Polly's pop of Apparition left a shimmer in the air, the world snapping into focus on the edge of Diagon Alley.
Morning light spilled across the cobbles, catching on brass shop signs and the glint of spellcraft in the air. August meant crowds — parents arguing over wand polish, children tugging at new robes, and the distant hiss of quills testing themselves on parchment.
Talora inhaled like someone returning to a familiar stage. "God, I've missed this street."
Shya tipped her sunglasses down her nose. "You just missed Madame Rochelle calling us 'her difficult ones.'"
"She says it with affection," Talora said primly.
Polly, bouncing on her toes, looked from one to the other, bright-eyed. "Polly be taking you to Gladrags first, yes? Madame Rochelle be ready — she sent word when she got your lists."
"Of course she did," Talora said warmly. "She always knows before we do."
Shya grinned. "That's because she's terrifying."
They turned down Griffen's Way, where Diagon's cozy charm gave way to gleaming storefronts and elegant magic. Shop windows shimmered with illusion—robes swirling midair, jewelry hovering over velvet stands, quills tracing constellations across invisible paper.
Gladrags Atelier sat right at the intersection, all curved glass and rose-gold lettering. A mannequin in Ravenclaw blue turned gracefully as they approached, its hem rippling like water.
"Home sweet home," Shya murmured.
Roman muttered, "Every year it's the same."
Cassian smirked. "At least we get the books out of the way."
Talora shot them both a look. "You're welcome to come inside, you know. We could get you measured for something that fits."
"No thanks," Cassian said. "I like being able to breathe."
Shya arched a brow. "Coward."
"Realist."
…Polly tugged Shya's sleeve, whispering, "Madame Rochelle be very excited! She said the new fabric sings when it's touched."
"That's why she's the best," Shya said softly. "Come on, Bob. Time to upgrade our legacy."
At her feet, Haneera's dark fur shimmered faintly under the sunlight; Pando padded beside her, tail flicking in lazy arcs of silver light. Passersby stared — partly because the creatures were myth-rare, partly because they looked like they knew it.
Talora crouched, smoothing Pando's head. "We should ask Madame Rochelle for matching pieces. Something chic. Maybe charmed collars?"
"Or little silk bandanas," Shya mused. "Or boots. Haneera deserves boots."
"Of course she does," Talora said. "OMG we can get them matching winter boots!"
Polly clasped her hands in delight. "Madame Rochelle makes familiars' things too! Very stylish! Even dragons be wanting capes!"
Haneera snorted as if to agree.
The girls laughed, straightened up, and with the dogs padding beside them, swept through Gladrags' glowing doors — a miniature procession of Ravenclaw elegance and chaos.
Cassian watched them disappear, the bell chiming behind them."Books and cauldrons?" he said.
"Books and cauldrons," Roman sighed. "And maybe a drink after."
"Definitely a drink," Cassian said.
They disappeared down the lane as Gladrags' doors closed, the sign above the window gleaming faintly with enchantment.
The bell above the door chimed a silvery note as the girls stepped into Gladrags Atelier.
The air shimmered faintly — static with enchantments and the scent of pressed wool and spell-wax. Mannequins turned their heads as if gossiping. Bolts of cloth hovered like patient ghosts.
"Ah," breathed Madame Rochelle, emerging from a swirl of blue-grey tulle. Her accent dripped from every syllable. "My prodigies. My catastrophes. You've come to ruin my peace again."
Shya grinned, brushing a paint-smudged hand across her hoodie. "We prefer to call it tradition."
"Tradition is punctual," Rochelle said, but she was already smiling. "You're early."
"We missed you," Talora replied smoothly, her bow-tied collar immaculate. "And your fabric room."
"Of course you did," Rochelle sighed. "Onto the dais before I lose my nerve."
With a single clap, Rochelle woke the workshop.
Mirrors brightened and angled themselves. Measuring tapes slithered to attention. Pins hovered in neat formation. The atelier pulsed to life around them, magic and light folding into rhythm.
Haneera and Pando padded in, tails flicking with quiet entitlement. Pando sniffed a pile of fabric; Haneera eyed a mannequin like she was judging its stitching.
"Familiars," Rochelle murmured. "Naturally. Even your dogs have taste."
"They'd riot if we left them out," Shya said, kneeling to scratch Haneera's ears. "She's partial to silk. Blame her standards, not mine."
Rochelle rubbed her temples. "Every year, I ask the gods for restraint. Every year, they send me you."
Talora took her place on the dais, calm and commanding.
The mirrors shifted to follow her silhouette; even the light seemed to polish itself.
"Let's begin," she said. "I'd like a full uniform wardrobe this year — daily rotations."
Rochelle arched a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning variety," Talora said, already scanning the shelves. "Twelve blouses: Four cotton, Four silk, Four charmeuse. Pale hues — ivory, soft blue, dove grey."
A bolt of pearl fabric floated toward her. "Those. And two high-collared with ribbons."
"Three pleated skirts," Rochelle muttered, writing furiously.
"Four, and four a-line mini's and three plaid short shorts." Talora corrected gently. "Charcoal, navy, camel, and slate. Four pairs of trousers — tailored, high waist. Six oversized vests: navy tweed, cream wool, lilac cashmere, grey with bronze piping, navy and bronze plaid and deep royal blue wool"
Shya, lounging on a chaise, smirked. "Oversized now, are we?"
"Relaxed," Talora corrected. "There's a difference."
"Semantics."
"Style."
Rochelle snapped for more fabric. "Continue, duchess."
"Five blazers — midnight, royal blue and bronze plaid, black and pale camel. Outerwear: Two wool capes royal blue and one bronze, a trench, and a puffer coat charmed for warmth without bulk. Accessories: ribbons, scarves, and gloves with temperature charms. And boots, two knee-high one black and one blue, , one short, three mary janes with platform heels, blue, bronze and burgundy.."
The mirrors sighed audibly. Even the mannequins applauded.
Shya raised a brow. "Are you auditioning for a monarchy?"
Talora smiled faintly. "No. I'm establishing a standard."
Then Shya climbed the platform, dragging her dragon-hide boots across the dais
Rochelle inhaled sharply. "No setting things on fire this time."
"No promises," Shya said, peeling off her hoodie. "Alright. I want clothes I can actually live in — move in, paint in, escape detentions in."
Rochelle pointed her quill. "Define 'escape'."
Shya ignored her. "Five hoodies: black, charcoal, navy, deep sapphire, and bronze brown, Oversized. Lined with self-cleaning, potion-resistant enchantments. One long double breasted wool coat, dark grey, one long puffer, black and the last a biker leather jacket also black but charmed to be perfectly warm."
"Any more tops?" Rochelle muttered.
"Five chunky cardigans — soft knits, grey and midnight, sapphire blue, creams with navy trim. One cropped cardigan deep cream. Five flannels, Six oversized shirts — crisp white, pale blue, striped, black, dark charcoal, cream white. Collars enchanted to stay sharp, even when I don't iron them. Which I won't."
"Obviously," Rochelle said flatly.
"Skirts: Three plaid, Twocharcoal pleated. Three pairs of shorts — navy, grey, camel and blue and bronze plaid, mid-thigh, high-waist. And two oversized jeans, one black and one charcoal. For 'creative expression.'"
Talora's eyebrow twitched. "For chaos, you mean."
"Same difference," Shya said, grinning.
"Blazers?" Rochelle asked, resigned.
"Two slouchy blazers, one longline trench in black. Maybe a cropped jacket for attitude."
"Attitude is not a cut," Rochelle muttered, but she was scribbling.
"Tights — enchanted to shimmer like raven feathers. Boots: four pairs — combat, mid, knee. Dragon-hide, all of them. And jewelry—"
"We know about the jewelry," Talora said fondly.
Shya tugged at her nose ring. "It's part of the system."
"System," Rochelle repeated faintly. "You make rebellion sound like a thesis."
"It is," Shya said, deadly serious. "Thesis title: Defying Conformity Through Aesthetic Excellence."
Rochelle pressed a hand to her chest. "You exhaust me."
"Now, for our esteemed clients," Rochelle said, crouching.
Pando blinked politely; Haneera yawned.
"For the pale one — moon-silk collar, charmed against dirt. For the dark one — velvet harness, warding runes along the straps."
Haneera growled softly — a satisfied growl.
Rochelle smiled. "Yes, yes, you approve."
When the measuring tapes stilled and the mirrors dimmed, the room looked like the aftermath of a beautiful storm.
Two racks hovered in midair — one tailored elegance, one organized chaos.
Talora's pieces hung in a perfect gradient of navy, ivory, lilac, and bronze. Her uniforms weren't clothes so much as strategy — structured, balanced, immaculate.
Shya's side was a tangle of beauty: hoodies folded beside blazers, flannel layered with satin, black and silver shimmering through navy. Messy perfection.
Rochelle surveyed the scene, misty-eyed. "You two are impossible. But you are also the reason I believe in art."
Shya twirled in her new trench, hood draped over her curls. "You say that every year."
Talora adjusted her ribbon, serene. "Because it's true every year."
Pando and Haneera padded between them, gleaming in their new accessories — regal, smug, entirely aware of their aesthetic superiority.
Rochelle fanned herself. "If you don't leave now, I'll start weeping."
Polly clapped her hands. "Misses look like queens!"
"Close," Shya said, grinning. "Just third-years with taste."
Talora smiled, tucking her new cape under her arm. "And style."
They turned for the door, parcels hovering obediently behind them, laughter catching in the golden air.
The sunlight beyond the window painted them in blue and silver — two halves of a single masterpiece.
Outside, Griffen's Way shimmered like it had been waiting for them.
They hadn't meant to stop.
The plan was simple — uniforms, books, then lunch.
But as they rounded the corner of Griffen's Way, a storefront shimmered to life between two brick buildings, pale blue and silver, windows lined with floating parchment cranes and softly glowing jars of ink.
INK & INSIGHT
Fine Magical Stationery for the Discerning Mind.
The girls stopped mid-stride.
"Oh," breathed Shya. "That font? That layout? This feels like heaven."
Talora tilted her head, assessing. "It's giving… very elite Tokyo stationery energy."
"Bob," Shya whispered, eyes huge, "they have washi tape that glows."
The bell over the door chimed once, and a rush of warm, papery air hit them — scented with cedar shelves, lavender ink, and faint static from enchantments.
The walls were stacked floor to ceiling with floating notebooks, bottles of ink swirling like galaxies, and shelves of pens that gleamed faintly under rune-etched glass.
It was calm and quiet — until you listened closer and realized the hum wasn't silence but magic breathing.
"This feels illegal," Shya murmured reverently. "Like someone took our brains and turned them into a shop."
"Finally," Talora said softly, "a store that speaks my language."
A whole section glowed under the sign 'No Quills Needed.'
"That's a bold claim," Talora said, stepping closer.
Inside the display case lay magical fountain pens — sleek, weightless, some glass-tipped, others engraved with ancient runes. When she brushed one with her fingertips, it pulsed faintly blue.
"Self-inking, self-aligning, and spell-proof," read the tag. "They even adjust to handwriting speed."
Shya gasped. "It's… real. I thought wizarding Britain was centuries behind in stationery tech."
Talora tested the silver-trimmed one with faint constellations carved into the barrel. "Perfect balance. I could take notes for hours with this."
Shya picked one shaped like a raven feather dipped in matte black steel. It shimmered as she held it.
"It's like if a pen and a wand had a baby," she said in awe. "And that baby had taste."
Next to it sat colour-coded magic highlighters, bottled in glass tubes.
Each shimmered faintly: periwinkle, chartreuse, coral, lilac.
"When you highlight," Talora read aloud, "the text rearranges itself into summaries?"
Shya grinned. "Cheating. But aesthetic cheating."
Tucked behind a row of inks was the Artist's Aisle — where the air hummed faintly with pigment spells.
Shya's eyes went round.
"They have charcoals," she whispered. "Never-ending charcoals."
She reached for a set — matte black sticks wrapped in gold foil. They glowed softly, the magic breathing with each stroke of her finger.
"They regenerate," the shopkeeper said from behind the counter, smiling. "Every drawing rebirths the next."
"I'm going to cry," Shya said, clutching the box to her chest. "Talora, I'm crying."
"You say that every time you find good art supplies."
"Yeah, but this time I mean it."
The next section was a shrine to order — and temptation.
Rows of parchment notebooks floated above the shelves, their covers softly glowing in hues of navy, ivory, and pastel pink. Never ending and each rearranged its own pages according to your wishes when tapped.
Talora picked up 10 immediately — one for each class and elective, one for her private research notes.
They neatly labeled themselves in graceful bronze script the moment she held them.
Shya had already gathered an armful: blank sketchbooks, lined notebooks, grid notebooks — she wasn't even checking if really needed any.
Then she saw it.
The final display sparkled near the window — elegant crystal bottles engraved with runes that shimmered like frost.
Each was charmed to stay filled and perfectly cold, even in desert heat.
"Oh, that's dangerous," Shya said, lifting one. "Cold water. Forever. This is my Roman Empire."
Talora tested another; it lit up faint blue when her fingers brushed the seal. "This one's temperature-adaptive. Brilliant."
They glanced at each other — the same gleam in their eyes.
"Two for us," Shya said.
"And two for the boys," Talora finished. "Blue for Roman, Black for Cassian."
"With a crest on his," Shya said. "He'll act like he doesn't care, but he'll love it."
By the time they reached the counter, their arms were piled high — notebooks, pens, stickers, bottles, and endless promise of chaos.
The shopkeeper, a serene witch with ink-stained fingertips, smiled as parchment unrolled itself to tally their purchases.
"First time here?"
"Yes," Talora said. "But not the last."
Shya nodded. "This is my new religion."
The witch chuckled. "May your ink never blot and your inspiration never dry."
Outside, the late-afternoon sun caught their bags, the colors reflecting like soft stained glass.
Haneera and Pando trotted beside them, tails flicking, their collars glinting with enchanted embroidery.
Talora held her bottle up. "Flourish & Blotts next?"
Shya grinned. "And then tea. I need to emotionally recover from all this excellence."
"Agreed."
As they turned down the street, Griffen's Way glittered behind them — and the paper cranes in the window folded themselves into tiny stars, drifting lazily in their wake.
"Shy! Talora! over here!"
"Shy! Talora! Over here!"
They turned to find Roman and Cassian waiting at the edge of Griffen's Way.
The girls immediately angled toward them, bags clinking softly at their sides. Haneera and Pando trotted along, collars and harness gleaming.
"Get all the books?" Talora asked.
"Yes, ma'am, and Polly popped them over to the house," Roman replied, mock-formal, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Okay, great," Shya said, eyes bright. "We found this amazing stationery shop, we got you guys water bottles."
She held one up proudly — sleek crystal, charmed to stay cold. "Black for you," she said, tossing one to Cassian, "and blue for you."
Cassian caught his without looking, checking the engraved crest along the side. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Overcompensating for our obvious lack of hydration?"
"Overcompensating for your lack of taste," Shya said sweetly.
Roman turned his bottle over, watching the blue glow briefly under his touch. "I like it," he admitted. "Don't tell anyone."
"Your secret is safe with me," Talora said. "Probably."
"Should we start getting the tools for our electives? Like the rune board and pen?" Cassian asked, tucking the bottle under his arm.
"Yeah, let's go," Talora said, already mentally sorting a list as the group started walking deeper into Diagon Alley.
In the distance, Shya spotted the great Boy Who Lived and the girl who read.
Harry and Hermione stood near a second-hand bookstall, half in shadow. Hermione was talking too fast; Harry was pretending to listen and failing, his gaze wandering until it caught on Shya.
He froze. His ears went scarlet.
"Don't stare," Talora murmured without looking over. "It encourages him."
"I'm not staring," Shya said. "I'm… visually aware."
"Same thing."
They kept walking. The flow of the crowd made it impossible not to pass close. For a second, it looked like Harry might duck behind a pile of spellbooks and pretend he hadn't seen them. Hermione muttered something sharp under her breath and nudged him forward.
He swallowed, squared his shoulders like he was facing a Quidditch match, and stepped into their path.
"Um—Shya? Talora?"
They stopped out of basic politeness more than anything. Cassian and Roman slowed behind them, a quiet protective presence without making a thing of it.
Talora turned first, expression neutral. "Potter. Granger."
Hermione gave a small, strained smile. "Hi."
Harry looked like he wanted the cobblestones to open up and swallow him. "I just—" He glanced at Cassian, then at the dogs, then finally forced his eyes back to Shya. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For… last year. And Ron. And everything."
It came out in a rush, like if he didn't get it all out at once he'd never manage it.
Shya regarded him through her sunglasses for a heartbeat.
"Okay," she said simply.
Harry blinked. "Okay?"
"We already moved on," she added, tone light but not cruel. "You don't have to keep circling it."
Talora inclined her head, the smallest, cleanest nod. "Consider it… handled," she said. "We accepted your apology at school. No need to relitigate."
Hermione opened her mouth like she wanted to say something more complicated and probably earnest, then caught herself. This was not the time, not the place, and not the audience.
"I hope you have a good term," she said instead.
"You too," Talora replied, perfectly polite.
Harry nodded quickly, relief and mortification tangled together. "Right. Um. See you at Hogwarts."
"Probably," Shya said.
And just like that, she shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, turned, and kept walking. Conversation over. No dramatics. No grudge either.
Cassian fell back in beside her automatically. Roman gave Harry and Hermione a small, unreadable nod before following.
Hermione watched them go, biting her lip.
"That could have gone worse," Harry muttered.
"It could have gone a lot worse," Hermione agreed quietly. "At least they don't hate you."
Harry wasn't sure that was comforting, exactly, but he did feel like he could breathe again.
Ahead, Shya had already mentally filed the encounter under "done" and moved on.
"Right," she said briskly. "Æthel & Co. for Ancient Runes, then that terrifyingly clean Arithmancy shop, then Divination, then healer things, then tea. I'm starving."
"Of course your list is food and suffering in equal measure," Roman said.
"Balance," Shya replied.
They slipped back into the tide of Diagon Alley, Harry and Hermione already fading into the background noise of a busy August afternoon.
Æthel & Co. was all pale stone and polished wood, the air humming quietly with layered rune magic. Shelves held rows of rune boards, each one etched with faint, shifting symbols; slim glass cases displayed chisels like surgical instruments.
"Now this," Talora said, "is how a serious shop looks."
They drifted toward a display of beginner rune boards. Dark wood, crystal inlay, edges softly glowing.
"Beginner model," Talora murmured, fingertips brushing the surface. "Focus crystal in the corners, anti-smudge charm, automatic alignment."
"That sounds like cheating," Shya said, though she was already eyeing them.
"That sounds like efficiency," Talora corrected.
Cassian flipped one over to read the inscription along the back. "Syncs to wand output and quill resonance. Stable enough for advanced work later."
Roman snorted. "You say that like you don't already plan to use this for something ridiculous."
"I plan to use it correctly," Cassian said, which in Cassian-speak was not actually a denial.
Shya's attention locked on the rune chisels — matte black handles, brushed metal tips, each one nestled in velvet.
She picked one up, testing the weight. "Look at this grip," she said. "Ergonomic and faintly threatening. I want them."
"Naturally," Roman said. "If it can be used for stabbing and academics, you're in love."
Polly popped in beside them with a soft crack, a basket on her arm. "Misses be picking their toys, yes?"
"Boards for all of us," Talora said. "And four chisel sets. And the etching ink that adjusts to your magic."
Polly nodded once and began plucking items off the shelves with unerring accuracy. The vials of silvery runic ink glowed faintly in her hands.
"It hums when the rune is carved correctly," Talora read off the tag.
"Instant judgment," Shya said. "Perfection."
Polly vanished with their selections and a brisk, "Polly be putting these up at the house."
The Numerist – Arithmancy
The Numerist felt like walking into the inside of an equation. Walls of chalk-white stone, suspended charts drifting above their heads, strings of glowing numbers reconfiguring themselves in the air.
"This is very you," Shya told Roman. "Clinical and full of things I don't want to think about."
"I'll cherish that forever," Roman said dryly.
Cassian picked up a brass spell-calculator from a display. It whirred softly to life, casting a small arc of blue light as he turned the dials. "Formula tracking, output prediction, instability flags," he said. "This will be useful."
"For what, exactly?" Shya asked.
"Not blowing ourselves up with experimental magic," Cassian replied.
"Fair."
Talora compared a row of Numerical Mapping Journals — slim books whose grid patterns subtly shifted on the page.
"These link related theories across pages," she said. "See? If you write a variant here—" She tapped one square, and a faint line lit up, tracing to another section. "—it cross-references automatically."
"Arithmancy with training wheels," Shya decided. "I'll allow it."
They each took a journal and a brass Arithmancy Compass — small, weighty devices that measured ambient magic flow around a point, their needles spinning slowly as they moved.
"Remind me why we chose Arithmancy again?" Shya asked, inspecting the compass.
"Because it's how you build new spells and wards," Cassian said.
Shya considered that. "Fine. Worth the suffering."
Polly appeared, arms already outstretched. "More clever things?"
"Always," Roman said. "Please and thank you."
She disappeared with another soft crack, leaving the air a fraction quieter behind her.
The Scry & Circle smelled like sandalwood, dust, and something vaguely like starshine. Heavy curtains draped the ceiling; shelves glimmered with glass and crystal.
"Of course it smells like this," Roman muttered.
Crystal balls of various sizes clustered on one table, each filled with swirling mist. Nearby, enchanted mirrors reflected not-quite-the-right angles of the room.
Talora paused at a rack of Aura Cards — thin, embossed decks that shifted color faintly when she touched them.
"These read magical mood," she said, watching a card slide from pale gold to cool blue.
"So intense emotional surveillance," Shya said. "Hard pass."
She wandered instead to a stand of Charcoal Scrying Glasses — round frames, tinted just enough to look cool, enchanted for focus and clarity in visions.
"These are aesthetic," she declared. "I want them."
"Of course you do," Cassian said.
He was turning over a slim, black kit stamped Dream Journal: Beginner. "Apparently this records dream cycles and lunar influence," he read, unimpressed.
"So a formalized nightmare diary," Roman said. "No thank you."
They ended up with the basics: a pocket star chart, one pendulum chain, the glasses, and a small starter guide that Talora insisted on "for reference."
"We're not trying to become Seers," Shya said as they left. "We're just trying not to fail the class."
"Speak for yourself," Roman said. "I want to know if I'm going to regret all my choices in advance."
"You already do," Shya told him. "That's your personality."
The Healer's Alcove was warm and bright, lined with neat shelves of potions, bandages, and rune-threaded tools. It smelled like mint, clean linen, and something faintly floral.
Talora made a small, pleased noise at a stand of pale gloves. "Pulse-stabilizing enchantments," she said, sliding one on. "They regulate magical output during delicate work."
"Translation," Roman said, "you can't accidentally shock someone while you're patching them up."
Talora gave him a deeply unimpressed look. "I was never going to shock anyone."
Shya poked a rolled diagnostic scroll that glowed softly at her touch. "This is very 'school infirmary starter pack'."
"That's because it is," Cassian said, reading the label. "Basic diagnostic matrix, curse check, exhaustion monitor."
"We should have one set here," Talora decided. "And one for Hogwarts. Just in case."
They assembled a practical kit: diagnostic scroll, basic salves for hex-burns and magical strain, a thin booklet of counter-curse protocols. Nothing dramatic. Everything necessary.
Polly appeared, gathered the box, nodded once at Talora — and vanished again.
"At this point I'm convinced Polly is actually running a minor empire somewhere," Shya said.
"Efficient logistics are the backbone of any empire," Roman said.
Cassian didn't disagree.
The Scholar's Ink was Shya's personal heaven.
Pigment spells shimmered faintly in the air; ink bottles lined the walls like tiny galaxies; sketchbooks drifted lazily above tables, their covers glowing softly.
"Oh," she breathed. "Yes."
She went straight for the art section: never-ending charcoals wrapped in gold foil that reformed as soon as they were worn down; thick sketchbooks whose pages warmed and glowed subtly with each stroke.
"This one reacts to emotional intensity," she said, flicking open a heavy book. The page under her fingertip flushed the faintest silver. "It literally mood-rings my drawings."
"Deeply concerning," Roman said. "Get two."
Talora shook her head but was smiling. She picked out a set of fine enchanted pens for diagrams, and a neat stack of ivory notebooks — one for each class, plus one for her own projects. The moment she held them, bronze script appeared across the covers, naming them.
"Show-off," Shya told the notebook.
Then she looked up, saw the sticker wall, and gasped. "Bob."
Talora turned. "What now?"
"Magic stickers" Shya whispered.
Enchanted stickers. Little cups of cocoa that refilled in the image. Cats that flicked their tails lazily. Planets that rotated. A frog in a teacup that kicked tiny legs when you tapped it.
"They move," Shya said, reverent. "We're doomed."
"You're doomed," Talora corrected, but she plucked a packet of silver-edged bookmarks that hummed when you lost your place. "I'll be organized."
"I'm decorating everything," Shya said, already grabbing sheets. "Notebooks, my bag, your bag, the dorm wall—"
"If you put frog stickers on my bag, I will hex your bed curtains," Talora warned calmly.
"You say that with love," Shya told her.
By the time they left, they'd acquired enough supplies to power several revolutions — academic, artistic, or otherwise. Polly appeared at the door, collected the bags in one graceful sweep, and vanished them straight to Grimmauld Place.
Shya exhaled like a satisfied dragon. "I feel spiritually aligned."
"You feel over-caffeinated on stationery," Cassian said.
"Same thing," Shya replied.
They turned down the street toward the familiar, hidden route back to Grimmauld Place, lamps flickering to life above them as the sky shifted toward evening.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
The door to Number Twelve opened with a soft groan and the whisper of wards unspooling.
London drizzle clung to their cloaks; the lamplight outside made the entryway shine in dull gold. Haneera padded in first, fur rippling as the house magic touched her; Pando trotted after Talora, nails clicking faintly on the floor.
Sirius was in the hallway, pretending he hadn't been hovering, wand still in hand from whatever half-finished house charm he'd abandoned.
"There you are," he said, like he'd been holding his breath. "Thought London ate you."
"Almost," Shya said, kicking her boots off near the stairs. "We fought for our lives in the Gladrags queue."
"Tragic," Sirius said solemnly. "Did you win?"
"We're here, aren't we?" she said, sweeping past him.
Talora smiled as she shrugged her cape off. "Everything's sorted. Robes, uniforms, electives, stationary, inks, runes—"
"Fountain pens," Roman added.
"And an argument about fountain pens," Cassian said.
"Which I won," Shya said.
"In your mind," Cassian replied.
They drifted into the kitchen, drawn by the warmth and the smell of tea. The fire in the grate painted everything gold; mismatched mugs were already set out on the table. Haneera flopped under Shya's chair with a soft huff; Pando curled under Talora's, tail thumping once.
Parcels hovered in orderly stacks along one wall, sorted by name — Polly's invisible handiwork.
Sirius leaned on the counter, watching them with that look he didn't know he had — half-relief, half awe, like he still couldn't believe they existed here, in his house, laughing.
"So," he said, trying for casual. "Any disasters? Explosions? Sudden engagements?"
"Just stationery," Shya said. "And emotional damage at the price of some stickers."
"The usual," Roman added.
Cassian glanced at Talora, then at his father. Some of the lightness drained from his face. "We also confirmed our hunch."
Sirius straightened. "Yeah?"
Cassian's voice went quieter, flatter. "We found Pettigrew."
The joking atmosphere thinned at once.
"Where?" Sirius asked. His hands had stilled on the mug.
"In Egypt," Talora said. "Well — in the photograph from Egypt. With the Weasleys. He's Ginny's rat now. Ron's old one."
Sirius went very, very still. For one heartbeat, the only sounds in the kitchen were the crackle of the fire and the faint clink of a settling mug.
"That cowardly little—"
"We'll get him," Cassian said, cutting neatly across the curse. "Not stupidly. Not by charging in and getting arrested again. But we'll get him."
Sirius looked at his son, something fierce and aching flickering in his expression. "You sound just like your mum," he said quietly.
"Good," Cassian said.
Shya, unwilling to let the moment sink into something heavy and sticky, clapped her hands once. "Right. Operation Rat Squasher. Step one: get Padfoot to Hogwarts."
Sirius blinked. "As what, exactly?"
"A very large, extremely emotionally supportive dog," Shya said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "We tweak your fur, adjust your size, hide your scent. Throw in a concealment rune. You blend in with the familiars."
Talora nodded, mind already moving. "If we layer the charms correctly, they won't clash with the castle wards. We'd just need to be careful with timing."
"You're serious," Sirius said.
Shya smirked. "No, you're Sirius."
Cassian groaned. "Why are we like this."
"Fate," Roman said.
Talora ignored them. "Once we confirm Pettigrew is on the grounds, we go to Dumbledore. Quietly. With proof."
"You trust him?" Sirius asked.
"With caveats," Talora said. "He's one of the few adults who actually listens."
"And he's not the Ministry," Roman added. "Which is the important part."
Shya leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "So it's settled. Padfoot joins the academic elite."
Haneera lifted her head and thumped her tail like she approved. Pando gave a small bark, echoing it.
Sirius scrubbed a hand over his face, laughing under his breath. "You lot are going to get me killed."
"Or cleared," Cassian said.
Sirius looked up, and for a moment the bone-deep tiredness in his eyes eased. "Hopefully the latter."
They talked until the fire burned low — not just about Pettigrew and plans and wards, but about classes and teachers and the fact that Shya had acquired enough notebooks to start three revolutions and a side hustle.
By the time they finally trailed upstairs, yawning, London's rain had turned to a soft mist outside the windows. Hogwarts felt close — not just as a school on a calendar, but as a place they were walking toward with intention.
Somewhere out there, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were having their own year. Their own mistakes. Their own lessons.
The Bobs had done their good deed.
They'd accepted the apology.
Filed it away.
Now, they had bigger things to do.