October arrived like a bruise rather than a season—cool, purple-edged mornings; afternoons that smelled like wet stone; nights that hummed faintly, as if the castle had begun breathing slower.
Shya pretended not to hear it.
She had perfected the mask by now—dark-humored, sharp, unfazed.
The art-school rogue aesthetic helped: oversized navy sweater hanging off her shoulder, pleated skirt, dragon-hide boots scuffed to hell, stacked rings, nose ring catching slanted sunlight.
She looked fine.
Like she always did.
She was not fine.
But she made it look pretty.
———
Magical Art on Thursday felt too quiet.
The room was dim, lit only by the enchanted overhead lanterns that tinted everything gold-blue. Students scattered across easels painted house symbols, happy little creatures, landscapes of their summer holidays.
Shya dipped her brush into the blackest ink in the tray.
It gleamed like an oil slick.
Like the edge of space.
She started with a girl's face—but not fully.
Half was intact.
Half dissolved into a swirl of ribbons that bled into stars.
A cracked moon curved behind her, ribs painted like gates.
A thin red line split the page from top to bottom—as if something underneath wanted out.
Padma paused mid-stroke; Mandy frowned; Lisa squinted as if the air itself had dipped.
Burbage stepped behind Shya.
"Oh my. That's—"
"Therapeutic?" Shya suggested, too casually.
"I was going to say 'alive.'"
Shya dipped her brush again. "I'll take either."
The candles flickered.
Just once.
Enough for Lisa to shiver.
The ink shimmered—maybe—just at the corner of Shya's eye.
But when she blinked, it was normal again.
———
Across the castle, in Beginner's Healing, Talora paused mid–life-force read.
A small orb of light hovered between her hands, its pulse steady and warm.
Then—
a sudden dip in temperature.
Like someone had opened a window in her chest.
The orb's glow stuttered.
Talora jerked her hands back. "What—?"
Madam Rosewood turned sharply.
"Livanthos? Problem?"
"No," Talora lied, smoothing her expression. "Just…a fluctuation."
A Hufflepuff boy beside her blinked, confused. "I didn't feel anything."
Talora nodded, even though her palms felt cold.
She told herself it was nothing.
But it hadn't felt like nothing.
It had felt like something brushing past her magic from very, very far away.
Shya-shaped.
But colder.
———
When Healing ended, Talora found Shya outside the classroom leaning against a pillar, sketchbook tucked under her arm, smudges on her fingers like warpaint.
"Hey," Talora said carefully.
Shya smirked. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"You look like you drew one."
"Probably did."
Padma choked on her pumpkin juice. Mandy hid a laugh. Lisa rolled her eyes.
Shya bowed shallowly. "Thank you, I'm here all week."
But when Talora brushed fingers against her arm in greeting, something felt off—just for a heartbeat.
Like static.
Or a shift in air pressure.
Talora opened her mouth to ask…then shut it.
Shya wasn't ready to hear it.
And Talora wasn't ready to explain it.
———
They passed the Trio on the way to lunch.
Ron was red-faced and furious.
"Mate, you can't seriously be mad at me forever!"
Harry snapped back, sharp and exhausted:
"You nearly got me expelled, Ron. My parents didn't die so I could end up in a disciplinary hearing every year."
Hermione didn't intervene.
She didn't even look at Ron.
Instead, she walked with Neville.
It looked like the end of something.
Shya sipped her cocoa and muttered to Talora, loud enough:
"Our drama's better."
Padma snorted. Mandy choked. Lisa covered her mouth.
Ron glared at her.
Shya winked.
———
They didn't open the sketchbook until the Haven, hours later.
The fire crackled softly. Pandora curled on Talora's lap. Haneera sat pressed against Shya's boots like a shadow with a heartbeat.
Shya lounged sideways on the armchair, hair loose, expression unreadable.
"Show it," Talora pushed gently.
Shya rolled her eyes and flipped open the sketchbook.
The room fell quiet.
Not afraid…
just unsettled.
The fractured moons.
The half-face.
The ribs opening like wings.
The dissolving starlines.
The thin vertical red cut down the center of the page.
It felt…cold.
Not bad cold—
just strange.
"Is that…supposed to move?" Lisa whispered.
"It's ink," Shya said. "Calm down."
Cassian studied it without speaking—sharp gaze, jaw tight.
"You alright?" he asked softly.
Shya shrugged. "Better than the girl in the picture."
Roman muttered, "I feel like it's looking at me."
"Good," Shya said. "She likes you."
Talora watched her.
Watched the way Shya's fingers trembled once.
Just once.
Barely there.
She didn't call it out.
Not yet.
Silence settled again—until Luna drifted in, humming under her breath as if following a tune only she could hear.
She paused near Shya's chair.
Her pale eyes drifted to the sketchbook.
"Mm," she murmured, as if noticing a scent. "Your magic sounded different today."
Shya blinked. "…sounded?"
"Yes." Luna nodded thoughtfully. "A bit like a violin string that's tuning itself."
Talora's breath hitched.
Cassian's eyes flicked upward.
Shya froze for an imperceptible second.
Then she smirked, leaning back.
"Better than sounding like a kazoo."
Luna smiled serenely. "Oh, they sound like that too sometimes."
And she floated away, completely unbothered.
Shya shut the sketchbook.
"Okay," she said, clapping her hands once. "Who wants snacks? I suddenly hate everything cosmic."
The others laughed.
But Talora watched her friend with a quiet, growing ache.
Something had shifted.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But real.
And October was just beginning.
The eighth of October dawned quiet.
A pale blue light filtered through the Ravenclaw dormitory curtains, soft and chilled, the kind of morning that made the castle feel cocooned in mist. Shya woke slowly, blinking at the faint frost edging the windows. She stretched, cracked her neck, and sat up, hair falling in an ink-dark curtain around her face.
For a moment—one fragile, borrowed moment—she didn't feel the weight of the date.
She braided half her hair back, pulled an oversized midnight sweater over her crisp collared shirt, slid into her plaid skirt, and laced her dragon-hide boots with brisk precision. Her rings clicked softly as she pushed them onto her fingers.
Talora was already dressed, perfect as always, brushing her curls into place.
"Morning," she said warmly. "Padma's making tea. You want?"
Shya yawned. "Only if it's the caffeinated kind."
"It's Padma," Talora said. "It's always the caffeinated kind."
Luna looked up from tying a ribbon around Pandora's neck. "Happy—"
Talora threw her a look so sharp Luna paused midsentence.
"—morning," Luna finished serenely.
Shya didn't notice. Or pretended not to.
Breakfast was a noisy swirl of chatter and clattering plates. Gryffindor's end of the hall was tense—Hermione and Harry sat stiffly beside Neville, Ron conspicuously isolated between Seamus and Dean.
Shya poured pumpkin juice, barely listening.
Then Mandy, in a moment of catastrophic innocence, brightened and said:
"Oh—Shy! Isn't today your—"
Talora's quill snapped in half.
Lisa inhaled sharply.
Padma kicked Mandy's shin under the table.
But the word had already breeched the surface.
Birthday.
Something shuttered behind Shya's eyes.
Her smile appeared instantly—bright, smooth, entirely wrong.
"Nope," she said lightly. "Just Tuesday."
Mandy flushed. "I—I mean—"
"Just Tuesday," Shya repeated, soft as a scalpel.
They moved on. But breakfast felt colder after that.
Shya barely touched her food.
By midday break, her face was a shade too pale beneath her glitter. Talora touched her arm.
"You okay?"
"Nap," Shya said. "I'll be fine."
She wasn't.
The Haven was warm, lanterns dimmed, cushions piled high. She curled on the sofa, hoodie pulled over her head, Haneera stretched like an obsidian shadow across her legs.
Sleep took her fast.
The nightmare took her faster.
Moga's cold marble.
The endless echoing corridors.
Two kids at the end of them— one boy, and one girl.
Arya, glowing softly, cradling a tiny clay diya in his hands.
And Shya—small Shya—standing opposite, shadows climbing her arms like living vines. Calves scraped. Wrists marked with thin, healed lines that pulsed with the same rhythm as the shadows tightening around her.
A lullaby drifted in—something her grandmother used to hum, but twisted.
Wrong.
"…take and take…
yours is to take…
theirs is to make…"
Arya reached for her.
The shadows yanked back.
The corridor split open.
Everything dissolved into black ink.
Shya fell—
—and jerked awake with a strangled gasp.
Haneera's hackles were up.
Pandora paced anxiously.
Shya swiped a hand across her face, forcing a laugh.
"Clearly I need to stop eating chocolate frogs."
Talora, who had just come in, paused mid-step.
She saw it—the tremor behind Shya's smile.
Her breath caught.
"Bob—"
"Class time," Shya cut in brightly. "Let's go before Flitwick thinks we died."
Her hands shook when she grabbed her bag.
Magical Art smelled like warm paper and melted wax. Shya slid into her place, slinging her bag onto the floor. She tied her hair up with a ribbon and dipped her brush in deep navy pigment.
Today's assignment:
"Self-reflection. Expression first, technique second."
Padma painted something calm.
Mandy painted something joyful.
Lisa painted something polite.
Shya painted something that made the room go very still.
A split self-portrait.
A child, divided cleanly down the center:
Left side: warm light, soft lines, steady breath.
Right side: scraped skin, faint cuts glowing dark red, shadows coiling around the ribs like chains tightening in slow, deliberate motions.
The child reached backward—toward the viewer—as if trapped behind the canvas.
Professor Burbage stopped behind her and forgot how to speak.
"Miss Gill," she whispered. "That's… intense."
"Is it?" Shya asked mildly, adding a darker stroke near the ribs. "Felt honest."
Padma bit her lip.
Mandy looked like she wanted to cry.
Lisa looked like she wanted to find whoever hurt her and hex them into a wall.
Shya didn't look at anyone.
She didn't look at her painting either.
She just kept moving the brush.
She left class last, shoulders tight.
Snape rounded the corner—and she nearly collided into his chest.
"Miss Gi—"
He stopped mid-reprimand.
Her eyes met his.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Just… empty.
A stillness so vast it felt like a cavern without walls.
Snape's breath stuttered—almost imperceptibly.
His Occlumency rose instinctively like a shield.
Something in those eyes—dark, depthless, ancient—recoiled him the way fires recoil from a void.
He cleared his throat, voice lower than usual.
"Watch where you are walking."
Shya slipped past him without a word.
He watched her go, unsettled.
And he didn't know why.
Cassian liked October Quidditch.
Wind sharp.
Sky bruised purple.
Perfect flying weather.
Malfoy bragged about the new brooms.
Flint yelled.
Roman adjusted his gloves.
Cassian mounted his broom and—
"GO CASSIAN!"
Luna's voice rang clear from the stands.
Cassian nearly dropped the Quaffle.
Luna waved enthusiastically, wearing a hat with a dancing snargaluff. She sat cross-legged on the bench.
Next to her—
Shya.
Hood up.
Boots planted.
Sketchbook open, blank.
Staring at the pitch like it was a memory she couldn't reach.
Something curdled in Cassian's stomach.
He missed the next pass.
"BLACK!" Flint bellowed. "ARE YOU ASLEEP?!"
Cassian ignored him.
Practice blurred.
Shya stayed motionless, a smudge of navy in a sea of green.
When practice ended, Luna sprinted across the grass toward him and hugged his waist.
"You flew like a thunderbird having an existential crisis," she said brightly.
"…thank you?" he said.
"You're welcome."
She skipped away.
Which left Shya.
He approached carefully, broom slung over his shoulder.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting," he said. "I'm observing."
"That's worse."
He sat beside her, letting their shoulders almost-but-not-quite touch.
"You didn't sketch."
"Not feeling Van Gogh today."
"Nightmares?"
She didn't answer.
Cassian nudged her boot with his own.
"If you want, I can pretend to be very dumb right now so you feel better by comparison."
Her mouth twitched.
"Cassian," she said. "You don't have to pretend."
He put a hand over his heart.
"I walked into that. Fine."
A small real smile—fleeting but real—brushed her lips.
It was Talora's idea.
A tiny birthday gathering—small, safe, warm.
The Haven glowed soft orange when Shya walked in after dinner. Mandy, Padma, Lisa, and Luna stood in a messy semicircle wearing party hats so ugly they belonged in Azkaban.
On the table:
A plate of mini cupcakes—mint chocolate chip filled, whipped mint on top.
"Surprise," Mandy said shyly. "The gentle kind."
Shya froze.
Talora stepped forward, placing a hat on her head with firm tenderness.
Luna put hats on the dogs.
Roman and Cassian walked in, saw the hats, and both sighed deeply.
It was stupid.
And warm.
And stupidly warm.
"Eat one," Talora nudged.
Shya picked up a cupcake.
Bit into it.
Closed her eyes.
Mint chocolate chip—her favourite.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Her friends lit up like she'd handed them the moon.
They stayed like that—talking, laughing, teasing—for nearly an hour.
Lisa brewed tea in a frog-shaped pot.
Padma retold the wild story of Neville's great-aunt.
Luna braided ribbons into Talora's hair.
Mandy tried on Roman's scarf and nearly choked herself.
Shya laughed.
Actual laughter.
Soft.
Fragile.
Alive.
And then the laughter dimmed.
The lanterns softened.
The air steadied—
And she slipped out.
Quiet.
Unseen.
Through a side door.
Down the short stone steps.
Into the courtyard.
The rain had just begun—thin silver sheets falling from a dark sky.
Shya stepped into the center, lifted her face, and let the storm swallow her.
Her tears vanished instantly.
Her breathing turned shallow.
She swallowed something thick, something old, something ugly.
She stood so still the rain didn't seem to touch her.
Talora noticed first.
She turned to make a joke—
and Shya was gone.
The world narrowed.
She left the Haven at a run.
Cassian noticed second.
He reached for another cupcake—
saw Shya's coat missing—
and bolted.
No hesitation.
No explanation.
Just movement.
Talora reached the courtyard archway and stopped dead.
Shya stood in the rain, soaked, statue-still.
Her hair plastered, her sweater dripping, her eyes fixed on nothing.
"Bob…" Talora whispered, voice breaking.
She stepped forward, rain sweeping around her.
Footsteps splashed behind her.
Cassian emerged from the shadows, breath uneven, hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes locked on Shya instantly—hunted, sharp, scared.
Talora met his gaze.
For one moment—
one rare, unguarded moment—
there was no rivalry.
No hierarchy.
Just shared fear.
They nodded.
And walked to her together.
Talora on her right.
Cassian on her left.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just close enough to say:
We found you.
Shya didn't turn.
But her hand twitched.
Her throat bobbed.
Her breath hitched—just barely.
Talora reached out first, brushing Shya's sleeve, gentle as a prayer.
Cassian hovered his hand near her shoulder, close enough to anchor, far enough not to break her.
The rain fell harder.
The castle loomed quiet around them.
For the first time all day—
Shya exhaled.
Not a sob.
Not a collapse.
Just a breath—
the kind someone takes when they're not alone anymore.
And for the first time all day—
she wasn't.