Next morning Hadrian stared at her hands.
They were delicate, the fingers a little too thin, the nails too short. Not broken, but bitten down, like nervous habits formed under duress. Her sleeves rode up slightly when she reached for the cinnamon biscuits, revealing wrists paler than they should be—shadows of past neglect that had no place in a child's life.
She laughed at one of Dora's terrible jokes, head tilted just so, the moment flickering like sunlight through dirty glass.
Hadrian excused himself.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the Book already opening in his mind, pages rustling not with sound but with intent.
He could imagine it: her life just slightly better. No bruises. No fractured bones. Hunger, but not starvation. Cold, but not frostbite. Her trust in people… not shattered. Just cracked.
He couldn't rewrite everything—not her fire, not her bite, not the strength that came from enduring: Aspects, aside from her appearance, he has already seen in her.
But he could smooth the sharpest edges.
He focused on the book and wrote.
Iris Potter's upbringing at the Dursleys was, aside from chores, not physically abusive. Neglect still present. Malnourishment reversible. No broken bones. No permanent damage.
The Book closed.
The world held its breath for half a second.
And then… it moved on.
Christmas Week
Snow fell in gentle flurries around the Tonks home. The garden sparkled with faerie lights, and the gnome Dora had painted red and green now cheerfully hurled curses in rhyme at passing birds.
Inside, warmth ruled.
Dora charmed the tinsel to slither around Ted's legs while he tried to read, and Andromeda simply sighed and transfigured her teacup into a miniature reindeer in retaliation.
Hadrian and Iris sat cross-legged on the rug near the fire, sorting through a box of mismatched decorations that might once have been ornaments, or possibly cursed jewelry.
"So… what's this one supposed to be?" Iris held up a lump that looked like a melted owl.
Hadrian took it, sniffed, and blinked. "Regret."
They both burst into laughter.
There was not something obviously different in Iris now. Her skin had the same color. Her movements didn't seem changed. Her eyes still held a guarded light—but now they sparked more often, ignited by found family. Like she was testing joy. Daring to believe it might last.
"I like it here," she said quietly once, late at night, when everyone else had gone to bed.
Hadrian had turned toward her on the couch, blanket around both of them, the remnants of spiced cocoa in their mugs. The tree blinked its soft enchanted lights, casting shifting stars across the walls.
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
And something in him—somewhere deep and old and oddly certain—settled. Iris didn't seem different from what he had witnessed before he wrote in the Book.
But now he can be sure that there won't be lasting damage from her past.