🐍🐦‍⬛

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝑃𝑅𝑂𝐿𝑂𝐺𝑈𝐸] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

The Great Hall
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
- Scottish Highlands
( September 1st, 1991. )

𝓣he Great Hall was alive with wonder. Candles floated high above the endless sea of first-years, their flickering light casting warm shadows on the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the starry night sky. The long tables were laden with platters of food, the aroma of roast chicken and pumpkin juice filling the air.

Harry Potter, still reeling from his Sorting, sat between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, trying to take it all in.

"Blimey," Ron muttered through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, his gaze darting across the Hall. "I can't believe we get to eat like this every day. It's brilliant."

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't bother to correct him, too busy scanning the other tables as though cataloging every face and every detail. Harry, however, wasn't focused on the food or the conversation. His eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table.

There she sat, not far from Draco Malfoy, but notably apart in her demeanor. Her hair, pale as moonlight, was a striking contrast to the deep green of her robes, and it fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She wasn't talking like the others, her expression calm, almost detached, as if she were watching the feast from behind an invisible glass wall.

"Who's that?" Harry asked suddenly, leaning toward Ron.

Ron followed his gaze to the Slytherin table and grimaced. "One of the Malfoys' lot, probably. Look at her-got that same superior look, hasn't she?"

Harry remembered his first interaction with Draco Malfoy, only a hour or so ago. Right outside of the Great Hall before the sorting ceremony. "She doesn't seem like Malfoy," Harry said quietly. It was true-though her hair was the same icy platinum, her features were softer, her brown eyes not cold like Draco's, but guarded, almost hesitant.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, curious. "I think that's Esmeralda Lestrange," she said matter-of-factly, lowering her voice on the surname. "She's Rabastan Lestrange's daughter."

Harry frowned. "Lestrange?" He questioned, unsure of what the surname meant. Everything in this world was like a foreign language to him.

Hermione nodded, her tone turning cautious. "You know... The Sacred Twenty Eight, Death Eater. Follower of you know who. Her family's infamous."

"So what's she doing here?" Harry asked, his curiosity growing despite the weight of the name.

"The Malfoys probably took her in after the war," Hermione said.

Ron shrugged. "She's probably just as bad as they are."

Harry didn't reply. He watched Esme for another moment as she reached for a goblet, her movements graceful and deliberate. She didn't seem 'bad' to him just. . . different. She must have felt his gaze because she suddenly looked up, her brown eyes meeting his across the hall. She didn't smile, but something in her expression softened.

Harry quickly looked down, his ears burning. "She may be nice."

Ron shrugged. "Ha! A Slytherin? Oh Harry, you're so naive. But you'll see. Slytherins are all the same."

But Harry wasn't so sure. Something about Esme Lestrange didn't fit the stories Hermione and Ron seemed so quick to believe. And for reasons he couldn't yet explain, he found himself wanting to know more.

The Library
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
- Scottish Highlands
( October, 1991. )

𝓣he library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of parchment or the soft scrape of a chair against the stone floor. Sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows, casting golden streaks across rows of bookshelves. Harry sat at a table with Hermione and Ron, a half-hearted attempt at studying underway. Hermione was diligently reading and scribbling down words to her essay, while Ron toyed with a broken quill, clearly uninterested in the essay they were meant to be writing.

Harry wasn't paying attention to either of them. His eyes kept drifting to the far side of the library, where Esme Lestrange sat alone at a small table, surrounded by a pile of books. Her pale hair caught the sunlight like strands of silver, and she was scribbling something in a notebook with precise, deliberate strokes.

"She's sitting alone," Harry said softly, almost to himself.

Hermione glanced up from her book, following his gaze. "She's always alone," she said matter-of-factly before returning to her reading.

Ron made a face. "Probably because she wants to be. I wouldn't bother with her, Harry. She's a Slytherin-and a Lestrange. You don't get much worse than that."

Harry frowned, his gaze lingering on Esme. He didn't see malice in her solitude-only quiet, and perhaps something else. Loneliness, maybe? Either way, he couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't as bad as everyone seemed to think.

Ignoring Ron's groan and Hermione's raised eyebrows, Harry stood abruptly. "I'm going to talk to her."

"What?" Ron hissed, sitting up straight. "Why would you do that?"

"Harry, I really don't think-" Hermione began, but Harry was already walking away.

As he approached, Esme didn't look up. Her quill moved steadily across the parchment, her concentration unbroken. Harry hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat softly.

"Hi," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Esme looked up, her brown eyes meeting his. Up close, they were warmer than he'd expected, though still guarded. For a moment, she didn't say anything, just studied him with a faint tilt of her head.

"Hi," she said finally, her voice quiet but clear.

"I'm Harry," he said, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "Harry Potter."

"I know who you are," she said, her expression unreadable. She let out a breath, as if she realized that perhaps that was rude and she hadn't yet told him her name. "I'm Esme." She paused for a moment, as if ashamed, "Esme Lestrange."

"It's lovely to meet you Esme." he gestured to the empty seat across from her. "Do you mind if I sit?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the chair and then back to him. For a moment, Harry thought she might say no, but then she gave a small nod.

"Sure," she said, setting her quill down.

Harry sat, feeling Hermione and Ron's eyes burning into the back of his head from across the library. But as Esme looked at him, curiosity faintly visible behind her reserved demeanor, he found that he didn't really care.

Harry settled into the seat across from Esme, unsure what to say next. The quiet between them felt strangely comfortable, like there was no pressure to fill it. Esme looked down at the table, her hands playing with the edges of her open journal, and Harry glanced at it without thinking.

The page was filled with delicate sketches, some of flowers, others of insects, but it was the large, detailed drawing of a beetle that caught his eye. It was so precise, so carefully done, that it almost looked like it might crawl off the page.

"Is that a beetle?" Harry asked, his finger pointing to the drawing.

Esme blinked and looked at him, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh, yes. It's a Gryllus campestris-field cricket beetle."

Harry raised an eyebrow, interested despite himself. "A field cricket beetle? I've never heard of it."

Esme's eyes lit up with a quiet enthusiasm. "It's not very well known outside of its habitat, but it's fascinating. They're nocturnal, and their wings are so delicate they almost look like paper. They make this soft, clicking sound when they fly-like a secret signal to the other beetles."

Harry listened, intrigued, as Esme continued, her voice soft and almost hypnotic. "They also have this unusual habit of hiding in the roots of plants during the day. They create tiny tunnels that only they know about. It's like a hidden world under the ground."

As she spoke, her hands moved over her journal, tracing the lines of the beetle's body with a tenderness that made Harry realize just how much she cared about it-and the world she was describing. There was an odd beauty in the way she spoke about something so small, and Harry found himself captivated by the way her passion for it made her seem so much more alive. It was an enthusiasm he hadn't expected from someone so reserved, and it was kind of... endearing.

"And you just-" Harry paused, still trying to wrap his head around the idea, "you just... draw bugs?"

Esme nodded, looking at him with an expression that almost seemed shy. "Yes, I suppose I do. I find them... interesting. They're always doing something, even if we don't see it. I think they're quite misunderstood."

Harry chuckled softly. "Well, I never thought I'd talk to anyone about bugs."

She gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Most people don't."

There was a brief silence, the only sound between them the soft scratch of Harry's pen against parchment as he absentmindedly doodled. Harry felt at ease, like there was no rush, no expectation to say anything. And for the first time in a while, he didn't mind the quiet.

Finally, he noticed that time had passed more quickly than he realized. He glanced toward Hermione and Ron, who were still watching from their table, their curiosity obvious even from this distance.

"I should probably get back to them," Harry said reluctantly, standing up.

Esme nodded, her gaze still on her journal. "Of course."

Harry lingered for a moment, unsure if he should say anything else, but then he simply smiled. "It was nice talking to you, Esme."

Her lips twitched into a small, shy smile as she glanced up at him. "You too, Harry."

With one last glance at the beetle drawing on her journal, Harry made his way back to Hermione and Ron.

As Harry approached the table, his smile still lingering, Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, clearly eager for details. "So? What was she like?"

Harry shrugged, his grin widening. "Did you know there's a beetle whose wings are so thin, they're like parchment?"

Hermione blinked, clearly caught off guard. "A beetle? What-why would you-?"

"She told me about it," Harry said, his smile more at ease now. "It's called a Gryllus campestris. She had a whole journal full of drawings of bugs, and she knew everything about them."

Ron's face twisted in mild confusion. "Bugs? What's so fascinating about bugs, Harry?"

Harry leaned in a bit, clearly more animated now. "It's not just bugs, Ron. She... she really cares about them. The beetle, for example, makes this soft clicking sound when it flies. Like a secret signal. And it hides in the roots of plants during the day. It's pretty interesting, actually."

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, her expression thoughtful. "So, she likes bugs... and draws them?"

"Yeah," Harry said, still smiling. "She seemed... nice, actually. Quiet, but nice."

Ron snorted. "You're really going on about bugs now, aren't you?"

Harry shrugged again, still feeling that odd warmth from the conversation with Esme. "I guess so. It was just-well, different."

Hermione's expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her. "I think that's kind of... sweet, Harry."

Harry nodded, his gaze distant for a moment as he thought back to her shy smile, the way her eyes had lit up when she talked about the beetle. "Yeah. I think I quite like her."

Ron rolled his eyes with a muttered "she's a Slytherin," but Hermione just smiled, albeit with a hint of caution. "Just be careful, Harry. Remember her last name."