CHAPTER NINE

Nimah's fingers twitched with an almost restless energy. It was the same pull she'd felt since she was a child—the craving to fly through the skies on her broom or to execute the perfect prank. But now, the two desires felt worlds apart. One was still within her grasp, while the other...

The other was a memory.

Even as she thought about pranking, something that had always been second nature to her, Nimah hesitated. Could she still do it? Was it even worth the effort if it didn't come with the reckless joy she used to feel?

She found herself grappling with these questions for days, seeking advice from anyone—or anything—that might have answers. She questioned the portraits that lined the hallways, the ghosts that drifted silently through Hogwarts. But they all gave her the same maddeningly vague response: What do you want to do?

Before the injury, Nimah had never paused to ask herself such things. She just did—without thought, without hesitation, and certainly without calculating the pros and cons. Now, every choice felt like a balancing act, and the constant self-reflection was wearing her thin.

Maybe this newfound caution was supposed to be a good thing, a sign of growth, but to Nimah, it felt suffocating.

She didn't understand how Fred managed it, how he always balanced reason with risk. He had always been the rational one between her, him, and James. He was the one who ensured their antics didn't spiral out of control, the one who often saved their skins when their pranks bordered on catastrophe.

"I don't see why it matters," came a snide, familiar voice. Peeves, floating lazily above her, had an unmistakable air of mischief. "Pranking should be somethin' you don't think with your head."

"And what are we supposed to use then? Our toes?" Nimah shot back, irritation flaring.

Peeves snickered, his wide grin full of mockery. "You used to be fun when you pulled pranks. Now you're boring." He gave her a pointed look before zipping off down the corridor, laughing to himself.

Nimah bristled. She knew better than to let Peeves' words get under her skin, but something about the way he said it struck a nerve. She clenched her fists, half considering turning the castle upside down to find and retaliate against him. Or maybe she'd enlist the Bloody Baron to deal with him instead.

After a few moments of internal debate, Nimah groaned, the frustration building into a roar in her head. Fine. You win, Peeves. The idea of a prank began to form, almost instinctively.

"Reasoning is overrated anyway," she muttered to herself, already planning what supplies she would need and where to find them.

But even as she allowed herself the escape of scheming, there was a hole inside her that pranks couldn't fill. Quidditch had been her everything—the thing that made her feel alive, the thing that gave her a purpose. Now, without it, she felt adrift, struggling to channel the pent-up energy that used to find an outlet on the pitch.

At her worst moments, Nimah would sit alone with her bat in hand, the familiar weight and sandalwood scent tugging at her heart. It was almost worse than not holding it at all. Her grip would tighten, her chest constricting as a flood of memories rushed over her—the rush of the wind, the thrill of a goal, the roar of the crowd.

And then, reality would come crashing down.

"You can't do it anymore, Nimah Black," she whispered, the words bitter and sharp on her tongue. "Stop thinking about it." Her voice cracked as she forced the thoughts away, tears threatening to spill over.

She had to resist the temptation.

It was in moments like these that she wished, more than anything, to turn back time. She knew it was pointless, even dangerous, to dwell on what-ifs. But still, the thought nagged at her. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else.

Someone else.

Her mind immediately landed on Fred.

She swallowed hard, the thought of Fred in her place twisting her stomach into painful knots. The idea of him enduring what she was going through—a life tethered to limits and haunted by dreams that could no longer take flight—was unbearable. As much as she struggled with her own frustration and heartbreak, one truth stood unshaken: if Fred had been the one to fall, she would have crumbled under the weight of it.

Fred had always been a constant in her life, a steady presence in her chaos. He was the one who could pull her back from the edge with a single quip or a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The thought of him lost in the suffocating spiral she currently lived in made her chest ache. She wouldn't have wished this on her worst enemy, let alone on Fred.

Yet, it was that very certainty—that deep, unwavering relief it hadn't been him—that left her feeling even more guilty. If she wouldn't wish it on him, then why did it still feel so impossibly cruel that it had been her? Why couldn't she just move forward without carrying the bitterness of it all?

She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes as the weight of her thoughts bore down on her. Fred didn't deserve her resentment, and yet she couldn't entirely let go of the "what-ifs." But for now, at least, she knew one thing: she could bear her own pain if it meant protecting him from it.

She swallowed hard, the thought of Fred in her place twisting her stomach into painful knots. The idea of him enduring what she was going through—a life tethered to limits and haunted by dreams that could no longer take flight—was unbearable.

As much as she struggled with her own frustration and heartbreak, one truth stood unshaken: if Fred had been the one to fall, she would have crumbled under the weight of it.