The quill scratched across the parchment like a whisper too loud in the silence. Arthur sat stiffly across from the therapist, shoulders hunched, hand clenched so tightly around the feathered instrument that it trembled with every word he tried to form. His handwriting—normally sharp and controlled—was almost illegible. A series of ink blots and broken loops.
The therapist didn't speak for a long while. She didn't cast any spells. Didn't summon a bottle of Calming Draught from behind her desk. Just waited, her presence quiet but firm, like a hearth that didn't burn but still offered warmth.
"Trauma," she said finally, her voice even and low, "is not a curse. It's a wound. And wounds leave scars. You don't heal by pretending they aren't there."
Arthur didn't look up. The sentence in front of him stared back like it was mocking him:
"You're not Cursed."
He was meant to write it ten times. A grounding exercise, she'd called it.
He'd only made it to five.
He didn't know if it was true. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
The morning he was discharged from the hospital wing, the castle felt colder. Not the kind of cold that came from winter winds or dungeons, but the kind that settled in the bones and didn't go away. Even the sunlight through the high stained-glass windows seemed pale, like it had nothing left to offer him.
His reflection in the mirror caught him off guard.
Gone was the streak of silver that had once run through his hair like starlight. It was black again. Mundane. Empty. Like someone had turned a page back in time and erased everything in between.
He didn't look like the boy who had fought. Or the boy who had screamed. Or the one who had survived.
He looked like someone else entirely.
Madam Pomfrey's hands were gentle but brisk as she packed the satchel. Her face gave nothing away, but there was something in her silence that felt different—more personal than professional.
"Calming Draught," she said, placing the first vial in the leather pouch. "Twice a day. Morning and afternoon."
A second vial joined it. "Mind-Mender. Drink it before bed."
And finally, a small glass bottle with a spoon resting atop it. The liquid inside was murky silver, with something dark shifting inside like ink in water.
"For the nightmares," she said. "No more than a spoonful."
Arthur nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
She didn't smile. She usually did.
The Slytherin common room was darker than he remembered. Or maybe his eyes just hadn't adjusted yet. The green-glass lanterns swayed gently in the water's reflection, casting shadows across the walls like moving vines.
He stood outside the entrance for a long time. He couldn't remember the password. His mind suggested ones from earlier in the year, but none felt right. The stones slid open anyway.
He didn't question it.
Inside, the space felt untouched and unlived in. Scattered robes over the backs of armchairs. Forgotten books on the tables. Two first-years sat on the far side, whispering over a game of wizard chess. One of them glanced up when Arthur entered, but didn't say anything. Didn't even flinch. Just looked through him and turned back to his game.
Arthur climbed the stairs slowly, like each step might crack beneath him.
Draco was folding clothes beside his trunk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tapping the air occasionally to float something into place. He didn't turn around when Arthur entered.
"Thought you'd gone," Arthur said.
"I was waiting," Draco replied.
"For?"
Draco shrugged. "Not sure. A reason."
Arthur didn't ask for more. He didn't need one. He crossed the room and sank onto his bed, letting the frame creak beneath his weight. The pillow was too soft. The blanket too clean. Like the room was trying to comfort him, and failing.
"You leaving?" Draco asked after a pause.
Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. Feels like if I go home... I won't come back."
Draco nodded, slowly, but said nothing more.
The courtyard was one of the quiet ones—off the main path, half-forgotten, cloaked in ivy and the soft hum of late spring crickets. He found them there, like he'd always known he would.
Theo was stretched along a stone bench, arms folded behind his head, face tilted up toward the pale sky. Blaise leaned lazily against a pillar, flipping through a book that he clearly wasn't reading. And Pansy—Pansy was pacing. Back and forth, heels tapping rhythmically against the stone. Her brow furrowed in a way that said she was frustrated, not with them, but with the silence.
They all looked up when he stepped into the courtyard.
No one said anything at first.
"Was wondering when you'd stop hiding," Theo muttered.
Arthur didn't flinch. "I wasn't hiding."
Theo didn't push. Blaise gave a slight nod in greeting, the kind that didn't ask for explanations. Just... acknowledged him.
Pansy stepped forward, hesitant.
"You look—"
"Don't," Arthur said, quiet but firm. "I know."
She looked like she wanted to do something—hug him, shake him, slap him, anything. But all she did was tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and stare at the grass.
"Did it hurt?" she asked softly.
Arthur blinked. "What?"
"When it happened. When he—" She didn't finish.
He took a breath that caught halfway. "I don't remember all of it. Just flashes. Pain. Voices. It was like... I wasn't me anymore. Like I was someone else looking through my own eyes."
Theo exhaled. "Sounds like most of the year."
That earned a laugh from Blaise—a weak, surprised sound. Even Arthur smiled, just a little.
"I'm glad you're back," Pansy said suddenly, like she'd been holding it in. "Even if you're different now."
Arthur didn't answer right away.
Because she was right.
He was different. The version of him that had walked into that battlefield—heart pounding, wand drawn, not knowing if he'd live or die—wasn't the same boy standing here now. Something had broken. Or changed. Or... both.
"I don't know what 'back' means anymore," he said quietly.
No one argued with him.
They just stayed there, letting the moment stretch out around them. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to make it okay.
Just staying.
Later that evening, after the others had wandered off—Theo muttering about dinner, Blaise claiming he had a book to finish, and Pansy offering a quiet look over her shoulder—Arthur climbed the spiraling steps of the owlery alone.
The wind met him halfway up, soft and chilled, tugging at his robes like a whisper.
The owlery was nearly empty at this hour. Only a few birds stirred, rustling feathers or clicking their beaks in mild irritation at his presence. The scent of hay, feathers, and cold stone filled the air.
Zephyr was perched near the top, a blur of grey and white. He swooped down before Arthur even called for him, landing on the railing with a soft hoot, golden eyes narrowed.
Arthur offered his arm without thinking. Zephyr stepped onto it, light but solid, and promptly nipped his sleeve.
"I know," Arthur murmured. "It's been a while."
The owl let out a chuffing sound—somewhere between annoyed and relieved—and leaned in, pecking lightly at Arthur's knuckles. Judgy as always.
Arthur sank to the stone floor, Zephyr hopping to sit beside him now, fluffing his feathers dramatically.
"I didn't think I'd make it," Arthur admitted.
Zephyr blinked, tilted his head, and nipped him again.
"Alright, alright. I did make it. Technically." He paused. "But I don't feel like I came back."
Silence answered him. The wind howled gently through the open arches.
"I thought when it ended... when he was gone... I'd feel lighter. But it's like he left something behind. In me. Like some echo that won't shut up."
Zephyr nudged him, harder this time.
Arthur let out a quiet laugh. "You think too much," he said, mimicking the owl's imagined voice. "Get up. Eat something. Brood later."
Zephyr let out a soft hoo and flapped his wings once, settling back beside him.
They sat together until the stars came out. Until Arthur could feel the shape of the night pressing in—not cruelly, just present. Until the ache in his chest dulled enough to breathe around.
He reached out, running a finger down Zephyr's back.
"Thanks for waiting," he whispered.
The owl didn't answer, but he didn't leave either.
Arthur stayed quiet, the chill of the stone seeping into his bones, Zephyr warm at his side.
And then—
"It's all very touching," came a voice, low and wry, "but if I have to hear you spiral about your feelings one more time without eating a proper meal, I might start shedding out of protest."
He froze.
His head turned slowly toward the owl.
Zephyr blinked up at him with those familiar gold eyes, head tilted ever so slightly.
"…What?" he breathed.
"Don't panic," the voice said again. Calm. Dry. "You're not mad. Or cursed. You're just... different now. Took you long enough to notice."
"I'm hearing things."
"Yes. Me.Surprised?" The owl clicked her beak. "Honestly, I've been very patient. But nooo, let's all assume owls are just glorified letter pigeons."
Arthur stared.
This wasn't some imagined conversation. It wasn't a hallucination or a dream.
He knew Zephyr wasn't actually speaking—not with his...her beak, anyway—but somehow, her thoughts were reaching him. No spells. No enchantments. Just... connection. Like a thread between them had been pulled taut, finally tuned.
A beat passed.
"I thought you were a he," he said dumbly.
Zephyr clicked her beak and gave a pointed fluff of her feathers.
"We've talked about this. Or at least you have—constantly. Honestly, you should've figured it out the second I stole your bacon three weeks in a row."
Arthur huffed out a disbelieving laugh and pressed his palms into his eyes. "So… this is real?"
"As real as you bleeding all over the floor and still calling it 'fine.'"
His smile faltered, the memory flickering in the back of his mind like a shadow.
But Zephyr nudged him, gentle. Familiar.
"Hey," she said, quieter now. "You're here. You survived. And now you get to know how incredibly sarcastic I am. Lucky you."
Arthur laughed again, shaking his head. "Great. I get trauma and a talking owl."
"Don't get used to it. I'm still an owl, not your therapist."
He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the stars slowly emerging overhead.
"I don't think this is normal."
"It's not. But then, neither are you."
That truth settled in his chest—unnerving, but not unwelcome.
"…Elira," he said after a pause.
The owl blinked.
"That's your real name, isn't it?"
She didn't answer. Not with words.
But she stepped closer and pressed her head into his side.
And that was answer enough.