The staircase echoed with raised voices long before Shya and the others turned the corner. Hermione stormed past first, eyes bright and furious, clutching her books so tightly her knuckles went white. Neville followed behind her, murmuring soft, awkward attempts at comfort, holding a biscuit like it was a peace offering.
Then Ron appeared, red-faced and bristling, marching after Harry.
"I SAID I KNOW I MESSED UP—" he shouted.
Harry spun so sharply Ron nearly collided with him.
"Messed up?" Harry snapped, and the crack in his voice was the sharpest thing in the corridor. "Ron, you almost got me expelled last year. And nearly killed. Twice."
Ron froze.
Students nearby stilled; even the portraits tilted closer.
Harry wasn't done.
"My parents died for me," he said, voice low but shaking, "not so I could run around making reckless decisions for attention. Not so I could be the reason the professors are sighing every day. Not so I could get into trouble every five minutes. They died so I could have a chance to actually live. And I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. I don't think you are."
Ron's throat bobbed. "So what— we're not friends now?"
"We are," Harry said, exhausted. "But if you genuinely think you didn't do anything wrong… then what are we even talking about?"
Ron said nothing. His face crumpled, and he turned and walked away.
Hermione wiped her cheek and tugged Harry toward the library. Neville passed Harry another biscuit.
The silence settled like dust.
And that was when Shya opened her mouth.
"Well," she announced, bright as a lit fuse, "that was messy."
Cassian gave her a warning look.
She sailed right past it.
"I didn't know Gryffindors were capable of introspection," she continued conversationally, loud enough for half the stairwell to hear. "I thought it was hereditary—some tragic inability to self-reflect."
Talora made a low noise of resignation.
Mandy choked.
Padma wheezed.
Lisa whispered, "Shya, please—there are witnesses—"
Ron stiffened even further down the corridor.
Shya smiled sweetly.
"Honestly," she added, "if I ever have a dramatic meltdown in public, someone better monologue at me like that. Otherwise I'll feel underappreciated."
Cassian exhaled slowly. "You're impossible."
"Thank you," she said, bowing slightly. "I work very hard at it."
But her eyes—too bright, too sharp, too fast—told a different story.
Talora noticed. She always noticed.
Arithmancy did nothing to slow her down.
Shya carved runic equations into her slate with a speed that bordered on violent. Numbers blurred. Lines dug too deep. Her quill snapped twice before Vector even finished explaining the stability constraints.
Cassian leaned over. "You're being intense."
She kept scribbling. "Multi-talented. Chaos, spite, and questionable academic rigor."
Talora kicked her gently under the desk.
Roman, from behind, muttered, "She's going to explode."
Shya turned, deadpan. "Oh no, Roman. Psychoanalyze me harder. Draw a graph."
Roman blinked. "Your slate is literally cracking."
She paused. Looked down.
It was.
"Well," she said brightly, "art is suffering."
Cassian rubbed his face. "You are suffering. The slate is collateral damage."
"Semantics."
Divination was worse.
Trelawney took one look at Shya's teacup and gasped like someone had stabbed her spiritual aura.
"The shadow cliiiings to you, dear child—"
Shya clapped her hands once. Loudly.
Trelawney shrieked.
"Oh, sorry," Shya said, clearly not sorry. "Thought a spider was on your shawl."
Cassian whispered, "Can you stop terrorizing the staff?"
"No," she whispered back. "It's my calling."
Talora tried to hide her laugh behind her textbook and failed.
At lunch, her mask glittered like armor.
She lounged at the Ravenclaw table in her low-slung cardigan and ink-smudged rings, boots up on a bench as if daring a prefect to challenge her. Her jokes flew like darts:
"Mandy's quill thief is definitely a first-year. They've got feral cat energy—no moral compass, just vibes."
"Lisa, if you organize your notes any further, they're going to reach sentience and file taxes."
"Padma, yes, you can hex someone for breathing irritatingly. It's preventive care."
The girls roared.
Across the hall, Cassian glanced over once, too long.
Roman noticed.
Cassian snapped his gaze down to his plate.
Talora leaned toward Shya. "You're burning too hot."
Shya popped a blueberry in her mouth. "Better than burning out."
Talora's jaw tightened.
Because they both knew Shya wasn't kidding.
The Haven that evening was quieter.
Shya sprawled across the sofa, sketchbook balanced against her thigh, charcoal flying in fast, furious strokes. The lines were too sharp. The shapes too jagged. Haneera lay fully stretched across her shins like an emotional seatbelt.
Cassian watched for a long moment from an armchair before sliding onto the rug beside her.
"You're doing that thing," he murmured.
She didn't look up. "I do many things. Specify."
"The 'if I keep moving I won't feel anything' thing."
She froze.
Then tilted her head, gave him a dazzling, lethal smile.
"What a poetic interpretation," she said lightly. "You should take Art."
"I do not need to take Magical Art to recognize coping mechanisms."
"Incorrect," she said sweetly, flipping a page. "Yours are much less aesthetically pleasing."
Talora's eyes flicked up from her Healing notes.
A warning. A plea. A knowing.
Shya didn't see it.
Or pretended she didn't.
The others kept their distance—Padma reading, Lisa working on a research chart, Mandy dozing on the rug. Luna arrived for fifteen quiet minutes, sat beside Talora, and watched Shya with a gentleness that made the room feel too small.
"There's a buzzing around her," Luna murmured softly. "Like the air is trying to remember her wrong."
Talora's fingers went still.
Shya didn't notice. She was laughing too loudly at something Cassian said just to prove she could.
Walking back to Ravenclaw Tower, Shya's steps were uneven.
The castle's lanterns flickered as they passed, the shadows stretching long across the marble. Talora kept pace with her silently.
"You're acting like nothing happened," Talora said finally.
"Because nothing did happen," Shya answered, too quickly.
Talora stopped. Shya took three more steps before realizing she was alone.
"Shy," Talora said quietly. "Look at me."
She didn't.
Talora stepped closer. Not enough to corner her, just enough to be chosen or rejected.
"You're not fine."
Shya huffed a laugh. "I'm being normal."
"No," Talora said gently, "you're being loud so no one sees you're breaking."
Shya swallowed. Hard.
Her mask flickered.
Just once.
Talora reached out, slowly, and took her hand. Shya didn't move away. Her fingers were ice cold.
"You will be okay," Talora said. "Maybe not right now. But you will be."
Shya let herself be tugged toward the common room. Her body moved easily; her eyes stayed elsewhere.
She didn't let go of Talora's hand.
Not once.