Snowflakes spun in the air like drifting feathers as the group made their way down the sloped path toward Hogsmeade. The sky had that pale December brightness—cold light, sharp air, and soft shadows stretching long across the white ground.
Shya walked in the center of the group, boots crunching through fresh snow, oversized cardigan layered under her cloak, scarf loosely knotted like she was daring winter to try her. Talora brushed frost from Shya's sleeve every time it settled there, which was often.
Cassian and Roman kept pace a half-step behind them—close enough to hear everything, far enough that it didn't look intentional. Padma, Mandy, and Lisa trailed slightly ahead, animatedly debating which shop they would hit first.
"Madam Puddifoot's is off the table," Padma insisted.
"We're thirteen, not delusional," Mandy said.
Lisa nodded gravely. "And those cherubs give me nightmares."
Shya snorted. "You have nightmares about everything. Remember the self-stirring cauldron?"
"It hissed at me," Lisa whispered, scandalized.
The group erupted in laughter, warm breath billowing into the cold.
A gust of sharp winter wind swept through them. Talora tugged her cloak tighter. Shya shivered once—barely—and flicked snow from her hair.
Cassian noticed the shiver.
"Cold?" he asked.
"Tragic flaw of being human," Shya said breezily.
"You could wear your cloak properly."
"Why, so I can be warm?" She widened her eyes mockingly. "Where's the drama in that, Black?"
He rolled his eyes. But his jaw clenched.
They reached the first line of stone cottages, their snow-dusted thatched roofs glowing under charm-lit lanterns. The village looked like something out of a postcard—smoke curling from chimneys, the sweet smell of Honeydukes drifting through the air, shop windows glittering with holiday displays.
"Okay," Padma announced, stopping abruptly. "Plan of attack: Honeydukes, then Gladrags, then Zonko's—"
But she didn't finish.
Because something in the air shifted—soft, subtle, but perceptible to Talora, Cassian, and Shya herself.
A sudden brush of cold—not natural cold, but the kind that whispers at the edge of awareness.
Shya stilled.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then she blinked, smiled, and clapped her hands once.
"Let's go cause problems," she chirped.
Padma whooped. Mandy cheered. Lisa laughed. Talora and Roman exchanged the briefest, worried glance.
Cassian watched Shya's profile—the too-bright eyes, the perfectly curved smirk—and something in his stomach twisted.
The wind swept again, scattering snow like glitter.
And that was the moment the group split.
Padma, Mandy, and Lisa surged ahead toward the shiny displays.
Snow gathered thickly along the rooftops of Hogsmeade by the time Cassian and Roman reached Windwalker's Broomsmiths, the shop Sirius had insisted they meet him at.
Warm light spilled through the frosted windows. Inside, the air hummed with magic—racks of sleek brooms floating in careful formation, runes glowing faintly along their handles.
Sirius Black stood near the counter, animatedly arguing with the broomsmith about "optimal acceleration curves," gesturing wildly with a racing broom he definitely did not need.
When he saw them enter, Sirius' face cracked into a grin—open, warm, impossibly alive in a way Cassian still wasn't used to.
"There you are!" Sirius beamed. "Thought you two were going to leave me talking to this man about handle varnish. Roman, good to see you."
Roman straightened. "Sir."
Sirius clapped Cassian on the shoulder and pulled him into a brief, fierce hug. "How's my boy? Show me your hands—any frostbite? Pneumonia? Did Hogwarts feed you something that wasn't grey?"
Cassian rolled his eyes but didn't pull away. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you're thin," Sirius argued, pushing Cassian back to inspect him. "And pale—"
"I'm always pale."
"Not the point—"
Roman coughed to hide a grin.
Sirius whirled. "And you—Keeper-extraordinaire! Thought your save in the first half was brilliant—just brilliant. You should've heard the Hufflepuffs behind me. One of them cried."
Roman reddened to his ears.
Cassian watched the exchange with something sour twisting under his ribs.
He hated that feeling.
Hated that it had a name.
Jealousy.
Stupid. Immature. Ugly.
But it was there.
Seeing Sirius' warmth spread so effortlessly to Roman—seeing how earnest Roman looked trying to accept it—Cassian felt the now-familiar guilt rise hot in his throat.
He waited thirteen years for a father, and now I'm upset he has another kid to care about?
Pathetic.
Sirius turned back to him, eyes softening. "I miss you," he admitted, quiet and unpolished. "I wish you'd come home for the holidays. Grimmauld's cold without you."
Cassian's breaths shortened.
"I told you," he said carefully, "I'm staying at Hogwarts."
"Because of Shya?"
Cassian froze.
Roman looked away politely.
Sirius' voice gentled. "I'm not scolding you, lad. I'm concerned. You're thirteen. She's—she's unraveling a bit, and I know you feel responsible—"
"I'm not—" Cassian snapped, then lowered his voice sharply. "I'm not leaving her."
Sirius exhaled slowly. "Cassian. You can't save someone who won't speak."
Cassian's jaw clenched.
He thought of Shya on the balcony after the Halloween party, her voice flat as a wasteland:
"I don't feel anything."
Then, minutes later:
"Let's go dance."
Mask slipping back into place like it had never cracked.
He didn't look at Sirius when he said, "She doesn't need me to save her."
"No," Sirius said gently. "She needs you to see her. Those are different things."
Cassian flinched.
Roman stepped forward suddenly, steady as an anchor.
"I'm staying too," he said. "Talora's worried about her. And Cass isn't wrong to be."
Cassian shot him a quick, grateful look he didn't quite know how to express.
Sirius rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fine. I won't fight you on it."
He looked at Cassian again. "But you write me. Every week. Or I'll come embarrass you in front of the entire school."
Cassian sighed. "Yes, Father."
"Good boy," Sirius muttered, ruffling his hair.
Cassian swatted his hand away, mortified.
Sirius laughed—and Harry Potter, standing awkwardly behind a display of mid-range brooms, looked up sharply at the sound.
He must've come in quietly—a habit of his.
Harry's eyes lingered on Cassian and Sirius with a strange tangle of emotions—wistful, hurt, envious, guilty.
He stepped toward them hesitantly.
"Hey," Harry said softly. "Um. Sirius? I—did you get my letter?"
Sirius' face gentled instantly. "Of course I did."
He ruffled Harry's hair too—Harry leaned into it for a fraction of a heartbeat before straightening.
Cassian watched.
Jealousy and guilt flickered again—ugly twins.
Harry flicked a glance at Cassian.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Something new—awkward familiarity threaded with longing.
"…Hi," Harry said.
Cassian nodded. "Potter."
Their eyes held too long.
Both boys looked away at the same time.
Sirius, sensing the tension, clapped his hands loudly.
"Right! Who wants to test a few mid-range brooms with me before I accidentally purchase the store?"
Roman blinked. "Is— is that allowed?"
Sirius grinned, wicked. "Not remotely."
Harry laughed under his breath.
Cassian didn't smile.
But his shoulders loosened.
Just a little.
Honeydukes at Christmas time was a sensory explosion—ceiling charmed to snow sugar crystals, floating candy canes drifting through the air like lazy fish, and shelves packed so tightly with sweets that the whole place felt like a kaleidoscope.
Talora, Padma, Mandy, and Lisa were already inside, dithering over a pyramid of shimmering snowflake truffles.
Shya stepped in last.
Her hair was still windswept from the cold, cheeks flushed, rings glinting under the lantern light. Her mask was perfect—bright, charming, chaotic-mischief levels calibrated to exactly "normal Shya."
"We need everything blue, silver, or shaped like something dangerous," she declared, already grabbing a handful of color-changing peppermints.
Mandy laughed. "We're not hexing anyone for Christmas. Not again."
"Define 'hexing,'" Shya said, examining a chocolate frog with a suspicious squint. "Because some people deserve consequences."
Padma nudged her with a basket. "Let's not traumatize first-years."
Shya scoffed. "They'll be fine. Builds character."
Lisa—who was carefully comparing ingredients on two boxes of snow-fudge—glanced up and said mildly:
"Character isn't built through fear."
"Mine was," Shya replied cheerfully, tossing both boxes into her basket. "Look how great I turned out."
Padma choked. Talora smacked her arm lightly. "Do not encourage her."
But she was smiling—eyes bright, posture loose, a rare moment where the weight she carried stayed quiet.
They drifted through the aisles—Lisa methodical, Padma curious, Mandy chaotic, Talora aesthetic-driven—and Shya the gravitational force around which they all orbited.
A display of glittering ice-quills caught Talora's eye.
"These would be perfect for runic mapping," she murmured.
Shya glanced over. "Or for stabbing someone in a very pretty way."
"Shya."
"I'm just saying! Dual-purpose."
Talora elbowed her. Shya grinned wider.
The moment was warm, bright, easy.
Almost normal.
Almost.
Because—
"Don't look now," Lisa muttered, "but Fay Dunbar just walked in."
Shya didn't even turn.
Her smile sharpened like a blade being honed.
"Wonderful," she said sweetly.
Fay ducked behind a display of fizzing whiz-bees the moment she spotted the Ravenclaw girls—especially Shya. The reaction was instant. Instinctive.
Talora sighed. "Bob…"
"What?" Shya blinked innocently. "I didn't do anything."
Mandy snorted. Padma muttered, "Yet."
Shya plucked a shimmering icicle-drop from a jar and tossed it casually into her mouth, never breaking eye contact with the aisle Fay had disappeared down.
"You know what I love about Honeydukes?" she mused.
Padma groaned. "Please don't."
Shya ignored her. "It's warm. It's festive. And there are so many places to corner someone."
"Shya." Talora's voice had that older-sister edge.
Shya rolled her eyes. "Relax. I'm buying sweets, not committing a war crime."
Lisa arched a brow. "I never said anything about war crimes."
"Exactly!" Shya said, pointing at her. "We're in alignment. Ravenclaw solidarity."
Padma dragged her away from the aisle before she could "accidentally" wander into Fay's path.
They ended up at the counter with bags of sweets—frosted toads, peppermint starbursts, powdered moon cookies, rune-mapped licorice rope ("for science," Talora insisted), and exploding marshmallow puffs Mandy absolutely did not need.
As they paid, a small group of Hufflepuff third-years walked in. One of them tripped over a display of syrup bonbons. Shya moved instantly—too fast—hand shooting out to steady him.
"You good?" she asked lightly.
He blinked, stunned, cheeks flushed. "Y-yeah—"
"Careful," Shya said. "Gravity is a cruel mistress."
The boy nodded quickly and escaped.
Padma whispered, "Mask's good today."
"Near-flawless," Lisa agreed.
Talora didn't say anything, but her eyes softened.
Shya just shrugged, flipping her hair. "I am a delight."
They stepped outside into the cold, arms full of sweets, breath fogging into the winter air.
The street was bustling—music drifting from Zonko's, snow crunching under boots, laughter spilling from all sides.
Shya stood in the middle of it all—radiant, sharp, alive.
No one looking at her would know how much of that light wasn't real.
Only her friends saw the edges fraying.
Only they watched her too carefully.
Too closely.
The high street of Hogsmeade glowed with winter charm—string lights floating between chimneys, snowflakes drifting like lazy feathers, the air sweet with cinnamon and the faint crackle of distant magic.
The Ravenclaw girls spilled out of Honeydukes in a clump of scarves and laughter. Behind them, Slytherins in dark coats wove through the crowd with their usual effortless precision.
It happened almost naturally—like magnets finding their poles.
As the group walked, conversations splintered:
Padma and Mandy drifted toward a stall selling enchanted mittens that randomly changed colors.
Lisa wandered toward a floating book kiosk.
Talora slowed to match Roman's steps without thinking.
And Shya?
Her gaze had already locked onto Cassian across the busy street.
He stood with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, snow gathering in his dark curls, eyes flicking toward her as though checking—quietly, instinctively—that she hadn't vanished.
The split was seamless.
Shya crossed toward him at the same moment he stepped toward her, and they met at the midpoint of the street, just out of the flow of foot traffic.
Cassian tilted his head. "You bought half the shop."
Shya lifted her bag like a trophy. "Science."
"Exploding marshmallows?"
"Explode scientifically."
He huffed a soft laugh—and she felt her ribs loosen for the first time all afternoon.
Behind her, Talora threw Shya a look—an I'm-fine-go kind of look—and drifted off with Roman toward the Three Broomsticks.
The bustle of Hogsmeade muffled around them as Cassian jerked his chin toward a quieter side street.
"Come on," he said. "I found something."
Shya followed.
Not because he asked—
But because she always did.
The shop sat tucked between two tall, crooked buildings, marked by a hanging sign in tarnished silver:
Whisper & Wane
curios | oddities | discardables
The windows were fogged, but faint violet light pulsed behind the glass like a heartbeat.
Shya's brows lifted. "This looks wonderfully cursed."
Cassian smirked. "I knew you'd like it."
He pulled open the door.
Warm, dim air spilled out—thick with scent: old parchment, incense, cold metal, and something sweet like burnt sugar.
Inside, the shop was narrow and cluttered. Shelves crowded with shimmering trinkets:
cracked crystal pendants
spell-burned tarot decks
cursed music boxes that hummed off-key
silver rings with runes that shifted when touched
tiny vials labeled regret°, memory°, mischief°
Shya inhaled.
It felt like walking into her own bloodstream.
Cassian brushed past her, voice low. "Don't poke anything glowing."
"Cass," she whispered, eyes bright, "everything in here is glowing."
He shot her a look. "Exactly."
Shya drifted between shelves, fingers skimming but never touching. The dim purple light reflected in her gold nose ring, in her smudged eyeliner, in the faint glitter on her cheeks that she always insisted she wasn't wearing.
Then she stopped.
Something on the far wall had caught her eye.
A framed charcoal drawing—rough, jagged, haunting.
A girl, head bowed, hair falling like a curtain.
From her mouth poured a stream of small, ink-black creatures—sharp-clawed, long-fingered, writhing in a spill of darkness.
Shya stepped closer.
It wasn't gore.
It wasn't horror.
It was too… true.
Cassian realized she'd gone still.
"What is it?"
She didn't answer immediately, just stared at the piece until she felt the air press against her lungs.
Finally, she spoke.
"…It looks like what it feels like."
Cassian's voice softened instantly. "Shya."
She swallowed.
"I mean," she said quickly, mask snapping back into place, "it's dramatic. I like dramatic. On brand."
Cassian stepped beside her, shoulder brushing hers. "You can say it looks like you."
Shya's jaw clenched.
"I didn't," she said.
"You didn't have to."
She glared at him—sharp, instinctive, defensive—but it cracked almost instantly into something tired and real.
"…Let's look at something else."
Cassian didn't push.
He simply nodded once and followed her as she drifted deeper into the shop.
Shya stopped again—this time at a small silver ring pinned to a velvet cushion.
A tiny sigil etched across the band shimmered like it was breathing.
She didn't touch it.
"Pretty," she murmured. "Looks sharp."
"It's a focus ring," the shopkeeper rasped from behind them. "Cleans up messy magic. Useful for people who run hot."
Shya arched a brow. "Do I look messy?"
Cassian snorted. "Do you want an honest answer?"
She shoved him lightly.
The mask felt safer again.
Cassian, meanwhile, had gravitated toward a different corner—toward a strand of smoky quartz beads with runes carved deep into their centers.
Rune chains.
Stability charms.
Something his mind understood when everything else felt like shifting sand.
The shopkeeper had materialized beside him. "Grounding," she said. "Good for boys who think too much and sleep too little."
Cassian nearly dropped it.
Shya laughed softly from across the aisle. "She got you."
Cassian ignored her, clearing his throat as he examined the beads.
But his eyes kept slipping back to Shya—lit in purple glow, rings flashing, hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed, looking at cursed objects like they were stars.
She was a storm.
And he kept walking straight into it.
A MOMENT
Shya drifted toward the counter.
Cassian reached her at the same moment—both handing over their chosen trinkets.
The shopkeeper wrapped them silently and said only:
"Some things find their owners before the owners find themselves."
Shya stilled.
Cassian didn't breathe.
But neither asked what she meant.
Not yet.
They stepped back out into the cold—breath steaming, snow falling heavier now.
Shya shoved the little bag inside her coat.
Cassian mirrored her.
Neither spoke.
But the shop's quiet certainty followed them all the way down the street like an echo.
The tea shop Talora wandered toward wasn't Madam Puddifoot's (thank Merlin) but a quieter, older place tucked between an apothecary and a wand repair shop. Its windows glowed amber with floating candles, and the hand-painted sign read:
Sage & Steam
herbal brews & restorative charms
Talora paused outside, breath forming a delicate cloud in the cold air. Roman came up beside her, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, looking—if possible—more awkward than usual.
"Uh," he said, staring at the door. "Do you… want to go in?"
Talora turned to him, eyes bright from the cold. "Only if you're coming too."
His ears went scarlet instantly.
"…Okay."
They stepped inside.
Warmth hit them in a soft wave—scented with chamomile, cinnamon, orange peel, and something like warm parchment. The windows were fogged, chalkboard menus floated midair, and only a handful of people sat at small wooden tables, murmuring quietly.
A witch behind the counter smiled. "Afternoon, dears. Cold out there, isn't it? Grab any seat."
Talora chose a tiny table near the frosted window. Roman sat across from her, trying to look casual and not like his entire soul had just sprinted five miles.
"So," she said gently, wiping a little fog off the glass with her sleeve. "How's Keeper life treating you?"
Roman relaxed a little. "Um… good. I think. Flint keeps telling me I 'have the instincts of a paranoid kneazle,' which I think is a compliment."
"It absolutely is," Talora said with total seriousness.
Roman's lips twitched.
A floating chalkboard drifted by. Talora reached up and tapped Winter Spiced Chai. Roman hesitated, then chose Peppermint Brew.
He waited until the chalkboard floated away, then cleared his throat quietly.
"You… looked really happy cheering today."
Talora blinked. "I was happy. You played brilliantly."
Roman flushed again. He opened his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to make a self-deprecating joke—but Talora cut in softly:
"I mean it."
Something softened in him—like tension melting off his shoulders.
Their drinks arrived on delicate saucers, steam curling upward in pale golden ribbons. Talora cupped her hands around her chai. Roman cradled his mug as if afraid to drop it.
Outside, snow dusted the window like powdered sugar.
Inside was quiet. Warm. Safe.
And then Talora spoke the thing she'd been trying to avoid:
"…Shya's getting worse."
Roman's entire posture shifted—shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes serious.
"I know," he said quietly.
Talora looked down into her chai. "She hides it from everyone else, but—"
"But she can't hide from you," Roman finished.
Talora nodded.
"She's so loud now," she whispered. "Louder than she's ever been. But the louder she gets, the less I feel her."
Roman exhaled. "Cassian feels it too."
Talora looked up sharply. "Has he said that?"
Roman shook his head. "He doesn't have to. He watches her like the world might break if he blinks."
Talora's chest tightened.
"She's slipping," Talora whispered. "I don't know into what. But something's… pulling at her."
Roman reached across the table—hesitated—then rested his hand near hers, palm open.
Not touching.
But close enough.
"She's strong," he said. "And she has you."
Talora swallowed hard. "Is that enough?"
Roman's voice was steady. "No."
Then, softer—"But I'm here too."
Talora looked at him—really looked.
And for the first time all day, warmth bloomed behind her ribs.
She let her fingers brush his.
Barely a touch.
But Roman's breath caught anyway.
They stayed like that, hands brushing, mugs steaming, the world outside painted in white.
For ten perfect minutes, the storm around Shya didn't exist.
Just them.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Uncomplicated.