The first morning of November smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. A thin mist clung to the lower staircases, drifting in lazy curls each time a group of students hurried past. Shya cut through it like a slice of dark ink across pale parchment — boots hitting stone with a soft, rhythmic thud, silver chains at her throat catching the early light.
She looked good.
Too good.
No one noticed Shya slip into Magical Art late.
They only noticed when the air around her easel shifted.
It began like any other exercise—Burbage's cheerful, airy lecture about "emotion through linework," the push to "let your magic breathe."
Shya didn't breathe.
She just opened her sketchbook.
Her charcoal touched the page.
A girl. Wide-eyed. Hollowed. But familiar.
One stroke.
Then two.
Then something in her magic opened, like a door swinging inward.
Charcoal bled into the page in twisting patterns—hair turning to smoke, hands stretching too long, a shadow behind her spine unfurling into a creature with bird bones and teeth like broken runes.
It should have stayed there. A sketch.
But the canvas beside her—blank, untouched—began to darken.
A mirror image bloomed of its own accord, lines dragging themselves across white fabric as if carved by invisible claws.
The creature behind the girl warped into something worse—a mass of limbs and string-like sinews, half-thestral, half-nightmare.
Students gasped.
One backed into a paint shelf.
Another dropped her brush.
"Miss Gill?" Burbage called, voice thin with awe. "Shya—dear—your magic is… expanding."
Shya blinked.
She hadn't moved.
Her hands weren't even trembling.
But the canvas had blown itself open into a double-page spread, shadows swallowing half the surface.
Charcoal kept sketching on its own—shapes of throats tearing open, serpents sliding from mouths, hands reaching up from ink puddles.
And the girl—the center figure—had Shya's eyes.
When she finally exhaled, the magic stilled.
Just like that.
As if it had only needed the breath to anchor itself to reality.
The room was silent.
Burbage swallowed. "Er—ten points to Ravenclaw? And… please… take a walk, Miss Gill."
Shya closed her book.
The page fluttered once, like something inside it wanted out.
She didn't look at it again.
Classes had just emptied into the stone corridor, the noise loud enough to hide anything short of murder.
Fay Dunbar spotted Shya immediately.
Her spine straightened like she'd been waiting for this moment all week.
"Oh look," Fay announced loudly, hair braided tight, voice dripping venom, "it's the Ravenclaw banshee. Draw anything normal today, or did the nightmares win again?"
Students slowed.
Not to help Fay.
To watch.
Shya didn't even blink.
She turned with a smile so sweet it was almost elegant.
And then—
In one fluid, unhurried motion—
she grabbed Fay by the back of her braid.
A gasp tore through the hallway.
Fay stumbled, choking on her own breath as Shya tugged her head back just enough to unbalance her. Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to humiliate.
"You know," Shya said conversationally, "if you're going to talk to me, at least pretend you brushed this disaster."
Fay swatted at her hands. "Let go of me!"
Shya leaned in, voice soft and deadly:
"If you don't want people grabbing your hair, maybe don't style it like a cautionary tale."
And then Shya shoved her.
Not hard — just a sharp, dismissive push to her shoulder.
Fay hit the stone floor with a graceless thump and an outraged shriek.
Half the corridor froze.
Someone whispered, "Oh my god—she dropped her."
Shya twirled her wand once, lazily, pointing the tip at Fay's scalp as the girl scrambled backward on her palms.
"This hideous hair is so hard for you to manage," Shya mused lightly. "Maybe I should just burn it all off. Save you the trouble."
Fay's eyes went huge.
"No—you can't—"
"Oh, I can," Shya said sweetly. "I just don't feel like smelling singed insecurity today."
A ripple of horrified laughter passed through the hallway.
Talora's voice cut in sharply, low but urgent:
"Bob. Enough."
Shya lowered her wand slowly, smile never wavering.
She crouched just enough so only Fay could hear the last part:
"Next time you open your mouth, make sure you can back it up. Otherwise, stay quiet and stay out of my way."
Fay didn't respond.
Couldn't respond.
She just scrambled to her feet and ran—hair half undone, dignity somewhere on the floor behind her.
The crowd parted for her.
But they parted even faster for Shya when she walked through, hands steady, expression light, eyes flat as glass.
Padma whispered, "Oh Merlin, she's unhinged."
Talora didn't answer.
She watched her best friend walk away with that bright, airy smile—
and felt something twist low in her stomach.
Because Shya had never looked
more alive.
Or more
dangerous.
The November wind carried the sharp bite of winter, whistling through the stone arches as Shya and Luna slipped out toward the east courtyard — the one that technically wasn't a "courtyard" at all, but a hollowed pocket between two old towers where the Thestrals liked to gather.
It wasn't on the map.
But Luna always knew how to find it.
They carried a little picnic basket between them — nothing fancy, just scones, a flask of hot chocolate, and a folded blanket Luna insisted on bringing because the stones were "feeling sad today." Shya didn't argue. She didn't really argue with Luna at all.
The hidden space opened up like an abandoned cloister, half-wild, half-tamed. Frost-kissed vines clung to crumbling columns. The earth smelled of damp leaves and aging magic. Thin, skeletal Thestrals grazed quietly, their breath fogging in the cold.
Luna walked toward them without hesitation, smiling softly, whispering things only creatures like that could understand.
Shya chose a stone bench under a bare ash tree. She set out the blanket, the cider, the sketchbook.
"Do you want company?" Luna asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yours, yes," Shya said.
Luna nodded and went to braid wildflowers into a Thestral's mane.
Shya opened her sketchbook.
Her charcoal hovered above the page.
At first, she drew something simple — the outline of a girl, seated, spine curved like a question mark. Then the charcoal moved on its own accord, not magically but instinctively, like her hand had thoughts she refused to think.
The girl split down the middle.
On one side: a child. Quiet, soft, reaching upward.
On the other: wounds opening like eyes, monsters unfurling from her throat — ink dripping like venom, the lines too sharp, too knowing.
Shya didn't notice when the page widened under her touch.
Didn't notice when the sketch stretched beyond the original borders, the ink spreading outward like a stain trying to grow lungs.
She only stopped when she heard footsteps.
Boots crunching frost.
Cassian stepped into the clearing, his breath misting. He took in the scene slowly: the Thestrals, Luna humming to herself, Shya curled on the stone bench with charcoal-stained fingers and a sketch that seemed to swallow its own frame.
Luna waved at him. "Hello, Cassian! The thestrals like your boots."
"They're just boots," he muttered.
"They don't think so," she said.
Cassian approached the blanket.
Shya didn't look up.
His voice was soft when he broke the silence.
"I figured you'd be here."
Shya didn't look up. "Why?"
Cassian shrugged, stepping closer. "Because it's quiet. And you like quiet."
She smirked faintly. "That's all?"
"No," he said honestly. "But it's the only part I'll say out loud."
She huffed, amused despite herself.
Cassian's gaze drifted to her page — and stilled.
"What's that?"
"A mistake," she murmured.
"It doesn't look like a mistake."
"It wasn't supposed to grow."
Cassian reached out as if to touch the edge but stopped, his fingers hovering an inch above the charcoal spread.
"It looks like it's… breathing."
"It's not."
She flipped the page shut with a snap. "It just got away from me."
"You don't have to feel everything," he said.
"I don't feel anything."
Cassian didn't buy it, but he didn't push.
He sat beside her — close, but not touching — the warmth of him a small, steady anchor against the cold.
Luna glanced over at them, her eyes bright and soft.
"The Thestrals like you two," she said cheerfully. "They think you're interesting."
Cassian blinked. "Is that… good?"
"For you?" Luna shrugged. "Probably."
Shya let out a quiet laugh — the real kind, not the polite, constructed one she'd been using all week. It startled her enough that she covered her mouth.
Cassian watched the moment like it was something rare, something that might disappear if he blinked wrong.
They shared the hot chocolate.
Luna fed a Thestral half a scone.
Shya breathed the cold air until her lungs stopped aching.
For a little while — a small, breakable while — the world felt still.
But then Luna wandered deeper among the trees, humming softly, leaving the two of them alone on the bench.
Cassian didn't speak for a long moment.
"You scare people," he said finally.
Shya tilted her head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't."
He looked at her properly — the smudge of charcoal on her cheek, the faint tremble in her fingers from drawing too hard.
"But I'm not sure you realize how much you're scaring yourself."
Shya froze.
A single breath escaped her — sharp, almost soundless.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, her expression softened into something bright, easy, harmless.
The mask dropped cleanly into place.
"I'm fine," she said.
"That's not what I asked."
"But it's what I'm telling you."
Cassian stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, his hands curling in his sleeves.
"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?"
A beat.
A softer tone:
"I don't plan to."
Shya didn't look at him.
The mask was too pretty, too firmly fitted.
"Good," she murmured. "Come on. Let's go back. Talora will think I got kidnapped."
He didn't argue.
She stood, brushing charcoal from her palms. He took her sketchbook without asking, tucked it gently into the basket so she wouldn't have to touch it again.
They walked back toward the castle just as the sun dipped behind the towers — long shadows trailing behind them, Luna skipping ahead with two Thestrals quietly following.
Shya's smile glowed in the fading light.
Cassian didn't see her eyes darken when she looked away.
Talora found Roman in the study alcove behind the west stairwell, slouched in a battered armchair with a book upside down on his chest. He wasn't asleep — just thinking in that quiet, faraway way he had when the world felt too loud.
She sat on the arm of the chair without asking.
He glanced up, mouth tilting. "Rough day?"
"Not mine," she said.
"Shya?"
Talora didn't answer directly. She picked up his book, flipping it the right way. "Runes for Magical Stabilization? You're reading this for fun?"
"I like knowing how not to blow myself up," Roman said. "Or you. Or the castle."
"Practical of you."
"Someone has to be."
Talora laughed under her breath, fingers brushing his shoulder as she set the book aside. "She's getting sharper," she murmured. "Like she's trying too hard to seem like she's not… drowning."
Roman leaned his head back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You'd feel it first."
"I do." Her voice dropped. "It's like she's hiding in a house with all the lights on."
Roman's hand hovered near hers — not touching, but close. "Then we keep watch."
The warmth between them was quiet, steady, unspoken. Talora let herself lean into it for a moment, grounding her spine against the back of his chair.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For?"
"Not asking me why she's spiraling. I don't know yet."
Roman nodded. "When you do, tell me."
Her smile came slow and honest. "I will."
Cassian leaned against a balcony rail above the courtyard, hands sliding absently along the cold stone as he watched Shya, Talora, Padma, and Mandy head toward the library.
He wasn't following.
He wasn't checking on them.
He just happened to be there.
Coincidentally.
Totally coincidentally.
Shya pushed her hair back, laughing at something Padma said. Her smile was dazzling, a slash of bright confidence, nothing like the still, hollow quiet he'd seen on the bench earlier.
His jaw tightened without permission.
Harry Potter rounded the opposite corner at the same moment, books in hand, and he slowed — eyes landing on Shya, expression shifting from wary to soft in one clumsy beat.
Cassian stiffened.
Harry blinked at Shya like she was some wild constellation he wanted to map.
Cassian's fingers drummed the stone.
He told himself it wasn't anything.
Potter was harmless.
Confused.
Thirteen.
Still—
When Shya glanced up at the balcony and met Cassian's gaze with a flash of recognition, his shoulders eased instantly.
She smiled — small, crooked, real.
Potter didn't get that smile.
Cassian suppressed his satisfaction badly.
At lunch, Shya flipped a page in her sketchbook with a little too much force. Charcoal smeared across her knuckles.
Talora raised an eyebrow. "What happened now?"
"Nothing."
"You're gripping the pencil like it insulted your ancestors."
Shya didn't answer. She stabbed a roast potato with such precision it might've been a curse.
Mandy leaned over. "Uh… are you okay?"
"I'm fantastic," Shya said brightly. Too brightly. "Best I've ever been. Why?"
Padma slowly pushed Mandy's hand down.
"Mask's at ninety-eight percent," she whispered.
"I know," Talora murmured.
Shya took a sip of pumpkin cider, the smile never dropping.
But when Fay Dunbar scurried past their table — eyes down, braid hastily re-done, practically flinching when Shya looked up — Shya's smile sharpened to a razor point.
"Oh look," she said gently. "A mouse."
Fay tripped.
The girls froze.
Talora pressed her fingers to her temple.
Roman muttered, "She's terrifying."
Cassian, passing by with his tray, didn't even pretend to hide his smirk.
Harry, Hermione, and Neville sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table.
It wasn't a rebellion.
It wasn't a statement.
It was… easier.
Hermione was quizzing Neville gently on Runes theory. Harry was reading ahead in Defense. They weren't whispering or huddled or avoiding anyone —
they were just together.
Ron glanced over several times, laughing too loudly with Dean and Seamus, nudging them when Hermione giggled at something Harry said.
When Harry glanced his way once, Ron straightened in triumph — until he realized Harry had only looked to check the time on the wall clock behind him.
Neville nudged Harry quietly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "Better, actually."
Hermione hummed her agreement.
Ron looked away first.
Between classes, Shya turned a corner — and there was Fay again.
Same corridor.
Same limp braid.
Same attempt to slip by unnoticed.
Shya stepped directly into her path.
"Going somewhere?" she asked softly.
Fay froze like a rabbit staring down a wolf.
Shya leaned in just enough that only Fay could see the sparkle in her eyes. "You know, you really should walk faster. Prey moves in straight lines."
Fay made a tiny, strangled sound.
Shya smiled sweetly. "Good girl. Keep going."
Fay nearly ran.
Padma whispered, "You're going to traumatize that girl."
"I already did," Shya replied. "Now I'm just maintaining the ecosystem."
Talora groaned. "Bob—"
"What? She started it."
"No," Talora said, voice dry. "She continued it. You started it on Halloween."
Shya just shrugged.
And kept walking.
The Haven's fire crackled that evening, throwing long shadows across bookshelves and plush cushions. Padma was sprawled out reading a romance novel. Mandy was humming while attempting a braid charm. Lisa practiced wand movements for next week's Levicorpus demonstration.
Roman tossed Bertie Bott's beans at Cassian, who muttered threats without real heat.
Shya sat curled at the foot of the hearth, hair gleaming in the firelight, sketchbook closed for once.
Talora sat behind her, fingers gently massaging Shya's tense shoulders.
"You're vibrating," Talora murmured.
"I'm fine."
"Bob."
A pause.
The kind that meant the mask slipped a millimeter.
Shya tilted her head back against Talora's knee, staring into the fire like it held secrets she dared not touch.
"I don't feel tired," she whispered. "But I feel like I haven't rested in weeks."
Talora's hands softened. "You will."
Shya swallowed. "Do you promise?"
Talora leaned down, pressing her forehead to Shya's hair.
"Always."
Across the room, Cassian looked up — catching a flicker of vulnerability he wasn't meant to see.
He didn't speak.
But he moved a little closer.
Just close enough that if Shya reached for a hand —
his would be the one there.
Talora noticed first.
They were getting taller.
It wasn't dramatic — not yet — but it was there. Shya tugged at her skirt hem twice that morning, frowning as it sat differently on her hips. Talora's sleeves were suddenly half an inch shorter. Padma commented on how both girls were "looking very model today," and Mandy tried to mimic their posture immediately, failing adorably.
But Talora felt the shift like gravity.
Growth spurts weren't unusual at thirteen.But this felt… timed.
Shya stretched her arms once in the corridor, spine arching like she was trying to grow into the shape she already felt beneath her skin.
Talora watched her friend's silhouette sharpen against the window and thought:
Something is happening to us.
And for the first time, she didn't know if she should tell Roman… or keep it between her and Shya.
Snape didn't stalk her.
He observed her.
Quietly.Intentionally.Like she was an advanced potion he hadn't decided whether to approve or detonate.
During class, Shya measured powdered belladonna with perfect precision. Her movements were eerily smooth, almost mechanical.
Snape approached her station and said nothing.
She didn't look up.
"You are far too calm," he murmured finally.
Shya stirred her cauldron. "I'm always calm, sir."
"That is what concerns me."
Her spoon paused for half a beat.
Then she continued stirring, utterly unfazed.
"A storm," Snape muttered as he walked away, "is always calm in the center."
Cassian glanced at Shya from across the table.She pretended she hadn't heard a word of it.
Harry didn't even do anything.
He just looked.
Shya was leaving Charms, sketchbook tucked under her arm, hair pinned back with silver clips. She swept past Harry with that effortless, sharp-edged grace of hers — didn't pause, didn't glance at him, didn't acknowledge him at all.
But Harry did the thing he'd been doing all month.
He watched her walk away.
Too long.
Too soft.
Like he couldn't help it.
Neville nudged him, whispering something that made Harry blush red and duck his head.
Shya, oblivious or pretending to be, flicked her hood up and kept going, boots thudding neatly against stone.
Cassian had been heading down the corridor in the opposite direction.
He froze mid-step.
Why the hell should Harry Potter be looking at her like that?
It wasn't rage.
It wasn't jealousy he could name.
It was a tight, stupid pinch in his chest, irrational and possessive and utterly beneath him.
Roman came up behind him, saw exactly where Cassian's eyes had gone, and snorted.
"Oh no," he muttered. "I'm right — you're doomed."
Cassian elbowed him sharply. "Shut up."
Roman only grinned wider.
Across the hall, Shya didn't even know Cassian was there.
But she flicked her hair back at that exact moment — a small, unconscious motion — and Harry almost tripped over his own feet.
Cassian's jaw clenched.
He had absolutely no justification for the feeling.
Which only made it worse.
Between Transfiguration and Defense, the hallway was jammed — students shoulder to shoulder, books clutched to chests, charms sparking in the air.
Harry spotted her first.
Shya was leaning against the wall near a window, boot propped behind her, sketchbook balanced on her knee. A charcoal streak ran over her knuckles. Her rings glinted. Her hair fell in glossy waves around her face — darker, sharper, more grown than she had any right to look at thirteen.
She wasn't waiting for anyone.
She never waited for anyone.
She was sketching.
Harry slowed without meaning to.
The drawing was wild — a girl split down the middle, one half a child with ink-tear eyes, the other half hollowed out by shadow, ribs showing, chains coiling through her hair. Something monstrous crawled out of her mouth.
Harry had never seen anything like it.
He didn't understand it.
It scared him a little.
Which only made him stare longer.
Shya finally lifted her eyes.
Not to him — past him.
But she caught him in the periphery.
"Need a map, Potter?" she asked, voice casually venomous. "You're standing there like you're lost."
Harry flushed. "I wasn't— I mean, I was—"
"I know," she said, flipping a page. "It's fine. People stare."
It wasn't reassurance.
It was dismissal — the kind that stung because it was true.
Neville tugged at Harry's sleeve, murmuring "let's go, mate," as Hermione shot Shya a tight, jealous glance before grabbing Harry's arm to pull him forward.
Shya didn't react.
She didn't even look up again.
But as Harry passed, she added:
"Next time, Potter? Buy a painting if you want to look this long. It's weird otherwise."
Sharp.
Effortless.
Perfectly cutting.
Harry nearly tripped on the staircase.
Hermione muttered under her breath, "She thinks she's better than everyone," with a heat born of insecurity; Shya didn't even hear her.
And Shya?
She had already turned another page.
Already moved on.
Already lost in the next disturbing, brilliant sketch bleeding out of her fingers.
Fay Dunbar tried — stupidly — to slip past Shya in the Entrance Hall like she was invisible.
Bold of her.
Shya was leaning against one of the carved pillars, Padma and Mandy arguing over something beside her, Talora flipping through her Healing notes. The group wasn't even paying full attention.
But Shya didn't need attention to notice prey.
Her eyes flicked up at the exact moment Fay tried to sidestep behind a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs.
"Dunbar," Shya drawled, voice calm, bored, dangerous in the way a knife lying flat is dangerous.
Fay froze.
Padma inhaled sharply, "Oh gods," under her breath.
Fay didn't turn around.
She whispered, "Please, just— leave me alone."
Shya stepped forward, one lazy, elegant stride. She didn't touch her this time — she didn't have to. Her shadow alone made Fay flinch.
"You survived walking through the castle with that hair disaster again," Shya said smoothly. "Congratulations. Truly. The courage is inspiring."
A couple of Ravenclaws choked on laughter. Someone muttered, "She's going to die."
Fay's shoulders curled inward, cheeks flushing, eyes fixed on the floor.
Shya clicked her tongue.
"What's wrong? Lost the spine you had last month? Or did you finally realize you were playing chess while I was playing vivisection?"
Talora whispered sharply, "Bob—"
But Shya lifted a hand, silencing her with a single gesture.
Fay bolted.
Not walked.
Not hurried.
Bolted.
Shya watched her go, expression unreadable — except for the faintest curve of satisfaction at the corner of her mouth. Not joy. Not cruelty for cruelty's sake.
Shya liked control.
Talora exhaled shakily. "You're impossible."
"Mm," Shya said lightly, turning back to her friends. "And she's loud. We all have our flaws."
But as she walked toward the Great Hall, her bootfalls steady, Padma noticed something:
Shya's fingers were trembling — almost imperceptibly — as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
A crack.
The smallest one.
But a crack still.
None of the three realized they'd started sitting together until Ron stopped sitting with them.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't even talked about.
One morning Hermione slid into a seat beside Harry and Neville followed, quietly, like he belonged there. Ron swaggered over, tried to drop his bag down—
—and Hermione shifted her books just enough to block the empty space.
Ron blinked.
"Really?"
Harry didn't look at him. "Really Ron."
Neville gave Ron a sympathetic half-smile.
Hermione didn't bother looking up.
Ron scoffed. "Fine. Whatever. Go be boring."
He stomped off to sit with Seamus and Dean.
Hermione finally exhaled.
Harry stabbed at his eggs.
Neville changed the subject to the weather.
They didn't see Ron glare across the Hall at the Slytherin end of the table — at Cassian Black — and then at Ravenclaw's table — where Shya sat with her friends, laughing at something Talora whispered.
The fracture was total.
It just wasn't loud.
The Haven was warm.
Lanterns low.
Books stacked everywhere.
Pandora asleep under Talora's bed.
The girls were bickering over Charms homework; Roman and Cassian were arguing about whether ancient treaties counted as politics or propaganda.
Shya was sprawled across the sofa, hood up, legs crossed, sketching with lazy, fluid motions.
Talora was mid-rant about spell symmetry when she suddenly stopped and looked over.
Shya was smiling at something Padma said.
But her eyes—
not smiling.
Dark.
Flat.
Empty in a way that made Talora's breath catch.
Roman saw it too; he stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Cassian didn't see the moment — not yet — but he kept glancing at Shya across the firelight, something tight in his throat he didn't have language for.
Padma didn't notice anything.
Mandy noticed everything but didn't know what to call it.
Lisa studied Shya the way she studied Arithmancy equations — like she was trying to solve a pattern she didn't fully understand.
Shya kept sketching.
But a thin smear of charcoal had dragged too dark across the page, turning a shadow into a wound.
She didn't correct it.
The morning air was sharp enough to sting. Frost glazed the lawn, glittering under the early sun, and a buzzing tide of students streamed toward the Quidditch pitch wrapped in house colors and excitement.
Shya walked with Talora and Padma, her raven-blue scarf trailing behind her like a banner. She looked electric today—boots clicking, eyes bright, mask perfect. Nothing could've broken through the energy she'd wrapped around herself.
She was going to scream her lungs out for Cassian Black.
Talora tugged her gloves up higher. "He looks calm. Suspiciously calm."
Shya smirked. "He's probably planning something illegal."
"Isn't that every match?" Padma laughed.
They climbed the Ravenclaw stands—highest point, best angle. Already waiting was Luna, perched on the railing like a decorative bird in a knitted Slytherin-themed hat that had a tiny charm-embroidered serpent curling around it.
Shya barely registered her.
Cassian had just walked onto the pitch.
Silver and green erupted from the Slytherin stands. Cassian straddled his Firebolt, posture immaculate, dark hair tousled just enough to make half the pitch swoon.
Shya leaned so far forward Padma had to grab her elbow.
Cassian glanced up.
Shya's scream cracked the atmosphere.
"LET'S GO, CASSIAN!"
Cassian's stoic expression didn't change—but the corner of his mouth twitched, betrayed, pink dusting his ears.
Roman jogged onto the pitch behind him, Keeper gloves tucked under one arm. Talora's inhale was embarrassingly audible.
Below them, Sirius Black strode along the sideline toward the guest stands where parents and staff could spectate. His coat whipped dramatically behind him; he was unmistakable.
He wore a Slytherin scarf—badly, like it had been thrown at him and he'd forgotten it was around his neck.
Harry spotted him and froze.
Sirius lifted both arms when Cassian shot into a warmup dive, shouting,
"That's my boy!"
Harry's face shifted—the smallest, sharpest flinch.
Jealousy.
Then guilt crushing down on top of it.
Hermione reached him a moment later, brushing his sleeve. "Harry…?"
"I'm fine," he muttered. But he wasn't.
Shya didn't see any of it.
The whistle blew.
The game exploded into motion.
Cassian became a green-and-silver blur—spiraling, diving, flipping midair like gravity was a toy he'd been given at birth. His first possession of the Quaffle lasted five seconds before it slammed through the hoop with a satisfying clang.
The crowd erupted.
Shya lost her mind.
"That's what I'm TALKING ABOUT!"
Talora cheered right beside her—loud enough that Roman could probably hear her from the ground.
Luna waved her little serpent hat, completely serious, cheering for her second-year hero squad.
Across the stands, Harry leaned forward, eyes tracking Cassian with a fascination too tangled to decipher.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't jealous—not exactly.
He just… wanted someone to cheer for him like that.
Sirius roared again as Cassian dodged a Bludger with an effortless twist.
"That's my son!"
Harry swallowed hard.
He tried to smile, but something old and aching pulled at his expression.
Cassian stole the Quaffle again.
He didn't look fast—he looked inevitable.
Roman blocked every shot Gryffindor threw at him, turning saves into something closer to art than sport. Talora was half-standing now, fingers digging into Shya's arm every time he leapt from goal to goal.
Draco—Slytherin's Seeker—zoomed across the pitch, blonde hair snapping behind him like a war banner. Gryffindor's Seeker looked like he wanted to go home.
Shya screamed every time Cassian touched the Quaffle.
Not because she was trying to be obnoxious.
Because the sight of him in the air did something sharp and inexplicable in her chest.
Talora nudged her at one point. "You're drooling."
"I'm appreciating athletic technique."
"Mm. Sure."
Halfway through the match, Harry passed where Ron sat with Dean and Seamus.
Ron muttered loudly, "Yeah, well, I'd be banned too if I was Harry-bloody-Potter."
Harry didn't react.
He didn't even look at him.
Hermione did.
Her eyes went cold.
Neville stood between them like a quiet wall.
The trio was no trio anymore.
They hadn't been since September.
A Bludger screamed toward Cassian, fast enough to break ribs.
Shya's breath caught—
Talora's hand flew to her mouth—
Harry flinched—
Sirius stood—
Cassian twisted, grabbed the passing Beater's bat out of midair, and returned the Bludger with a strike that made the entire stadium gasp.
It whistled past Gryffindor's Seeker with lethal precision.
Slytherin lost their minds.
Shya shrieked so loudly Ravenclaws near her winced.
Luna clapped happily. "What a beautiful angle!"
Padma stared at her. "Are we watching the same attempted murder?"
Draco caught the Snitch thirty seconds later.
Slytherin won by 200.
Shya grabbed Talora and screamed until her throat burned. Roman and Cassian nearly tackled each other off their brooms.
Sirius vaulted two rows of seats to get to the pitch faster.
Harry watched him go—something bitter and warm knotting in his chest.
Not anger.
Just wanting.
Shya sprinted to Cassian the moment he touched ground.
"YOU—" she gasped, shoving his shoulder, "—INSANE PERSON—THAT WAS—"
"A legal game action," Cassian deadpanned.
"You nearly died, you bloody show-off."
"You screamed louder than the Bludger."
"Yeah well—don't miss next time."
Cassian blinked.
Talora laughed so hard she had to hold Padma's shoulder.
Roman approached them, hair drenched with sweat. Talora lit up.
"You were perfect," she said, voice soft—accidentally soft.
Roman froze.
Then flushed.
Then nodded like he didn't trust his voice.
Nearby, Sirius bounded toward Cassian and grabbed him in a rib-cracking hug.
"That's my boy—Merlin, Cass, that's my boy—"
Shya watched the moment with something complicated flickering in her eyes.
Sirius, breathless, turned toward her. "You scream louder than the entire Gryffindor stand combined."
Shya smirked. "Years of practice."
Sirius's smile softened. He jerked his chin toward Cassian.
"He looks steady," he murmured. "But… watch him? For me?"
Shya blinked.
Her own mask tightened.
"Of course," she said.
Not even a wobble in her voice.
Sirius nodded, satisfied.
Harry passed nearby. Shya didn't even notice; she was too busy teasing Roman about almost eating a Bludger.
Talora did notice—she caught the look Harry gave Cassian. Half admiration. Half envy. A quarter longing.
Cassian noticed too.
He exhaled like something punched him in the chest.
Because Harry wasn't just some boy.
He was Sirius's godson.
His… brother now.
And Cassian felt guilty for being territorial.
Guilty for resenting it.
Guilty for wanting things that didn't belong to him.
His eyes drifted to Shya—laughing with Talora, navy scarf whipping behind her, cheeks pink from cold and excitement.
Then to Harry, watching from afar.
Then back to Sirius, arms folded proudly across his chest.
Cassian swallowed hard.
Guilt could choke a person.
Even when they were flying.
The Slytherin common room wasn't used—tonight was too big for that.
Instead, the House had taken over one of the unused stone banquet halls off the lower dungeons—long, low-vaulted ceilings, green torches flickering against centuries-old carved serpents, tapestries billowing from some draft no one could find.
By the time Shya and the girls arrived, the place was already vibrating.
Tables had been dragged against walls, cauldrons filled with glowing fizzy drinks, and charmed emerald confetti drifted lazily through the air like underwater glitter. A banner stretched across the far arch:
SLYTHERIN CRUSHES GRYFFINDOR (AGAIN)
(Malfoy had clearly done the punctuation.)
Cassian and Roman were immediately swallowed by cheers the second they walked in—upper-years ruffling Roman's hair, second-years gaping up at Cassian like he'd invented air.
Shya pushed through bodies like she lived here.
"Slytherins are dramatic," she muttered.
Talora snorted. "And you're not?"
"Oh, I'm feral," Shya corrected. "Completely different species."
Padma and Lisa darted toward the long table lined with glowing pear-green beverages. Luna trailed after them, entirely unbothered by being the only second-year, happily taking a cup that fizzed silver-dust when she stirred it.
A few hesitant Hufflepuffs hovered near the doorway—half-invited, half-staying-out-of-trouble as was their nature. One of the Slytherin sixth-years waved them in with a relaxed "Come on then," and they filtered in, soft smiles all around.
But no Gryffindors.
Not one.
Slytherin rule.
Unspoken. Absolute.
Shya approved.
Music pulsed—an enchanted drumline that thumped through stone. Lights shimmered in shifting greens and golds across the vaulted ceiling.
The Ravenclaw girls were swept instantly into the mix—Padma dancing, Lisa holding drinks for everyone, Talora caught between laughing and trying not to cry out of secondhand excitement.
And Shya?
She lived for this chaos.
She hopped onto a low table, spun once, nearly fell, and laughed so sharply it cut the air open. Several Slytherin boys stared. One fifth-year winked before Talora death-glared him into a wall.
"That was threatening," Shya observed cheerfully.
"I'm practicing," Talora said.
Roman appeared then, cheeks flushed from the warm room, hair still damp from the match. He looked at Talora like she'd hung a star in the dungeon.
"You made it," he said softly.
Talora smiled. "You think I'd miss your first save of the year? You practically flew on your face."
Roman groaned into his hands.
Shya cackled.
Cassian approached from the drinks table, expression carefully blank—too carefully. His green tie was loosened, collar undone, hair still windswept from flying. He held a glowing goblet.
"For you," he said, offering it to Shya.
She took it without breaking eye contact.
"You trying to poison me, Black?"
"If I were," Cassian said, voice low, "you'd thank me for the experience."
Shya grinned. Sharp. Delighted. Dangerous.
Talora quietly dragged Padma away so they wouldn't witness whatever that was.
Near the wall, Sirius was speaking to Snape of all people—some tense, strained peace agreement hovering in the shadows.
Cassian tracked Shya's smile.
Tracked the way she tossed back her drink.
Tracked her laughter like it was a spell.
He wanted—
He wanted things he hadn't named yet—
And he felt wrong for it.
Wrong because Sirius had hugged him so tightly earlier.
Wrong because Harry had looked so small on the stands.
Wrong because Shya glowed like she couldn't imagine darkness at all.
(Except he knew she could.)
He swallowed hard.
Shya looked over at him as if she felt the shift in his breathing.
Her smile flickered—barely—but enough.
Cassian exhaled.
"Come on," she said suddenly. "Your victory dance looks pathetic without me."
"I don't dance."
"You do tonight."
She grabbed his wrist before he could protest and hauled him into the swirling crowd.
Cassian let her.
It was later—after three songs, after Shya had yelled at Malfoy for dancing off-rhythm, after Talora had dragged Roman into a two-step he pretended not to enjoy—that the first crack appeared.
Small.
Invisible to everyone except Talora and Cassian.
One moment Shya was laughing—wild, bright, sharp—
The next, her eyes went distant.
Like something inside her dropped out from under her feet.
She blinked.
Mask reattached instantly.
Smile snapping back on with precision.
No one else noticed.
Cassian did.
Talora did.
Neither said a word.
An hour later, Shya tugged Talora's sleeve.
"Wanna ditch?"
Talora nodded immediately. "Obviously."
Cassian heard them. "I'll come."
Roman followed without being asked.
"Are we sneaking out?" Padma whispered behind them.
"No," Shya said. "We're gracefully departing like the classy ladies we are."
Luna skipped after them, scarf trailing. "The Thestrals are restless tonight."
"Excellent," Shya muttered. "They match my soul."
The Haven—soft moss, dim lamps, shimmering pond—felt warmer after the dungeon's noise.
Shya collapsed onto the grass, arms spread, boots kicked off, hair wild. Talora sank beside her. Roman sat awkwardly close to Talora; Talora pretended not to notice. Cassian dropped beside Shya with a thud he hoped sounded casual.
It didn't.
"Your dad was proud," Shya said lightly.
Cassian's breath hitched. "I know."
"He should be. You were brilliant today."
Cassian looked at her—really looked.
Her face was lit by the soft gold lamps. Eyes bright. Smile intact. Mask flawless.
And yet—
Yet—
There was something like exhaustion pulled tight behind all of it.
"I'm glad you were there," Cassian said quietly before he could swallow the words.
Shya blinked.
For a heartbeat, she didn't smile.
And that was more honest than anything she'd shown all day.
Then she nudged him with her shoulder. "I'm always there, Black. Who else is going to yell at you for doing stupid aerial tricks?"
Talora snorted. "She's not wrong."
Roman murmured, almost shyly, "You did fly well."
Cassian flushed. "Shut up."
Luna lay back on the moss, gazing at the shimmering sky. "November feels like it's holding its breath."
Shya closed her eyes.
A faint shiver went through her.
"Yeah," she said softly. "It does."
Talora looked at her—really looked.
Cassian watched her too.
The Haven was safe, warm, golden.
But November was ending.
And something—something subtle, creeping, quiet—was beginning to press at the edges of the air around Shya.
Not magic.
Not cosmic.
Just… weight.
The kind that comes before a storm.
She tucked her chin into her knees, hiding it, and said in a bright, airy voice:
"December's going to be fun."
Cassian nodded.
He didn't believe it.