The sky was the color of steel and bruises.

The wind bit hard across the empty training lawn — charmed and flattened by Durmstrang hands to make a temporary dueling pitch behind the greenhouses. The stone beneath Aleksandra's boots hummed faintly with residual spells. The frost hadn't fully melted from the edges, and her breath curled in the air like white lace.

"Ready?" Viktor asked, voice quiet but steady.

She didn't answer. She just raised her wand.

They moved in fast, clean patterns — no wasted motion, no unnecessary showmanship. This wasn't the kind of sparring meant for an audience. It was all instinct, repetition, push and pull.

Viktor struck low; she parried high. Aleksandra dipped under a Stupefy and retaliated with a silent knockback jinx that sent snow scattering from Viktor's boots. He staggered a half step — enough to smirk.

"You're improving."

Aleksandra raised an eyebrow. "I've always been better than you."

Viktor snorted. "You're more annoying than me."

She sent a trip-jinx at his knees in response. He blocked it, but barely — his balance swayed, and she lunged. Her wand knocked his from his hand mid-spin, and it clattered to the stones.

Viktor let out a low laugh — rare and genuine — as he crouched to retrieve it. "Fine. You're faster now."

"Quidditch is good for something, then."

They settled a few paces apart, both winded but too proud to admit it. Viktor rolled his shoulders and flexed his wand hand. Aleksandra rubbed the tension out of her wrist, her braid sticking to the side of her neck with sweat.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of breathing and wind.

Then Aleksandra broke the quiet.

"Are you going to ask her?"

Viktor blinked. "What?"

She didn't look at him — just traced her wand tip through the frost-thin dirt, drawing lazy spirals. "Kalina. The ball."

Viktor shifted. "I do not think she would want me to."

"She would. She won't admit it, of course. She'd probably hex you on sight. But she'd want it."

He was silent. Too silent.

Aleksandra sighed and finally glanced at him. "You know she calls you 'Brooding Eyes and Broader Shoulders' in her journal?"

Viktor turned sharply. "She—"

"Kidding." A pause. "Sort of."

His ears went a little pink.

Aleksandra smirked, but softened. "Just think about it, alright?"

Viktor stared out toward the horizon, his breath clouding the cold. "It would not be easy."

"Nothing worth having ever is."

Another silence.

Then, low, almost reluctant: "Watch Karkaroff."

Aleksandra blinked.

Viktor didn't look at her. "He is... changing. More desperate. He wants the second task to make a statement."

She frowned. "What kind of statement?"

He finally turned back. "The kind that leaves marks."

The wind caught her hair again. She tucked a strand behind her ear, eyes narrowing.

Viktor stood, brushing frost from his sleeves. "Come. Before the Hufflepuffs see us and challenge us to a snowball duel again."

Aleksandra didn't move.

"Zielińska?"

"I'm just thinking."

"That is dangerous."

"Mm. So is winning."

— ✧ —

By the time Aleksandra returned to the ship, her fingers were numb, her braid was half undone, and her limbs ached in the satisfying way that only came after a duel.

The door to the cabin creaked open with a familiar groan. The space was quiet — Mateusz wasn't there, for once — and it smelled faintly of dry wood, cold metal, and the pear soap she always tucked into her trunk between rounds.

She shrugged off her outer cloak and tossed her wand onto the cot, already halfway to collapsing into a nap, when she saw it:

A square envelope.
Faded cream. Heavy paper.
Tied with red and gold twine — the kind her Babcia always used.

Aleksandra stared at it for a long time before reaching out.

Her name was written in sharp, spiky Polish script, and the "z" of Zielińska curled like a winter branch.

She sat on the edge of her hammock, turned it over, and opened it with care — as if the paper itself might crumble under careless hands.

The scent of lavender and smoked herbs rose from the parchment. Her chest tightened.

Zosieńka moja,

I imagine by now you've hexed at least one teacher and maybe a classmate or two, but I trust you're still eating breakfast and wearing your scarf like a civilized girl.

Your mother sends love and instructions to eat more soup. I send instructions to ignore her unless it's tomato.

Enclosed, you'll find a protective charm — I made it from birch bark, clover, and that bit of your old ribbon you used to tie around my wand when you were small. Wear it, or I will know. I always know.

Your cousin Kaja got engaged. She says she wants a wedding in June, which of course means it will rain.

I hope the English are treating you well enough. And I hope your brother hasn't managed to burn anything down.

Be kind, but never soft. Be fierce, but not cruel. And if someone breaks your heart — hex them, then write to me.

I love you always,
— Babcia

Aleksandra folded the letter slowly.

She ran her thumb over the charm tucked inside — a tiny twist of natural materials, delicate but tight, wrapped with twine and faintly humming with home-spun magic.

For a moment, she didn't feel cold. Or watched. Or worn out by frost and dragons and whispers of the next task.

She just felt... young. And loved.
She tucked the charm into the small pocket inside her boot. Near the ankle. Where she'd feel it when she walked.

Then she folded the letter into thirds and placed it under her pillow.

Not locked away. Not in her trunk.

Just close.

— ✧ —

The castle was quiet in that liminal way it only was after dinner — the halls stretched long and echoing, torches flickering low, windows glowing with snowfall and a few straggling owls.

Aleksandra was cutting through one of the unused corridors on her way back from the library when she smelled smoke.

Not fire exactly — but something half-singed and half-sweet. A whiff of burnt sugar and ozone.

Curious (and mildly suspicious), she turned down the next passage, boots whispering over the stone.

There, tucked inside a forgotten little alcove near the Charms classrooms, was George Weasley — kneeling over a desk that looked like it had seen several explosions too many. Wires and fizzing sweets and parchment scraps were strewn everywhere. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie gone, hair a mess even by Weasley standards. He was muttering to himself, wand clenched between his teeth like a quill.

Aleksandra watched him for a moment.

Then smirked.

"Try putting the fluxweed in before you charm the core," she said softly.

George jolted like he'd been hit with a stinging hex.

His head snapped up, wand clattering to the table as he spun around — and in doing so, came far too close. Aleksandra had stepped forward without thinking.

Their noses bumped.

Not hard — just enough to feel it.

They froze.

For a second, there was only shared breath, and wide eyes, and the smell of smoke and peppermint and something that might've been cherry-flavored disaster.

Aleksandra didn't move.

Neither did he.

"...Hi," George said, quietly, like the air had gone too fragile for anything louder.

"Hi," Aleksandra returned, equally soft. Her voice wasn't sharp this time — just low and careful.

Their faces were still too close. She could see every freckle across his nose. His eyes, for once, didn't hold mischief — just surprise and something unreadable underneath.

And then—

From the hallway behind them: "GEORGE! If you've blown your eyebrows off again, I'm not letting you borrow my hat—"

Fred's voice.

Aleksandra stepped back.

George blinked like he was waking from a dream.

She cleared her throat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Your project's about to melt the desk."

George whipped around just in time to swat at a bubbling purple substance fizzing dangerously close to his parchment.

"Right. Yeah. I had that under control."

Aleksandra gave him a dry look. "Clearly."

He smiled — a little uneven, a little dazed. "Thanks for the tip."

She turned to go, but paused just at the edge of the corridor.

"Next time," she said without looking back, "tie your shoelaces. You nearly tripped."

"Are you saying you noticed my shoes?"

"I'm saying I noticed everything."

She disappeared around the corner before he could answer.

And George — slightly scorched, slightly stunned — just stared after her, one hand rising to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Bloody hell," he whispered to himself. "I'm in so much trouble."

— ✧ —

Something Aleksandra had always done — since childhood — was retreat to water when her thoughts became too loud.

A bath. A shower. A stream in summer. The edge of a lake, if it was warm enough to tempt fate.

It wasn't summer now.
And the Black Lake, no matter how familiar it had become, felt less like comfort and more like a waiting mouth.

So she took the next best option.

The Durmstrang ship had an old, rarely-used stone bathtub in the lower cabin level. She had only ever seen it occupied once, and that was by accident, in first year, when someone had tried to soak a cursed broom and ended up bald.

But now — at this hour, in this mood — it was hers alone.

The round tub wasn't particularly luxurious, but it was deep enough for her long legs to fold and stretch beneath the surface. The ship creaked faintly around her as if complaining, but the pipes groaned to life and filled the bath with water hot enough to make her toes sting. She added a few lazy scoops of soap powder from the tin on the shelf, and within moments, soft bubbles were blooming around her shoulders.

She sank beneath the water slowly, letting only her face stay above the surface.

Steam rose in thick ribbons. Her braid floated behind her like a drowned spell.

And her thoughts — chaotic, knotted, frayed — didn't still the way she'd hoped.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
George, blinking in shock.
George, stammering a joke.
George, breathless and close enough that their noses touched.

Why had she snuck up on him?

Why hadn't she stepped away?

Why did she still feel like she could taste his breath on the air between them?

Aleksandra groaned and sank lower until the water touched her bottom lip.

She was going to die of embarrassment.
She would drown herself out of sheer principle.
Or worse, Fred would tell everyone, and she'd have to move to the Arctic and live with the polar bears.

The only reason she didn't fully submerge was because she didn't want to make Mateusz an only child.

The golden egg sat beside the tub, balanced awkwardly on a folded towel.

She had started carrying it with her almost constantly — not out of paranoia, exactly, but... something softer. Protective. A little maternal. As if the dragon who gave it to her had burned a quiet obligation into her chest, and now she couldn't put it down without guilt clawing at her ribs.

Her bag had begun to smell faintly of smoke and metal.
The egg never left her side.

And despite all her efforts — the hours in the library, the whispered translations, the charts, the fruitless decoding — it still screamed like a dying siren every time she opened it.

Tonight, it glowed in the low candlelight like a smug, golden liar.

Aleksandra sighed and reached out with her damp, pruned fingers, cradling it like a bomb.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she whispered.

She turned it gently. Her fingers brushed the seam. The metal was warm, and her grip slick.

She tilted it — just slightly — and accidentally clicked the opening mechanism.

The scream started instantly.

Raw. Piercing. Mournful. Like the sound of heartbreak given voice.

She winced, nearly dropping it into the tub.

The walls of the bathroom echoed with it, like the ship itself was weeping. A sound that reached deep — into the ribs, into the marrow — and scraped.

Aleksandra gritted her teeth and hissed, "Shut up, shut up, shut up—!"

She tried to close it, but her wet fingers slipped. It wailed louder.

She fumbled.
The egg slipped from her wrinkled fingers and sank with a hollow clunk to the bottom of the tub.

Aleksandra cursed under her breath, lurching forward, half-expecting it to crack or scream louder — or worse, break entirely. But instead...

Silence.

No wailing. No banshee-shriek of magical torment.

Just water. And something else.

A voice.

Faint at first — soft, almost luminous in tone — rising gently through the water like a forgotten melody.

Aleksandra froze. Her pulse skipped.

That couldn't be right. That couldn't be the egg.

She took a breath, then slipped fully beneath the surface.

And there it was.

Clear as a bell beneath the water — a voice, high and strange and mournfully beautiful, singing words that curled around her like a riddle:

'Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you're searching, ponder this:
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour — the prospect's black,
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.'

The song echoed in her chest. It was eerie. Haunting.

But it was truth.

The screaming had never been a message meant for the air.

It was meant for the water.

Aleksandra surfaced, gasping — hair slicked back, eyes wide with something between wonder and terror.

She stared at the rippling surface, then down into the tub where the golden egg rested, faintly glowing.

For the first time in weeks, she understood something.

And that — finally — scared her more than the dragon had.

— ✧ —

The day after the bath, Aleksandra Zielińska did not go to breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.

Instead, she lived in the library like a ghost in a Durmstrang uniform — drifting from stacks to scriptorium, parchment under one arm, the golden egg under the other.

If Madame Pince was unnerved by the pale Durmstrang girl muttering to herself in Polish, she didn't say anything. But she did start shelving books closer to where Aleksandra sat. Just in case something exploded.

Aleksandra had always been stubborn. It ran in the family like hexwork and cheekbones.
But this was more than stubbornness. This was obsession.

She had heard the egg's song in the bath, clear and cold like a voice from under ice.
And now, for the first time, she knew what it wanted:

Come seek us where our voices sound...

We cannot sing above the ground...

We've taken what you'll sorely miss...

It wasn't a riddle. It was a promise. A threat. A map.

And she had no intention of arriving unprepared.

She tossed aside her third book of the morning with a huff.
"Gillyweed," she muttered, glaring at the page. "Of course. Everyone always suggests the bloody gillyweed."

The idea of transforming herself into a gilled, slime-covered swamp rat held no appeal. She would rather drown with dignity.

No. She needed something else.

Something older. Smarter. Something that couldn't be bought from a stall in Hogsmeade for two Sickles and a favor.

She opened a book titled Water Magic & Binding Rites of the Continental Schools and let her eyes drift down the page.

"...a submerged voice is clearest when the listener sacrifices their own. To take breath, one must trade silence."

She read that line twice.

Then wrote it down.

Aleksandra heard a loud thud behind her and instinctively flinched, one hand flying to the edge of her wand.

To her great annoyance — and mild surprise — it wasn't an attack.

It was Cedric Diggory, awkwardly tall and red-faced, standing among the books he'd apparently just knocked loose from the shelf beside her. His hair was wind-mussed, and his expression was a curious mix of guilt and sheepish hope.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to sneak up or—be a bother."

She raised a single unimpressed eyebrow and glanced down at the cascade of ancient tomes now half-buried around her ankles. "You're failing."

Cedric gave a crooked smile. "Clearly."

He bent to start gathering the books. Aleksandra, still perched on the floor with parchment spread across her lap, made no move to help. She simply tucked one arm protectively over her notes, guarding the ink-stained page like it might bite.

Cedric eyed the dense diagrams and heavy translations. "What are you working on?"

"Just schoolwork," she said coolly.

"Right," he said, nodding too fast. "Very intense schoolwork."

She didn't respond.

He hesitated, shifting on his feet. "Does your egg... scream, too?"

Aleksandra blinked at him slowly. Idiot, she thought.

"Yes," she said aloud, dry as snowfall.

"I mean, I figured it wasn't just mine, but... Merlin, I can't make heads or tails of it. What kind of clue is that?" He gave a strained little laugh. "Feels like it's trying to kill me."

Aleksandra didn't laugh. She just stared at him until the silence got uncomfortable.

Then, flatly, she said, "If I were you, Diggory, I'd try a change of scenery."

Cedric frowned. "Scenery?"

She sighed and finally uncrossed her arms, brushing an ink-smudge from her palm. "Something a little more... wet."

For a second, Cedric stared at her like she was speaking Parseltongue.

Then, as if a bell rang in the space between them, his eyes widened. "Oh. Oh."

He stood up straighter. "That's—Zielińska, thank you."

"I didn't tell you anything."

"Of course not."

And with that, he turned on his heel and bolted out of the library like she'd handed him a map to the Holy Grail.

Aleksandra blinked after him.

"...Odd boy," she muttered.

Then she turned back to her book and, without missing a beat, returned to her search.

The ink on her page was still wet. The idea in her mind — the one she'd started sketching out in the margins — still whispered.

Shell Binding.
Old magic. Elemental. Quiet.

And hers alone.