ONE.    Headfirst (Into the abyss)

I can't give you promises;
I still need my hands.

The picket fences, the pomegranates,
the girl rattling her nails
in our truck.

I'm sorry I can't give you want.

—    Andy Pérez, "Black Dog"

                                                                           𝓣he Slytherin common room at dawn was a place of quiet transformation. The lake above the windows rippled faintly, casting shadows that swayed and curled across the dark stone walls like ghosts just waking from slumber. The air was cold and sharp, the kind that clung to the edges of Celine Faelthorne's robes as she moved through the room, her steps soft against the flagstone floor. She liked it this way—still and untouchable, before the world began to stir.

Outside, the castle groaned awake. The sound of footsteps echoed faintly from distant halls, the rhythm of lives beginning to overlap once more. Celine reached for her bag, its weight familiar, and slid the strap over her shoulder. The room's emerald glow washed over her hands as she checked the contents—parchment, ink, a thin stack of books. Her fingers brushed the corner of a battered leather-bound volume, and she paused, feeling its frayed edge before tucking it deeper into the bag.

Across the room, a faint cough broke the silence. Eira, curled up on the worn velvet sofa, stirred in her sleep, her dark curls spilling over her face. Celine glanced at her briefly but said nothing, her attention already returning to the frost-laced window. The world outside was white and blinding, a sheet of snow stretched thin over the Forbidden Forest, but here, beneath the lake, the light seemed softer, fractured by the water above.

"Up already?"

The voice came from behind her, low and languid. Evan Rosier was sprawled in an armchair near the fireplace, his head tilted back as though he'd been watching her for longer than he cared to admit. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, its ember faint against the dim light.

Celine barely looked at him. "You're up too," she replied simply, adjusting the strap of her bag. "And smoking."

Evan smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that lazy, infuriating way he'd perfected. He didn't bother defending himself; he never did despite knowing her distaste for the smell of cigarettes (her father used to smoke them constantly, their acrid scent woven into her earliest memories of late nights and raised voices, of heavy silences broken only by the scrape of a match against stone). Evan knew this, of course—he knew everything that annoyed her, and he wielded that knowledge with a casual cruelty that always stopped just short of malicious.

"And yet you're still talking to me," he said, flicking ash into a conjured glass dish on the armrest. "Admit it, Cee. You'd miss me if I wasn't here to ruin your mornings."

Celine tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, finally turning fully toward him. The room was empty apart from them, the faint green glow from the lake above casting shifting patterns over the stone walls. She could feel his gaze, heavy and amused, lingering on her in that way he always did—as though she were some sort of puzzle he had all the time in the world to figure out.

"Ruin implies importance," she said flatly. Her voice was calm, measured, the words landing with surgical precision. "You're more of an inconvenience."

Evan let out a low chuckle, tipping his head back against the chair. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, casting half his face in shadow. "An inconvenience, is it? How cruel. I'd think by now you'd be grateful for my company. What else would you do without me here, silently judging your every move?"

Celine tilted her head slightly, her expression unchanging. "Enjoy my morning."

"Liar." His grin widened, sharp and teasing, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—something quieter, more thoughtful, that he'd never admit to. "I bet you'd get bored out of your mind without me to keep you sharp. You'd start arguing with the merfolk, or worse, talking to Crouch."

At that, Celine allowed herself the faintest ghost of a smile, a concession so brief it could have been imagined. "Don't flatter yourself, Rosier," she said, turning back toward the door. "The river trolls are far more tolerable."

"Careful, Cee. Your sense of humor's showing. Don't let anyone in the castle hear it."

Celine rolled her eyes, the motion so slight it was almost imperceptible. "Lucky for you, Rosier, I save all my best material for your benefit."

Evan grinned, the kind of grin that had gotten him out of trouble more times than it should have. "And here I thought you were doing charity work. Keeping me entertained before the rest of the world wakes up."

"If keeping you entertained counts as charity, I'd rather make a donation to the river trolls," she shot back, brushing past him with a deliberate air of dismissal.

Eira, still curled on the couch with a blanket draped around her shoulders, let out a muffled laugh. "She's got a point, Evan. You're hardly worth the effort."

"Et tu, Eira?" Evan placed a hand over his chest as if physically wounded. "The betrayal. Here I thought I was the lifeblood of this common room."

"You're the lifeblood of flobberworms," Celine grumbled, barely glancing back at him as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

Evan laughed, low and genuine, as she walked away. "If you ever decide to give up on your family legacy, Cee, you could make a killing in comedy."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said without turning around, letting the door swing shut behind her.

As she stepped through the portrait hole, she heard Eira ask, "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

"She wouldn't know what to do with herself if I did."

The corridors of Hogwarts had a particular kind of stillness in the early morning, just before the castle woke in full. The stones, ancient and heavy, seemed to hum faintly with the lives they'd absorbed over centuries, the sound barely audible but always present if one cared to listen. Celine Faelthorne didn't stop to listen. Her steps were soft but deliberate, the leather soles of her shoes whispering against the frost-bitten floor as she moved through the hall, passing suits of armor that stood silent in their watch.

The castle felt alive in its coldness. A draft swept through from somewhere unknown, ruffling the hem of her robes as she adjusted her bag. She liked the mornings—the quiet, the solitude, the way she could feel untouchable if only for an hour. It wasn't escape, not exactly. She didn't believe in escape. It was more akin to a suspension, for an genuine escape was near to impossible at a school such as Hogwarts.

But it wasn't hers alone today. Voices—low, brash, and unmistakably Gryffindor—spilled into the corridor like a disruption, breaking the castle's calm rhythm. She didn't have to look to know the source. Gryffindors. It was always the Gryffindors.

She kept her pace steady as the figures turned the corner. James Potter, loud and golden even in the dim light, his hair a mess of defiance and carelessness. Behind him, Sirius Black moved with an ease that bordered on arrogance, his robes undone and his tie already loose despite the early hour. Their voices filled the hall, spilling over its quiet like a large domino.

"Faelthorne," James greeted, the grin on his face already set like a weapon. "Up early, are we? Someone's got to prepare the Slytherin propaganda before breakfast, I suppose."

"Faelthorne," James greeted, the grin on his face already set like a weapon, like routine for when he turned the corner and encountered a sliver of green. "Up early, are we? Someone's got to prepare the Slytherin propaganda before breakfast, I suppose."

Celine didn't break her stride. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction as she answered, her voice calm and deliberate. "Someone's got to uphold standards, Potter. Clearly, it isn't you."

Sirius's laugh was low and sharp, cutting through the cold air. He slowed, letting James pull ahead as his attention lingered on her. "What's the rush, Faelthorne?" he drawled, his voice carrying the lazy charm that annoyed her more than it should. "Planning your next coup for the Slytherin throne?"

"No need," she replied smoothly, her eyes cutting to his. "Unlike you, I don't have to fight for relevance every morning."

Sirius smirked, leaning slightly closer as he walked, matching her pace, his movements effortless, unhurried. "And yet here you are, speaking with me before breakfast. Makes me wonder what standards you're really upholding."

Celine stopped, just briefly, and turned enough to face him fully. "Certainly not yours," she replied softly, her tone carrying the weight of something heavier, sharper, that lingered even after the words were spoken.

For a moment, Sirius didn't answer. He held her gaze, the smirk on his face faltering into something quieter, something almost curious. Then James called his name, his voice echoing from further down the hall, breaking the tension like a snapped thread.

"Try not to disappoint anyone today, Faelthorne," Sirius said finally, stepping back. His grin returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I imagine that's already a family tradition."

The insult hit like a flicker of flame, but Celine didn't let it show. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smile on her lips as she answered, "You'd know all about dissapointment, wouldn't you, Black? How's that working out for you?"

Sirius froze for a fraction of a second, his smirk tightening before he turned to follow James. "See you in class, Faelthorne," he said over his shoulder, his voice light but the edge unmistakable.

As they disappeared around the corner, Celine adjusted the strap of her bag and continued down the hall, her expression unreadable. But her fingers pressed against the leather just a little harder than before.

The halls were already filling with the usual buzz, but Celine walked with a quiet detachment, her thoughts circling like the cold draft that always seemed to find its way through the castle. She was used to the weight of the Faelthorne name, its expectations woven into every part of her life—like an unspoken contract she'd signed before she could even remember.

People thought they knew her. The Faelthornes were a breed of their own—always at the top, always the standard. Sometimes, she almost believed it. Almost.

She wasn't like the others, and that had always been enough. Her place in the castle, in the world—she understood it, more than anyone cared to realize. And yet, there were days like this when the edges of the walls she'd built felt like they were closing in. Not out of weakness, but out of something more unsettling: the nagging sense that the world around her had long decided who she was before she'd had the chance to decide for herself.

She stopped in front of a window, the early sunlight casting its pale glow on the cold stone beneath her feet. It would pass. They all did. The days, the people, the expectations. They slipped through her fingers, like the fine dust of centuries-old parchment.

Celine slid into her seat at the Slytherin table, her bag thudding lightly against the floor as she set it down. A few half-hearted hellos and the usual back-and-forth of clattering silverware filled the air. She grabbed a piece of toast, the warm scent of it mixing with the rich aroma of coffee from the staff's table at the far end.

"Did you hear about McGonagall's face when she saw the state of the Charms classroom this morning?"

Celine turned slightly to find Mina Bulstrode beside her, already halfway through her own breakfast, a mix of annoyance and amusement crossing her face.

Celine tilted her head, the corners of her lips pulling up ever so slightly. "Thought that was her permanent expression," she said, breaking off a piece of toast. "Did she manage to look any more disapproving than usual?"

Mina rolled her eyes. "Apparently, even she has a limit. You'd think people would know better than to spill ink all over the desks, but no, they never learn."

Celine's gaze flickered over to the Gryffindor table, where a group of them were laughing—loudly, as usual. She found herself not caring in the slightest about whatever their latest chaos was.

"What's the word on today's Potions essay?" Mina asked, leaning in a little.

Celine sighed, the usual mix of annoyance and begrudging acceptance that came with anything involving Professor Slughorn. "It's simple enough. You mix this, wait for that—easy. As long as we don't end up with another explosion in class, it'll be fine."

Mina shot her a dry look. "Your confidence is so reassuring, really."

"Well, someone has to keep you from losing your head." She tapped the side of Mina's forehead, smiling softly. Celine's eyes drifted to the Ravenclaw table, where a small cluster of students were exchanging notes. She'd have to start reviewing the Potions theory later, maybe after she sorted out the Charms assignment.

Before Mina could respond, a voice cut through the conversation with its usual brashness.

"Not another lecture on potion-making, please," came Laurent Pucey's voice, followed by his smug grin. He took a seat beside Celine, his plate full.

"I'm not lecturing, just stating facts," she replied dryly, looking at him only out of the corner of her eye.

Laurent leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, eyeing her with that half-amused, half-annoyed expression that never seemed to leave his face. "You're not exactly known for stating anything without making it sound like a lecture."

"That's because I'm always right." Celine didn't even look at him as she said it, still staring at her toast with that same cool detachment she had perfected over the years.

"True," Laurent said with a grin. "Which is what makes you so much fun to be around."

Mina rolled her eyes at them both, her attention already returning to her breakfast.