In Transfiguration, they finished their revision and McGonagall moved on briskly to Switching theory. Shya's spells were flawless—objects snapping into new states with surgical precision—but her reactions came a half-second late, like the rest of her was lagging behind her wand.
"Exceptional work, Miss Gill," McGonagall said, pausing by her desk.
Shya smiled politely. "Thank you, Professor."
McGonagall moved on, but her eyes lingered longer than usual.
In Charms, Flitwick squeaked with delight when Shya produced a perfect Cushioning Charm in one go. She barely reacted; Cassian, across the room, smirked and mouthed show-off, earning himself a quill-chucking from Mandy and a tiny, genuine huff of laughter from Shya.
In Magical Art, Shya stood in front of a canvas and painted a ribcage full of flowers, every petal razor-sharp. Mandy painted the Hufflepuff common room with too many cushions and not enough perspective.
"That's… intense," Mandy said, peering at Shya's work.
"It's honest," Shya replied, voice soft but unapologetic.
Burbage hovered behind them, torn between praising technique and worrying about content. "You have an excellent understanding of contrast, Miss Gill."
Shya tilted her head. "You have no idea."
In Beginners Healing, Talora nearly vibrated with focus. She mastered every diagnostic charm in half the required time, copying diagrams in color-coded ink while Lisa and Padma traded impressed looks.
"Somebody's coping," Padma murmured.
Talora didn't look up. "Somebody has things to fix."
Her voice sounded steadier when her wand was in her hand.
In Magical Debate & Politics, Cassian and Roman sat in the front row, of course. Their professor—a sharp-featured witch with ink-stained cuffs named Professor Selwyn—pinned a copy of the Prophet to the board.
"Discuss," she said. "Who is the true protagonist of this narrative?"
"Fudge," Roman said immediately.
"Pettigrew," muttered someone in the back.
"Sirius Black," Cassian said, voice calm and quiet and absolutely not calm at all. "But the article makes it Fudge."
Selwyn's eyes glinted. "Explain."
Cassian did. Coolly dissecting the language—righting the wrongs of the past administration, the brave leadership of Minister Fudge, the swift response once new evidence emerged—and how it recast thirteen years of failure as one man's moment of magnanimity.
Roman chimed in with the effect on public trust. A Hufflepuff mentioned Azkaban conditions. A Gryffindor sniped about Slytherins suddenly caring about justice.
Cassian's answering smile was small and sharp.
"Some of us always cared," he said. "You just weren't paying attention."
Shya heard about it later in the Haven and cackled, briefly, eyes almost bright.
Shya's Quiet Change
To strangers, Shya looked fine.
She was on time to every class.
Her uniform was perfect.
Her jokes still landed.
But her jokes had teeth now.
When a third-year Ravenclaw boy made a snide comment about "some people overreacting to a couple of Dementors," Shya didn't even look up from her notes.
"You're right," she said mildly. "If my life were that unremarkable, I'd be bored instead of traumatised too."
The table went silent.
The boy flushed dark red. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Relax," Shya said, finally lifting her eyes. They were cool, glitter catching the candlelight. "I'm just being honest. We all have our talents. Yours is being forgettable."
Padma nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. Mandy wheezed. Lisa covered her mouth and absolutely failed to hide her laughter.
The boy shut up.
Talora didn't laugh.
She watched Shya instead—the way her shoulders tightened for a second after, the way her fingers went still, the way her gaze unfocused for a heartbeat like she'd stepped sideways in her own head.
Later, in the Haven, Shya sprawled on a sofa with Haneera's head in her lap, sketching absent-mindedly. The drawing was something twisted and beautiful—hands reaching up through water, flowers growing from their wrists.
"That was harsh," Talora said quietly.
"He started it," Shya replied.
"Since when do you finish it like that?"
Shya's smile was crooked.
"Since being nice stopped working."
Haneera huffed, pressing closer. Pandora, curled at Talora's feet, gave a tiny, anxious whine.
Cassian watched from his usual spot by the hearth—silent, eyes narrowed in thought.
He didn't tell her to stop.
He just stayed until the fire burned low, letting her exist in the half-quiet, saying nothing when she drifted off mid-sketch with charcoal still smudged on her fingertips.
A week into term, the castle had almost managed to pretend nothing was wrong.
The Daily Prophet certainly had.
MINISTER OF MAGIC LEADS HISTORIC JUSTICE REFORM, the front page had screamed two days ago, with a moving photograph of Cornelius Fudge shaking hands with a vaguely familiar, gaunt man. The article had been full of words like "oversight," "unfortunate miscarriage of justice," and "swift corrective action."
The name Sirius Black had appeared only once, buried in the fourth paragraph.
Harry had read it three times anyway, the words blurring.
Ron hadn't spoken to him that morning. Not properly. He'd muttered something about homework and stalked off with Seamus and Dean, still half-sore about last year's detentions, half-sore about Harry keeping things back, even if Harry hadn't had anything to tell, really.
Hermione had sat on Harry's other side, quiet and stiff. She'd been… civil to Ron, but colder. Boundary-setting, she'd called it once in the library, under her breath.
Harry had just tried very hard to do his homework on time and not give McGonagall any more reasons to sigh like his parents would be disappointed. He didn't know if they watched him, but if they did, he wanted them to see he was at least trying to be… good.
So when Professor McGonagall appeared beside his seat at the end of dinner, he almost dropped his fork.
"Mr. Potter," she said. "The Headmaster would like a word. Bring your bag. You may be some time."
Ron looked up, then looked away again, jaw tight.
Hermione's eyes softened. "I'll save your notes," she murmured.
Harry nodded, throat dry. "Yeah. Okay."
He slung his bag over his shoulder and followed McGonagall out of the Hall.
She didn't say anything on the walk up. Her heels clicked on stone, steady and familiar, and that absurdly made him feel a little better. People who wore heels and took house points for chewing gum did not generally escort you to executions.
They stopped at the stone gargoyle.
"Lemon ice," she said crisply.
The statue sprang aside. The spiral staircase revealed itself, turning lazily.
McGonagall's expression softened for a heartbeat. "You are not in trouble, Potter," she said quietly. "Remember that."
He managed a nod and stepped onto the staircase.
By the time he reached the top, his palms were clammy. He wiped them on his robes and knocked.
"Come in," Dumbledore called, warm as tea.
Harry pushed the door open.
The office looked the same as ever: shelves packed with books, strange silver instruments whirring and ticking, Fawkes dozing on his perch. It smelled faintly of parchment and lemon drops.
Three people were waiting.
Dumbledore behind his desk, twinkle gentler than usual.
A man Harry recognised only from moving photographs and nightmares — thinner now, cleaner, hair tied back, eyes haunted but present.
And beside him, standing straight as a wand, robes immaculate, expression carefully blank:
Cassian Black.
Harry stopped dead.
"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said. "Thank you for coming. Please—sit."
He moved to the edge of the chair Dumbledore indicated, bag still clutched like a shield.
The gaunt man's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite not.
"Hello, Harry," he said. His voice was rough, like it had been unused for years. "You look… taller."
It was such an ordinary thing to say that Harry almost barked out a laugh.
"I… er. I am," he managed.
Dumbledore folded his hands. "I imagine," he said gently, "you have read the Prophet."
Harry's fists clenched on his bag strap. "Some of it," he said. "They said there was… new evidence. They didn't say what."
"Delicacy," Dumbledore murmured dryly. "And politics." He glanced at the man. "This is Sirius Black."
Harry's stomach lurched, even though he'd known—of course he'd known—but hearing it like that still made the room tilt.
Sirius watched him like someone looking at a photograph brought to life. "I didn't do it," he said quietly. No madness. No theatrics. Just bone-deep tired. "I did not betray your parents. I didn't kill all those people. I didn't lay a hand on Peter."
"Peter?" Harry echoed.
"Peter Pettigrew," Dumbledore supplied. "Your father's other friend. The story you were told — that Sirius betrayed them — was based on… incomplete information. It was Pettigrew who served Voldemort as Secret-Keeper. Pettigrew who framed Sirius. Pettigrew who faked his own death." His eyes were very sharp now, very old. "He has been found. Alive. And he has confessed."
Harry's heart hammered in his throat.
"But—" He swallowed. "The article said nothing about that."
"The article said what was expedient for the Minister," Dumbledore said calmly. "What matters for you is this: the man in front of you is innocent. And has been for thirteen years."
Harry looked at Sirius again.
Up close, the damage was clearer. Fine lines around his mouth that shouldn't be there yet, the way his fingers trembled once and then went still. Azkaban clinging to him, even scrubbed and combed and placed in a clean shirt.
Anger flared in Harry's chest — hot and sudden — at a prison and a government and a world that had let that happen.
"But you—" Harry began, voice hoarse. "Why— I mean— if they know now, why weren't you—"
"Given a trial?" Sirius' mouth crooked in something too bitter to be called a smile. "Because at the time they preferred a quick villain over a complicated truth. Your headmaster has… corrected that." He inclined his head to Dumbledore, then back. "I can't give you a good reason, Harry. Just the truth: they were wrong. And I paid for it. And so did you."
The last bit landed like a stone in Harry's chest.
"I…" He swallowed, words blurring. "I grew up with the Dursleys," he blurted. "In a cupboard. When I was little."
Sirius flinched like he'd been physically hit.
Dumbledore's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"A cupboard," Sirius repeated, very softly. "Lily's son. James' son. My godson."
Harry blinked. "Your— what?"
Sirius' eyes went slightly wet, but his voice was steady. "James made me your godfather the day you were born," he said. "Properly. Signed parchments, far too much champagne, Lily threatening to curse my kneecaps off if I dropped you. It was supposed to mean that if anything happened—" His voice roughened. "If anything happened, I'd be the one to take you. Raise you. Not your aunt and uncle."
Harry stared.
The words my godfather felt too big for his mouth, too bright.
"You were supposed to—" He stopped, throat burning. "I thought I didn't have anyone."
"You did," Sirius said fiercely. "You do. I just—" He laughed once, low and humourless. "I was in Azkaban instead of your kitchen. That's on the Ministry. Not you."
For a moment, Harry couldn't look at either of them. He stared hard at a small silver instrument on the desk, watching it puff tiny clouds of smoke.
A godfather.
Someone who was meant to want him. On purpose. Not just tolerate him because the Headmaster said so. Not just keep him because no one else would.
A tiny, treacherous warmth lit under his ribs, edging around the hurt.
Dumbledore spoke gently. "Sirius is now a free man, Harry. The Wizengamot has acknowledged the miscarriage of justice. The Minister is… enthusiastically publicizing his role in righting it."
Harry thought of the article. Fudge beaming. Sirius small in the corner.
"Of course he is," Harry muttered.
A flicker of wry approval passed through Dumbledore's eyes. "Quite," he said. "At any rate, the formalities are complete. The reason I asked you here is not merely to state facts, but to give you something Azkaban stole from both of you: the choice to know each other."
Sirius cleared his throat. "I don't expect anything," he said. "You don't owe me forgiveness or… affection. You don't even have to like me. But if you want—if you'll let me—" He swallowed. "I'd like to be in your life. As much or as little as you're comfortable with. Letters. Hogsmeade weekends, when it's safe. Maybe one day somewhere that isn't your aunt's house."
Harry's eyes stung. "Aunt Petunia's been… less awful this summer," he admitted, surprising himself. "Not good. Just… like I'm my mum's kid, not a stray. But it's not—" He groped for words. "It's not… home."
Sirius' face folded briefly, like he was in physical pain. "It should have been," he said. "I can't fix that. But I can be here now. If you want me."
Harry thought of the Dursleys' tight, brittle smiles. Of his mother's green eyes in the mirror. Of the way his heart had lifted when he'd seen the headline about "new evidence" even before he understood why.
"I want that," he said, voice very small. Then, stronger: "I want that."
Sirius let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for thirteen years.
"'Right," he said, blinking hard. "Good. That's—good."
Dumbledore's smile deepened, relief bright and quiet.
"There is one more thing," he said. "Or rather, one more person."
He turned slightly. "Mr. Black?"
Cassian had been so still that Harry had almost forgotten he was there.
Now he stepped forward a fraction, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was as polite and controlled as it always was at the Slytherin table. Only someone who knew him well would have seen the tension at the corners of his mouth.
"Potter," he said. A small nod. "Evening."
"Hi," Harry said, brain lagging a second behind. "Er. Cassian."
His name felt strange on Harry's tongue without Black or Seeker attached.
"Sirius has two roles in this room," Dumbledore said. "He is your godfather, Harry. And he is Cassian's father. It also happens"—and here, faint amusement touched the corners of his mouth—"that James Potter was Cassian's godfather in turn."
Harry blinked. "My dad—?"
"Signed the parchment in the same ridiculous ceremony," Sirius said, and for the first time, genuine warmth coloured his voice. "He taught Cass to fly. Badly, at first. Lily threatened us both. You were there, actually," he added, almost wistful. "In a basket on the table, chewing on a Quaffle."
Something squeezed in Harry's chest so hard it hurt.
"They were… all friends," he said slowly. "You, my dad… Cassian's mum… and— and Peter."
"Yes," Sirius said. "Once."
Harry looked at Cassian.
A week ago, he'd have only seen the rival Seeker, the Slytherin with the neat homework and the sharp dueling footwork, the boy who always looked like he'd rather die than get caught without his tie straight.
Now, for a heartbeat, he saw something else: a kid who had also lost James Potter. Not as a legend on a Chocolate Frog card, but as someone who'd picked him up when he fell off a toy broom.
"You remember him," Harry said quietly. "My dad."
Cassian's composure flickered. Just once. Just for a second.
"I remember," he said. His voice, when he wasn't declaiming in class, was lower than Harry expected. "He was infuriating. Loud. Show-off. Gave me my first broom and then told me not to tell my father."
Despite everything, Harry huffed a laugh. "That sounds right."
"Lily told me you kicked him in the nose as a baby," Sirius added. "He insisted it was an accident. I have doubts."
Something bright and painful bubbled up in Harry's chest. He let out a choked noise that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob.
"So," he said, blinking hard. "We're… what, then? God-brothers? God… something?"
Cassian's mouth twitched. "Our families never settled on a term," he said. "But functionally, yes. Our parents intended us to annoy each other for the rest of our lives."
"House rivalry achieved that part," Harry muttered.
Cassian inclined his head. "We are overachievers," he agreed dryly.
Silence sat between them for a second — not hostile, just strange. Too many puzzle pieces rearranging at once.
Cassian broke it first.
"For what it's worth," he said, and this time his voice held something more honest, "I'm glad you know. About him." He tipped his chin toward Sirius. "It… seems wrong you grew up thinking you had no one."
Harry studied him.
There was something guarded in Cassian's eyes. Not dislike. Not quite. Something more complicated — old loyalty and new territorial instinct and a pinch of fear he clearly had no intention of showing Harry.
"I'm not trying to take him away," Harry said, before he could overthink it.
Cassian blinked. "I did not accuse you of that."
"You didn't have to," Harry said, surprising himself with how certain he was. "If it were me, I'd be… weird about it, too."
The corner of Cassian's mouth lifted, unwillingly. "I am being weird about it," he admitted. "Shya says I'm being dramatic."
"Shya says everyone's being dramatic," Sirius muttered, but there was affection there that hadn't been five minutes ago.
Harry snorted. The Ravenclaw girl had a terrifying mouth and a talent for taking the legs out from under any room she walked into. He could sort of imagine her telling Cassian to get over himself.
"I don't want half of anything," Harry said slowly. "I just… didn't know I had anything. So."
"So," Cassian echoed.
Another beat.
"Then we share," Cassian said, with the air of someone making a decision he'd already made days ago and was only now saying aloud. "My father. Your godfather. My godfather's son."
Harry exhaled. The knot in his chest loosened.
"Deal," he said.
Sirius looked between them, eyes bright in a way that had nothing to do with tears and everything to do with relief. "James and Lily would be insufferable if they could see you right now," he said. "Insufferably happy."
Harry's throat closed again.
"Good," he said, a little hoarse. "They deserve something."
Dumbledore cleared his throat gently. "On that note," he said, "I believe it is nearly curfew. Professor McGonagall will escort you back, Harry. I suspect you have quite a bit to think about."
Harry got to his feet, a little unsteady.
He hesitated. "Can I—?" He glanced at Sirius. "Write to you? Even from Privet Drive?"
Sirius' answering smile was crooked and fierce. "Try and stop me from answering," he said. "I'll send you an owl tonight. We'll sort out… everything. Slowly."
Harry nodded. "Okay."
He took a step toward the door, then stopped and, on some impulse he didn't analyse too hard, turned and stuck out his hand first to Sirius.
Sirius took it carefully, like he was afraid Harry would vanish if he squeezed too hard.
"Goodnight, Harry," he said.
"Goodnight," Harry replied. Then, awkwardly, he turned to Cassian and stuck his hand out there too. "Goodnight. Er. Cassian."
Cassian blinked, then shook it — grip firm, precise. "Goodnight, Potter."
Dumbledore's eyes crinkled at the edges. "Sleep well," he said.
Harry left, closing the door softly behind him.
On the moving staircase down, he pressed his palms to the cool stone and let himself breathe.
A godfather, something whispered inside him. A family that wanted you.
For the first time in a very long time, the idea of the future didn't feel like a blank wall. It felt like a door, cracked open.
—
Inside the office, the quiet settled differently after Harry left.
Sirius sank back into the nearest chair like his knees had finally given up. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
"I nearly begged," he muttered. "Nearly grabbed the boy's robes and begged him to let me be anything in his life at all."
"You did not," Cassian said. "You were… mostly coherent."
"High praise," Sirius said dryly.
Cassian moved to stand beside him, hands in his pockets now, posture looser with Harry gone. Some of the tension leaked out of his shoulders, leaving only tiredness.
"How bad is it?" Sirius asked quietly. "On a scale of one to 'you're about to hex me for emotional negligence.'"
Cassian huffed. "For wanting a relationship with your godson? That would be rich," he said. "You already asked me three times over the summer if I was 'really okay with this'."
"And you gave me very Black answers," Sirius pointed out. "Composed. Vague. Mildly threatening."
Cassian looked at the door Harry had disappeared through, then back at his father.
"I'm… not okay," he said, finally. "Exactly. I'm—" He made a small, frustrated gesture with one hand. "Adjusting. There is a difference."
Cassian's face sobered. "He looked like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to tell him he was wanted," he said. "If I begrudge him that, I am not my father's son. Or James Potter's godson."
Sirius swallowed hard.
"You're a better Black than the family deserves," he said roughly.
Cassian rolled his eyes, just a little. "Yes, well," he said. "Try not to make me share you with any more legendary orphans. One is quite enough."
Sirius laughed, honest and cracked and real.
Dumbledore turned away to give them the illusion of privacy, busying himself with parchment and quills, but his eyes were bright.
Outside, the castle hummed with ordinary noise — homework and gossip and storm-wind at the windows.
Inside the office, three people sat in the quiet aftermath of thirteen stolen years, trying, in their own crooked ways, to stitch something like family back together.
Cassian didn't remember the walk down from the office.
His mind was a static hum, a flatline of pure overload. The portrait hole to the Haven shimmered into view without him consciously navigating the shifting staircases. He stopped before the seamless stone.
"Amaranth," he rasped.
The stone rippled, then peeled open.
The Haven unfolded in warm, uneven light: the crackling fire, the mismatched armchairs, the charmed lanterns casting soft, dancing shadows. It smelled of old books, cedarwood, and the faint, clean scent of Talora's preferred citrus cleaning charm.
The scene was a study in quiet tension. Talora and Padma were at the large oak table, a constellation of parchment and ink bottles between them. Mandy Brocklehurst was sprawled on her stomach on the hearthrug, quill dangling from her fingers. Lisa Turpin was tucked into the high-backed armchair, a book open in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance.
And in the corner of the largest sofa, shrouded in a grey cashmere hoodie that swallowed her whole, was Shya.
Her hood was up, casting her face in shadow, but the firelight caught the tired crescents of glitter still clinging beneath her eyes. A sketchbook was open on her knees, but the page was a void of stark white, save for a few dark, angry lines pressed in with enough force to nearly tear the paper. Haneera, her smaller gwyllgi, was a dead weight across her shins, a living anchor pinning her to the present.
Pandora, Talora's larger shadow-hound, lounged on her mistress's feet, her tail giving a single, heavy thump against the floor when Cassian entered, then falling still.
Four pairs of eyes flicked up to him.
Talora's gaze was the most comprehensive, skimming his face, his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. She slowly, deliberately, closed the cap on her ink bottle.
"Well?" she asked, her voice preternaturally calm. "Are you… good?"
Cassian let out a sound that was half breath, half hollow laugh. "Legally? Yes."
Padma perked up, pushing her glasses up her nose. "So it worked? Proper exoneration? Official, signed, stamped, very boring Ministry parchment?"
"Yes," he said, the word feeling foreign. "All of the above. Fudge is already practising his 'defender of justice' face for the Prophet."
Mandy made a theatrical gagging noise into the rug. Lisa's mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile.
Talora rose, smoothing her skirt with practiced nonchalance. "Right. We'll… give you the hearth, then. Padma, Lisa, Mandy — I need a second, third, and fourth opinion on whether this Herbology paragraph is genius or incomprehensible gibberish."
Padma squinted at the parchment. "Those are not mutually exclusive concepts, Tal."
"Precisely why I need you," Talora said smoothly. "Come. Save me from myself."
They gathered their things with a little too much purposeful rustling, migrating toward the far end of the room where a smaller desk was nestled between bookshelves. They were still within earshot if needed, but the low murmur of their voices quickly became part of the room's ambient noise.
Shya hadn't moved.
Cassian dropped his bag by an armchair and sank down onto the hearthrug directly in front of her, facing sideways so he could see her without it being a direct stare. The warmth of the fire seeped into his back.
"Hey," he said, his voice lower now, for her alone.
Shya's head lifted a fraction. Her smile appeared instantly—a small, practiced, technically correct curve of her lips that didn't touch her eyes.
"Hey," she echoed, her voice raspy from disuse. "How was the great political theatre of the ages?"
He watched her. He saw the white-knuckled grip she had on her own knees, the way Haneera's body was coiled with a protective tension even in repose.
"It's done," he said. "He's free. Paperwork and all."
"Good." Her eyes dropped back to the blank page. "One less wrongful imprisonment on the ministry's ledger. We can all sleep soundly."
He huffed a soft, tired breath. "Potter knows now. About the godfather thing."
"Mm." She made another meaningless, dark mark on the paper. "And how did he take the news of 'congratulations, you had a dad-shaped person all along'?"
Cassian thought of Harry's face, the way his voice had cracked on I thought I didn't have anyone.
"He cried with his eyes," Cassian muttered. "And tried very hard not to make it anyone else's problem."
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Shya's mouth. "Ah. My specialty."
"Trauma by emotional restraint," he agreed dryly.
She made a faint, approving noise. "So now you're… what, exactly? God-cousins? God-enemies? God-rival heirs to the noble and most ancient house of… drama?"
He stared into the flames, the patterns shifting and collapsing. "Apparently our parents planned for us to 'grow up together'," he said, the quotation marks audible in his flat tone. "James was my father's best friend and my godfather. Sirius was his best man Potter's godfather. It was all very… circular."
Shya snorted quietly. "Rich people networking, but make it sentimental."
Something in his posture eased a fraction at her familiar, cutting clarity. Then it tightened again.
"He wants it," Cassian said, his gaze fixed on the fire as if it held answers. "The godfather. The letters. The whole… thing. You could see it. Like someone handed him a glass of water after he'd been crawling through a desert."
Shya shifted minutely, the sofa leather creaking under her weight. "And you?" she asked, her voice deceptively light. "What do you want?"
"I'm…" He flexed his fingers once on his knee. "Happy for him."
She waited, the silence itself a question.
"And," he admitted, the words torn from him, "a selfish, petty part of me wants to hex the next person who uses the phrase 'poor Harry' in my vicinity."
Finally, she looked at him properly, her gaze sharp and clear despite the shadows under her eyes.
"There it is," she said softly, without judgment.
He gave a humourless little laugh. "I had twelve years of being 'the boy with the murdering father.' The name everyone lowered their voices to say. I was the cautionary tale. Now the Prophet gets a shiny new story about the wrongfully imprisoned Sirius Black, the heroic Minister Fudge, and the brave Boy Who Lived finally getting a piece of his family back." His lip curled. "And I just feel… interchangeable."
Shya considered that, her thumb running back and forth along the sharp edge of her sketchbook.
"You feel like you survived the wilderness," she said, her voice low and precise, "and now someone else gets the cottage and the fruit trees."
The accuracy of it startled a real, sharp huff of air out of him. "Something like that."
"Fair," she said.
He blinked. "You're not going to tell me I'm being ridiculous?"
"Oh, you are," she replied without missing a beat. "But ridiculous and valid can coexist. It's very on-brand for you, Black. Complex emotional contradictions are your colour."
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a reluctant almost-smile.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, filled only by the crackling fire and the faint, rhythmic scratch of quills from the other side of the room.
Haneera let out a deep sigh, pressing more of her weight against Shya's legs. Shya still hadn't really moved—not with her usual languid sprawl or dramatic arm-flings. Just small, economical adjustments. Her pupils were a little too wide in the dim light, her stillness unnerving.
Cassian glanced at her again, his own troubles momentarily receding under a wave of concern.
"You're awfully quiet," he said, voicing the understatement of the year.
"Trying something new," she said, the words feather-light and fragile. "It's called 'shutting up before I make everything about me'."
He frowned. "You don't—"
"Please," she cut in, the lightness turning brittle. "Don't. I'm vertical. I'm breathing. I'm not sobbing on the floor. That's already a marked improvement on my performance on the train."
The words were meant to be a shield, sharp and dismissive, but the way she hugged her knees a little tighter betrayed her.
Cassian's gaze softened. "I was going to say," he continued, his voice dropping, "you don't have to be fine for my benefit."
She stared at him, and then let out a small, broken sound that was supposed to be a laugh.
"You got your dad back from the jaws of hell and a dementor's kiss," she said, "and I nearly passed out in front of half our year because of a bit of bad weather and a memory. I feel like the least I can do is not… leak on you."
"Leak," he repeated, deadpan.
"Emotionally," she clarified, making a vague, fluttering gesture with her hand before letting it fall limply back to her knee. "It's… messy. Unattractive. Inefficient."
He tilted his head, studying the defensive curve of her spine.
"They obviously love you, you know," he said abruptly.
She blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur. "What?"
"Your parents," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, born from simple observation. "I've seen them. At King's Cross. The way your father looks at anyone who stands too close to you like he's calculating how many pieces he can break them into. The way your mother 'casually' mentions your last Charms score to other parents who definitely did not ask. They're… fierce about you. It's obvious."
Shya's face did something complicated, a swift, painful contortion she brutally suppressed. She looked down at her sketchbook, her voice flattening into a careful monotone.
"Yeah. They're very good at the public performance of it."
Cassian heard the shift, the ice forming over the raw edge in her voice. He'd misstepped, but he didn't know how. "It doesn't seem like a performance," he ventured cautiously.
She let her head tip back against the sofa, eyes closing as if seeking patience from the ceiling. "It counts," she said, the words carefully chosen, a deflection wrapped in truth. "It just doesn't un-count what came before."
She opened her eyes, fixing them on the flames. "A flood now doesn't erase the drought. Doesn't un-crack the riverbed. Doesn't un-kink the plants that twisted themselves into grotesque shapes just to survive with no water. You can drown in the very same place you learned to go thirsty and they'll call it love."
The metaphor was too precise, too visceral. It hinted at a history he couldn't see. Cassian's throat worked. He turned his body more fully toward her.
"What came before?" he asked softly.
She shook her head, a tiny, final movement. "Nothing that matters now. Ancient history." The wall was back up, solid and impenetrable. "It just means I'm very, very good at surviving droughts. Doesn't mean I know what to do with myself when it finally rains."
He stared at her, at the raw, unvarnished truth she'd allowed him to glimpse just before she sealed it over again.
"That's not nothing," he said, his voice rough. "Surviving."
She made a face, a flash of genuine irritation. "It's not a personality, Cass."
"You say that like you haven't built an entire aesthetic around being the girl who survived."
"Please." She flicked a hand weakly. "I built an aesthetic around pretending it was never that bad. I'm just dramatic, right? I had staff and marble floors. So clearly, I should be fine."
The last word was a blade.
Cassian's fingers tightened on his knee. He didn't understand the full story, but he understood the pain in that word. He understood the weight of a mask.
"Then you're allowed," he said, each word deliberate, "to not be fine. To still be angry about the drought, even if from the outside, it looks like there's a fucking fountain in the garden now."
She snorted softly, a reluctant, wet sound. "Look at you. Being all… validating. It's disgusting."
"You're not the only one allowed to monologue," he said, a faint, real smile touching his lips. "And for the record, the way they are with Arya… it's intense. That has to mean something."
It was the wrong thing to say. He saw it the moment the words left his mouth. A shutter slammed down behind her eyes, so fast and final it was like a physical blow. She looked away, her profile a stark, closed line against the firelight.
"Don't," she whispered, the word so quiet it was almost inaudible.
He had stumbled into a minefield he didn't know was there. The reference to Arya, the doting parents—it wasn't a comfort. It was a trigger. He had no map for this.
All he had was the evidence of her shattering right in front of him, and the certain, cold knowledge that he had just accidentally poured salt into a wound he couldn't even see.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The fire popped. The lantern over the table flickered. Haneera's ear twitched.
Shya's gaze stayed fixed on the middle distance, somewhere just past the hearth. That tiny word hung between them like a warding charm.
Don't.
Cassian swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Every instinct said push—apologise, ask, fix it—but the sharper, better-trained part of him knew that sometimes the only way not to make a fracture worse was to stop pressing.
So he did the thing he was worst at.
He shut up.
"Okay," he said quietly, the word careful, almost formal. "Noted."
Her shoulders loosened by a millimetre. Not quite relief, not forgiveness either—more like a reprieve.
Haneera shifted, snorting softly, as if satisfied the conversation had backed away from some invisible cliff edge.
From the far table, Talora's voice cut through the room, warm and mercifully ordinary.
"Curfew in ten," she called. "Ravenclaws, we are not getting another lecture from Flitwick about 'responsible use of secret architectural privileges.'"
Padma groaned. "He only caught us once."
"Once," Lisa said dryly, "and then named the entire map system after us. I don't need that kind of legacy."
Mandy rolled over and flung an arm toward the ceiling. "I'm too young to be a cautionary tale."
The normalcy slipped over the room like a blanket.
Shya drew in a slow breath and closed her sketchbook with a soft snap. When she spoke again, her voice was lighter—patched, not healed.
"You should go," she said, still not quite meeting Cassian's eyes. "Roman will start pacing a groove in the dungeon if you're late again."
He huffed. "That's slander. He paces in neat, contained rectangles."
"Exactly," she said. "It's upsetting to witness."
Her mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was something.
Cassian pushed himself up from the rug, joints creaking in protest. For a second, he hovered, hands half-lifted like he wanted to touch her shoulder and had no idea if he was allowed.
He settled for nudging Haneera's flank with the side of his foot.
"Watch her," he muttered.
Haneera gave him an unimpressed look that clearly said, obviously, and thumped her tail once.
Shya finally glanced up at him, eyes tired but present.
"Cass?"
He paused in the doorway, one hand on the carved stone.
"Yeah?"
"Congratulations," she said, very quietly. "On the paperwork. On… all of it. Even if it's weird. You… deserved that long before the Boy Who Lived turned up to make it poetic."
It hit harder than any explicit comfort would have. The corner of his mouth curled.
"Thanks," he said, equally soft.
Then he slipped out, the stone sealing behind him with a low, final shhh.
The Haven felt smaller when he was gone—less sharp, less sparking with friction. Talora let the Herbology discussion taper off and gathered her parchment.
"Okay," she announced briskly. "Academics adjourned. Ravenclaw girls, assemble. We are going to be in bed, horizontal and accounted for, before Morag gets ideas about impromptu wellness checks."
Padma hopped up, stuffing quills into her bag. "I am very mentally well, thanks."
"You had a ten-minute argument with a Mandrake in second year," Lisa pointed out.
"And won," Mandy added. "Don't downplay her achievements."
Shya let herself be swept along by their motion, sliding her feet to the floor. The moment she stood, the world tilted just enough that Haneera immediately wedged herself against Shya's side, solid and unsmiling.
Talora's eyes flicked over her—colour, posture, the fine tremor in her fingers.
"Bob," she said softly, falling into step beside her. "Teeth brushed, face washed, mild existential crisis and then bed, yes?"
Shya huffed. "Ambitious."
"I believe in you," Talora replied serenely.
Pandora padded ahead, tail held high like a banner, as if personally clearing the way through the empty corridors. The Haven door sealed behind them; the castle's hum wrapped around them—moving stairs, distant voices, the low murmur of portraits gossiping late.
They climbed in comfortable silence.
The eagle door was in a good mood; it asked a riddle about reflections and reality that Talora answered without even slowing down. The knocker seemed satisfied. The door swung open on cool blue and soft lamplight.
A few third-years were still by the fire, playing chess. Someone had left a stack of Arithmancy notes on the nearest table. The tower smelled like ink and wool and the faint lemon of cleaning charms.
The five-person dorm felt bigger now that it wasn't brand-new.
Padma darted in first, making a beeline for her bed. "Dibs on the warm water in the bathroom," she called, already half out of her robes.
"You can't call dibs retrospectively," Lisa objected, but her voice lacked real heat.
Mandy flopped face-first on her bed and then rolled off again with a tragic groan. "I am a ghost. Bury me with my homework."
Talora laughed under her breath, the sound small but real.
Shya stood just inside the threshold, taking in the room in a single sweep: the five beds, the trunks, the soft glow from the enchanted ceiling panel above the window, charmed to show a gentle wash of stars.
Her old double room existed in her mind like a phantom limb.
Haneera jumped gracefully onto Shya's bed and circled once before dropping down in a heavy, unmovable heap. Pandora occupied the space between Shya's bed and Talora's like a furry moat, chin on paws, eyes watchful.
Talora moved on autopilot. She tugged Shya's hoodie strings loose, nudged her toward the bathroom, and wordlessly handed her a flannel and the minty toothpaste she liked.
"Go," she said, nudging again. "If you fall asleep in eyeliner, Mandy will find out and lecture you about skin elasticity."
From her bed, Mandy raised a hand without lifting her head. "This is true. I have sources."
Shya snorted, the sound tired but automatic. "Fine. I submit to the skincare police."
By the time she came back, face bare and hair damp at the temples, the room was softer. Lanterns dimmed. Bed curtains slightly drawn for privacy but not isolation. Padma was in bunny-print pyjamas, scribbling something in a planner. Lisa had a book open but her eyes were already drifting shut. Mandy was half under her duvet, kicking her feet while humming something off-key.
Talora sat cross-legged on her own bed, braiding her hair with practised efficiency. She patted the space on the edge of Shya's mattress.
"Sit," she ordered, but gently.
Shya obeyed, perching with her back to Talora like they'd done a thousand times before. Talora's fingers found her hair, separating and weaving, the tug-and-release motion grounding.
"You're quiet," Talora murmured after a moment.
"Collecting my thoughts," Shya said.
"Is that what we're calling 'emotionally dissociating with style' now?"
"Rebranding," Shya muttered. "It's very in this year."
Talora's fingers paused just long enough for Shya to feel it, then resumed their rhythm.
"You don't have to tell me," Talora said. "About anything. Harry. Sirius. Cassian. Your parents. Any of it. We can talk about… I don't know. Socks. Mandrakes. Roman's tragic hair choices."
Shya huffed a quiet laugh. "His hair is perfect. It's the personality underneath that's tragic."
"See, this is why we keep you," Talora said. "Cutting insight."
The braid finished with a soft little snap of elastic. Talora tapped her shoulder. "Down you go."
Shya slid under the covers; Haneera immediately rearranged herself to cover as much of Shya's legs as physically possible. Pandora exhaled, the lanternlight catching faint green in her eyes.
"Night," Padma said from across the room, voice muffled by her pillow.
"Night," Lisa echoed.
"I'm already dead," Mandy announced. "Bury me with my notes."
"Goodnight, Mandy," Talora said fondly.
Shya turned her face toward the wall, fingers threading unconsciously into Haneera's fur.
"Night, Bob," Talora added softly.
"Night," Shya murmured.
The lanterns dimmed on their own, responding to the time and the quiet. Outside the window, clouds moved across the conjured starfield—part charm, part reflection of the real sky beyond the mountain.
For a little while, sleep was kind.
She drifted, not quite dreaming, half-aware of Haneera's slow breathing, the creak of pipes somewhere in the tower, the wind nudging at the real windows below.
Then the bottom dropped out.
She was standing on the Hogwarts grounds again.
Barefoot. The grass under her feet was cold, damp with something thicker than dew. When she glanced down, it wasn't grass at all, but brittle, grey stalks that crumbled to dust under her toes.
She took a step.
The colour bled out of the world.
The lake went black. The sky washed to a flat, dead white. The castle loomed for a heartbeat, outlines flickering—then unmade itself piece by piece, towers dissolving into floating ash, windows collapsing into nothing.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—"
Her voice didn't echo. There was nowhere for it to go.
Talora appeared through the fog, hand outstretched. So did Arya. Haneera. Pando. A dozen familiar shapes, distant but recognisable, lit in strange, backlit silhouette.
"Shya!" Talora called. "Come on, Bob, move—"
Shya ran.
Her lungs burned. Her knees ached. For a second, she almost believed she was making progress.
But the distance didn't close.
The more she pushed, the farther away they seemed, as if the world were stretching like taffy between them. Her feet hit the ground and left no mark. No sound. No proof she'd been there at all.
"Wait!" she screamed. "Don't leave—"
The moment her fingers brushed the edge of Talora's sleeve, Talora blew apart like smoke, like dandelion fluff in a hard wind. Arya went next. The dogs. One by one, every shape dissolved into that same indifferent grey.
She was alone.
Utterly. Completely. The way she had been in Moga, in the echoing marble corridors, when the house went too quiet and no one answered when she called.
Except this time, even the house was gone.
The ground fissured, thin cracks spidering out from under her feet. Through them, she could see nothing—no fire, no water, no light. Just a waiting, yawning absence.
Something moved in it.
Not the dementor. Not exactly. Something older, wider. A weight pressed against the edges of the world, like a hand on glass.
There you are, it whispered, in a voice that wasn't words so much as pressure. Easy to erase. Easy to forget.
She tried to move and found she couldn't. Her limbs were tar, her chest a vice.
"I'm here," she rasped, though she didn't know if she was arguing or agreeing. "I'm—"
The cracks widened.
The ground dropped.
She fell—
—
Shya jerked awake with a strangled, voiceless gasp.
For a second, the dorm was wrong. The ceiling too high. The air too cold. The shapes of the beds tall, looming shadows.
Then Haneera's weight registered—a solid mass across her thighs, claws digging into the covers with just enough pressure to anchor, not hurt. Pandora was on the floor on Shya's side now, hackles up, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in her chest as she stared at the window.
"Bob?" Talora's voice came instantly, sleep-rough but clear. Her bed creaked; a blue glow flared as she lit her wand. "Bob, hey—"
Shya's lungs finally caught. She dragged in a breath that felt like it scraped her throat raw.
"I'm fine," she rasped automatically.
She wasn't.
Her hands were shaking. Sweat plastered her hair to her neck. Her heart hammered, trying to punch a hole out of her ribs.
Talora was already at her bedside, dropping to her knees on the rug. The faint light from her wand threw soft shadows over her face.
"Look at me," she said, voice low but firm. "Shy. Look here. You're in Ravenclaw Tower. You're with me. Say it."
Shya's gaze darted around, catching fragments—the familiar curve of Talora's jaw, Padma's sleepy, concerned face peeking between bed curtains, the glint of Mandy's glasses as she blinked awake.
"Ravenclaw Tower," Shya managed. "With you."
"Good." Talora reached up, cupping her face with both hands. "Can I touch you? Properly?"
"You're already—" Shya began, then shut her mouth and nodded.
Talora pulled her into a hug, careful not to dislodge Haneera. Shya folded, breath hitching once, twice, before she got it under control.
"It was just a nightmare," Talora murmured into her hair. "Just your brain being an asshole."
Shya gave a tiny, humourless puff of air. "Very on-brand."
Padma's voice floated faintly from her bed. "Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? A hitman?"
Mandy added, voice small but fierce, "We can wake Professor Flitwick. I bet he has anti-nightmare charms."
Lisa, more practical, was already digging in her bedside drawer. "I've got that lavender salve," she muttered. "And the calming draught Madam Pomfrey gave me after exams last year. Half-dose, Tal?"
"Hold that thought," Talora said. "Let me see if she levels out on her own."
Haneera gave a short, sharp bark—just one, more like a reprimand to the room at large for daring to witness this.
Pandora's growl had faded, but she still stared at the window, nose wrinkled.
Shya noticed.
"There was something," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Outside. Not like the dementor. Bigger. Wrong."
Talora stiffened for a fraction of a second, then deliberately relaxed.
"Dream logic," she said briskly. "Your subconscious has range."
It sounded right enough that Padma, Lisa, and Mandy all accepted it immediately.
Shya wasn't sure.
The window was just glass and night and the faint outline of mountains beyond. No movement. No looming shape. Just the normal dark.
Talora seemed to read the line of her thoughts. She squeezed once, then pulled back enough to brush Shya's hair off her face.
"Do you want the lights fully up?" she asked. "Or just this level?"
"This is fine," Shya murmured. The dim blue felt less like an interrogation, more like a held breath.
"Water?" Lisa offered, appearing with a glass.
"Thanks." Shya swallowed some. It tasted metallic, like she'd bitten her tongue, but the act of drinking helped.
Haneera snuffled, satisfied that the immediate crisis had passed, and resettled more comfortably—but still pinning Shya like she might levitate off the bed without supervision.
Padma yawned, enormous and contagious. "If you need anything," she said, slurring, "wake us. We will form a legally binding emotional support circle."
Mandy made a sleepy noise that might have been agreement.
Lisa patted the side of Shya's bed once before retreating. "Half-dose is on your nightstand," she said. "No pressure."
"Thanks," Shya repeated, voice a little steadier.
Within a few minutes, the room quieted again. Curtains half-drew. Breathing evened out. The tower hummed in its familiar way.
Talora stayed.
She sat on the edge of Shya's bed, one hand resting lightly over Shya's wrist, thumb checking the pulse more by habit than magic.
"Want to tell me what it was?" she asked, very gently.
Shya stared at the ceiling.
"Everything disappeared," she said, after a long pause. "The castle. The grounds. You. Arya. The dogs. It all just… unmade itself. Like I imagined it. Like it never really existed and someone finally corrected the typo."
Talora's fingers tightened, just for a second, then loosened.
"And you?" she asked. "Were you still there?"
Shya's mouth twisted.
"Yeah," she said. "That was the worst part."
Talora made a quiet, pained sound. "You were alone."
Shya didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Talora sat with that for a moment, her own eyes shining in the dim light.
"You're not now," she said finally. "Even when your brain tries to convince you otherwise."
Shya huffed. "Tell that to the… whatever it was banging on the fourth wall."
Talora smiled faintly. "If some eldritch horror thinks it can get through Ravenclaw wards without going through Flitwick, it's delusional."
That dragged a real, if small, laugh out of Shya.
"There she is," Talora said softly. "My terrible little goblin."
Shya rolled her eyes and let her own hand turn under Talora's, fingers curling weakly around her wrist.
"Stay?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Always," Talora replied, no hesitation.
Talora shifted, stretching out on top of the covers beside her, leaving enough space that Shya didn't feel trapped. Pandora hopped up and tucked herself neatly against Talora's spine, completing a lopsided, protective ring.
Haneera huffed once more, as if satisfied with the arrangement, and closed her eyes.
The dorm fell quiet again.
Outside, the real night pressed against the tower walls. Far below, the Forbidden Forest rustled with things that didn't care whether children dreamed or didn't.
For a long time, Shya stared at the softly glowing ceiling charm, counting imaginary constellations. Every so often, Talora's thumb brushed her wrist; every so often, Haneera's tail flicked against her ankle.
Eventually, sleep came back—not gentle, but bearable.
She drifted down, anchored by weight and warmth and the quiet certainty of the girl at her side.
Whatever had brushed the edges of her nightmare stayed outside.
For now.