a dozen times. But no matter how many times she packed and unpacked her bag, something still felt undone.

She took down one of the picture frames from her wall—a photo of James and Lily at the lake in their sixth year. Lily’s hair whipped in the wind as James pulled faces behind her back. It made Estelle smile, even if the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She placed the frame in the bottom of her trunk between a pair of spare robes and a half-finished bundle of dried mugwort. She hesitated before closing the lid.

Her fingers traced over the photograph’s edge. James had always loved the lake. Said it reminded him of flying—endless, reflective, unpredictable. She wondered what he’d say if he could see Harry now. Riding like the wind, lean and reckless and golden.

You did good, Prongs, she thought.

But the thought knifed something inside her. So she snapped the trunk shut and moved on.

---

New Year’s Eve arrived like a fog. Thick, low-hanging, full of ghosts.

Estelle didn’t mark midnight with a toast or a spell. She simply sat in front of the hearth in her old room, legs crossed, a half-empty cup of nettle tea going cold beside her. She had the green journal Lily gave her open in her lap, though she hadn’t written in it since before Christmas.

She picked up the quill and hovered it over the page.

Then, finally:

December 31st, 1993

Twelve Grimmauld Place

I am still here.

I am tired.

I am not afraid, but I am not brave either.

The dog. The stairs. The sound of my own voice in the dark. All of it feels like part of the same dream.

I wish you were here. I don’t even know who I mean when I write that. Just… someone. Anyone.

She stared at the words. Then she closed the journal, tucked it back in her satchel, and pulled her knees to her chest.

The fire crackled once. And that was all.

---

New Year’s Day arrived with a light dusting of snow. Fresh. Untouched.

Estelle rose early, though she had no obligations. She scrubbed the cauldron she’d used for soup and polished the glass jars that held her remaining potion stocks. She packed her green leather satchel with every ounce of care. Every vial labeled, every bundle of herbs triple-wrapped.

She changed the linens on her bed and re-sorted the pressed leaves she’d pinned to the walls. She wiped dust from the mirror on her dresser, catching her own reflection in a rare, quiet moment.

She looked older, she thought. Not just in her eyes—but around her mouth. The way she stood. The set of her shoulders.

"You’re not seventeen anymore," she told the mirror.

The mirror said nothing back.

---

By evening, her things were packed. Her trunk was levitated and locked, waiting by the door. The fireplace was swept clean. Her traveling robes were laid out on her bed, folded with ritualistic precision.

And still, the house sat heavy on her chest.

She took one last walk through its halls. Let her fingers brush along the banisters. Let her feet remember each groaning board, each knot in the wood. She paused outside the rooms that had once belonged to her brothers.

Regulus’s door remained shut. Sirius’s remained ajar, always.

She did not enter either one.

Instead, she descended to the first floor. To the corridor with the portrait. To the place that had always broken her.

The drapes were still drawn, but she felt the portrait’s presence. Watching.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Estelle said quietly.

No reply.

She reached out and laid her palm against the frayed velvet curtain.

“I’m not what you wanted. I never was. But I’m still alive.”

The silence deepened. Then, like a breath exhaled too long held, the corridor fell still again.

Estelle let her hand fall away.

---

She left Grimmauld Place just past dusk.

She didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

The fire in the hearth roared green as she stepped into the Floo.

She spoke the words—"Hogsmeade, Three Broomsticks"—and vanished into the flame.

The train had come and gone, its steam lingering like a phantom across the platform as Estelle disapparated, her bags slung over her shoulder like burdens too old to be named. She didn’t take the usual route. No public stops. No idle conversations with Ministry checkpoint officers. Instead, she took a series of calculated, short-range Apparitions that skipped her along the countryside in ghostly silence, like stepping-stones across a lake of snow.

The journey back to Hogwarts wasn’t what lingered in her thoughts. What lingered was the knowledge that the castle would be waiting—untouched by her absence, but steeped in memory all the same.

Ghosts didn’t just haunt the corridors of Hogwarts. They lived in its very stones.

As she approached the gates and the heavy wards shimmered around her, Estelle took a breath so deep it trembled in her ribs. The sky was iron-colored, and the snow, though tamped down by the carriages and booted feet of students who had arrived earlier that day, still clung to the edges of every tree like frost-laced lace. She could hear the wind wailing through the turrets high above and the screech of the Thestrals in the paddock beyond the forest line.

The castle loomed.

Hogwarts.

Not just a place. Never just a place.

Estelle’s boots crunched against the icy stone as she crossed the courtyard and pushed through the front doors. The Entrance Hall smelled like hearthsmoke, parchment, and distant vanilla. A student or two rushed past her, dragging trunks, laughing, casting warming charms on snow-slicked scarves. She said nothing. Just nodded once and carried on.

The greenhouses glittered beneath their frost-thick glass in the courtyard to her right. Her chambers were attached to Greenhouse Three, tucked discreetly into a stone wing that jutted out near the side of the castle and descended into the warm, damp soil around the plants she spent most of her life tending.

She reached her quarters.

Wards still shimmered faintly, crisscrossing the doorframe like silk threads in starlight.

The same wards she and Severus had placed there together after Amycus had cornered her. Layered spells, needling and precise, designed to tangle anyone who crossed the threshold uninvited. The memory of that day crept up like fog around her ankles. His fingers brushing hers as they worked in near-silence. The tightness in his jaw. The way he’d looked at her afterward—not tender, not cruel, just... unguarded. Briefly.

Estelle touched the doorframe, whispering the counter-charm.

The wards peeled away like skin from a wound. Gone.

She stepped inside.

Everything was just as she’d left it.

Her teaching robes still hung near the hearth, now dark and cold. Her satchel of potion ingredients—still half-stocked. A cup of tea she’d left on the windowsill had long since frozen solid, the ice cracking like broken glass in its porcelain cage. The herbs she’d hung to dry still perfumed the air—lemon verbena, dittany, ginger root, starflower.

Her chambers smelled like healing and sorrow.

Estelle lit the fireplace with a wordless flick of her wand. The flames snapped to life, casting warm shadows over the mossy green rugs and copper-laced bookshelves. She set her trunk down with a thud and stared at it for a long time before moving to unpack.

Unpacking was easy.

Settling was harder.

She moved through the motions like a ghost herself—placing vials back into drawers, restocking her personal stores of powdered belladonna, wormwood, and powdered unicorn horn. Rehanging her warding charms. Checking her notes for the coming week.

By the time the sky outside had turned lavender with late afternoon light, Estelle was changed and ready for dinner in the Great Hall.

She didn’t know if she was ready to *see* them—but she would go.

---

The Hall was already buzzing when she arrived, her boots silent on the flagstones as she slipped through the massive doors and toward the staff table. Students were just settling in, and snow drifted from the enchanted ceiling in gentle whorls, giving the whole room a sense of winter stillness. A new year. Same ghosts.

Remus spotted her first.

He grinned, waving her over with a flash of teeth and a motion that sent a puff of snow spiraling from his sleeve.

“There she is!” he called, standing halfway as she approached.

Estelle smiled—small, real.

“I live,” she said simply as he hugged her.

Remus’s embrace was warm and brief, but comforting. He smelled like firewood, worn wool, and faint chocolate. “How was Grimmauld?” he asked as he pulled back.

“Quiet,” she said, voice neutral. “Unsettling. As expected.”

“Did you at least rest?”

“Define ‘rest.’”

He chuckled and guided her to sit between him and Professor Flitwick, who offered her a cheerful “Welcome back, my dear!” before returning to his meal.

Remus leaned in, voice lowered now. “You’re alright?”

“I’m alright,” she said.

She wasn’t, not fully. But she was upright, dressed, eating soup, and engaging in conversation. That counted for something.

A familiar swirl of black robes descended beside her. The scent of sandalwood and clove hit her nose before he spoke.

“Nearly the full moon,” Severus said coolly, taking the seat across from them.

Estelle didn’t look at him right away. She kept stirring her soup.

“Yes,” Remus replied, without rising to the bait. “It usually comes once a month.”

“Your wit is razor-sharp this evening,” Severus said, voice laced with ice.

“I’m well-fed,” Remus said, biting into a roll.

Estelle finally looked up.

Severus’s eyes caught hers. They were unreadable—dark, flickering, hooded.

There was something different in him tonight. Not anger. Not disdain. But tension. His jaw was set too tight. His fingers white-knuckled around his goblet. The vein in his temple pulsing faintly.

Jealousy, maybe.

Estelle said nothing. She just turned her eyes back to her meal and lifted her spoon.

The silence between them was louder than any words.

Remus, wisely, steered the conversation toward classroom planning.

“I’ve assigned the third-years a boggart project,” he said brightly. “They’re to research historical magical phobias and propose counter-charm strategies.”

“Ambitious,” Estelle murmured.

“They’ll hate me by Friday,” he said proudly.

Severus snorted, though it lacked humor. “Why wait for Friday?”

Estelle blinked once. “Severus.”

He looked at her.

“I just got back.”

He said nothing more.

The rest of the meal passed in prickled silences and careful sips of tea.

By the time dessert appeared—blackberry crumble with a swirl of cream—Estelle’s appetite had vanished.

---

Later that night, she stood by her window again, overlooking the greenhouses where the glass glinted like silver under moonlight. Snow drifted down in hushed spirals. She could see the faint shimmer of enchantments protecting the plants from frost. Somewhere down there, her mandrakes were sleeping, safe and rooted.

The wards were back up.

The ghosts were awake.

And the castle felt like it was watching.

Welcome home, it whispered.

Welcome back to the story you never quite left.

Chapter Text

Early-Mid January, 1994.

The snow hadn’t melted, but it had hardened. Where once the drifts were soft and blanketed the hills like meringue, now they were crusted over and sharp, glinting like glass under the pale January sun. The wind howled low through the empty courtyards, scraping frost from the windows and slamming against the castle’s towers with restless fury. It was early January, and the cold crept in through the stones.

Estelle Black was already awake when the bell tolled six.

She hadn’t slept much since the conversation in Severus’s dungeon. The argument had replayed itself over and over in her head like a broken charm. His words, sharp as daggers. The way he’d looked at her—not with disdain, not even with indifference, but with something wounded and bare, like an animal cornered too long.

“I don’t want to lose you, Elle,” he had said.

And then she had walked away.

She kept telling herself it was the right thing to do. That her words—“Then don’t”—had left a door open. But doors could rot on their hinges if no one passed through them.

So she worked. She taught. She brewed. She wrote long, meticulous lesson plans that no one would ever bother to inspect. She organized every drawer in her quarters alphabetically by potion use. She filed essays by the color of ink. She pruned every plant in the greenhouse until her hands were chapped and raw.

She avoided Severus Snape with military precision.

And he, in turn, kept his distance with that same calculating grace he applied to every part of his life. They passed in hallways. They sat three chairs apart in staff meetings. Once, she caught him watching her across the Great Hall during breakfast, but by the time she looked up, he had returned to his porridge.

The silence was worse than anything.

The students returned a few days into the new year, bundled in scarves and dragging trunks behind them, their chatter echoing through the halls like the migration of a thousand winged creatures. Estelle found herself watching the crowds for one face in particular: Harry Potter. He had returned a little taller, with a determined set to his jaw that reminded her so achingly of James that it took the air out of her lungs.

He didn’t glance at her. Of course he didn’t. Why would he?

Estelle returned to her usual rhythm—teaching third-years about fire-resistant fungi, overseeing fifth-years’ attempts at cultivating sopophorous tubers, lecturing seventh-years on the ethical harvesting of unicorn hair. Her days passed in a flurry of frostbitten mornings, steam-choked greenhouses, and evening staff meetings that blurred together like overexposed photographs.

But the nights—those were longer.

She spent them staring at the ceiling, her thoughts tangling in dark knots. Sirius’s face still haunted her dreams. Sometimes she saw him as he was in the Prophet—wild-eyed, gaunt, and unrecognizable. Other times, she saw him as she remembered: laughing in the Gryffindor common room, hands in his pockets, a storm of trouble and warmth.

And then there was Severus.

There was always Severus.

—

On the second Tuesday of January, Estelle found herself snapping at a fourth-year Hufflepuff who overwatered a batch of creeping black moss, causing it to emit a sulfurous belch that cleared half the classroom. She apologized afterward, of course, and gave the girl a chocolate frog to make up for it—but the damage was done. The students had begun to notice that something was off.

“Professor Black,” one fifth-year Ravenclaw asked tentatively during a practical, “are you feeling alright? You look sort of… drawn.”

“Do I?” she asked, adjusting her gloves with sharp precision. “Must be the winter air.”

Later that night, she skipped dinner entirely and retreated to the greenhouse instead, lighting the braziers with a flick of her wand. The plants didn’t ask questions. They didn’t whisper about Sirius Black in the corridors or cast sideways glances at her when she walked past. They didn’t talk about trust or secrets or fear.

She was elbow-deep in a stubborn dragon lily root when the door opened behind her.

She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Remus,” she said, without looking up. “You missed your last check-in. I was starting to think you’d died of Wolfsbane withdrawal.”

Remus Lupin stepped into the glow of the lanterns, shrugging off his heavy traveling cloak. His cheeks were red from the wind. “I was in the Forest. Centaurs,” he added with a sigh. “Not thrilled about Dumbledore’s security expansions.”

“Bane?” she asked, still not looking at him.

He nodded. “He sends his usual cryptic regards.”

She hummed and returned to her work. She felt his eyes on her—soft, patient, worried.

“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” he said after a moment. “Even the Weasley twins said you haven’t hexed them all week. They’re concerned.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I’ve also noticed you haven’t hexed Severus lately,” he added delicately.

Her knife slipped in the root, slicing her glove and grazing the skin beneath.

“Careful,” he said, reaching for his wand.

She waved him off and cast a quick healing charm. The cut vanished, but the sting remained.

“We argued,” she said quietly.

Remus waited.

“It was ugly.”

He folded his arms. “So make it right.”

Estelle laughed, bitter and low. “You make it sound so simple. As if the two of you don’t have your own unresolved threstral shit.”

Remus ignored the latter comment. “It is simple. Not easy. But simple.”

She finally looked up at him. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Remus. With him. With Sirius. With anything.”

Remus stepped closer. “You don’t have to know. Just... don’t shut the people who care about you out.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a while, the greenhouse quiet but for the faint rustling of leaves and the hiss of the brazier flame. Eventually, Remus touched her shoulder and left without another word.

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t, not since Christmas.

But she didn’t sleep either.

The next morning, Severus was absent from breakfast. Estelle’s eyes darted toward his usual seat before she could stop them. Empty.

Her toast went untouched.

At lunch, he was still missing.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

That night, she wandered past the entrance to the dungeons without meaning to. Her feet just… took her there.

She didn’t knock.

By the third day, Severus reappeared at the staff table, looking even more haggard than usual. His skin was sallow, his eyes shadowed. Their eyes met once—briefly, like a match being struck—and then he looked away.

The ache in her chest flared like an old injury.

After dinner, Estelle returned to her chambers to find a note slipped under the door.

In Severus’s handwriting.

Greenhouse Two. Tonight. Midnight. -S.

She read it three times, then folded it and slid it into her sleeve.

When the clock struck twelve, she was already waiting by the dragon lily bed.

The door creaked open.

Severus stepped inside, his silhouette long and angular in the dim lantern light. He didn’t speak at first, only approached with slow, deliberate steps.

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly, gesturing to a shallow cut on his hand.

He looked down. “Minor incident with a doxy nest.”

She reached for his hand before she could think better of it. He didn’t pull away.

She healed him wordlessly, their hands close enough to feel the warmth, the tremor.

When she looked up, he was already watching her.

“I’ve been an arse,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “No argument here.”

“I didn’t mean to—about Lupin. About everything. I wasn’t prepared.”

“Neither was I.”

A beat passed. Then two.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally. “But I don’t want to lose what we’ve rebuilt.”

“You haven’t lost it,” she replied. “But you might have to work for it.”

“I’m used to that.”

She smiled, small but real. “Good.”

He took a step closer. “Will you let me try?”

Her answer wasn’t a word. It was her hand, slipping into his again.

Outside, the snow fell silently, blanketing the grounds in white.

Inside the greenhouse, under the warm golden light of floating lanterns and the rustle of patient plants, the two of them stood together—tired, bruised, uncertain. But not alone.

Not anymore.

---

The first Saturday after classes resumed brought with it a bitter, pale sky and a wind that howled like a warning. January snow still coated the grounds, not freshly fallen, but trampled into icy ridges where hundreds of boots had packed it down. It was the kind of cold that cut through wool and whispered through seams, settling in the bones.

Estelle pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped onto the path leading toward the Quidditch pitch. The distant roar of students already filled the air, echoing through the trees like a living heartbeat. It had taken every ounce of discipline not to remain buried in lesson planning, grading, or restocking greenhouse inventories. But when Minerva had passed in the staff hallway and muttered, “Slytherin versus Gryffindor—might be worth watching this one,” Estelle had paused.

Worth watching.

The wind whipped her hair against her face as she approached the stadium, her boots crunching against frost. Students buzzed past her, their scarves snapping behind them in house colors. A pair of third-years chattered excitedly about “Potter’s last dive against Hufflepuff,” and she caught herself faltering at the name. Potter.

Of course.

This would be the first time she saw Harry play.

By the time she reached the stands, the match was already underway. Bludgers whistled through the air like cannonballs, and the commentary from Lee Jordan’s magically amplified voice rang over the din: “AND THAT’S A BRILLIANT SAVE BY WOOD—LOOKS LIKE SLYTHERIN’S CHASERS AREN’T MESSING ABOUT THIS TIME!”

Estelle climbed the stairs slowly, finding a spot midway up, tucked slightly beneath one of the covered sections. Her gloved fingers curled around the wooden railing as she scanned the pitch.

There.

A streak of scarlet and gold on a Nimbus 2000.

Harry Potter.

He was smaller than she expected, slight for thirteen, but the way he moved was unmistakable. Controlled chaos. Reckless precision. He had James’s posture, his instinct. The way he banked his broom into tight loops and sharp vertical climbs sent a crack through her chest.

For a moment, her eyes blurred. She didn’t realize how hard her grip had clenched around the railing until the splinters dug into her palm.

“Estelle.”

The voice was soft, but close.

She turned to see Remus sliding into the seat beside her, his coat dusted with snow, his nose red from the cold. He offered a tentative smile.

“Didn’t think I’d see you out here.”

She shrugged. “Minerva said it’d be worth watching.”

Remus followed her gaze, eyes settling on Harry, who had just dodged a Bludger with a tight barrel roll that left even the Slytherins applauding.

“He’s good,” Remus murmured. “Too good.”

Estelle didn’t answer right away. She watched as Harry narrowed his eyes and angled downward, his form growing smaller and smaller until—

“THERE HE GOES—POTTER’S SEEN THE SNITCH—AND MALFOY IS ON HIS TAIL!”

Estelle sucked in a breath as Draco Malfoy shot forward like a silver arrow, the two Seekers neck-and-neck.

The cold air sliced across her cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the ache rising in her chest.

It was James.

It was James in that dive. James in that defiant tilt of the head, that refusal to lose.

And James was gone.

Her throat tightened. She looked away.

Remus didn’t speak. He just reached over and placed a gloved hand over hers, grounding her.

The gesture undid her. A single, traitorous tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it. She brushed it away quickly, cursing the wind for its cruelty.

“I wasn’t ready,” she whispered. “To see him like this.”

Remus didn’t say anything, but his grip stayed firm. His presence was steady, unintrusive.

Estelle exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back toward the pitch just in time to see Harry pull up from a sharp dive—Malfoy overextended and tumbled, broom spiraling. The Snitch gleamed between Harry’s fingers.

The Gryffindor stands erupted into chaos.

Estelle remained still, breathless.

“He’s his father’s son,” she said softly.

Remus nodded. “But he’s his mother’s too. That’s why he wins.”

Behind them, a scuffling noise on the stairs drew their attention. Severus had arrived, his robes billowing behind him like a storm front.

His expression was unreadable.

Estelle straightened, her hand withdrawing from Remus’s. She saw the flicker of Severus’s eyes drop to that motion—too fast for most to notice, but not her.

She knew that look.

Knew it because it had once been hers.

Jealousy.

“Enjoying the match, Professor Black?” Severus’s tone was crisp, almost polite, but undercut with something sharper.

“I was,” Estelle said, her voice equally even.

Remus gave a small nod of greeting. “You just missed a spectacular Snitch catch.”

“I saw,” Severus said. His eyes lingered on Estelle for a moment too long before he turned, walking past them and settling several rows behind. Alone.

Estelle stared after him, her heart doing something unpleasant in her chest.

Remus gave her a side glance. “You two fighting again?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Remus sighed. “You know, I used to think I was the expert at brooding and emotional repression. But I’m starting to think he’s trying to outdo me.”

Estelle let out a dry laugh. “Don’t compete. You’ll both lose.”

They sat in silence as the teams descended onto the pitch, Gryffindor celebrating wildly, Slytherin storming off with narrowed eyes and furious muttering.

The students began to file out of the stands, but Estelle remained seated, her gaze still fixed on the boy in red robes who now stood with his teammates, grinning in that same crooked way James had when he was proud but trying not to show it.

“He doesn’t know me,” she murmured.

“No,” Remus said. “Not yet.”

She turned to him, brow furrowed.

“Do you think he should?”

Remus’s eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“I think... when the time is right. Not now. Maybe not soon. But someday—yes. He deserves to know who you were to his parents. And who you still are.”

Estelle swallowed hard.

Below, Harry laughed at something one of the Weasley twins said, his broom slung over his shoulder.

A child. A legend. A mirror of all they’d lost.

The wind kicked up again, sharp and unrelenting.

Estelle stood. “Let’s go.”

Remus nodded and followed her down the steps.

She didn’t look back to see if Severus was watching.

But she felt it.

She always did.

Chapter Text

Mid January, 1994.

The snow lingered, greyed and sunken, clinging to the edges of stone walls and curling under the greenhouse glass like it was trying to listen in. The start of term had resumed in full swing, and with it came the familiar rhythm of Hogwarts: bells ringing from the towers, students clattering through corridors in mismatched scarves, and the quiet hum of life beneath old stone and older secrets.

Estelle stood in the middle of Greenhouse Three, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with soil. The winter sun filtered through the frosted glass above, painting pale light across her chalkboard as she scrawled a diagram of devil’s ivy root structure. She breathed in the scent of peat moss and mint-thorn mulch, grounding herself in the ordinary—because if she didn’t, she might start seeing him again in every shadowed corridor.

It had been three weeks since she’d seen the dog in Knockturn Alley. Since the dream. Since the second, even clearer glimpse of him just beyond the Black family cemetery gate. She hadn't told a soul.

She couldn’t.

If she said it out loud, it would become real.

If she said it out loud, she would be forced to believe that Sirius Black—her brother—was truly alive.

“Professor Black?”

Estelle blinked.

Harry Potter stood at her elbow, eyebrows raised. His hand hovered above the wilted plant she’d asked him to prune, secateurs clenched tightly in his fist.

“Sorry,” Estelle said quickly. “What was the question?”

Harry hesitated. “You said to cut above the second node—but this one’s sort of curled under.”

Estelle moved beside him, peering at the fraying vine. Her breath hitched before she caught it—he was wearing his father’s gloves. Or at least, they looked like them. Stiff dragonhide with a patch stitched into the wrist, the kind James had always insisted gave him “more grip” on his broom.

Estelle’s mouth went dry.

“You did right,” she said hoarsely. “Above the node. Even if it’s curled. It’ll force it to regrow outward instead of strangling the root system.”

Harry nodded and leaned in to snip the stem with practiced care. Estelle felt herself watching his profile, not the plant—how he furrowed his brow like Lily had, how he bit his lip in concentration the way James never had patience for.

Across the greenhouse, Hermione Granger had already trimmed half her section. Her notes were immaculate, of course. She caught Estelle’s eye and gave a shy but proud smile. Estelle nodded back, her lips barely twitching.

Normal. This was normal.

“Once you’ve pruned the devil’s ivy, set it aside for preservation,” Estelle instructed the class, walking the aisle. “I’ll demonstrate how to grind the stems for salve base next lesson.”

Neville Longbottom was struggling, as usual. His fingers were tangled in a mess of vines that had somehow wrapped around his wrist.

“Mr. Longbottom, try not to let it sense your hesitation,” Estelle said gently, kneeling beside him. “These plants thrive on timidity.”

Neville blushed and nodded, and she helped him unravel it.

By the time class ended, Estelle’s shoulders ached. She dismissed the students with a wave of her hand and a reminder about tomorrow’s quiz. As they filed out, Harry lingered a little longer than the others.

“Professor?” he said, voice quieter now. “I meant to ask... were you friends with my mum and dad?”

Estelle paused.

She had been waiting for this.

“I was,” she said. “They were—your mother especially—very dear to me.”

Harry looked at his shoes. “Did you... know Sirius Black too?”

Her stomach dropped.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “I did.”

“Did he really betray them?” Harry’s voice cracked on the last word. “I mean—everyone says he did, but... I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense. Not the way Hagrid talks about him. Not the way my mum wrote about him in some of her letters.”

Estelle fought the tremor that threatened to climb her throat.

“It’s hard to know who people are when all you have are stories,” she said. “Sometimes the truth hides under so many layers of memory, it starts to look like something else entirely.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Do you think people can come back? After they’ve... done something terrible?”

Estelle looked at him—really looked.

His eyes were Lily’s. His heart was James’s. And his question was hauntingly her own.

“I think everyone is haunted by something,” she said. “But coming back... that takes more than guilt. It takes choice. And courage.”

Harry didn’t press her further. Just gave a small, quiet thank-you and slipped out into the corridor.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Estelle leaned against the greenhouse bench and closed her eyes.

She had lied, of course. Half-lied, anyway. She had seen Sirius. She knew he was back. The choice wasn’t his anymore. The choice was hers.

To tell.

Or not.

The idea of reporting him to the Ministry—of handing over the last living remnant of her family—made her stomach churn.

And the idea that he had truly betrayed James and Lily? That still didn’t sit right. There was a rot in the narrative. A sliver of shadow that didn’t match the light.

She opened her eyes.

Outside the greenhouse, snow drifted in lazy arcs. The Whomping Willow stood still in the cold, its branches bare. Beyond it, the Shrieking Shack squatted on the hillside like a memory she hadn’t yet faced.

“Estelle.”

She startled.

Remus stood in the greenhouse doorway, scarf wrapped around his neck, wind whipping his fringe into his eyes. He looked tired. Always tired. But warmer than Severus, and less volatile.

“Your lesson ran long,” he said gently.

“Did it?” She checked the clock and sighed. “Only by five minutes.”

He stepped inside, hands shoved into his coat pockets. “I saw Harry walking out. He looked... contemplative.”

Estelle nodded. “He asked about Sirius.”

Remus went still.

“Did you tell him anything?”

“No,” she said. “Not the truth. Not yet.”

He looked at her. “You’re still not sure, are you?”

She swallowed. “Would you be?”

“No.” His voice was soft. “But if you’re right... if he is back... we need to know what he wants.”

Estelle looked away, out the window again. “I’m not ready to say it aloud.”

“That’s fine,” Remus said. “You don’t have to say anything yet.”

“But I will,” she added. “Eventually.”

Remus smiled—sad and kind. “I know.”

They stood together for a moment in the silence. The hum of magical vines and the creak of frosted glass above them the only sounds.

Then Remus turned toward the door. “Dinner?”

“In a bit,” she said. “I’ll walk up soon.”

He hesitated. “If you see Severus, be kind.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow.

“He’s been... moodier than usual.”

She smirked faintly. “That’s saying something.”

Remus grinned. “Just don’t hex him until dessert.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin tugged at her mouth anyway.

When he left, she watched the snow again.

In the reflection of the glass, her own face stared back at her—haunted, yes. But still whole.

Still here.

She gathered her things and headed back toward the castle. It was time to face the ghosts again.

One by one.

-

The castle breathed in winter. Long, low drafts wound through the corridors like sighs, and Estelle Black found herself unconsciously mirroring the rhythm—shoulders rising with the hush of footsteps, lowering when silence fell. The new term had begun, and with it came the slow thaw of muscle memory: early mornings in the greenhouse, steaming flasks of infused rosemary, her wand lit faintly in the gloom before sunrise.

But her mind was elsewhere.

She had seen him. Twice.

Once in the alley. Once outside the shop.

She hadn’t told a soul—not Remus, not Severus. Certainly not Dumbledore.

It wasn’t fear that kept her silent. It was doubt. And the creeping dread that if she spoke it aloud, it might become real.

She shook the thought off as she crossed the courtyard, snow crunching beneath her boots. In the far distance, a few Gryffindors were throwing snowballs with exaggerated flair, first-years squealing, scarves trailing behind them like kites. She managed a small smile.

A familiar voice met her near the stone archway. “You’re walking too fast for someone with an injured arm.”

“Remus,” she said, turning. “You’re up early.”

“I never sleep well on Mondays,” he replied, adjusting the satchel on his shoulder. “Full moon’s coming.”

They didn’t speak of it much—his transformations—but the quiet understanding between them was long established.

“I had a thought,” he said, falling into step beside her. “About third-year Defense this week.”

“Oh?”

“Boggarts.”

Estelle groaned immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“You’re going to ask if I’ll help,” she said flatly.

Remus gave her a winning smile. “You know me too well.”

“I’m not parading my worst fear in front of thirteen-year-olds for your lesson plan.”

“You wouldn’t have to face the Boggart. Just… assist. Crowd control. Spell support.”

Estelle gave him a long, withering look. “You mean moral support while you teach them how to laugh at their nightmares.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And yet you’ll say yes.”

She stopped walking. “Why?”

Remus turned to face her, expression softening. “Because I think it might help. You’ve been… closed off. Understandably. But you’re good with the students. And frankly, I need a pair of eyes that aren’t mine. Someone who knows how to step in if it turns too real for one of them.”

Estelle chewed the inside of her cheek. “Third-years. What class?”

“Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Wednesday morning.”

She exhaled slowly. “Fine.”

Remus grinned. “Brilliant.”

“But I’m not conjuring anything,” she said, holding up a finger. “You do the theatrics. I’ll be the one muttering counter-charms from the corner.”

“Deal.”

They met that night in Remus’s quarters to plan. The room was warm and full of books, smelling faintly of cinnamon tea and old parchment. Estelle sat cross-legged on the rug while Remus paced, occasionally jotting notes.

“We’ll start with discussion,” he said, holding up a parchment. “Ease their nerves. I’ll explain how Boggarts react to emotion, how laughter weakens them.”

“They’ll be nervous,” Estelle said. “Third-years always are. Especially the Muggle-borns—they’ve only ever seen fear as something to fight or hide, not laugh at.”

He nodded. “That’s why I want you there. Your presence—” he paused, searching for the word— “grounds people.”

Estelle gave him a skeptical look, but didn’t argue.

He glanced at her, the quill still in his hand. “Do you remember your worst fear, back then?”

She was quiet for a moment. “At thirteen?”

“Yes.”

“My mother,” she said simply. “Screaming about bloodlines. And me, powerless. My wand would vanish. My throat would close.”

Remus’s expression darkened. “And now?”

Her lips tightened. “Now it’s the same, just with different faces.”

He nodded solemnly. “Mine’s still the full moon. Hasn’t changed.”

“You’ve never shown it in class, have you?”

“No,” he said, looking down. “The Boggart avoids me if I get too close. I think it senses something. Like it’s afraid of what it might become.”

Estelle shivered. “That’s unsettling.”

“Very.”

They worked another hour before calling it a night, the lesson mapped out and the Boggart—currently trapped in a wardrobe in the Defense classroom—well-contained.

-

The morning of the lesson dawned crisp and grey, the stone corridors of Hogwarts laced with the damp chill of snowmelt. Estelle walked to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom beside Remus, her satchel of charmed chalk clinking at her hip, her heart thudding with a slow and deliberate dread.

“Remus,” she said, eyeing him sideways. “This is still a horrible idea.”

“Of course it is,” he said lightly, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. “But it’s tradition.”

She gave him a long look. “Remind me which part of ‘traumatize your students with a shape-shifting phobia monster’ is traditional.”

“Educational trauma,” he replied with a wink. “Controlled and supervised.”

They reached the classroom, and Estelle noted how the air changed the moment they stepped in. There was always something different about this room—charged, like a wand just before it cast. The wardrobe that held the boggart stood squat and unassuming in the corner, locked with three enchanted clasps and humming faintly with something far older than fear.

She set her satchel down, laid out the lesson parchment they’d scrawled the night before, and glanced at Remus. “Still time to cancel.”

He smiled faintly. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

“Balance,” he murmured.

The classroom began to fill with third-years. A ripple of excitement swept through them—Harry Potter among them, all green eyes and messy hair and that curious, disarming smile. Hermione Granger settled beside him, her hand already in the air.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Remus said before he’d even started.

Hermione blinked, then beamed. “Is this the boggart lesson you mentioned?”

“Indeed,” he said. “Professor Black and I thought it would be helpful to practice in pairs today, especially since many of you faced Dementors on the train this year. We’ll take turns, and—”

“What’s a boggart again?” asked Neville Longbottom, sounding faintly nervous.

“A shape-shifter,” Estelle explained, stepping forward. “They take the form of your worst fear. The only way to defeat one is laughter. That’s the spell we’ll be using today. Say it with me—Riddikulus.”

A few hesitant voices echoed her.

She smiled gently. “Louder. The boggart won’t wait for manners.”

“Riddikulus!” they chorused.

Remus flicked his wand and the classroom rearranged itself—desks skimming along the stone floor to the walls, clearing a wide space in the center. He conjured a gramophone in the corner and charmed it to play a jaunty instrumental melody—nothing like the eerie silence that usually cloaked Defense lessons. Estelle arched a brow at him. He shrugged. “Fear hates music.”

When they were ready, Remus unlatched the wardrobe.

It creaked open with a metallic groan—and out stepped Professor McGonagall, eyes wide, arms full of parchment.

“Mr. Longbottom,” she snapped in horror, “you’ve failed every subject!”

Neville whimpered.

“Your turn,” Remus encouraged.

Neville raised his wand with trembling fingers. “R-Riddikulus!”

With a loud crack, McGonagall’s robes turned neon orange and ballooned into a giant opera gown. She teetered backward with a high-pitched shriek. The class roared with laughter, and the boggart reeled.

Next came Parvati Patil—a bloodied mummy slithered forward from the wardrobe, moaning in tongues. She squeaked but recovered.

“Riddikulus!” she cried, and the mummy tripped over its own wrappings and face-planted.

Dean Thomas faced a giant severed hand—“Riddikulus!”—it turned into a rubber glove and began slapping itself.

Seamus Finnegan faced a banshee.

Lavender Brown faced a massive cracked mirror, her own distorted face screaming back at her.

And then there was Harry.

The boggart stuttered—unsure who to choose—and then suddenly twisted in midair, rising and reshaping itself into a Dementor. A terrible hush fell over the room. The air turned glacial, the light flickered.

Estelle’s breath caught.

Harry stepped forward, wand raised—but he faltered. The Dementor surged closer. Estelle could almost feel the way the cold numbed his bones, the way breath was a distant thing, the way hope peeled back layer by layer.

“Harry—” Remus began, stepping forward—

But the Dementor was shifting again.

Estelle watched in horror as it began to elongate, robes dissolving into something more humanoid—something gaunt and waxen and inhumanly pale.

Voldemort.

His red eyes gleamed, slits for pupils, wand in hand.

Estelle didn’t think—didn’t hesitate. Her instincts screamed before her mind could catch up.

She threw herself forward, pushing Harry behind her.

The boggart stilled.

And turned to her.

For one awful, suspended second, Estelle thought she had neutralized it—interrupted its transformation.

But then it twitched.

Its spine cracked. Its robes darkened.

Its eyes—wild and mad and unmistakably grey—fixed on her with predatory recognition.

Sirius Black.

But not the boy she’d once adored. Not the man she had grown up with. Not even the fugitive she remembered from the headlines.

This Sirius had dead eyes.

This Sirius was laughing.

Hair wild. Beard matted. Blood on his hands.

“Estelle,” he hissed, voice ragged. “You didn’t wait for me.”

She froze.

The boggart-Sirius advanced.

“You left me,” he crooned. “While I rotted.”

“No,” she whispered, too soft to be heard. “No—”

“You believed them. You believed him.”

Behind her, Harry’s breath was shallow, and Hermione was gripping his sleeve with white knuckles. Several students were backing toward the door.

“Remus,” Estelle gasped.

But it was too late.

The boggart lunged.

Remus stepped forward, wand raised high.

“Riddikulus!”

There was a crack like thunder.

Sirius’s image flickered—fizzled—twisted into a spinning teacup wearing a prison number.

But no one laughed.

The room was deathly silent.

Remus slammed the wardrobe shut.

“Class dismissed,” he said sharply. “Out. Now.”

No one argued.

They filed out in silence, the music still chirping eerily in the corner. Harry looked shaken. Hermione kept glancing back at Estelle. Neville lingered until Remus nudged him out the door with a gentle hand.

Estelle hadn’t moved.

She was still standing in front of the wardrobe, shoulders locked, jaw trembling.

“Elle,” Remus said softly.

She didn’t answer.

He stepped forward, gently touched her arm.

She flinched.

Then blinked.

And the dam broke.

She sank to her knees, covering her face, and sobbed—no decorum, no defense, just raw, cracked, unbearable sound.

Remus knelt beside her, saying nothing.

When she finally looked up, her face was streaked with tears and sweat, her lips parted as if trying to find an excuse she didn’t believe in.

“I didn’t expect it,” she whispered. “I—I thought it would be Amycus. Or… maybe just stay him. Voldemort. But not—”

Remus didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

“Of course I believe he was guilty, that it’s seeped into my subconscious,” she choked. “He was gone. And James—and Lily—Harry—” She broke off again.

“You’re still not sure,” he said quietly.

Estelle nodded once, shuddering. “I saw him. I saw him. But… not like that. Not like what the boggart showed me.”

“Because that Sirius wasn’t the one you knew,” Remus said. “That was your fear. Your worst one.”

“I keep telling myself it’s impossible,” she whispered. “That he couldn’t have. That there’s nothing left of who he was. But what if he’s in there somewhere? What if I’m wrong? And worse—what if I’m right?”

Remus exhaled slowly. “You should tell someone.”

Her head whipped toward him. “No.”

“You can’t keep this in—”

“Not yet,” she said hoarsely. “Not until I know. I can’t shatter what’s left of him. Or me.”

Remus looked pained, but he nodded.

“Then you don’t have to carry it alone,” he said. “Not all of it.”

She breathed in deeply, hands still trembling.

The music in the corner clicked off.

The classroom felt colder without it.

“I’ll talk to Dumbledore,” Remus said finally. “Just in general. Not about… him. Just about the students. The boggart.”

Estelle nodded faintly.

He helped her up, slow and careful.

Neither spoke again as they walked out of the classroom.

The door closed behind them, muffling the echoes of laughter that hadn’t come.

And somewhere behind the locked wardrobe, the boggart waited in the dark, still wearing a madman’s smile.

Chapter Text

January 18, 1994.

The morning after the Boggart lesson, Estelle didn’t rise at her usual time.

She sat at the edge of her bed, long after the alarm charm had chimed and faded, her eyes fixed on a crack in the stone floor. It spidered from beneath her dresser like a fault line. She couldn’t remember if it had always been there.

Her hands were clenched in her lap, white-knuckled, though she hadn’t realized it until the pins and needles started.

She released a shaky breath and stood.

One foot in front of the other. That was the rule.

By the time she reached the greenhouses, the frost on the grass had already started to melt into mist. The castle grounds sparkled like glass. She didn’t notice.

The air inside Greenhouse Two was warmer than expected, but Estelle still wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. The scent of mulch and lemon balm helped, marginally. She busied herself with re-potting spined gentians and labeling jars of dried merroot. The work was simple. The kind of thing she could do without thinking.

Which was good, because thinking meant remembering.

Remembering him—the way the Boggart’s form had twisted in the middle of the Defense classroom, how Voldemort’s black robe melted into tattered Azkaban grays. How the creature’s eyes had locked with hers and something primal had erupted in her chest. Fear. Recognition. The knowledge she’d spent twelve years trying to deny.

And the way the students had stared at her afterward, pale and confused. The whispers. The silence. The pity.

The shame.

A shiver coursed through her. She fumbled a glass vial, caught it just before it shattered.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

By Thursday, the whispers had traveled.

She caught it in the way Professor Vector tilted her head curiously in the staff room. In the way Flitwick gave her a long, worried glance after dinner, his cheerful demeanor dimmed. Hagrid had tried to offer her a pumpkin scone that morning—his version of an apology for not knowing what to say.

She hadn’t taken it.

And then there was Severus.

He hadn’t said a word.

Not about the Boggart. Not about anything.

They had settled into something — not comfort, but habit. Mutual silence that filled the gaps where explanation should’ve been. They worked together in clipped phrases and brittle detachment. He handed her notes. She handed him plant specimens. Their conversations rarely ventured beyond the task at hand.

Still, she caught him watching her sometimes.

And she hated how much she noticed.

That afternoon, they were meant to inventory the Wolfsbane ingredients together. Remus had requested a new batch to be brewed next week—something stronger. The last moon had left him ragged.

Estelle arrived to the potions storeroom early.

She moved through the shelves slowly, brushing dust from labeled jars, reciting ingredients in her head like a mantra. Her fingers hovered over hellebore, asphodel, aconite…

The door creaked.

She didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“No,” came Severus’s low voice, “you’re early.”

She turned to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. His expression unreadable. His robes were impeccable, as always. His presence, quiet but charged.

Estelle turned back to the shelves. “We need to replace the sedum. It’s expired.”

Severus didn’t move. “What happened in the Defense classroom?”

The question struck like a thrown stone.

Her spine stiffened.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked, feigning disinterest.

“I’m not deaf,” he replied coolly. “Nor blind. Word travels. Especially when a professor collapses in front of half the third-years.”

Her jaw clenched. “I didn’t collapse.”

“Then what would you call it?”

She turned sharply. “A mistake.”

He blinked once, slowly.

“You’re deflecting,” he said after a moment. “Poorly.”

She glared at him. “Why do you care?”

It came out sharper than she intended.

Severus’s eyes flickered.

“For someone who prides herself on her ability to read people,” he said, voice quiet but cutting, “you can be remarkably blind.”

She swallowed. Her hand rested on the edge of the shelf behind her to steady herself.

“Was it him?” he asked. “The Boggart?”

Estelle didn’t answer.

The silence between them expanded like smoke.

“I see,” Severus said at last, more to himself than to her.

Estelle turned her back. “It doesn’t matter. I handled it.”

“I disagree.”

She spun. “You would.”

They stared at each other—two shadows locked in a patch of cold torchlight, both too exhausted to fight but too damaged to surrender.

“I didn’t come here to pry,” Severus said finally, stepping forward. “But if you’re going to work in this castle, where children carry secrets like curses and everything echoes louder than it should… you can’t hide in your own shadow forever.”

Estelle exhaled through her nose. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

“I’m not hiding,” she said, softer now. “I’m just… managing.”

Severus nodded once. A gesture more of acknowledgment than agreement.

“Then let’s manage,” he said.

And just like that, they returned to the task—wordlessly, side by side.

But every time their fingers brushed over a jar, or their voices overlapped when noting a measurement, the silence between them hummed with something more.

A truce, maybe.

Or a warning.

They worked in near silence for another twenty minutes.

Jars passed between them. Labels were inspected. Lists updated in Severus’s immaculate handwriting. The torches along the wall hissed softly in their sconces, casting the long stone room in amber and shadow.

But something had shifted.

It wasn’t warmth, exactly. Estelle wouldn’t go so far as to call it comfort. But the barbs in their silence had dulled. The air was no longer razor-thin with unspoken accusations. There was still distance, but it was no longer a chasm.

Estelle paused beside the shelf of lunar-dried roots, hesitating with a jar of dried echinacea in hand.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Would you… like to see something I’ve been working on?”

Severus looked up sharply.

“Not a potion,” she added quickly. “Not at first. It started in the greenhouses. Just… something I’ve kept private.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You want to show me a secret plant?”

Her lips twitched faintly. “Not secret. Just… personal. It might be easier than all this—” she gestured vaguely between them “—pretending.”

To her surprise, he gave a slight nod.

“Lead the way.”

They walked through the torch-lit halls in silence, but it was different this time. Estelle’s heart beat with something more than tension. There was nervousness, yes, but also anticipation.

Greenhouse Four loomed ahead, shrouded in soft mist from the warming spells layered into its walls. She unlocked the door with a quiet charm and gestured him inside.

It was warmer here—moist, thick with the scent of loamy earth, crushed mint, and something faintly metallic. Candlelight flickered from floating sconces overhead, bouncing off the glass panes in gentle arcs.

Severus stepped carefully between the narrow rows of enchanted seedlings, pausing beside an overgrown pot of whispering violets.

Estelle moved toward the far back bench, where a single long table was covered in a sprawl of carefully labeled trays. At the center sat a broad clay basin filled with something that looked like a cross between a seaweed bed and a thicket of thorns.

“This,” she said, brushing her hand along the edge of the basin, “is something I’ve been trying to cultivate since last year.”

Severus tilted his head. “It’s alive.”

“Yes. Barely. And only at night.”

He leaned closer, examining the tangle of pulsing tendrils. “What is it?”

“It’s a hybrid,” she explained, pulling on a pair of dragonhide gloves and gently lifting one of the central fronds. “It started as a wolfsbane rootstock grafted onto a weakened nightshade vine. I added Thestral moss to stabilize the cellular memory after dormancy. It failed six times before this one stabilized.”

Severus stared at her, mouth parted slightly. “You… engineered a sentient magical hybrid?”

She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I wanted to see if I could coax certain magical traits into coexistence. See if wolfsbane’s pain-dampening qualities could be diluted enough to merge with nightshade’s numbing effect without creating a toxic counterreaction.”

His eyes scanned the basin like a puzzle was slowly assembling itself in real time. “And the Thestral moss?”

“Memory retention. Plants forget. But the moss remembers. Every bloom, every drought, every injury. It holds the cellular structure stable—so it doesn’t recoil into stasis after trauma.”

Severus was silent for a long moment.

Then: “You’re insane.”

She snorted.

“Brilliant,” he clarified, voice softer. “But entirely insane.”

Estelle flushed. “You’re the first person I’ve shown it to.”

“That’s… not surprising,” he said, still transfixed. “Merlin’s beard. You’re not growing a plant, Estelle. You’re building a nervous system.”

She looked away. “It’s not perfect. I’ve tried to brew with it—only once. The result was unstable.”

At that, he turned to her, brow arching with sharp curiosity. “You brewed with this?”

She hesitated. “Not with this batch. An earlier one. I kept a sample. It’s… complicated.”

He folded his arms. “Show me.”

She led him to the back of her office—past her potions desk, through a narrow corridor lined with pressed leaves in glass frames, until they reached a tall cabinet locked with a softly humming ward.

With a whispered incantation and the careful twist of a rune-inscribed key, Estelle opened it.

Inside was a small vial, cradled in a bed of cotton and starlily petals. The liquid inside shimmered faintly—iridescent, like opal melted into water. It didn’t pulse or glow, but it seemed to breathe.

Severus reached for it carefully.

“What were you attempting?” he asked, tone unusually reverent.

“A restorative,” she said. “But not just physical. Not like Essence of Dittany or Skele-Gro. I was trying to address *magical trauma*—the kind that leaves fractures in the core, not just the flesh.”

He froze. “You mean soul damage.”

Estelle nodded. “Residual pain. Echoes of curse injuries. Shatter spells. Unforgivable exposure. I’ve seen how they linger. I wanted to brew something that could… help people feel whole again. Not erase the past. But… stitch around it.”

Severus held the vial to the light. “You brewed this alone?”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t explode?”

“Not yet.”

He turned the vial in his hand, the light catching on his pale fingers. “The layering here—this viscosity shift between base and ether—is entirely novel.”

She blinked. “You… understand it?”

“Of course I understand it,” he muttered. “I’ve just never seen it.”

He looked up sharply.

“This is groundbreaking.”

Her breath caught.

“Truly, Estelle,” he said, his voice low, awed. “You’ve crafted something I’ve only dreamed about. This—this could change how we think about magical convalescence.”

She hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding her breath until it escaped her lungs in a shaky exhale.

“You’re not just talented,” he added, turning the vial once more. “You’re extraordinary.”

Estelle swallowed hard. Her hands were damp, heart loud in her chest. She didn’t know what she expected from showing him—disbelief, dismissal, maybe a cutting remark to mask envy. But not this. Not *praise*.

“I didn’t think you’d take it seriously,” she murmured.

Severus glanced at her. “Then you don’t know me as well as you think.”

A long pause stretched between them. The vial shimmered between his fingers, casting odd glints on the shelves and the lines of his face.

Estelle looked away first. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get it stable enough to test.”

He handed the vial back carefully. “You will. And when you do, you’ll tell no one until I’ve had time to secure your research rights.”

She gave a short laugh, half-wry, half-skeptical. “What, so you can take credit?”

His eyes met hers, steady. “So no one else does.”

For a heartbeat, she saw the boy he used to be—the one who sat two seats down in Potions, always a little too serious, always with ink on his fingers and bruises he wouldn’t explain. The boy who had once pulled her back from a cursed shelf in the library and told her, without looking up, “Not everything that glows is gold.”

That boy was still there.

Just buried.

Like everything else they’d both survived.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”

She slipped the vial back into its cradle and closed the cabinet with a soft click.

The silence between them returned, but it no longer chafed. It felt, for the first time in months, like the kind of silence that healed.

Chapter Text

February 2, 1994.

Winter had hardened by the time February arrived.

The snow no longer glittered like something new. It had turned to packed ice along the stone paths of the castle grounds, trodden down by student boots and stiffened by frost. The wind that swept over the Black Lake no longer whispered; it clawed. Bitter and biting.

Estelle awoke on the second morning of the month with a sense of quiet resignation. Her joints ached from the cold. Her dreams—unhelpful at the best of times—had turned foggy and fretful, leaving behind a headache and the ghost of voices she couldn’t quite place.

She dressed slowly in layers of dark wool and green-trimmed robes, fixing her hair into a plait that swept over one shoulder. When she passed her mirror, she barely glanced at it. The face she wore lately didn’t feel quite hers.

The castle corridors were dim that morning, the sconces sputtering in protest. Even the portraits looked colder, more impatient—many still wrapped in painted shawls, huddled around painted fires. Peeves drifted by at one point humming “O Come All Ye Freezing,” pelting ice chips at first-years before vanishing through the ceiling.

Estelle ignored him. She made her way toward Greenhouse One for the early lesson with the Hufflepuff second-years, her mind already running through instructions about the winter-resistant properties of frosted balmwort.

But she didn’t make it past the staff corridor before Remus caught up to her.

“Stel,” he said, slightly breathless, coat dusted with snow. “You have a minute?”

She turned. His cheeks were red from the wind, his hair unruly as usual, but his eyes were warm.

“Not really,” she replied, glancing toward the greenhouse wing.

He gave her a look. “Just a minute.”

That tone. Gentle, but not really optional.

She sighed. “What is it?”

Remus waited until a group of Ravenclaws passed by, then leaned in slightly.

“I’ve been working with Harry.”

She blinked. “I know.”

“Privately, I mean,” he clarified. “Since the Dementor incident on the train.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “He’s still having trouble?”

“He’s gotten better,” Remus said. “Much better, actually. But he wants to learn more. And I think… it might be time he learned a few things from someone else.”

Estelle crossed her arms, wary. “Like who?”

He smiled faintly. “Like you.”

She stepped back as if he’d struck her.

“Remus—”

“He knows who you are.”

Her stomach twisted.

“He knows your name,” Remus said gently. “He knows you were close with his parents. I’ve told him a bit, here and there. James, Lily, Sirius… even you.”

Estelle looked away.

“I thought you might want the chance to tell him something yourself.”

“I’m not—” she shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to tell him everything. Just… get to know him. You’ve barely looked at him outside of class.”

“I’ve looked.”

“But not seen him.”

That silenced her.

Remus waited a moment longer, then reached into his coat and pulled out a folded schedule. “I have a free hour after lunch today. I was planning to meet him in the Charms classroom. You’re welcome to join us.”

He didn’t say more. Just pressed the paper into her hand and walked away.

Estelle stood there a while, watching the snow drift through the high windows, wondering what it meant that she was more frightened of a thirteen-year-old boy than she had ever been of the Dark Lord.

---

The Charms classroom was quiet by the time Estelle arrived.

Sunlight filtered in weakly through the enchanted windows, casting shifting patterns of frost on the floor. Flitwick’s lesson had ended an hour ago, and the desks had been rearranged in loose rows. Remus stood near the front, wand in hand, gesturing toward a large trunk that shivered slightly at the corners.

Boggart, she realized.

Not again.

Harry stood beside him, wand at the ready, brow furrowed with focus. His hair stuck up at wild angles, more raven than coal. His glasses slid down his nose.

He looked like James.

He did.

But not entirely.

He was thinner, for one. Shorter. His face was softer around the mouth. There was something vulnerable in the way he held himself, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was welcome in the space he took up.

Estelle hovered at the threshold, unsure whether to move forward.

Remus noticed her. He gave her a small, reassuring nod.

Harry turned. His eyes—green, bright, and too much like Lily’s—widened when they landed on her.

“Professor Black,” he said, voice steady.

She nodded, stepping forward. “Mr. Potter.”

They looked at each other.

He didn’t flinch.

She almost did.

Remus, sensing the tension, cleared his throat. “Harry’s been practicing the Patronus Charm. He’s close. Thought we’d let him have a go today with the Boggart. Controlled setting.”

Estelle kept her voice even. “Ambitious.”

“He’s like his father,” Remus said, smiling slightly. “Stubborn. Easily bored. Thinks rules are suggestions.”

Harry flushed a little, but grinned.

Estelle watched him, carefully.

He wasn’t James. But he was something.

Brave. Clever. Kind, if the way he’d offered a seat to a crying first-year in Herbology last week was anything to go by. He’d held open the greenhouse door for Neville. Apologized when he trampled the snargaluff roots. Asked thoughtful questions.

And he was hers too, wasn’t he?

Not by blood.

But by memory.

By grief.

By the love she once held for the people who made him.

She inhaled slowly.

“May I see your wand grip?” she asked.

Harry blinked, startled, but held it up obediently.

She stepped closer, adjusted the angle of his thumb.

“Better. Don’t tense your shoulder so much. The magic doesn’t come from brute force. It comes from clarity.”

He nodded.

“And from memory,” Remus added. “What do you think of when you cast it?”

Harry glanced between them. “Flying. At night. With Ron and Hermione cheering.”

Estelle’s heart ached at that. Such a small, honest thing.

“Good,” she said softly. “Hold onto that.”

Remus opened the trunk.

The Boggart burst forth—a roiling swirl of shadow and cold.

Estelle’s hand twitched toward her wand, but she stopped herself.

Harry’s voice rang out. “Expecto Patronum!”

A wisp of silver shot from his wand—thin, flickering, but steady. It pushed the Boggart back, enough to make it shudder and shrink.

Remus closed the trunk again with a snap.

Harry dropped his wand arm, panting slightly.

Estelle stepped forward and handed him a handkerchief. “You’re sweating.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You did well.”

He blinked at her. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She caught herself saying it and almost regretted it.

Almost.

Harry gave her a crooked grin. “Thanks, Professor.”

Remus beamed.

They repeated the exercise twice more. The second time, Harry conjured a shimmering blur that almost resembled a four-legged shape. The third time, it collapsed too early, but he didn’t flinch when it failed.

Afterward, Estelle let Remus banish the trunk and walked with Harry as they left the classroom.

He hesitated at the threshold.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

She stopped. “Go on.”

“Did you really know my mum and dad?”

The question was simple. Direct. Childlike.

But it hollowed her out just the same.

“I did,” she said. Her voice caught, then steadied. “Very well.”

Harry looked down at his shoes. “What were they like? I mean—I hear stuff, but I want to know what you thought.”

Estelle opened her mouth.

And closed it.

There was too much.

Too many nights. Too many laughs. Too many impossible things said beneath stars and stairwells and wind-chilled windows.

So she offered the truth she could carry.

“Your mother was brilliant,” she said quietly. “Sharp as a blade. Kind in a way that made people want to be better. She loved deeply. And she was fierce when she needed to be.”

Harry nodded. “And my dad?”

Estelle smiled, crooked and sad. “A menace. Loyal to a fault. Arrogant as a peacock. But generous. Brave. He would’ve walked through fire for the people he loved.”

Harry smiled faintly, but didn’t speak, as if waiting. Estelle hesitated. The corridor was unusually quiet—just the faint murmur of a charmed torch crackling behind them, and the hiss of wind against the stone windowpanes. Something in Harry’s expression—so expectant, so open—compelled her to keep going.

“He used to drive me mad,” she said, softer now, the words coming unbidden. “James, I mean. He and Sirius were always pulling stunts, hexing the suits of armor, nicking food from the kitchens, setting off fireworks during exams. It was relentless. But gods, they were funny. Stupid, brave, wonderful boys. And they adored Lily. It wasn’t just a crush or a game. From the moment he saw her in second year, he was ruined.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

Estelle laughed—really laughed, for the first time in weeks. “Oh yes. It was embarrassing. He wrote her poems. Bad ones. Terrible rhymes. He once gave her a bouquet of self-singing daffodils that serenaded the entire Gryffindor table. She nearly hexed him into next week.”

Harry grinned, wide-eyed. “That actually sounds like something Fred and George would do.”

“Exactly,” Estelle said, her smile tugging deeper. “He had that same energy. Mischievous. Loud. A bit unbearable. But his heart—his heart was enormous. He loved his friends like they were his own limbs. He was protective of all of us. And once Lily stopped pretending to hate him, they were… unstoppable.”

She turned to the window for a moment, staring at the frost-laced glass.

“Lily grounded him,” she murmured. “She had this quiet clarity, like she always saw through the noise. She never put up with his nonsense, but she also… saw the best in him. Even when he couldn’t see it in himself. They balanced each other. I used to watch them sometimes—across the common room, or in the library, or even in the middle of a battle strategy meeting. The way he looked at her—it made everything feel possible. Even during the war.”

Harry’s expression had turned quiet, intense. He shifted on his feet, unsure what to do with his hands.

“What about you?” he asked softly. “What were you like when you knew them?”

Estelle blinked, pulled from the memory like waking from a warm dream. “Yes, well, um…,” she said, her voice suddenly smaller. “Lily was like a sister to me. And James… he was my best friend. Well—one of them… Me, well I…”

She paused, collected herself, and then gave Harry a careful look. “You know about Sirius?”

He nodded. “Professor Lupin told me. And I’ve seen the papers.”

Estelle pressed her lips together. “It’s complicated. It always has been. But he and James—gods, they were inseparable. And Lily… Lily and I had long talks. About everything. School. Spells. Boys. The war. What we wanted the world to be after it.”

She looked away. “They trusted me. I was there for a lot of it. I held Lily’s hand the day she found out she was pregnant. I was at their wedding. I helped them move into Godric’s Hollow.”

She didn’t say I nearly died for them, or I still wear your father’s signet ring next to Sirius’ on a chain under my robes, or I see ghosts in your face every time you bloody speak.

Instead, she said, “I loved them more than I’ve ever loved anyone who wasn’t blood. And maybe more than some who were.”

Harry stood very still. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft. “Do you miss them?”

Estelle’s throat tightened. “Every single day.”

They were quiet a moment longer.

Then Harry asked, almost too shyly, “What was I like? When I was little?”

Estelle’s chest gave a strange twist. “Oh,” she whispered, surprised. “You were… cheeky.”

He grinned.

“Always making noises,” she continued. “Happy ones. You liked knocking over your porridge bowl just to watch someone catch it. James used to balance it on his head while Lily pretended not to laugh. You were fast, too—crawling everywhere. Sirius said you had a vendetta against slippers. We found his left one in the fireplace once.”

Harry snorted. “Sounds about right.”

“I remember your first laugh,” Estelle said before she could stop herself. “You were staring at James, and he sneezed, and you absolutely howled. This bright little cackle like you’d just discovered the funniest sound in the world.”

Harry looked down at his shoes, smiling so hard it made Estelle’s eyes sting.

She glanced sideways at him again—and there it was. That impossible familiarity.

The shape of his mouth when he smiled.

The way his eyes crinkled just like James’s had, except softer, less brazen. And yet those green eyes—Lily’s eyes—held a steadiness that James had never quite mastered.

He was their son. Both of them. In equal parts.

And now he was here.

A boy growing up in the very place his parents had lived and loved and laughed and fought to protect. A boy who didn’t know the smell of Lily’s hair or the weight of James’s arms or the exact warmth of their embrace—but should have.

She swallowed hard.

“I’ve been avoiding you,” she said honestly.

Harry looked up, startled.

She met his gaze evenly. “Not because I don’t care. But because I care too much. Every time I see you, it’s like—seeing them again. And I wasn’t ready. Not after everything.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I think I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” she added, voice rough.

“You don’t have to be.”

That undid her even more than the hug.

She blinked fast. “You really are kind.”

He shrugged. “I try.”

They stood there in silence again, this one deeper, quieter—rooted in something mutual. Something that had always been there between them, but had never been named.

Finally, Harry asked, “Do you think they’d be proud of me?”

Estelle’s chest caved in.

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “More than proud. Your mother would scold you for sneaking around, but she'd tuck chocolate into your bag when she thought no one was looking. And your father would brag to everyone who would listen. He’d invent awards just to give them to you. They loved you more than life, Harry. You were everything.”

Harry’s face shone.

Estelle let out a shaky breath.

“And I’m sorry you didn’t get to know them,” she said. “But you have parts of them. And you’re making something new with it. Something good.”

She reached out, brushing his hair gently—startled by how natural it felt.

“You’re becoming someone they would have loved,” she whispered.

Harry smiled again, eyes slightly glassy. “Thanks, Professor.”

“You can call me Estelle,” she said after a moment.

He blinked. “Really?” She chuckled lightly.

“I think you’ve earned it.”

He grinned. “Okay. Estelle.”

It sounded strange and sweet in his voice.

Harry’s face glowed with quiet warmth. “Thank you.”

They stood there in the hall, just for a moment, and the wind howled outside the nearest window.

Estelle looked down at him. “If you want to talk again… about them… I’ll be here.”

Harry nodded, and without warning, threw his arms around her waist in a hug.

It lasted only a second—but her breath hitched.

When he stepped back, she was frozen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly awkward. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Neither was I.”

Then he turned and ran off toward the Great Hall.

She watched him go, watched the boy with a lightning scar and a thousand shadows walk into the light of a new day—and for the first time in years, she felt like she could breathe.

Estelle stood alone for a long time.

Remus appeared beside her a minute later, hands in his coat pockets.

“You did well.”

“He hugged me.”

Remus chuckled. “He has a habit of doing that.”

“I panicked.”

“No, you froze. There’s a difference.”

Estelle glanced sideways. “He’s nothing like I thought.”

Remus nodded. “He’s everything they were. And nothing they were. All at once.”

They stood there in silence, listening to the snow crackle against the castle glass.

When Estelle finally turned away, her eyes were damp.

But her spine was straighter.

And her steps didn’t falter once.

Chapter Text

February 5, 1994.

The first light of Saturday crept across the castle in soft silver bands, trailing through the slitted windows like threads of frost. Estelle had been awake before dawn, sleep eluding her as it always did before a full moon.

She wrapped her wool cloak around her shoulders and padded through the quiet corridors, her boots silent on the stone floors. The castle was still. Not quite sleeping, but not yet stirring. A hush lay over everything. Even the portraits were quiet.

She knocked twice on Remus’s chamber door, then let herself in when he called out a sleepy, “Come in.”

His quarters were small but inviting. A little crooked in places—books stacked too high in corners, a tea tin balancing precariously on a pile of parchment—but warm. The hearth glowed steadily beneath a kettle, and the armchairs beside it looked worn in the best way: softened by years of comfort and conversation.

Remus was already dressed, if loosely, in a wool jumper and patched trousers. His hair was mussed. A book lay open on the arm of his chair, half-read. He looked up as she entered and smiled.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come this early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Estelle replied, hanging her cloak by the door. “Too much on my mind.”

He nodded knowingly and gestured to the chair beside him. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured her a mug—chamomile, steeped strong and slightly sweet. She curled into the seat with a sigh, cupping the warm ceramic between both hands.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The fire crackled softly, and a faint winter breeze pressed against the windowpanes.

“You ready for tonight?” she asked finally.

Remus tilted his head, thoughtful. “As ready as I ever am.”

“Pain levels?”

“Manageable.”

“Emotional state?”

“Ticking time bomb.” He grinned faintly. “But the nice sort. The kind that just rings a bell and lets off a puff of smoke.”

She smiled, grateful for his candor. They had always shared that—an ability to speak in metaphors when the truth was too sharp.

Estelle reached into the leather satchel at her side and pulled out a small stoppered flask. The glass was thick, faintly green, etched with cooling runes.

“Brewed it fresh last night,” she said, handing it to him. “Three doses, full potency. Should take you through the night.”

Remus took the flask with both hands, reverently. “You always make it better than Snape.”

Estelle snorted. “Don’t tell him that.”

“Oh, I won’t. He’d never recover.”

He tucked the potion carefully into a padded box beneath the hearth. “Thank you,” he added, more softly now. “Truly.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

A pause.

“I’ve been working on a modified version,” she said, surprising herself.

Remus blinked. “Of the Wolfsbane?”

She nodded. “I haven’t tested it, obviously. Not yet. But I’ve been studying the way it interacts with magical cores—especially under duress. And I think there’s potential to… lessen the dissociative effect. Maybe even restore more memory to the transformed state.”

Remus raised a brow, intrigued. “That’s possible?”

“Hypothetically.” Estelle sipped her tea. “Right now, the potion suppresses certain parts of the mind to make the transformation safer. But it’s a blanket suppression. I’m trying to find a way to target the rage and fear centers, without deadening everything else.”

“You want me to be a lucid werewolf?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

“I want you to be you,” she said. “As much of you as possible. Even when the moon is full.”

He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “It’s strange. For so long, I’ve only hoped to survive it. But lately… I’ve started to wonder what it would be like to actually live through it.”

Estelle nodded slowly. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

They sat quietly for a few moments. The kettle whistled again, and Remus refilled both their mugs.

“You know,” he said, handing her a fresh cup, “I think Lily would’ve loved this version of you.”

Estelle arched a brow. “Which version is that?”

He smiled. “The one who experiments with dangerous brews in secret. Who still fights for her friends. Who walks into a forest with a werewolf every month just to make sure he doesn’t wake up alone.”

Estelle looked down into her tea. “I’m not as brave as she was.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re brave enough. And stubborn in the exact same way.”

She laughed quietly, eyes misting.

“Sometimes I hear her,” she admitted. “Not her voice, exactly. But her logic. Her opinions. What she’d say if she were here. It’s not always kind, but it’s nearly always true.”

“That sounds about right.”

Estelle looked around the room. The morning light had shifted. Shadows stretched long across the floor. There were books on magical theory, a cracked chess set by the wall, and a half-finished painting pinned above the mantel—something abstract and blue-green.

“I like your place,” she said. “It suits you.”

“It’s temporary.”

“Isn’t everything?”

He smiled again, but softer now. “Are you?”

Estelle blinked. “What?”

He studied her carefully. “Are you planning to leave after the term ends?”

She hesitated.

“I haven’t decided.”

“You should.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because if you’re going to keep risking your life for me every month,” he said, “I’d like to know you’ll still be here the morning after.”

Estelle looked at him a long time, then reached across and squeezed his hand.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “Tonight. And after.”

Remus turned his palm to clasp hers fully.

“You always were,” he murmured.

And they sat there like that, two people who had lost too much but still had something left.

Something real.

Something worth staying for.

---

That night, the wind rose early.

By dusk, it howled down the Forbidden Forest in long, low moans, brushing over the castle and setting every windowpane in the greenhouses trembling. The clouds hadn’t yet broken, but Estelle knew what was coming. She could feel it under her skin—a tug, sharp and low in her chest, a note of forewarning like a tremor before a storm.

She slipped quietly from her chambers just after curfew, clad in black wool with a silver-fastened cloak. Her wand holster was laced tight at her wrist. Around her neck hung a narrow chain with a folded piece of parchment charmed for emergencies. Her satchel carried bandages, salves, and spare Wolfsbane—just in case.

By the time she reached the edge of the grounds, Remus was waiting—pale, hunched slightly against the wind, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his coat. His eyes were sunken but alert. The half-moon light carved hollows under his cheekbones.

“You ready?” she asked.

He gave her a weak smile. “Define ‘ready.’”

She didn’t.

Instead, she stepped beside him, and together they made their way into the trees.

They reached the Shrieking Shack without incident. The wards responded to Estelle’s touch, parting with a low shimmer of light. She helped Remus settle near the old bedframe, where faded quilts still bore claw marks from moons long past.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, his hands already trembling.

“I hate this part,” he muttered. “The waiting.”

Estelle reached into her bag and pulled out the small flask. “Drink,” she said gently.

He did. The potion went down in two long gulps, and for a moment his face twisted in revulsion—then cleared, the tension in his jaw easing just slightly. Still, he was shaking.

Estelle stepped back, giving him space.

The moon breached the clouds moments later, spilling silver through the warped slats in the roof.

Remus gasped.

The transformation came fast—faster than usual.

He arched forward, falling to his knees, hands splayed out. His spine twisted with a sickening crack, and fur began to ripple across his arms. His breath hitched once, then again—and then the room was filled with the sound of bones breaking and reshaping.

Estelle’s heartbeat raced, but she didn’t flinch.

She closed her eyes, summoned the familiar shift of heat through her limbs, and let go.

Feathers burst over her skin. Her bones shrank and shifted. The world tilted.

And then she was gone.

In her place stood a raven—sharp-beaked, wings gleaming black as oil, eyes like ink. She beat upward into the rafters just as Remus let out a howl.

The night was long.

Remus ran—howled—bit at bark and snow and air.

He crashed through the underbrush, tangled in roots and shadow, sometimes pausing to sniff the wind with a wounded keening sound that broke Estelle’s heart.

She followed him through the trees, a flicker of wings above his path, always watching, always near.

There were moments he almost seemed to remember her. When his snarling quieted. When he looked up at the raven on the branch and didn’t lunge.

But those moments passed quickly.

By dawn, he was limping.

His breath came ragged and wet. His left hind leg dragged slightly, and his muzzle bled where he’d struck a fallen tree trunk too hard. The potion had held off the worst of the madness, but it hadn’t spared him.

Estelle circled once above the Shrieking Shack and finally descended.

She landed quietly and shifted back—skin forming where feathers had been, cloak fluttering around her legs. Her limbs ached. Her head throbbed.

She knelt beside the trembling wolf.

“Remus,” she said softly. “It’s almost over.”

He let out a low, shuddering growl.

And then—

The sun broke the horizon.

The change was slower this time, more painful. His limbs spasmed. His chest convulsed. The fur receded like mist, and when it was over, he lay curled on his side, barely breathing.

Estelle moved to him immediately, casting warming charms, checking for breaks, conjuring water.

“Remus. I need you to stay awake. We have to get you back.”

He groaned faintly.

She helped him sit up—barely—and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Come on, old man,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”

---

The walk back to the castle was brutal.

Remus leaned heavily on her, his weight staggering. She half-carried him through the forest path, whispering warming charms and muttering healing incantations under her breath. His feet dragged through snow and roots, and twice he nearly collapsed.

“You’re not dying on me,” she snapped, breathless. “Not after everything.”

They cleared the edge of the woods just as the sun crested fully, gilding the towers of the castle in winter gold.

They didn’t make it five more paces before a voice cut through the cold.

“Where have you been?”

Estelle froze.

Severus stood at the top of the path, robes swaying in the wind, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes locked on the pair of them—Estelle, disheveled and panting, and Remus, barely upright.

Estelle straightened slightly, still supporting Remus’s full weight.

“Out,” she said evenly.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t insult me.”

Estelle exhaled. “He needed help.”

Severus’s gaze flicked to Remus, then back to her. “So you sneak him off the grounds yet again without informing anyone? Risking both your lives?”

“No one was at risk but him.”

Severus stepped forward, his voice low. “And if something had gone wrong? If the potion had failed? If he had attacked you—?”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” she snapped. “Because I know him.”

They stared at each other, the wind between them rising.

Remus sagged, groaning softly.

Estelle groaned too before she shifted to catch him.

Severus’s expression flickered.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward and took Remus’s other arm.

Estelle blinked. “What are you—?”

“I’m helping,” Severus said flatly. “Don’t argue.”

She didn’t.

Together, they half-carried Remus up the stone path and through the side entrance Estelle had unlocked with a charm earlier. The castle was quiet. Only the ghosts and earliest house-elves stirred.

They reached her chambers in near silence.

Severus helped lower Remus onto the couch by the fire, where Estelle immediately began removing his bloodied shirt, checking the bruising along his ribs.

Severus stood nearby, watching.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said quietly.

He didn’t move.

Then, “You always do this?”

“Yes.”

“Every month?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at the battered man on the couch, his expression unreadable.

Then he turned toward the door.

“Severus,” she said.

He stopped.

Severus stood by the threshold, one hand resting on the stone arch of the doorframe, his shoulders stiff beneath the sweep of his cloak. He didn’t turn right away. The light from the hearth flickered across the edges of his robes, casting shadows that stretched long and dark across the floor. He looked like he was already halfway out the door—already vanishing.

Estelle took a breath, steadying herself. She glanced back at Remus, now unconscious but breathing evenly. His brow was still drawn in pain, but his body had finally stopped trembling. She had laid a warm cloth across his forehead, a jar of numbing balm within reach. He would sleep for a few hours, at least. Long enough for her to do this.

“I didn’t expect you to help,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Severus. “Not like that.”

He turned then, slowly, the expression on his face unreadable. His dark eyes scanned her—searching, assessing, as he always did—but this time there was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something heavier.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” he replied, voice low.

Estelle met his gaze. “I thought you hated him.”

“I do,” he said flatly. “But I don’t hate you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke—thick and sudden.

She blinked.

“And despite my many flaws,” Severus continued, his voice sharpening into something more brittle, “I do have the capacity to carry a bleeding man up a flight of stairs without turning it into a declaration of war.”

“I didn’t say it was,” she murmured.

“But you expected me to say no.”

“I expected you to walk away.”

Severus shifted, jaw tightening. “Perhaps I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence stretched between them—taut and humming. The fire crackled behind her. Somewhere in the distance, the castle groaned as the walls adjusted to the creeping morning cold.

Severus looked away first. “You should be more careful,” he muttered. “With him. With all of this.”

Estelle narrowed her eyes. “Careful?”

He turned back, frustration flickering behind his expression. “You’re exhausted. You’re wandering late at night through the Forbidden Forest while a mass murderer is on the loose. You’re covered in blood that isn’t yours. You’re dragging half-dead men through corridors in the middle of the night. And if anyone but me had seen you—”

“What?” she snapped. “What would they have done if you hadn’t been the first to see us?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s the point.”

His voice cracked at the end. Just slightly. Enough for her to hear the worry buried beneath the anger.

She stared at him.

There was color in his cheeks now—barely—but it gave him away. His fingers twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to fold his arms or reach for something.

“Severus,” she said again, softer now.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered.

“At what?”

He exhaled harshly. “This. Concern. Compassion. Watching you disappear into the night with a monster and not knowing if you’ll return in one piece.”

Estelle took another step forward, closing the space between them.

“I always come back.”

“I know. And one day, you might not.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. Not one that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

So instead, she reached up slowly—watching him for any sign of protest—and gently rested her hand on his arm.

He didn’t pull away.

She could feel the heat of him through the fabric. Could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darted once to her hand, then back to her face.

There was so much history between them—unspoken, unfinished. And now, this strange, quiet present. Fragile as spun glass.

“I don’t expect you to be good at this,” she said gently. “But I see you trying.”

He looked at her again—and this time, she saw it. The pain. The fear. The flicker of something that might have been regret, or guilt, or maybe even hope.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, Estelle leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t meant to prove anything.

It was just warm. Gentle. Real.

His breath caught. She felt it beneath her lips, in the subtle shift of his body, in the way his hands tensed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

When she stepped back, Severus didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at her—wide-eyed and stunned, like someone who’d been struck without pain.

Estelle lowered her hand. “I meant it,” she said.

A long beat passed.

Then, finally, his voice returned—rough around the edges.

“I know.”

She nodded. “And thank you. For helping me. For helping him.”

He swallowed. “Don’t tell him I did.”

“I won’t.”

Another pause.

“Don’t tell anyone you did,” he added.

She tilted her head, amused. “I never do.”

That almost earned a smile.

He glanced back at the door, then at Remus, still unconscious by the hearth.

Then, more awkwardly than she’d ever seen him, he said, “You’ll be all right?”

“I’ll manage.”

He gave a slight nod, then turned to go.

But just before he crossed the threshold, he paused.

“You should sleep,” he said.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You too.”

He didn’t answer that.

Just walked out, his robes whispering behind him.

The door clicked shut.

And Estelle stood alone in the stillness—her cheeks warm, her heartbeat uneven, and her world, somehow, slightly changed.

She looked down at Remus. He stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, then settled again.

The fire crackled.

And morning broke, slow and bright and unforgiving.

Chapter Text

February 6, 1994.

The fire had burned low by the time Remus stirred.

Estelle was sitting nearby, half-slumped in the armchair with a blanket over her knees and a half-empty mug of long-cold tea on the table beside her. She’d tried to read. Tried to doze. But sleep, as usual, had been just out of reach. Instead, she had watched the flames dance down to embers and listened to the soft sound of Remus’s breathing as it shifted between restlessness and silence.

Then he groaned.

It was a low, pained noise—one that made her sit up straight in an instant.

“Remus?” she whispered.

His eyelids twitched, then fluttered open.

“Where—?” His voice cracked. “Gods—my head…”

“You’re in my chambers,” Estelle said gently. “You made it back. Mostly in one piece.”

He blinked blearily, his body stiff as he tried to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven.”

“In the *morning*?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Remus winced and dropped back onto the pillow, groaning again. “I feel like I was hit by a carriage drawn by fire crabs.”

Estelle smirked and passed him a glass of water. “You weren’t far off.”

He took it with shaking hands and sipped, then sighed. “How bad was it?”

“You tell me,” she said softly. “I’ve seen you rough before, but this one…”

He closed his eyes. “It was worse.”

“I thought the potion held.”

“It did. But the pain was sharper. Harder to manage. I don’t know if it was the weather, the stress, or just the cumulative toll, but… I remember less.”

Estelle leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You ran harder. Snarled more. Lost yourself quicker. And you were injured worse than last time.”

He opened his eyes. “Did I…?”

“You didn’t hurt anyone,” she said firmly. “You ran. You howled. You tried to bite a stump. But you didn’t lash out at me. Not once.”

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging.

Estelle offered him a half-hearted smile. “You owe one of the forest’s larger oak trees an apology, though.”

He chuckled, then winced again. “I’ll send it flowers.”

She sat beside him on the edge of the couch, her hand brushing his forehead. “You scared me,” she said quietly.

He didn’t look away. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Remus said, “Thank you. For staying.”

“You think I’d leave you in the woods? That’s my reputation you’re dragging through the snow.”

“You really should consider a less complicated friendship.”

Estelle snorted. “Too late now.”

He tried to smile, and she helped him sit up fully.

“I’ll get back to my chambers,” he said, wincing as he swung his legs down. “I have grading to pretend to do.”

“You need rest.”

“I’ll rest.”

Estelle crossed her arms.

“…eventually.”

She rolled her eyes and helped him stand.

He paused at the door. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ve got first-years at ten o’clock and a double section of fourth-year Hufflepuffs after lunch. So, no.”

He smirked. “Be gentle.”

“Not a chance.”

With one final glance, he slipped out the door.

Estelle stood alone for a long moment, then sighed and reached for her teaching robes.

---

By mid-morning, Estelle was elbow-deep in soil and halfway through a lecture on the temperamental behavior of dancing daffodils when she first noticed the twins whispering near the back row.

Fred and George Weasley had taken to Herbology like ducks to fireworks—meaning they were deeply enthusiastic, occasionally brilliant, and always on the verge of catastrophe.

They were currently supposed to be trimming back a patch of spined vervain.

Instead, they were muttering over a scrap of parchment and making extremely suspicious faces.

Estelle narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Weasley.”

Both heads snapped up. “Yes, Professor?” they chorused.

“The other Mr. Weasley.”

Fred raised his hand tentatively.

“Would you like to explain to the class what is so riveting about your… extracurricular doodles?”

Fred looked to George, who gave a helpless shrug.

“Er,” Fred said, “we were just… taking notes?”

“On what?”

George leaned forward, face completely guileless. “On plant behavior.”