Adrien.

Dear Fred,

I miss you in the quiet moments. The ones where I can hear the castle creak and breathe and whisper like it knows I'm not built for stillness.

Classes are fine. Chaos is constant.

I haven't hexed Blaise. Yet.

Katie's threatening to curse his shampoo. Rowan already has money on which Slytherin's getting launched off their broom before October.

Sage and Maddie are officially on the team (I know, I'm still recovering from the tryouts), and somehow Katie and I have become their personal drill sergeant.

But Blaise... he's playing a different game. Cornered me the other day. Said Draco's unraveling—which, fine, maybe true—but then he tried to turn it into a moment. Like we were something worth picking back up.

I shut it down. Hard.

He reached for me, Fred.

And all I could think was how badly I wanted your arms, not his. He knows he can't have me. But he still keeps looking at me like I'm already his again. He's wrong. He's so wrong.

And me? I'm fine. Mostly. Sort of. I just keep looking for you and finding empty space.

Love always,

Adrien

I folded the parchment carefully—too carefully—and sealed it with one of the Weasley-red wax stamps I'd nicked from the shop over the summer. The wax hardened, catching the light like it knew it carried something more than words.

I stared at it for a long second.

Then I stood, crossed the stone floor of the Owlery, and tied it to the nearest tawny owl with fingers that only shook a little.

"Straight to Fred," I whispered. "And bite him if he takes too long to write back."

The owl blinked once—judgmental—and took off into the dusk.

I watched until it disappeared beyond the towers.

Then I exhaled. Like maybe I'd just mailed away the part of me that still hurt.

And maybe... that was the point.

The wind had picked up around the Owlery, crisp and high, tugging at the ends of my sleeves. The sun had long since dipped behind the towers. I should've gone inside. But I didn't.

Because, like clockwork—I wasn't alone.

"I figured you'd be out here," came the voice I already regretted knowing so well.

I didn't turn. "Do you have a map of my habits, Zabini, or just a sixth sense for inconvenient timing?"

Footsteps approached—confident, slow. Controlled.

"Maybe I just know you better than you think," Blaise said smoothly. "Or maybe you're not as hard to read as you pretend."

I turned just slightly, giving him the edge of a glance. "If this is about—"

"It's not," he said quickly. "Though I meant what I said. About Draco. It's real. He's unraveling."

"This again." I groaned, rolling my eyes. "You tried to use that to get to me," I replied flatly. "Let's not rewrite the script now."

He stopped a few feet away—closer than necessary. Always.

His gaze swept over me like a slow spell, searching, calculating. "Maybe," he said, voice low. "But you didn't push me away either."

I arched a brow. "I didn't punch you in the face. That's not the same as invitation."

"You're still wearing that necklace," he said, eyes flicking to the charm resting against my collarbone. "The sword. His mark."

I smiled—slow, sharp. "Good. Then you know where to aim if you want to bleed."

Blaise's jaw flexed, but he didn't step back.

Instead, he stepped in.

"You want to hate me," he said, voice like dark velvet. "You should. Hell, I deserve it. But you look at me like you remember. Like your body still knows what it's like to want mine."

My breath caught.

He was close enough now that the chill in the air didn't reach between us. His hand brushed my wrist—light, almost reverent.

I didn't move. I didn't flinch. But my heart stuttered once—and I hated that he felt it.

Then I tilted my head and looked him dead in the eye.

"And what would you know about my body?" I murmured, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "You never earned that kind of memory."

That hit like a slap dipped in honey. His smirk faltered — just for a second — and something primal flashed behind his eyes. Heat. Frustration. Hunger.

"I could have," he said low, stepping closer. "You wanted me to."

I didn't step back. I tilted my chin just enough to meet his mouth with my breath.

"I wanted a lot of things," I said, tracing one finger along the collar of his shirt, slow enough to make him still. "Mistakes included."

His jaw tensed. But he didn't pull away.

"You're bored without him," he whispered, like a secret he wanted to sink into my skin. "You're aching for something rough. Familiar. Don't lie."

I smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

"Craving danger doesn't mean I want déjà vu," I said. "It means I've learned to spot bad habits in expensive shoes."

I let my fingers ghost along his jaw, teasing the edge of control. His pulse jumped beneath my touch.

"I remember," I said softly. "What it felt like to want the wrong hands. The wrong mouth. And how easy it was to walk away once I realized it was all illusion."

His lips parted. Like he was about to say something reckless — or ruinous.

"I could ruin you again," he said, rough and low. Not a threat. A dare.

I leaned in — just close enough to brush my lips against the corner of his.

"Blaise," I breathed, "you already did." And then I stepped back. Let my gaze drag over him once, like I was dismissing him with my eyes alone. "I just didn't stay ruined."

He didn't stop me. Didn't speak.

But when I turned and walked away — heart pounding, skin flushed, breath uneven — I could feel the fire of his stare between my shoulder blades.

Burning. Because I'd won. And he hated how much he still wanted me because of it.

Monday morning tasted like ash.

The castle hadn't woken up yet — not fully. It was too early for laughter, too late for sleep. Just that strange, hollow hour where even the portraits pretended to be dozing.

I moved through the halls like a ghost. Fast. Silent. The black envelope clutched in one hand like it might burn if I loosened my grip.

The stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office barely blinked when I gave the password. "Toffee crumble." Figures.

The spiral staircase took me up slowly, like it was buying me time I didn't want. And then—

The door opened on its own.

Dumbledore stood behind his desk, back straight, hands folded neatly like he'd been expecting me for hours. Maybe he had.

I stepped forward and placed the envelope on the desk between us without a word.

His eyes flicked to it — and something changed behind them. A crack in the calm. A thread pulled taut.

He didn't touch it. Not at first.

"Have you read it aloud?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I admitted.

Dumbledore didn't move right away. But something in the air changed—like a wire had been pulled taut between us.

He nodded once. Slow. Grave. "Then we must tread carefully."

That one sentence dropped like a weight between my ribs. Not scolding. Not fearful. But heavy with unspoken consequences.

He reached for the envelope with that same graceful stillness he always had, fingers brushing the seal like it might bite. He opened it with deliberate care, unfolded the parchment, and read.

But he didn't speak.

Didn't repeat the words.

Didn't so much as hum in contemplation.

He just read it—slow, once—then gently closed the letter again and placed his hand over it like he was pinning something dangerous to the earth.

"Some truths," he said softly, "when spoken aloud, invite attention. From those who hear... and those who are listening."

I didn't ask what that meant. I didn't have to.

Typical. Vague. Cryptic. Classic Dumbledore.

But I still felt the chill under my skin.

He looked up at me over his half-moon glasses, eyes steady and kind. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Adrien. I imagine you've carried it longer than you should have."

I shifted on my feet. "We figured it was better than hiding it in a drawer again."

"We?"

"Katie and me."

His expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker behind his gaze. That thoughtful pause he always gave when a name meant something deeper.

"Are you two... all right?" he asked gently.

I let out a breath. "Still have no idea what happened to Mum. My biological father's a flaming disgrace. And the nightmares haven't stopped."

His face didn't flinch. Didn't pity. Just listened.

"I see," he said softly. "And you're still standing."

"Most days."

"That is enough," he said simply. And it sounded like truth.

He tucked the envelope away into the folds of his robes with a quiet finality. "I'll look into this. Quietly."

"Please do," I said. "Because whatever this is... it's not done with us."

"No," he agreed, his voice dipping into something shadowed and faraway. "It rarely is."

I hesitated. Just for a second. Then—

"There's something else," I added, voice lower now.

Dumbledore's eyes lifted to meet mine again, calm and expectant.

"It's Draco," I said. "And Blaise."

His brow didn't twitch, but the air between us sharpened.

"They've been... off," I explained. "Blaise came to me. Said Draco's not sleeping, not eating, sneaking out of the dorms almost every night. He's showing up to class like a ghost—like he's unraveling already, and we're only a few days into term."

Dumbledore didn't interrupt. He simply listened.

"And Blaise?" I went on. "He swore it wasn't some kind of trick, but... he's Blaise. He's not exactly famous for honesty or loyalty, especially not when it comes to me. But the way he said it—it didn't feel like a game."

"You believe him?" Dumbledore asked, tone light, but not uninvested.

"No," I said. "But I believe something's happening. And if Blaise is desperate enough to come to me of all people, it's probably worse than he let on."

Dumbledore nodded once, slow and thoughtful. "Then I'll keep watch on them both. And if anything else happens—anything at all..."

"You'll be the first to know," I said.

His eyes softened again. "Take care of each other, Adrien. There's more power in that than most realize."

I nodded and turned to leave.

The Great Hall buzzed like a hive of caffeine-deprived chaos, the kind that came with too many exams, too few hours of sleep, and enough pumpkin juice to drown a centaur. The October crisp air swarming the hall through the open windows, biting on our cheeks to remind us that time doesn't stand still for anyone.

I stirred my tea absently with one hand, the other propping up my chin as Maddie and Ginny argued over whether or not it was ethical to prank Peeves with a floating pair of enchanted trousers.

Rowan leaned into Katie's side, pointing something out in her Transfiguration notes. Sage was eyeing the pastry tray like it owed her money. Normal. Comfortable.

Until the mail arrived.

Owls swept in with the kind of orchestrated chaos that only Hogwarts could make majestic. Letters, packages, the occasional rogue cupcake from someone's gran.

Then I saw it—Katie got a letter. From the Weasleys.

My stomach flipped.

She hadn't said anything about Fred lately.

And I hadn't heard from him in weeks either.

Not a single owl.

Not a single crumb of sarcasm or smudged wax seal.

Nothing.

I didn't have time to think about it.

Because then—The scream started.

It wasn't a person. Not exactly. It was paper. A letter, blood-red with jagged edges, came hurling through the air like it had been shot out of hell itself.

It landed in front of me.

Blaise's handwriting. Not even trying to be clever anymore.

I didn't move fast enough. The thing exploded open—howling in a guttural, inhuman voice that rattled the entire table.

"TRAITOR. LIAR. YOU THINK HE'D STAY FOR YOU? YOU THINK HE'D FIGHT FOR YOU? YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE—"

And then fire.

Real, burning fire.

It lashed up the side of the parchment and lunged—straight for my right forearm.

I screamed, "FUCK!"

The pain was white-hot. Like claws dragging down bone. My wand hand went numb. But before I could think, before I could even cry out again—

The magic roared out of me.

Speechless. Wandless. Wild.

The letter ignited in midair. Not just burned—disintegrated. Reduced to ash in the blink of an eye. The flame twisted upward, shuddered, and then—gone.

Silence dropped like a hammer.

My right arm was scorched. Angry red welts spiraled over the skin, glowing faintly gold like the remnants of a rune.

And everyone had seen it.

Every single student, every single teacher, every single second of magic not contained.

Rowan shot to his feet, eyes wide. "Adrien—"

"I'm fine," I croaked, teeth clenched. I was lying.

Katie had already pushed her plate away and was yanking the sleeve of my robe up. "No, you're not. You're burned—bad."

Hermione was already halfway across the table, muttering about cold compresses and hospital wing protocols. Harry was still staring at the scorched air like it might scream again.

Maddie was silent. For once. Sage's fists were clenched so tight her knuckles went white.

And me? I couldn't stop shaking. Because I knew what that was.

It wasn't just a threat. It was a message. And the whole school had just heard it scream.

Katie had my arm before I could protest. Rowan was already on my other side, guiding me up and off the bench with military precision.

"Hospital wing. Now," Katie snapped.

"I'm fine," I muttered through my teeth, even as pain zinged up my forearm like a cursed violin string. "Just a little toastier than usual—"

"Adrien, I swear to Merlin, if you try to sass your way through this, I will hex you unconscious and carry you there myself," Katie growled.

Sage fell into step behind us like a pissed-off bodyguard. "What was that?" she hissed. "Who sends a cursed howler? I didn't even know that was legal."

"It's not," Maddie said, hot on her heels. "That's some fifth-level Blood Magic nonsense, I could feel it from the other side of the table."

"I thought it was a bloody Dementor," Rowan muttered, jaw tight. His grip on my good arm never loosened, but his eyes? His eyes were scanning every corner of the corridor like he expected another flaming letter to come lunging out of the shadows. "Someone better start talking."

Katie slowed as we turned the corner toward the staircase. "Adrien," she said, voice gentler now, even if her expression could still cut steel. "Who was it from?"

My stomach flipped.

Rowan stopped walking.

"Adrien," he said again, but this time quieter. Deadlier.

I swallowed hard. "It was from Blaise."

Silence.

Then Rowan snapped.

"What?!"

Sage jumped. Maddie flinched.

"Are you kidding me?" Rowan barked. "He sent that? He cursed a howler and branded you in front of the entire school?!"

"Technically it was more like a fire-laced blood curse," Maddie added unhelpfully.

"Rowan," I rasped, "you're making my head hurt worse."

"I'm two seconds from marching straight into the Slytherin common room and beating that Armani-wearing bastard into next term—"

"Do you own Armani?" Sage cut in, genuinely curious.

"Not the point!" Katie snapped. "We need to get her patched up first, then we murder Blaise."

"I vote murder first," Sage muttered. "Let her watch while we prep the scalpels."

"You don't need scalpels," Maddie said, eyes gleaming. "You need a wand and a vendetta. Lucky for us, I have both."

They were spiraling.

I winced as we finally pushed through the doors of the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey already clucking and bustling toward us with an armful of salve and bandages.

Rowan was still fuming beside me, shaking with too many words unsaid. Katie finally caught his arm and gave him a hard look.

"Rowan."

He looked at her, breathing like a dragon on a timer.

"She's safe now. We got her here. Save the rage for when she's not half-cooked, yeah?"

He didn't answer.

But he nodded.

Barely.

And I—finally—let myself lean into the bedframe as Madame Pomfrey guided me down.

Still shaking.

Still smoldering.

The burn on my arm looked like a storm had kissed it and then gotten possessive.

Madam Pomfrey was muttering under her breath like she was trying not to hex the air itself. "Archaic hexwork... disgraceful... absolute barbarism—honestly, who uses screaming parchment?"

"It screamed me," I said flatly. "Very personally."

"Because that makes it better?" Katie snapped from the stool next to mine, still practically vibrating with rage. "I should've caught it. I should've stopped it—"

"Katie." I cut smoothly, watching her take a deep breath.

Meanwhile, Rowan was standing at the window like a gargoyle with trust issues, arms crossed, jaw locked, and eyes set to lethal.

"If that letter had even breathed dark magic," he said to no one in particular, "I was going to transfigure it into a ferret and feed it to Fang."

Madam Pomfrey snorted. "Don't tempt me. That's Plan B."

Then the door creaked.

Dumbledore glided in like he knew he'd interrupted something dangerous. Everyone stilled—except Pomfrey, who barely looked up.

"If you're here to offer wisdom or riddles," she said sharply, "make it quick. I have a child to un-scorch."

Dumbledore gave a patient, unreadable smile. "Of course."

He looked at me gently. "Miss Blackwood. How are you feeling?"

I met his gaze. "Peachy—bit Medium Rare though. A little crisp. Charbroiled chic."

Katie rolled her eyes. "She's fine. I'm not."

"I can't imagine you would be," Dumbledore said. "It is a difficult thing... to be a target and still feel responsible for the damage."

That landed. Not in a philosophical way. In a "yep, now I feel worse" way.

I looked away, swallowing hard.

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Katie. "And your sister?"

"Still furious," she said. "Still considering setting certain common rooms on fire."

Rowan finally spoke up. "Say the word and I'll rig a Bludger to follow Blaise for the rest of the term."

"Don't be ridiculous," Katie added. "One that explodes. That's more effective."

"Oh, great," I muttered. "Love that you're planning domestic terrorism in my name."

"Don't flatter yourself," Rowan said. "You just gave us the excuse."

Madam Pomfrey grumbled something about "dramatic Gryffindors," but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

"If there's anything else you remember about the howler—or who might've sent it—please let me know," Dumbledore said.

He already knew. But I nodded anyway.

A beat passed, heavy but not unbearable.

Then Rowan turned and asked the question I didn't even have the strength to voice.

"What about the letter? The one Katie got? The Weasley seal?"

Katie stiffened—barely.

"I—" She shrugged like it didn't matter. "It was just from George. Shop update. Nothing big."

I blinked slowly. Watched her. Watched the twitch of her jaw. The way her voice was a little too flat. Her shoulders a little too high.

Lie.

But I didn't have the energy to fight about it. Not now. Not with my arm burning and my head still spinning with phantom screams.

So I just nodded.

For now. But I'd remember. And so would she.

About a week later—between flinching and recovery—Rumors of a Hogsmeade trip spread faster than cursed candy.

Sage kicked open our dorm door like she was leading a coup, scroll clutched in one hand and an unholy grin already blooming. "Pack your best coats, chaos gremlins. We've got a sanctioned outing."

Maddie bolted upright in bed like she'd been struck by lightning. "We're going to traumatize so many civilians."

"Somewhere, Filch is already weeping," I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair.

My fingers brushed the edge of my shoulder, and instinctively, I tugged down the sleeve of my shirt—only to remember I'd grabbed the short-sleeved one without thinking.

The one that didn't cover the marks.

The angry, jagged line from the cursed howler was still healing—bandaged and salved, but tender. But beneath it, above it, around it... the faint traces of runes had started surfacing about the same time as the Howler.

Soft, glowing lines.

Like someone had written on me with memory and fire.

They weren't constant. Not all the time. But they were more frequent now. And I hated that I couldn't explain them.

Or stop them.

Silently, I stood, crossed to my trunk, and pulled out a long-sleeved black top—light enough to not raise questions, long enough to hide everything.

When I turned around again, Sage had stopped mid-rant about which boots made the best statement during a dramatic storm-off.

Her eyes flicked to my arm. Then the shirt change.

She didn't ask.

She just nodded once, like she was clocking it. Like she understood.

Maddie, oblivious, was still debating coat options with Katie, who hadn't moved from her bed.

I pulled the new shirt over my head and shoved the old one deep into the bottom of my trunk. Out of sight. Out of mind.

For now.

Then I turned back to the room, forced a grin, and said, "Okay, fashion criminals. If I'm stuck chaperoning this chaos parade, someone better be wearing a cloak dramatic enough to match my trauma."

Sage raised her hand without looking up. "Already planning on it."

"Good," I said. "Because if I'm going to explode mid-Hogsmeade, I want to look good doing it."

And that?

That was enough to make them laugh.

"I'm planning outfits," Sage announced. "Which one of you owns the black wool coat that looks like a Victorian war widow but hotter?"

"That's Katie's," I said automatically.

Katie looked up from her bed, where she was still hunched over her now-familiar routine: a crisp scroll of parchment sealed in unmistakable Weasley red. Third one this week. She hadn't said who it was from. Again.

And I hadn't asked.

Not directly, anyway.

"Again?" I asked casually, trying for nonchalance. "They keeping you in the loop about the shop or just sending you dad jokes at this point?"

Katie shrugged without meeting my eye. "Bit of both."

Lie. I felt it. I knew it. But I didn't push.

Not when I hadn't heard from Fred—like at all.

The silence was starting to feel louder than the howler.

I hadn't told the others, not really. Just a joke here, a quip there. Pretending the ache in my chest was just caffeine withdrawal.

"Adrien," Maddie called, voice slicing through the swirl of my thoughts. "You okay with platform boots for this trip, or are we doing actual walking shoes?"

I blinked. "What's walking?"

"Perfect," she said, satisfied.

"I'm just saying," Sage added, spinning the trip notice between her fingers, "if Blaise shows his face, we accidentally hex him into a butter churn."

Katie didn't look up. "He'll already be paste if Rowan sees him."

Speak of the overprotective devil.

Rowan's voice floated through the open dorm window, calling something about Quidditch drills and how 'Ginny nearly took Ron's nose off with a Bludger and it was majestic.'

Katie snorted. "We've raised them well."

I finally smiled. A real one. Small. But real.

Maybe a Hogsmeade trip was exactly what we needed.

A reset. A distraction. A chance to stop pretending like everything wasn't splintering beneath the surface.

Still... as I glanced at Katie—her fingers hovering over that sealed red letter, her expression unreadable—I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both waiting on something.

Or someone. And neither of us had the nerve to admit it.

That afternoon, Maddie and I had just broken free from the seventh circle of Transfiguration revisions when I caught sight of something in the courtyard—something that immediately made my stomach lurch.

Katie.

And Draco.

They stood near the archway by the fountain, half-shielded by ivy and stone—like that made it subtle.

It didn't.

He wasn't touching her. But his body was angled like he might. Close enough to provoke. Too close to be casual.

Katie's arms were crossed, posture defiant. She wasn't leaning. Wasn't folding.

But her jaw was tight.

Maddie stopped beside me. "Is that—?"

"Yeah," I said darkly. "It is."

And then came Rowan.

He was storming across the courtyard like war had just gotten personal. Shirt sleeves rolled, jaw locked, green eyes locked only on Draco.

If Draco noticed the incoming murder, he didn't show it. Yet.

"Funny," Draco was saying, voice dipped in that silk-and-poison smugness he'd perfected. "How fast she replaced me with someone more disposable."

Maddie hissed like a pissed-off cat. "Oh, we're throwing hands."

But Rowan didn't flinch. Didn't rush.

He just walked straight up—cool and controlled—and placed himself between Katie and Draco like that's where he'd always belonged.

Then, casually, deadpan:

"Funny," Rowan said, "how fast you went from threat to footnote."

Katie snorted—then immediately bit her lip like she hadn't meant to.

Draco's smirk flickered. For half a second. Then he tilted his head like he was unimpressed, but his hands told another story—his fingers twitched by his wand.

Rowan saw it.

Rowan matched it.

Wand already in hand, held low but deliberate.

And for one breathless second, I swear I could see the spellwork loading behind their eyes.

Katie's hand moved too, just slightly, toward her back pocket. "Boys," she said under her breath, "do not make me duel on an empty stomach—"

"Draco," I said, stepping forward now, voice sharp. "Walk. Away."

"I'm not talking to you," he snapped.

"Too bad," I said sweetly. "She's my sister. And he—" I jabbed a finger toward Rowan, "—is the one who doesn't ghost people to flirt with fascism."

Rowan grinned at that.

Draco didn't.

The tension snapped tighter, air charged and thick—

—and then.

"Gentlemen."

McGonagall's voice sliced through the courtyard like a blessed axe through bullshit.

She appeared with a swish of robes and a glare that could probably collapse towers.

"If either of you feel the need to duel over Miss Blackwood's romantic affiliations again," she said coolly, "I suggest you transfer into the Dramatic Arts department. I hear they encourage public breakdowns."

Rowan opened his mouth—probably to deliver something deliciously stupid.

McGonagall raised a brow.

Rowan shut his mouth.

"Detention," she said crisply. "Tonight. You can alphabetize potion components until you remember that this school is not your personal emotional coliseum."

Draco scowled but nodded once, brushing past Katie without another word.

Rowan saluted, all false charm. "Can't wait."

Katie turned to him the moment Draco disappeared through the arch. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," Rowan said, stepping close again. "I'll go ten rounds with him any day if it keeps him from breathing down your neck."

"You're ridiculous," Katie said, but she smiled—just a little. "And lucky you're cute."

Maddie leaned toward me and stage-whispered, "That was the hottest thing I've seen since Fred in a tool belt."

I grinned. Because honestly? Yeah.

That night, Another letter. Katie.

Weasley seal. Bright red. Crisp fold.

My potatoes suddenly tasted like ash.

She didn't even flinch opening it anymore. Just slit the wax cleanly, read the words like they were a grocery list, and tucked it into her bag like it hadn't just taken up permanent residence in my skull.

I put my fork down. "Still not saying what's in those?"

Katie looked up. Calm. Too calm. "They're private."

"Private like Fred swore he'd write me and hasn't," I said, voice quiet but sharp. "Or private like secrets that get people hexed?"

Her fork clinked against her plate.

Sage stopped mid-chew.

Maddie blinked like she missed a punchline.

Hermione shifted uneasily.

Even Ginny, unbothered 99% of the time, paused mid-sip and slowly lowered her goblet.

Katie stood slowly. "Can we not do this here?"

"Sure," I said, rising right along with her. "Let's do it somewhere else. Somewhere private. Since that's your thing."

She didn't say a word. Just turned on her heel and started walking, and I followed—footsteps loud in the suddenly too-silent Hall.

Behind me, Sage muttered, "Should we...?"

"Leave them," Maddie whispered. "This is one of those 'sister argument with potential for public violence' things."

"You sure?" Ginny asked.

"Oh yeah," Sage added. "Adrien's walking like her wand's already halfway out."

"They'll scream," Hermione said softly, "and then one of them will apologize and the other one will deflect with sarcasm."

"Family," Maddie said, nodding solemnly. "It's beautiful."

We turned the corner into the nearest corridor and stopped near an empty classroom. Katie wheeled on me the second we were out of earshot.

"What the hell, Adrien?"

"You tell me!" I snapped. "You've gotten three letters from the Burrow this week alone. Three! And Fred hasn't sent me a single word."

Her mouth opened, but I didn't let her speak.

"You don't think I noticed the seal? The handwriting? You don't think I hear how quiet you get every time one shows up? Just tell me if he's okay. Tell me if he's written about me at all. I'm not asking for national secrets."

Katie's eyes softened for a second—but just as quickly, she shut it down. "I promised him, Adrien."

My blood went cold. "You promised him what?"

"That I'd keep you focused. That I'd keep you safe."

My breath hitched. "Safe from what, Katie? The truth? You think I can't handle the fact that he might've changed his mind?"

She didn't answer right away.

Didn't deny it.

Her mouth opened—then closed. Her eyes dropped to the stone floor like they couldn't bear to meet mine.

And that was enough.

That silence? That pause?

It was a sledgehammer.

"Oh." My voice cracked, just a little. "So he did."

"No," she said quickly, voice catching. "That's not what I—Adrien, that's not what I meant—"

"I'm already spiraling!" I snapped, the volume rising like a wave I couldn't stop. "I've got a cursed burn on my arm, runes showing up on my skin for reasons I still don't understand—"

"Wait, what?!" Katie blinked, but I ignored the fact that this was the first she had heard and pushed on through the rage.

"And I nearly got groped by my ex in a hallway about every fucking week—but sure, yeah, let's pretend the thing that would break me is reading a stupid letter."

Katie looked down again. Like she didn't know how to fix it. Like she wanted to, but didn't trust herself to say the right thing.

Katie stood across from me, arms stiff at her sides, eyes red—not from tears, but from holding them back. The kind of red that burns when you're too proud to cry in front of someone else. Even me.

I took a breath. It didn't feel like enough, but it was all I had.

"It's not your job to protect me from Fred," I said again, softer now. "I love him."

"I know," Katie whispered. "So do I."

And it wasn't jealousy in her voice. It wasn't anything cruel.

It was just truth.

Something about that cracked the silence in my ribs.

The moonlight filtered through the far window and painted the corridor in silver, and I could see every inch of what we'd just said clinging to the space around us.

"I'm not mad you're protecting me," I added, voice steadier now. "But I'm mad you're doing it alone."

Katie swallowed, her voice shaky. "Then let me do it with you. Just... trust me a little longer."

We both stared at each other. Tired. Bruised. But still standing.

"I'm trying," I said finally. "I really am."

Katie stepped forward. No dramatic flourish. No grand gesture. Just one step—enough to close the space.

Then her eyes flicked down—just for a second.

To the edge of my sleeve.

"Adrien..." Her voice was soft. Careful. "Your arm."

I hesitated.

Then rolled my sleeve up.

The bandage from the howler burn was still there, but just above it—etched faintly into my skin, glowing faint silver in the low light—was a rune. Fresh. Jagged. Like it had clawed its way into me.

Katie's breath caught. "These are the marks you were talking about."

I nodded. "They come and go. Usually at night. But they're staying longer now. And... they hurt."

"Do you know what they say?"

"No." My voice cracked on it. "I don't know what they mean. Or where they come from. Just that they're getting worse. And more constant."

Katie's face did something then—something between fury and heartbreak. She looked like she wanted to throw a hex and cry at the same time.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she whispered.

"Because I didn't want to add one more thing," I said. "Because I didn't want you to look at me like I was breaking."

Katie blinked—like she couldn't believe I'd ever think that.

And then I moved.

My arms wrapped around her, tight. And she clung back like she'd been holding her breath since the fight.

We stood like that for a while. Silent. Two girls in a corridor we'd nearly destroyed with hurt and silence... just holding each other up.

Same hallway. Same sisters. But maybe—finally—starting to heal. And this time, not hiding from what came next.

"Just trust me a little longer, okay? Please..." Katie whispered in my ear as her grip tightened. "...and don't keep things like that from me, okay?"

"Only if you do the same." I huffed as my grip tightened to mirror hers.

I needed air that night.

But not the Quidditch Pitch—too obvious. Too painful. I'd haunted that place enough times already.

This time, I slipped into the greenhouse. Climbed straight up onto the glass ceiling, boots finding old footholds, fingers bracing against the cool panes. The stars were brighter from up here, like they knew I needed them to show off a little.

I sat on the edge of the parapet, legs dangling, arm still bandaged, mood still wrecked. The kind of wrecked that didn't scream or sob. It just... lingered. Like smoke after a fire.

A faint sound of movement caused me to jump, nearly falling off the edge, only for Rowan to chuckle as he sat beside me, silently tossing pebbles off the roof like they were thoughts he didn't want anymore.

I broke first. "You okay?"

He didn't answer right away—just let out a breath that sounded way too old for his face.

Then—quietly, plainly—he said, "I wrote him."

I turned. "Wrote who?"

"Fred." No hesitation. No dramatics. Just... truth. "Told him what happened. About the letter. The howler. Blaise."

My heart stuttered. "You what?"

He glanced over, unbothered. "You deserved a response. And if he's sitting there waiting to find the perfect words? He's already late."

I didn't know what to say. Just stared at him, jaw tight, heart too loud.

"...Thanks," I said, eventually.

Rowan shrugged like it was nothing. "You're one of mine. And Fred's. He'd want you protected—even from your own doubt."

A ghost of a smile found my lips. "You're terrifyingly good at this whole protective brother thing."

He smirked. "I practice on Katie. She bites."

I laughed—genuinely. It startled both of us.

"That tracks," I muttered. "You gonna start charging for emotional damage control?"

"Absolutely. I accept galleons, snacks, or Slytherin tears."

We sat there in the hush that followed, stars flickering above us like they were eavesdropping.

Then from somewhere near the tip of the greenhouse roof, through the trapdoor like entrance—

"You HIP-CHECKED me!" Sage shouted.

"You were in the duel zone!" Maddie barked.

"You INVENTED the duel zone!"

"Will you two SHUT UP, we're SNEAKING!" Katie howled, earning small giggles from the other two as they joined us.

I rolled my eyes. "Let them burn Slytherin to the ground."

Rowan nodded solemnly. "They're already planning it. I'm just hoping I don't get roped into choreography."

"You love it."

He paused. Then grinned. "Yeah. I really do."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy.

It was warm. Safe. The kind of quiet you didn't have to fill.

And for the first time in a week...I didn't feel like I was falling.

After a long night of making fun of each other and Slytherins, the next day proved to just be another layer to the inside jokes for us, especially when Blaise strutted out of the Great Hall like nothing was wrong.

Like he hadn't cursed me. Like he hadn't tried to play therapist one day and war criminal the next.

Rowan didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just casually stuck out his foot.

WHAM.

Blaise hit the stone floor like a sack of smug potatoes.

Hard.

Sage let out a piercing whistle from behind her goblet. "Ten out of ten. Form, execution, dismount. Chef's kiss."

Maddie slow clapped. "Gravity really said 'Not today, Satan.'"

Rowan didn't say a word—just dusted off his sleeves with a calm that screamed strategic violence. Like this wasn't the first time he'd tripped a Slytherin and absolutely wouldn't be the last.

"Oops," he said blandly, stepping around Blaise's groaning form with zero remorse.

Katie walked past, patting Rowan's arm like she was proud of him for getting a gold star in unspoken justice.

"That's foreplay in some languages," she said.

Rowan smirked. "I'm fluent in petty."

I tried to keep my face straight. I really did.

But I lost it. Laughed so hard I nearly snorted pumpkin juice out of my nose. And for a second—just a second—I forgot how much I missed Fred.

Almost. But not quite. Because even in the middle of our chaos...

...the ache still lived in the quiet corners.

And I knew the storm wasn't over yet. Not even close.