The Great Hall was alive with the chatter of students, the clatter of silverware against plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from the Gryffindor table. The enchanted ceiling reflected the clear afternoon sky, bright and unmarred, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside Lilith Nightingale.

Lunch had barely begun when the familiar brown owl swooped down toward her, a single letter tied to its leg with the dark green ribbon of the Nightingale seal. The moment she saw it, a cold weight settled in her stomach. The hall, the food, the noise—it all became distant, insignificant in the face of what she knew lay inside that parchment.

She untied the letter with steady fingers, but beneath the table, her hands were trembling. She could already see the elegant, sharp strokes of her father's writing even before she unfolded it, the ink dark and commanding. A deep breath. Then she read.

𝔏𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔥,

 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔠𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣-𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤. ℌ𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔶𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲? 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔲𝔱𝔶, 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔩𝔶. ℑ 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔲𝔰. ℑ𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔦𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔶. ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔢𝔵𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔶, 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔶. ℜ𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔇𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔢. 

 ℭ𝔞𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔞𝔩𝔢

The parchment blurred in her vision, but she forced herself to keep reading, her eyes tracing over every cold, unyielding word, each one slicing deeper than the last. Disgrace. Beneath us. Do not disappoint me.

It took every ounce of control she had to keep her expression neutral, to keep her fingers from curling so tightly around the letter that it tore. Around her, the world moved on as if nothing had happened—students laughing, chattering, enjoying their meals, unaware of the quiet war being waged inside of her.

Pansy Parkinson, sitting beside her, glanced over. "Father dearest again?" she mused, sipping her pumpkin juice as though discussing the weather.

Lilith didn't answer. Couldn't answer. She felt like she couldn't breathe, the walls of the Great Hall closing in on her with every second that passed. She needed to leave. Now.

Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly, the sound of the legs scraping against the stone floor sharp and jarring. A few heads turned, but she barely noticed them. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she strode toward the doors, her vision narrowing to a single point of focus: escape.

The second she stepped into the corridor, the suffocating noise of the Great Hall faded into silence. She inhaled sharply, but the air still felt too thick, her chest too tight. Her feet carried her forward without conscious thought, up the winding staircases, through empty halls, until she found herself climbing the familiar spiral leading to the Astronomy Tower.

By the time she reached the top, her composure cracked. The first tear fell before she could stop it, then another, hot and bitter against her chilled skin. Her back hit the stone wall, and she slid down onto the cold floor, pulling her knees to her chest as silent sobs wracked her frame.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to feel like this.

She had always known what was expected of her. Perfection. Composure. Excellence in all things. To be an ideal Nightingale, a daughter of unshakable poise, a representation of everything her bloodline stood for. And yet, here she was—falling apart at the seams because of a single letter, because of the crushing knowledge that no matter what she did, it would never be enough.

The tears came harder now, her breath hitching as she tried to quiet herself, but the storm inside her refused to be tamed. Her father's words reverberated in her mind, twisting into something even crueller in the solitude of the tower.

You were raised to be exemplary, not ordinary.

Her hands trembled as she clutched her knees tighter. She hated this. Hated how much control he had over her, how much his approval—or lack thereof—dictated her every move. She hated that a part of her still craved it, still longed for even the slightest recognition from him, even when she knew it would never come without conditions.

The wind whipped through the open balcony, ruffling her robes and chilling the tear tracks on her cheeks. She tilted her head back, staring at the sky, at the endless stretch of blue that seemed so far beyond her reach. She wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to be weightless—to escape it all, to let go of the expectations, the burdens, the suffocating rules that had been forced upon her since birth.

But she couldn't. She never could.

Because she was Lilith Nightingale, daughter of Caspian Nightingale, and her life was not her own.

A choked sob escaped her lips, and she buried her face in her hands, allowing herself, just this once, to break under the weight of it all.

For just this moment, she let herself be weak.

For just this moment, she was not the perfect daughter, the poised Slytherin, the composed Prefect.

She was just a girl, alone in the tower, drowning in the expectations she would never outrun.