╰┈➤ ❝[𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝟙𝟞]❞࿐ ˊˎ-
˚.⃗.[ʜᴏɢsᴍᴇᴀᴅᴇ ɪɴ sᴘʀɪɴɢ]𑁍ࠜೄ ˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Hogsmeade
( March, 1994. )

                    𝓣he last remnants of snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the cobbled streets, melting into sluggish rivulets that trickled between the uneven stones. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and chimney smoke, a stark contrast to the heavy winter that had kept them cloistered inside for months. Overhead, the sky was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of cloud, the promise of spring just beginning to edge its way into the season.

Esme walked alongside the familiar group of Slytherins, her hands tucked into the pockets of her cloak as they strolled through Hogsmeade. The village bustled with students, their voices rising in an excited hum, the occasional peal of laughter cutting through the air. It was one of the first truly bearable weekends in months, and everyone seemed eager to take advantage of it.

Draco walked ahead, deep in conversation with Blaise, gesturing sharply as he spoke, his pale hair catching the weak sunlight. Pansy had her arm looped through Daphne's, the two of them whispering in hushed tones, while Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind, muttering about how hungry they were. Theo walked beside Esme, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his sharp eyes flicking across the shopfronts.

As they passed Honeydukes, a small crowd had gathered outside, admiring the vibrant display of newly stocked Fizzing Whizzbees. Theo nudged Esme lightly with his elbow, drawing her attention.

"Not in the mood for sweets, Lestrange?" he asked, his brow arched in amusement.

Esme glanced at the colorful display but merely shrugged. "Not particularly."

"That's because she's never in the mood for anything fun," Pansy teased, her smirk sharp as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder.

Esme rolled her eyes but didn't bother responding. She wasn't sure what was more exhausting-Pansy's constant remarks or the energy it took to ignore them.

The group continued on toward the Three Broomsticks, their boots clicking against the damp stone. The warmth of the pub enveloped them as they stepped inside, a welcome relief from the lingering chill. The scent of butterbeer, spiced cider, and roasted nuts filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses.

Madam Rosmerta bustled behind the bar, expertly balancing a tray of drinks while exchanging pleasantries with a group of older students near the fireplace. The pub was packed, students crowded around tables, their faces flushed from the warmth and the excitement of the outing.

Blaise was the first to speak once they found a table near the window. "Firewhiskey?" he suggested, though his tone was more amused than serious.

Theo leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Do you want McGonagall to skin us alive?"

Draco scoffed. "You lot are all cowards."

"You say that as if Madam Rosmerta wouldn't throw us out in an instant," Theo shot back, reaching for a menu.

Esme, silent until now, let out a quiet huff of amusement before sinking into her seat across from Draco. She propped her chin on her hand, absently tracing patterns on the wooden table as the conversation swirled around her.

The warmth of the pub, the chatter of her housemates, the golden glow of lanterns flickering against the dark wood-it was comfortable. Familiar. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply exist in the moment, to be just another student on a Hogsmeade weekend, indulging in simple pleasures.

And yet, despite the ease of it all, something heavy lingered in the back of her mind.

She should have felt lighter.

So why didn't she?

As the butterbeers arrived at their table, golden foam spilling slightly over the rims, the conversation drifted between mundane topics-Professor Snape's latest potions essay, the upcoming Quidditch matches, the ongoing feud between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It was easy, effortless, the kind of conversation that required no real thought.

But then, with the casual sharpness only he could manage, Blaise glanced at Esme over his mug and smirked.

"I have to admit," he mused, fingers tapping idly against the wood, "I'm surprised you actually came with us, Lestrange."

Draco, who had been mid-sip, set his drink down with a quiet clink and turned his gaze to Esme. The others followed suit, curiosity flickering in their expressions. Pansy, in particular, arched a brow, as if she, too, had been wondering the same thing.

Esme blinked, caught off guard by the statement. She had known, of course, that her presence would seem unusual-she had spent so much of the school year avoiding them, after all. But to hear it spoken aloud was something else entirely.

She reached for her own butterbeer, taking a slow sip before responding, "I suppose I needed a break."

Theo tilted his head. "A break from what, exactly?"

Esme didn't answer immediately. The truth was complicated. She needed a break from thinking, from feeling like she was balancing on a tightrope between two vastly different worlds. A break from the weight of it all. But saying that aloud would invite even more questions, and she wasn't in the mood to offer explanations.

Instead, she shrugged lightly. "Everything."

Daphne scoffed, but there wasn't any real bite behind it. "And yet you spend all your time with them."

There it was.

She had been waiting for someone to bring it up, to question the shift in her loyalties. It was no secret that she had been seen with Harry, Ron, and Hermione more than with any of her housemates. It was the thing that set her apart now-the quiet rift that had been growing between her and the Slytherins she had once considered her closest friends.

Esme met Draco's gaze, something unreadable passing between them.

"And what if I do?" she asked, tone measured.

Pansy made a noise of disbelief. "Oh, please. You don't actually enjoy spending time with Potter and his little fan club, do you?"

Esme didn't answer immediately. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, letting her fingers trace the condensation on her glass.

"I don't see why it matters," she said finally. "I can spend time with whoever I want."

"Of course you can." Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "We're just saying it's... unexpected." His smirk widened slightly. "You're not choosing them over us, are you?"

Esme hesitated. Because, really, what was she doing?

Before she could form an answer, Draco spoke. "It doesn't matter," he said, cutting off any further discussion. His tone was clipped, final. "She's here now, isn't she?"

There was something pointed in the way he said it, something Esme couldn't quite place. But whatever it was, it silenced the conversation.

Pansy rolled her eyes but didn't press further, turning back to Daphne. The tension eased, the moment passing, and soon enough, the conversation returned to lighter topics.

Esme exhaled quietly, grateful for the shift. But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that the scrutiny wasn't over-that this was only the beginning of the questions, the doubts, the wondering where exactly she belonged.

The group finished their butterbeers, and soon enough, they were standing and stretching in the cool spring air. The weather had shifted, but the chill hadn't fully left the day. It felt like that strange time between seasons-fresh, but not yet warm enough to be comfortable.

Esme tugged her scarf a little tighter around her neck, half-listening as Draco began organizing the group. "We should head to Zonko's," he said with his usual, confident tone. "Pick up a few new tricks."

"Or we could head to Honeydukes instead," Pansy chimed in, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder, eyeing the sweets shop longingly.

Draco's eyes narrowed, amused but dismissive. "Pansy, we're not spending the afternoon eating candy. We're here to get something worthwhile."

Pansy rolled her eyes but said nothing more. Esme hung back slightly, scanning the group with a distant gaze. It wasn't that she didn't want to be with them-it was more like she never really fit with them. Sure, she was a Slytherin. But she wasn't like them in so many ways, and as the months had worn on, it had become harder to ignore that fact.

As the group made their way down the cobblestone street, chatting about nothing in particular, Theo fell into step beside her.

"Are you alright?" he asked in his usual quiet manner. Theo wasn't the type to engage in conversation unless he had something important to say, but there was a certain warmth in his voice now that made Esme look up.

She nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

"You sure?" he pressed, his sharp eyes scanning her face for any signs of distress.

Esme hesitated but then gave him a small nod. "I'm fine, really. Just... trying to figure out what I'm doing here."

Theo gave her a sideways glance but didn't push. "I get that. Sometimes I wonder if any of us really know."

Esme laughed softly at that, the tension between her and the group easing slightly. She appreciated Theo in a way she couldn't quite explain. He was never too much, never overbearing. But there was a quiet intelligence about him, a kind of knowing that made him seem older than the rest of them.

Before they could talk more, Draco called out from the front of the group. "Hurry up, will you? Zonko's is this way!"

Esme nodded at Theo and quickened her pace to catch up. When she did, Blaise fell into step beside her.

"You're awfully quiet today," he said, raising an eyebrow. His voice was laced with a hint of teasing, but there was a bit of genuine curiosity beneath it.

"I suppose I'm just thinking," she said again, using the same excuse she had given to Theo, though this time it felt less like a lie and more like an explanation. She really was thinking.

Blaise seemed satisfied with the answer for now, but she could feel his eyes on her occasionally, watching. He was perceptive in a way that made her a little uncomfortable.

Eventually, they reached Zonko's, the shop buzzing with the usual mix of students picking out tricks and treats. Esme lingered near the back of the shop, her fingers running along the colorful boxes and prank candies. There was a small part of her that did enjoy this side of the Slytherins, their carefree nature when they were away from school pressures.

As the group split off to pick out their purchases, Esme found herself standing near the counter, inspecting a strange set of fireworks that promised an explosive display. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with thick glasses, gave her a curious glance but didn't say anything.

"I think Draco's right," Millicent suddenly said, appearing beside her. "Zonko's is the only decent place here. Honeydukes is for kids."

Esme turned to her, offering a small, polite smile. "Yeah. I suppose so."

Millicent nodded, clearly not waiting for an actual conversation. She looked over at the rest of the group, already absorbed in their purchases. "You should come with us more often." She said, though it sounded more like a demand than an invitation. "We always have a good time. Too bad you're so attached to those Gryffindors."

Esme stiffened slightly but masked it with a shrug. "I don't see why they matter right now," she said, more coldly than she intended.

Millicent raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the shift in her tone but not willing to push further. "Sure. Whatever you say."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of muted conversations, mild discomfort, and the occasional burst of laughter from the group as they tried out their new items. But Esme remained a little distant, even though they were technically all together. She had a sense of being on the outside, looking in, even while she was right there beside them.

By the time the group was heading back to Hogwarts, the sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting the streets of Hogsmeade in soft orange light. The chill in the air had become sharper, but Esme barely noticed. She was lost in thought, reflecting on the strange mixture of feelings she had been experiencing lately. When she was with the Slytherins... well, they were there, but Esme couldn't shake the feeling that she was merely playing a role in a story that wasn't quite hers to tell.

The walk back to the castle was quiet, the group spreading out as they made their way toward the gates. Draco, of course, walked ahead, while Blaise and Theo lagged behind, talking about something that Esme couldn't quite hear.

When they finally arrived back at Hogwarts, Esme's thoughts were still swirling. She barely noticed Draco as he moved ahead of her, his steps brisk and confident. Instead, she turned her head to look out at the lightly snow-covered grounds, bits of bright green grass peeking out from beneath. Despite the spring air, the season had left its mark, the landscape still holding onto the memory of winter.

It felt, in a way, like her life. In between seasons, between identities, unsure of which direction to go.

It was only when she walked inside the castle and heard Draco's voice calling out to her that she snapped back to reality.

"Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there all day?" he called, not waiting for an answer before disappearing into the entrance hall.

Esme hesitated for a moment, her foot still poised on the stone floor, listening to the echo of Draco's words as they lingered in the air. The warmth of the castle beckoned, but something about the day-something about the way her thoughts had twisted and tangled in the last few hours-pulled her in the opposite direction.

She glanced over at the entrance hall, where Draco and the others had already disappeared up the grand staircase, their voices muffled as they continued their conversation. It would be so easy to follow them, to just fall in line and pretend she was fully part of their world.

But she didn't want that, not today. Not anymore.

With a quiet sigh, Esme turned and walked toward the grand doors that led to the outside world. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, the cold air greeting her like a slap to the face as she made her way toward Hagrid's hut. It wasn't that she didn't want to be with Draco or the others-it was just... something inside her kept pulling her back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. To the people who had somehow made her feel less like an outsider.

It wasn't that the Slytherins didn't accept her-they did, in their own way. But there was something more comfortable about Harry, Ron, and Hermione-something that made her feel seen, even when she didn't feel like she belonged anywhere.

The path to Hagrid's hut was quiet, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and the sharp tang of the fading snow. Her boots crunched against the hard-packed ground as she walked, the silence of the grounds adding weight to the heavy thoughts swirling in her mind. She wondered if the others noticed when she wasn't with them. If they cared at all, or if it was just easier to keep her around when it suited them.

By the time she reached the familiar little hut, the warmth from inside made her shiver with anticipation. She hesitated just before knocking, taking a moment to steady her breath and gather her thoughts. When she finally did tap softly on the door, it creaked open almost immediately.

Esme raised her hand to knock again, but before she could, the door creaked open slowly. Hagrid's face appeared in the doorway, his usually warm, welcoming expression replaced with a look that made her stomach drop. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying, and there was a heaviness to his posture that immediately sent a chill through her.

"Miss Lestrange," Hagrid said softly, his voice unusually quiet. "What brings you out here, lass?"

Esme felt her heart ache as she glanced at his face, the sorrow written all over it. "Hagrid, what's wrong?" she asked, stepping forward, the cold air still hanging around her like a heavy cloak.

Hagrid stepped back to let her in, a sigh escaping his lips. "Come on in, girl. It's not good news."

As Esme entered, she noticed Harry and Ron sitting quietly at the table, their faces unusually still, almost like they were holding their breath. Hermione sat nearby, her face blotchy, as if she'd been crying. The air in the hut was thick with tension, the crackling of the fire offering the only sound for a moment.

Esme's heart twisted. She took in the scene in front of her, the sorrow and the silence, and she felt a deep sense of dread creep up her spine. "What happened?" she asked, her voice gentle but urgent. She walked further into the room, her eyes locking with Hermione's, the traces of tears still evident on her cheeks.

Hagrid let out a long, heavy breath and leaned against the wall. "The trial didn't go well, Esmeralda. Buckbeak..." His voice faltered, and he quickly cleared his throat. "-Buckbeak's been sentenced to death."

Esme's breath caught in her throat. "No..." Her voice cracked with disbelief as she looked around at her friends, their expressions mirroring the shock and grief she felt. Her thoughts were clouded by anger and confusion, but one thing was clear-she couldn't stand to see Hagrid so devastated.

"This is all my father's fault," she said suddenly, her voice trembling with emotion. Her fists clenched by her sides, frustration and helplessness building within her. "He-he's the one who's been pushing for this. He has to be the one behind it."

Hermione, who had been silent until now, sniffled quietly and shook her head. "Esme, it's not just your father. It's the way the system works... the way the wizarding world is," she said gently, but there was no denying the sadness in her voice. "It's bigger than that."

Esme felt a wave of helplessness crash over her. She clenched her hands together, her nails biting into her palms, the sting helping her focus. "I'll write to him. Maybe he'll change his mind. I'll make him understand-he has to understand! There's still time-"

But Hagrid cut her off with a soft but firm shake of his head. "Esme, lass, there's no point. The date is already set. This is grown-up business now." He said it with such finality that it felt like a heavy weight settling in the pit of her stomach. "There's nothin' anyone can do now. Not anymore."

Esme blinked back the tears threatening to fall. She shook her head, trying to process the reality of it. Her heart felt heavy, like it had been crushed under the weight of something far too large for her to bear. She looked at Harry and Ron, who remained eerily silent, their eyes downcast, knowing they must be feeling the same devastation she was.

Buckbeak had been a symbol of her freedom in a way, of standing up for what was right, and now that symbol was being shattered. She couldn't let it end like this. It was wrong. All of it was wrong.

"I'll figure something out," Esme whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "I'll fix this somehow."

But even as she said it, a tiny part of her knew that Hagrid was right. There was nothing she could do. This was bigger than any one of them, bigger than even her father's influence.

And for the millionth time in life, Esme felt completely powerless.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Viaduct Courtyard
( March, 1994. )

                                   𝓣he Viaduct Courtyard buzzed with the quiet energy of spring. The sky overhead was a soft, cloud-streaked blue, the air crisp but warming under the afternoon sun. The last remnants of winter clung stubbornly to the edges of the stone pathways, but the grass had begun to peek through, green and hopeful. Students lounged on the benches and along the low stone walls, soaking in the change of season as though they'd been starved of sunlight for months-which, in a way, they had.

Esme sat with her back against the cool stone of the courtyard wall, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. In her lap, a tattered book lay open-not for reading, but for sketching. She absentmindedly twirled her quill between her fingers, her eyes following the slow crawl of a beetle as it made its way up the uneven wall beside her. Its shell gleamed iridescent in the sunlight, its spindly legs moving in twitchy, methodical patterns.

She dragged the tip of her quill over the parchment, carefully sketching the curve of its tiny body. She didn't know why she was so fixated on the little creature, but something about its persistence-its determination to find stable ground-felt oddly familiar.

A few feet away, Harry and Ron were hunched over their usual wizard's chess game. Ron, as expected, was winning effortlessly, his smug satisfaction growing with every brutal move his pieces made. One of his pawns had just smashed Harry's bishop to dust, the shattered remains scattering across the board.

"You know," Harry muttered, rubbing his chin as he studied the board, "one of these days, I am going to beat you."

Ron snorted. "Sure, mate. And one of these days, I'll wake up with my dad's flying car parked in my dormitory."

Esme smirked but kept her eyes on her drawing, listening to the steady clack of chess pieces moving.

On the other side of the courtyard, Hermione was curled up with an enormous book, its pages filled with impossibly tiny text. She was completely engrossed, her brow furrowed in deep concentration, one finger tracing along the lines as she read. Crookshanks was sprawled across her lap, stretched out like a lazy, overfed prince, his orange fur gleaming in the sunlight. Every so often, his tail flicked idly, his tufted ears twitching at the sounds of the courtyard.

It was peaceful. The kind of rare, comfortable lull that made Hogwarts feel less like a school and more like a home.

Then-

"Bloody hell, look at it!"

The shout shattered the calm like a dropped glass.

Heads turned, students twisting around in their seats or pausing mid-conversation. Across the courtyard, Fred Weasley stood with his hands on his hips, his expression twisted in a mixture of disgust and intrigue. Beside him, George leaned forward slightly, peering at something on the ground.

"That's disgusting," another Gryffindor muttered, wrinkling their nose.

"What is it?" Harry asked, already standing from his chess game.

"No idea," George called back, "but it looks like it used to be alive."

Esme furrowed her brow and stood, her book forgotten as she followed the others toward the small group gathering around Fred and George. A nervous sort of energy had settled over the courtyard, that peculiar blend of morbid curiosity and unease.

As she stepped closer, she spotted the small, mangled shape on the ground.

It was a rat-or at least, what was left of one.

The fur was matted and patchy, the tiny body twisted unnaturally. There were clear signs that something had gotten to it-claw marks, deep and unforgiving, marred the soft flesh. Its beady little eyes were frozen open, dull and lifeless.

Ron went completely still beside her.

A horrified breath punched out of his lungs.

"Scabbers!"

Hermione gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.

Esme's nose wrinkled at the sight, tilting her head slightly. "It could be any rat," she pointed out. "Hogwarts has loads."

Ron turned to her so quickly that she thought he might snap his own neck. His expression was a mixture of grief and blind fury, his face red with emotion.

"No-look at him! That's Scabbers! I knew it-I knew Crookshanks was after him!" His voice cracked as he whipped around to glare at Hermione. "And now he's dead! Eaten!"

Hermione pressed her lips together, her arms tightening around Crookshanks, who had perked up at all the shouting. "Ron, you don't know that-"

"Oh, come off it, Hermione!" Ron bellowed. "Your ruddy cat killed him!"

Hermione flinched but stood her ground. "There's no proof that Crookshanks had anything to do with this!"

"Who else would've done it?!"

The argument was rapidly escalating, voices rising, but Esme-who had spent the past minute watching Ron's hands shake with barely contained distress-sighed and spoke up.

"Well," she said matter-of-factly, crossing her arms, "if he is Scabbers, then I suppose we ought to give him a funeral."

The courtyard fell into stunned silence.

Ron slowly turned to stare at her, his expression shifting from rage to bewilderment. "A funeral?" he repeated.

Esme nodded. "Seems only right. He's been your pet for, what, years? You can't just leave him here to rot."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at the rat carcass. "Uh..."

Hermione hesitated, looking between Esme and Ron. "Actually... she does have a point."

Ron blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped, and his anger drained out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

"...Alright," he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Fine. A funeral."

The absurdity of the situation seemed to hit all of them at once. A funeral for a rat. And yet, as they stood there in the crisp spring air, gathered around what Ron was convinced were Scabbers' remains, no one objected. Even Fred and George, who usually thrived on making a joke of anything remotely serious, exchanged a look that suggested they were absolutely on board with the ridiculousness of it all.

"Well," Fred said, clapping his hands together, "if we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly."

George nodded solemnly. "Full honors. A proper send-off."

Ron still looked torn between grief and disbelief. He nudged the dead rat with his shoe and sighed heavily. "I just... I can't believe he's gone."

Hermione, still standing with Crookshanks in her arms, tilted her head. "Are you sure Percy won't want to be involved in this? He did have Scabbers before you."

That was all it took. Fred and George's eyes lit up in mischievous delight.

"Oh, brilliant idea," George said, already turning on his heel.

"Percy would hate to miss this," Fred agreed.

Before Ron could protest, the twins were off, weaving through the courtyard in search of their older brother.

Ron groaned. "Oh, great. Now this'll be a full-family affair."

Harry smirked, trying to hide a chuckle from escaping his lips. "It is a funeral, after all."

A few minutes later, Percy was storming across the courtyard, his face twisted in a mix of irritation and horror. Fred and George trailed behind him, looking immensely pleased with themselves.

"This is ridiculous," Percy snapped as he approached. His Prefect badge gleamed in the afternoon sun, and his glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, likely from Fred slapping him on the back in encouragement. "A funeral? For Scabbers?"

"Well, yes," Esme said, straightening her shoulders. "It's only right."

Percy huffed, pushing his glasses up. "Scabbers was a good rat. A faithful rat." His expression softened slightly as he looked at the lifeless remains. "I had him for years before Ron, you know."

Ron groaned. "Percy, please, don't make this all about you."

But Percy ignored him, adjusting his posture like he was about to give a grand speech.

"If we are going to do this," he said, lifting his chin, "then we should do it with dignity."

Fred gave a dramatic sniffle, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Oh, I love a proper tragedy."

George nodded solemnly. "Shall we have music?"

"Music?" Esme repeated, half amused, half impressed.

"Fred plays a mean kazoo," George said seriously.

Harry, who had been quiet through most of this, pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be the weirdest thing we've ever done."

"That's saying something," Hermione muttered.

And so, with far more ceremony than any rat had likely ever received in the history of Hogwarts, they began the preparations.

-

The funeral took place in a secluded spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, just behind Hagrid's hut. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long golden rays across the grounds as the small group of Gryffindors gathered around a hastily dug grave.

Fred and George had fashioned a makeshift headstone out of an old piece of wood they'd found, carving Scabbers the Brave into it with exaggerated flourishes.

Esme had taken it upon herself to arrange flowers-mostly weeds, but it was the thought that counted. Hermione contributed a small bundle of wildflowers she'd found, which made Ron's lip tremble slightly.

Crookshanks, notably, had been banned from attending.

Percy stood at the front, looking somber and important, as though he were presiding over a state funeral rather than the burial of a possibly-not-Scabbers rat.

He cleared his throat. "We are gathered here today to honor the life of Scabbers, a rat of great endurance and unwavering loyalty."

Ron sniffled.

Harry stared at the ground, likely trying not to laugh.

"Though he was small," Percy continued, "he was mighty in spirit."

Fred leaned toward Esme and Harry and whispered, "Mighty questionable, if you ask me."

Percy droned on about Scabbers' long life and devotion to the Weasley family.

When Percy finally finished his speech, Fred and George stepped forward.

"We'd like to say a few words," Fred announced.

Ron groaned. "Oh, no."

George placed a hand over his heart. "Scabbers was more than a rat. He was..." He hesitated. "No, never mind, he was just a rat."

"But a Weasley rat," Fred added. "And as such, he deserves a proper farewell."

With that, he pulled out his wand and, with a dramatic flick, sent a tiny shower of golden sparks into the air.

"Well," Esme murmured, glancing at Ron. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Ron swallowed thickly, staring at the small mound of dirt.

"...Yeah," he mumbled.

With a deep breath, he took his wand, muttered a quiet Wingardium Leviosa, and gently lowered the tiny body into the grave.

Hermione sniffled. Percy gave a solemn nod.

Fred and George saluted.

And Esme, watching Ron's face carefully, offered the smallest of smiles.

"Rest in peace, Scabbers," she said softly.

The dirt was packed over, the little headstone put in place, and for a moment, the group stood there in respectful silence.

Then, after a long beat, Harry sighed. "Alright, now can we go to dinner?"

And with that, the moment was over.

As they walked back through the Hogwarts grounds, the cool spring air nipping at their faces, Fred glanced back at the freshly dug grave where Scabbers now rested. He put a hand on his chin, feigning a pensive look, and said, "Now that he's gone, I'd like to say... I never trusted that rat."

George, who had been walking alongside him, rolled his eyes and nudged Fred with his elbow. "Fred, he's been buried for like five minutes. Have you no respect for the dead?" He said with a dramatic gasp, clasping his hand to his chest.

Fred shrugged nonchalantly, not missing a beat. "Well, I'm just being honest. Can't keep it all bottled up forever, can I?"

Hermione groaned softly. "Fred, it's a rat."

Ron, who was still trying to keep his mood light after the funeral, turned to Fred with a confused expression. "What're you on about anyway, Fred? Scabbers was just... well, Scabbers."

Fred didn't seem bothered by Ron's questioning. "He just always gave me a bad feeling!" Fred continued, his tone growing more animated. "Like he was weirdly sentient or something, I dunno. Every time I did something I wasn't supposed to, it was like he was judging me. I'd catch him staring, and I could feel it, like he knew what I was thinking." Fred shuddered dramatically, making a face. "Not normal, right?"

Harry, who had been walking slightly ahead of the group, turned around and quipped, "I'm pretty sure that's called a conscience, Fred."

George burst out laughing at the jab and immediately high-fived Harry. "Harry's right," George said, still chuckling. "That's exactly what it sounds like."

Fred raised an eyebrow and gave them both an exaggerated glare. "He is not right! I never feel guilty. I own up to the things I do wrong-mostly because I do them on purpose!" He smiled proudly at his own logic, clearly convinced by his own reasoning.

Ron shot him a look of disbelief. "Yeah, that tracks," he muttered under his breath.

Meanwhile, Percy, who had been trailing behind the group with his hands tucked behind his back and his nose slightly raised, glanced over at them all. "Honestly," he announced in a voice that was just a bit too formal for the occasion, as if he was somehow above all of them. "You're all ridiculous. It's a rat. It wasn't plotting anything. You're all making this into something much bigger than it ever was."

George snorted, "Oh, look, it's Percy 'I'm-too-sophisticated-for-this' Weasley." He made an exaggerated bow. "It's a rat, Percy, yes, but to some of us, it was an important rat. And to some, a suspicion one."

Fred nodded solemnly, putting on a serious face. "That rat was more than a rat to some of us, Percy. A rat with... issues."

Hermione snorted, "You're both impossible," she muttered with a fond smile.

Despite all the bickering, the group seemed to fall into an easy rhythm again, the awkward tension from the funeral slowly dissipating as they neared the castle. The late afternoon sunlight cast a warm glow over the group, and although the ground was still cold beneath their feet, it was hard to ignore the growing sense of lightness in the air-something about the spring that made everything feel like it might be okay, despite their odd little funeral.

Percy, of course, had more to say. "Really, I'm just saying," he continued with an air of authority, "it was a rat. A pet. It doesn't need to be overanalyzed."

"Well, Percy," Fred said, putting an arm around him in a mock affectionate gesture, "maybe one day you'll understand. Not every story is as straightforward as you think. We're just trying to make sense of our feelings."

George smirked. "It's like Fred's made it his life's work to overcomplicate everything."

Fred's eyes gleamed with mock offense. "I wouldn't call it overcomplicating. I'd call it elevating the situation. Rat or not, there was a history there, George."

At this point, Esme couldn't help but smile at the ridiculousness of it all. The group of them, so different yet so united in their quirks, was always good for a laugh. As much as Fred and George liked to stir things up, there was a warmth in the banter that made it clear they'd never want things to be any other way.

"Honestly, I don't know how you all survive each other," Esme teased, giving them all a knowing glance. "But at least you're not bored, I guess."

Ron, now looking slightly more relaxed, let out a soft laugh. "If nothing else, we sure keep it interesting."

With the conversation trailing off into more laughter, they all walked together toward the castle doors, ready to head inside for a well-earned meal. As they crossed the courtyard, Esme caught Harry's eye, and the brief, shared smile between them made her realize just how much these strange, wonderful people had become a part of her life-her friends, in their own peculiar way.

"Come on, then," she said with a grin. "Let's go see what's for dinner, before Fred comes up with more conspiracy theories about rats."

Fred, hearing this, gave her a mock glare. "I'm telling you, Esme, I'm onto something big with that rat."

"Sure you are, Fred," Esme said, laughing as she linked arms with him.

George nudged Ron with his elbow. "Don't mind Fred, he'll start writing his memoirs next, and it'll be all about the dark side of Scabbers."

They laughed, the weight of the strange day lifting off their shoulders as they entered the castle, ready to face whatever oddity came their way next.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

                           𝓣he warm, musty air of the Divination classroom hung thick with incense, curling in soft wisps around the students as Professor Trelawney's voice droned on. Sunlight filtered weakly through the heavy drapes, casting eerie shadows over the many shelves stacked with crystal balls, tarot cards, and other mystical oddities.

Harry sat hunched over a crystal ball, lazily watching the crystal ball fog in front of him, while Ron snored softly beside him, his head resting on his folded arms. Hermione, stiff-backed and cross-armed, glanced at them both with thinly veiled impatience. Across the room, Esme sat near Draco and Blaise, idly tapping a quill against her palm, barely listening as she traced absentminded patterns on the wooden table.

Professor Trelawney's voice rang out, soft yet theatrical. "Broaden your minds! You must look beyond!"

Harry let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temples. He was trying, really, but all he could see in the swirling mist of the crystal ball was-well, mist.

"The art of crystal gazing is in the clearing of the Inner Eye," Trelawney continued, drifting toward their table. "Only then can you see. Try again."

She peered over Harry's shoulder, adjusting her large shawl with a flourish. "Now, what do we have here, hmm?"

Hermione, ever skeptical, leaned forward with a huff. "Oh, do you mind me trying?"

Trelawney straightened, her many bangles jingling as she raised a hand. "Ah... ah!" she said, cutting Hermione off before she could even touch the glass.

Hermione, undeterred, squinted at the ball. "The Grim... possibly."

Trelawney sucked in a dramatic breath, stepping forward and seizing Hermione's hand in hers. "My dear, from the first moment you stepped foot in my class, I sensed that you did not possess-" she squeezed Hermione's palm, tilting her head as if reading the lines of her fate, "-the proper spirit for the noble art of Divination."

Esme tensed at that. Wincing at the harshness of Professor Trelwaney's biting words.

Trelawney traced a finger along Hermione's palm, her voice lilting, eerie. "No, you see, there? Ah, you may be young in years, but the heart that beats beneath your bosom is as shriveled as an old maid's. Your soul, as dry as the pages of the books to which you so desperately cleave, mm-hmm."

Hermione yanked her hand away, her face burning with anger. The entire class had gone silent. Esme saw Hermione's fingers twitch as if debating whether to throw something-before she shoved the crystal ball off the table instead. It rolled, clattering loudly onto the floor.

Then, without another word, she stormed out of the classroom.

Trelawney blinked after her, appearing genuinely perplexed. "Have I said something?" she murmured.

As the class ended, students poured down the winding staircase from the Divination Tower.

"She's gone mental, Hermione has," Ron muttered, shaking his head. "I mean, not that she wasn't always mental, but now it's out in the open for everyone to see."

Esme, who had been a few steps behind, quickened her pace to catch up. She shot Ron a sharp look. "Don't say that about her, Ron."

Ron held up his hands. "What? It's not like I'm wrong."

Harry, not wanting to get into it, suddenly slowed his steps. "Hang on." He bent down, retrieving something from the stone steps.

The crystal ball.

"We better take this back," Harry said, glancing at Esme.

Ron grimaced. "I'm not going back."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. See you later."

"See ya," Ron muttered, already heading off.

Esme sighed, but followed Harry back up the stairs. The classroom was eerily quiet now, the scent of burning incense even stronger in the emptiness. Shadows flickered as the candles wavered, and as they stepped inside, Esme's stomach twisted with unease.

Harry carefully placed the crystal ball back onto its stand.

That's when the whispering started.

Esme froze. She hadn't heard it at first, but now it was unmistakable-a faint, murmuring voice seeping from the ball.

A face swirled in the misty glass.

Not just any face.

Sirius Black.

The whispering grew louder, but before Harry or Esme could react, a hand clamped down on Harry's shoulder.

Harry jerked back, eyes widening. "Professor Trelawney-"

Trelawney's head was thrown back, her body rigid, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

And then, in a voice that was not entirely her own-echoing, layered with something darker-she spoke.

"He will return tonight."

Esme's breath hitched. The air in the room seemed to constrict, the walls pressing in.

"Sorry?" Harry asked, his voice tight.

Trelawney's mouth twitched, her hands shaking. "Tonight, he who betrayed his friends, whose heart rots with murder, shall break free. Innocent blood shall be spilt, and servant and master shall be united once more."

Her body convulsed, and she let out a harsh, choking breath-then, as if nothing had happened, she blinked rapidly and swayed on her feet.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear boy." Her voice was back to normal, airy and whimsical. "Did you say something?"

Harry stared at her, still frozen. Esme felt the blood drain from her face.

"No. Nothing," Harry said quickly.

They backed away from her, edging toward the door. The moment they were out of sight, Harry grabbed Esme's wrist, and they bolted down the stairs.

Esme's heart was hammering against her ribs, her hands clammy.

She had seen visions before. Felt them. But that... that had been different.

That had been something else entirely.

They didn't stop running until they were halfway down the corridor leading back to the Great Hall. The moment they slowed, Harry turned to Esme, still catching his breath, his face pale and tense.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Esme swallowed hard, her hands still clammy from the encounter. "I-I don't know," she admitted. "That wasn't like her usual nonsense, Harry. That was real. You felt it, didn't you?"

Harry nodded sharply. "Yeah. And it wasn't just real-it was a warning."

They stood there in the dimly lit corridor, the weight of Trelawney's words pressing down on them.

Then, as if the memory had jolted something loose in his brain, Harry hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. "I need to tell you something."

Esme frowned. "What is it?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "The other night... I snuck out of the common room."

Esme blinked. "What?"

"I had to. I needed answers. I was using the Marauder's Map, trying to figure out where Snape and Lupin keep disappearing to." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But while I was looking... I saw someone on the map. Someone who isn't supposed to be here."

Esme's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Harry exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Peter Pettigrew."

The name sent a cold chill down Esme's spine.

"Peter Pettigrew..." she murmured, the name triggering a vague sense of familiarity.

Harry nodded. "You know it sounds familiar, right? That's because we've heard it before."

Esme searched her mind, then froze as realization hit.

"The professors," she whispered. "That day in the Three Broomsticks. They were talking about how Sirius Black... how he killed him."

Harry's jaw clenched. "Exactly. But Esme, if Pettigrew is dead, then why did I see his name on the map?"

A heavy silence stretched between them.

The torches lining the corridor flickered weakly, their golden glow casting long shadows that stretched along the stone walls. The air between Harry and Esme was thick with unspoken thoughts, the weight of Trelawney's eerie prophecy and the name on the Marauder's Map settling heavily between them. Esme hugged her arms to herself, her fingers gripping the sleeves of her robe as she tried to piece together the mystery unraveling before them.

"I don't know, Harry," she admitted, her voice softer now. "But it doesn't make sense. If Peter Pettigrew is dead, how could his name appear on the map? That thing doesn't make mistakes."

Harry let out a slow breath, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared at the ground. His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows across his face.

"It's just-" He hesitated, running a hand through his already messy hair. He exhaled sharply, shifting on his feet. "I feel like something bad is about to happen."

Esme swallowed. That creeping unease in her stomach-the same one that always settled in right before her worst visions-had been growing stronger ever since they left Trelawney's classroom.

Instinctively, she reached out, her fingers barely brushing against Harry's wrist in an attempt to offer some sort of reassurance.

But the second her skin touched his, it was like he'd been hit with a Stunning Spell.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body going stiff, his hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them. Esme pulled her hand back just as quickly, eyes wide.

"Oh-sorry! I didn't mean to-"

"No! No, it's-" Harry cut himself off, his face going red as he shoved his hands deep into his robe pockets. He cleared his throat, looking everywhere except at her. "You just... caught me off guard."

Esme frowned slightly. "Right. Well." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet the corridor was. "You're not wrong, though. About something bad coming. I feel it too."

Harry nodded-too quickly, like he was grasping onto anything to distract from whatever had just happened. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly. See? We're... we're on the same page."

Esme bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. There was something undeniably endearing about the way Harry was suddenly so flustered, his usual cool-headed demeanor crumbling in real time. His ears were practically glowing red, and he was still refusing to look at her properly.

For a moment, the tension between them changed-shifting from the weight of their conversation to something else entirely.

Then, mercifully, the sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor broke the silence.

"Oi! There you are!"

Ron's voice rang out as he jogged toward them, completely oblivious to whatever had just transpired. "I was starting to think Trelawney had locked you in and started reading your tea leaves."

Harry practically jumped at the interruption, straightening up so fast it was almost comical. "We were just-uh-taking the crystal ball back."

Ron huffed. "Yeah, well, remind me never to touch one of those things. Hermione's still fuming. Anyway, come on, I'm starving. Let's go eat lunch before all the good pudding's gone."

Esme glanced at Harry, catching the way his hand flexed at his side like he was debating whether to shove them back into his pockets again. There was something unspoken in his expression, something hesitant and new.

But as Ron turned to lead them toward the Great Hall, Harry quickly fell into step beside him, avoiding Esme's gaze altogether.

She followed, but even as the warmth of the Great Hall's torches and the chatter of students filled the space around them, that moment in the corridor lingered.

Something had shifted between them.

The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and laughter as students filled their seats, the long tables heavy with food. Harry and Ron headed to the Gryffindor table, their voices carrying over the clatter of plates as they sat down and immediately started talking about Quidditch practice.

Esme, however, hesitated at the threshold of the Slytherin table. The noise around her seemed muffled, and her stomach churned uneasily as her eyes drifted toward Harry. Despite the tension still hanging between them after the crystal ball incident, she couldn't stop herself from stealing glances. His tousled hair, the way he ran his hand through it absentmindedly, and the way his eyes caught the light-it all made her stomach flip. But it wasn't just that. It was the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach, the dread she'd been carrying with her all year since that vision of the dog. The visions, the warnings, and the sense that Harry was in danger. It was all too much.

She snapped herself out of it, forcing a smile as she took her seat beside Draco.

"Hello," she said softly to him and the others who were gathered around. Draco raised an eyebrow and nodded curtly in acknowledgment, his usual detached demeanor in place.

Blaise greeted her with a small wave, and Millicent gave her a polite nod, but Esme barely registered their words. She couldn't focus on anything except the swirling thoughts in her mind. She wasn't even aware that her fork was lying untouched beside her plate, despite the fact that she was hungry.

Instead, her gaze kept drifting back to the Gryffindor table, where Harry was laughing at something Ron had said.

Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest, and the unease only grew. She tried to shake it off, but it wouldn't leave her. Every glance at Harry sent a small wave of nausea crashing over her, especially when she remembered the vision she'd had of him being in danger. It had felt so real, so intense. What was coming? Why couldn't she shake the feeling that it was only the beginning?

"Esme, you're not eating," Draco's voice cut through her thoughts. She looked up to find him leaning toward her, his expression softened slightly, something almost like concern flickering behind his usual indifference. "Are you okay?"

Esme blinked and nodded quickly, plastering a fake smile on her face. "I'm fine. Just not hungry, I guess."

Draco didn't seem convinced but didn't press her further. Instead, he turned his attention back to Blaise, who was deep in conversation about the upcoming Quidditch match.

But Esme couldn't bring herself to focus. Her eyes kept flitting back to Harry, who was now talking animatedly with Ron. The way his lips moved when he laughed, how his eyes crinkled at the corners-everything about him seemed to draw her in, and she hated how it made her feel so vulnerable.

She felt her stomach flip again, this time more violently. The nausea intensified, and she pressed a hand against her mouth, trying to fight it down.

As if sensing something, Pansy Parkinson leaned across the table, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Well, well, well," she said, her voice dripping with mischief. "Someone's been stealing glances at Potter, haven't they?"

Esme's breath caught in her throat, her face immediately flushing bright red. "W-what?" she stammered, looking anywhere but at Pansy.

Pansy's eyes sparkled with amusement as she continued, "Oh, don't be coy, Esme. I saw the way you were looking at him just now. You like him, don't you?"

Blaise, ever the voice of reason, rolled his eyes. "Come on, Pansy, there's no way that's true."

But Millicent chimed in, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, yeah? Then why's she always hanging around with him? It's obvious."

Esme's heart began to race. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white with tension. She couldn't breathe. The laughter around her seemed to blur into background noise, and the heat of embarrassment rose to her cheeks.

Draco, who had been watching the exchange with mild interest, finally turned to Esme, his voice dropping into something more serious. "Esme, is it true?" he asked, his gaze steady. "Do you really like Potter?"

Esme's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming out in shallow gasps. She looked at Draco, then around the table at the others, all of them waiting for her response. The pressure was too much, and in that moment, she felt everything inside her snap.

Her hands trembled, her entire body quaking with emotion. She couldn't say the words they expected. "No!" she finally blurted, her voice louder than she intended. "Of course not. And even if I did, it's none of anyone's damn business!"

Her pulse throbbed in her ears, and her hands were shaking now. She pushed herself away from the table, the sound of the chairs scraping against the floor echoing in her ears. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't.

Without another word, she stormed out of the Great Hall, her footsteps loud against the stone floor as she rushed down the hallway, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Behind her, she could hear the low hum of conversation continuing-Pansy's teasing laughter, Draco's quiet voice, but none of it reached her. It all felt distant now. All she could hear was the thumping of her own heart, drowning out the noise around her.

She needed to get away. It was all so humiliating-plus it was hard enough dealing with the fact that Buckbeak would be executed soon.