June 20, 1977
Cambridge

Katherine Randall often felt like one of the creatures she loved — delicate, overlooked, and constantly at risk of being crushed.

Butterflies had been her solace for as long as she could remember, her secret world of fragile beauty in a life where she had to be perfect.

Today was her seventeenth birthday, but instead of feeling free, she felt pinned like a specimen mounted for display.

Katherine was sitting by the windowsill in her room, bathed in the soft light of an early summer sun.

An old encyclopedia on butterflies lay open across her knees, its pages worn from countless readings. She traced her finger along the illustration of a painted lady butterfly, its vibrant orange and black wings seemingly in flight even on paper.

She hummed softly under her breath, the familiar tune of "Blackbird" by The Beatles filling the stillness.

"Take these broken wings and learn to fly..."

The lyrics hung in the air, bittersweet. They felt like a message meant for her—a call to rise above the constraints of her family's expectations.

Outside the window, the immaculate gardens of the Randall estate stretched in perfect symmetry, as though even nature itself wasn't allowed to step out of line.

Workers moved briskly, setting tables and arranging flowers, preparing for the party that was less about her and more about appearances.

Her sanctuary wouldn't last long.

"Katherine!" Chloe Randall's sharp voice was shattering.

Kat snapped the encyclopedia shut and placed it carefully on the windowsill, her heart sinking. She smoothed the black summer dress she'd chosen—off-the-shoulder, simple, and just provocative enough to irritate her mother.

"Katherine!" her mother called again, her tone edged with impatience.

"I'm coming," Kat replied, stepping away from the window.

The Randall estate was as precise and polished as ever. The lawn had been trimmed to an exact three centimeters, the flowerbeds bloomed in immaculate rows, and the towering hedges seemed almost military in their order.

Everything gleamed under the soft Cambridge sun, as if the entire day had been choreographed.

Katherine, or Kat as she preferred to be called — though no one ever did —, tugged at the hem of her black summer dress.

"You look positively underwhelming," her brother Sebastian had remarked with a cruel smirk, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored coat. "But I suppose it matches your personality."

Sebastian always knew how to twist the knife. He had been raised from birth to be the pride of the Randall family.

He was sharp-featured, sharp-tongued, and ambitious to a fault. Today, he was mingling with their parents' esteemed guests, wearing his duty like a second skin.

Kat, by contrast, wanted nothing more than to escape. Not just the garden party, but all of it—the expectations, the scrutinizing eyes, the suffocating grandeur.

She glanced at the dining table set in the middle of the lawn, where her parents were seated with their guests.

Two strangers caught her eye—a man and a woman who radiated an icy authority. Their posture was rigid, their expressions unreadable.

The man, tall and severe, had a face that looked carved from granite. The woman, poised and elegant, wore her dark hair in a tightly wound chignon that seemed to defy gravity.

Kat's breath hitched. She knew who they were.

The Lestranges.

No introduction was necessary; their reputation preceded them.

Constance Lestrange was a matriarch of terrifying precision, her presence commanding and her voice as sharp as a blade.

Mortimer Lestrange, her husband, was no less intimidating —a man of few words, but every one of them carried weight.

Their sons stood nearby, unmistakably part of the same polished, imperious lineage. Rodolphus, the eldest, looked like a younger version of his father, with a chilling, predatory air.

The younger one, Rabastan, seemed slightly more relaxed, though no less intense.

"Katherine, darling," her mother's voice, clipped and refined, pulled her back to the present. "The cake. Would you mind fetching it from the kitchen?"

Before Kat could protest, Constance Lestrange interjected, her gaze shifting to Rabastan. "Why don't you assist her, Rabastan? Be polite."

Rabastan inclined his head slightly. "Of course, mother."

Kat wanted to groan. She didn't need help carrying a cake, least of all from him. But there was no use arguing.

She nodded curtly and led the way into the house, her black heels clicking softly against the marble floors of the kitchen.

The massive birthday cake sat on the counter like a monument to excess. Three tiers, dripping with chocolate ganache and adorned with intricate sugar flowers.

"That's... excessive," Rabastan commented, eyeing the cake.

Kat smirked faintly. "Welcome to the Randall household. Everything's excessive."

He chuckled—a low, unexpected sound. "I noticed."

She glanced at him, her surprise evident. His expression was mild, even kind, a stark contrast to the coldness she had come to associate with his family.

"Here," he said, stepping forward and lifting the silver platter with ease. "Allow me."

Kat blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. "Thanks."

He didn't respond, just nodded as he carried the cake back out to the garden. For a moment, Kat felt a flicker of something she couldn't quite name — an unspoken understanding, perhaps.

But it vanished as quickly as it came when they returned to the table.

Her mother, Chloe Randall, was seated beside Constance Lestrange, the two women deep in conversation. As Kat placed herself back in her chair, she caught Constance's sharp, assessing gaze.

"Katherine," Constance began, her tone conversational but laced with steel, "I hear your brother Sebastian has ambitions in the Auror Department. Admirable. And what about you? What are your interests?"

The table fell silent.

Kat's stomach twisted. Of course they'd ask. Of course they'd want to hear some perfectly rehearsed answer that fit the Randall mold.

She cleared her throat. "I like insects."

"Insects?" Constance repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Kat said, her voice gaining strength. "Butterflies, moths, bees... even worms."

The silence stretched.

Chloe laughed—a brittle, embarrassed sound. "She's always had such... unusual hobbies. Children, you know."

Rabastan leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "What's your favorite butterfly?"

Kat blinked, startled by the question. He looked genuinely interested.

"The painted lady," she said after a pause. "They migrate thousands of miles, across deserts and oceans. It's... impressive."

Their eyes met briefly, and in that moment, the rest of the table seemed to fade away.

But then Chloe cleared her throat, breaking the spell. "Well," she said briskly, "Katherine is also a gifted violinist. Perhaps she should play something for us?"

Kat froze.

She had grown to hate the violin with an intensity she couldn't fully put into words.

As a little girl, she'd been praised for her natural talent, but the admiration quickly twisted into obligation. Her mother had pushed her relentlessly, forcing her to practice for hours on end until her tiny fingers blistered and bled.

Mistakes weren't tolerated; tears were ignored. To pick up the violin now would be to step back into that suffocating prison of expectations, and Kat couldn't bear it.

"I'd rather not," she then said quietly.

Chloe's eyes hardened. "Katherine, don't be rude. Go fetch your violin."

"I don't want to," Kat said, her voice firmer this time.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, swirling the remnants of his drink lazily as Katherine refused her mother's request to play. A sharp grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Come on, Kat," he drawled. "Don't be so dramatic. It's just a little violin."

His words hung in the air like a taunt, daring her to react.

Kat's hands clenched under the table, her nails biting into her palms.

"Enough," their father, Theodore Randall, said sharply. "Both of you."

The table fell silent again. Theodore exchanged a glance with Constance Lestrange, then cleared his throat. "There's something important we need to discuss."

Constance took over, her tone calm and deliberate. "You know, Katherine, that our eldest, Rodolphus, is engaged to Bellatrix Black. An advantageous match for both families."

Kat's heart began to race.

"We've decided," Constance continued, "that you, Katherine, will marry Rabastan."

The words hit her like a physical blow.

She turned to Rabastan, hoping to see shock on his face, but he looked... resigned. He already knew.

"You'll be wed next summer," Theodore added. "The engagement celebration will be this winter."

Kat felt the ground beneath her shift. She wanted to scream, to run, but instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to sit still.

She would find a way out of this. Out of this family, out of this life.

They could try to clip her wings, but she would find a way to fly.