Chapter Text

20th August, 1980

Thunder rolled across the heavens, each rumble shaking the ancient stones of the Black family home. Lightning splitting the night sky, spilling silvery brilliance over the shadows.

In the doorway appeared a woman, drenched in blood and rain, her eyes wild, cradling a newborn child close to her chest.

Alphard Black, now well into his eighties, stood frozen as though struck by one of the bolts blazing outside. His gaze fell upon her face—and time itself seemed to lurch and stutter.

Before him stood Elladora Black—His sister…..

Long vanished, long presumed dead. And yet, impossibly, she looked unchanged—still in her thirties, her dark hair clinging to her pale face, ageless as if the decades had left no trace upon her…..

Thousand questions clawed Alphard’s throat, But Elladora spoke no words. She only held out the baby in her arms—and a small crystal vial brimming with swirling silver memories.

Alphard felt as though his heart might shatter under the weight of everything unspoken. For years, he had dreamed of this moment, rehearsing what he would say, how he would beg her to come home. But now that she stood before him, the truth of her return struck him like a blade. She was here—but not to stay.

Dread coiled around his chest as he lunged forward and pulled her into a trembling, desperate embrace.

 “I… I thought you were dead,” he choked out, his voice breaking on the words.

Elladora lifted her gaze to his, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice trembling like a candle in a storm.

“I didn’t die, Alphard.

I made mistakes. So many… unforgivable mistakes, brother.” Her breath caught in her throat. “I thought I could change him. I really thought love could heal him.

That love could pull him from the abyss, away from his greed… his fear… away from the darkness that devoured him.”

Her eyes went distant, trapped in memories darker than any night. “But I was wrong. I couldn’t save him, Alphard. No matter how much I tried… I failed.”

A sob wrenched itself from her chest.

“I’m sorry I never listened to you” she whispered.  “I loved him. Truly, I did. I thought I could protect him. But how do you protect someone from their own soul?

By the time I saw the truth… it was too late. Staying loyal to him was the easier path—the coward’s path. And I chose it… because I kept hoping… hoping it would all somehow turn out right.”

She lowered her eyes to the tiny infant cradled against her blood-soaked robes. Her expression softened, shifting into something luminous and fragile.

“But then… I had her. And everything changed.”

Her voice grew fierce, quivering with a mother’s desperate devotion.

“She changed everything. I wanted to take her far away from him—from his darkness, his reach. But there was no place in that timeline where he couldn’t find us. So… I stole the Black family’s time-turner…. I….  

Traveling while pregnant was too dangerous, so,  I waited. I waited until she was born.”

Alphard’s breath rattled in his lungs as he forced out the question that twisted his insides like a blade.

 “Is she…...  His?”

Elladora met his brother’s eyes as silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Yes… she is. But she is also mine.” Her voice burned with defiance. “She is a Black, brother.  She is my daughter. My blood. And she will always be a Black.”

Her voice wavered as she pressed a trembling kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“She’s just a child, Alphard. Let her have a childhood untouched by darkness… let her grow up loved, free from hatred, free from the shadows that destroyed us…”

Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Please, Alphard… promise me.”

Alphard’s own tears fell, hot and silent. He nodded, though his heart felt splintered beyond repair. His voice emerged as a ragged whisper.

 “I promise”

A fragile, fleeting smile broke across Elladora’s face, tears spilling like rain as she gazed down at her daughter. For a single heartbeat, she looked almost as she once had—vibrant, mischievous, alive. A soft, strangled laugh escaped her lips, half-sob, half-joy.

“Thank you, brother” she murmured. Her voice fading into a whisper, delicate as falling ash as she gathered her child fiercely to her chest, as if trying to press a lifetime of love into that final embrace. “I love you… so, so much, my darling.”

And in her brother’s shaking arms, Elladora Black exhaled her last ragged breath, still clinging to the child for whom she had torn apart the very fabric of time to protect.

Chapter Text

20th August, 1991

Esther Black woke up grumpy.....

Staying up until the small hours, driven by restless excitement, had been—in the cold light of morning—a bad.... Bad! idea.  But regret? Absolutely not.

Today was no ordinary day. Today was her eleventh birthday—the day the entire wizarding world seemed to hinge upon. The day her Hogwarts letter was destined to arrive.

And in Esther’s opinion, “A little lost sleep is a very small price to pay.”

With a groan, she wrestled free of her tangled blankets, dragged herself to the bathroom, and scrubbed her teeth as though determined to wash away every trace of exhaustion. Then she practically flew down the corridor toward the dining hall, the hem of her nightgown whispering over the floorboards.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” boomed Alphard Black’s voice the instant she crossed the threshold. His smile lit up his lined face, though his eyes crinkled with worry as he took in her sleep-deprived expression.

“You didn’t sleep on time, did you?”

Esther flashed him her trademark bunny smile—the dazzling grin that always melted even his sternest moods.

“It’s 'The Day' , Grandfather. The day I have always dreamt about.... I’m excited and ahhhhem.... maybe a tiny bit nervous.” She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his robes, and words came spilling out in a rapid torrent. “You know I’ve only ever lived with you and the house elves. The only other people I’ve really known are Aunt Meda, my tutors, and my cousins.

Meeting so many strangers, leaving you behind… it’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.”

Alphard rested his hand gently atop her head, stroking her hair, his heart tightening with an ache he could neither voice nor banish. He still felt torn about sending Esther to Hogwarts. The shadow of Voldemort loomed over the future like a storm cloud waiting to break. Alphard knew with a grim certainty that the Dark Lord would one day return. And yet… every Black for centuries had gone to Hogwarts. And he had made Elladora a promise: that in the end, the choice would be Esther’s.

The memory of his sister’s last night alive seared through him as vividly as if it had been carved into his soul only yesterday. Eleven years earlier, after laying Elladora to rest beneath the Black family gardens, Alphard had stayed in the ancestral house with newborn Esther nestled in his arms. The house elves had overseen the quiet burial. Only Andromeda had come to pay her respects. The others were all too consumed by war and blood feuds to spare even a passing thought for family.

He had kept Esther’s true origins hidden from Andromeda, though he’d seen the searching questions in her eyes. One day, he vowed, he would tell her everything.

Soon after, Alphard abandoned the ancient family home and retreated to a secluded villa in Canterbury—a place once meant for summer holidays, now transformed into his refuge. Its salt-scented winds and gentle waves whispered comfort, and it offered the perfect seclusion to raise Esther. It was close enough to Andromeda’s home to preserve some semblance of kinship, yet distant enough to keep old Black family drama at bay.

The Black Villa had become their fortress. Within its walls, Esther’s laughter and shining eyes breathed new life into Alphard’s weary heart. Watching her grow, he knew he had chosen wisely.

The crystal vial of Elladora’s memories remained hidden away, buried among other precious fragments of a past too painful to revisit. Alphard planned to share those secrets when Esther turned thirteen. For now, she was simply his beloved granddaughter. To him, she will always be a Black........  Elladora’s Black.

Esther bore the unmistakable mark of her lineage. She shared her mother’s straight, glossy black hair, high cheekbones, and porcelain skin. But her eyes—deep, dark brown—were undeniably her father’s. In the early years, those eyes had haunted Alphard, reminders of darkness and betrayal. Yet over time, his fears dissolved. Esther was nothing like her father. She was gentle, fair, and compassionate—an unexpected light born from shadow.

Beyond her gentle heart, Esther possessed a natural elegance rare even among pureblood families. She cared deeply about fashion, always kept herself immaculately tidy, and carried herself with a quiet poise that made her seem older than her years.

At seven, Alphard discovered Esther’s secret gift. He had found her in the garden one dusky evening, deep in conversation with a black python coiling through the roses. That night, she confessed she’d been trying to heal the injured creature. Alphard, alarmed, explained that Parseltongue was a rare talent—one that could stir fear and suspicion in the wrong company. Esther had promised to keep it secret, though her eyes sparkled with quiet defiance.

By nine, Esther had been transformed into the very image of a young pureblood lady, thanks to grueling etiquette lessons with Mrs. Titiana Rose. Though she often complained about them, Alphard’s gentle reasoning always prevailed. By then, she was also a graceful flier and had begun studying Legilimency and Occlumency with her cousins.

Her favourite cousin was Nymphadora Tonks, six years older and already at Hogwarts, whose chaotic hair and infectious energy fascinated Esther. She also spent time with Draco Malfoy and Astra Lestrange, who were both her age. Draco was insufferably spoiled, Astra quiet and watchful, but Esther navigated their tempers and egos with enviable finesse.

Despite Alphard’s suggestion of Beauxbatons, Esther was adamant.

“Every Black has gone to Hogwarts!” she had proclaimed, chin high and eyes ablaze. “Even Mother!”

In the end, she won the fight.

Esther knew precious little about her parents, only that her mother was Elladora Black and that she had crossed time for reasons Alphard refused to explain. He promised one day he would tell her the whole truth.  Until then, Esther focused on the future—the bright promise of the present........  Like waiting for her Hogwarts letter.

A soft, respectful voice interrupted her thoughts.

“The dining table is set… Wish you a very happy birthday, Miss Esther,” chirped Jingle, the head house-elf, bowing low enough for his long ears to sweep the floor.

“Thank you, Jingle,” Esther said, her smile glowing like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The house elves had worked their magic. The dining table shone under floating candles, draped in silver and green silks, laden with her favorite dishes and brightly wrapped gifts. After flashing her grandfather one last, radiant grin, Esther sat down, eager to dive into the feast.

As they ate, Alphard reached into his robes and withdrew a thick, cream-colored envelope sealed with wax.

Esther arched an eyebrow, suspicion flaring in her eyes.

“It arrived this morning at nine,” Alphard confessed, his grin mischievous as a schoolboy’s. “You were still in bed. 

See?  This is why you should sleep early.”

Esther opened her mouth, ready to fire back—but her words dissolved into a dazzling grin.

And with trembling hands, she tore open the envelope, heart pounding like a drum.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Black,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 20th August.
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
(Deputy Headmistress)

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
• The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
• A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
• Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
• A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
• One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
• Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
• Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
• The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT
• 1 wand
• 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
• 1 set glass or crystal phials
• 1 telescope
• 1 set brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
(Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions)

Esther was elated. A fierce, unstoppable joy surged through her chest as she clutched her Hogwarts letter to her heart. Tears shimmered in her eyes, spilling over her lashes as she stared down at the heavy parchment, the wax seal glinting crimson in the candlelight.

When she finally looked up, her vision blurred with tears, she found Alphard watching her intently. His dark eyes glistened, filled with pride, sorrow, and a tenderness so profound it seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

Slowly, he sank to one knee before her, the movement deliberate, as though acknowledging the gravity of this moment. With hands trembling ever so slightly, he cupped her face, his fingers gentle against her tear-warmed skin.

“My little star,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so proud of you.”

He paused, drawing a shuddering breath, as though wrestling words from the depths of his soul.

“The future is a storm we can never fully predict. There will be moments of darkness, of fear and doubt. But with every ending comes a new beginning… and in every beginning lies a chance to grow.” His eyes searched hers, dark and burning. “You will have countless paths to choose from. Some will be easy; others will test every piece of your spirit. Do not fear to walk them all. Make friends. Make mistakes—and have the courage to learn from them.”

He drew her closer, so close she could see every line of care etched into his face.

“Seek knowledge, Esther. It is the greatest shield and the sharpest blade you will ever wield. Be the witch you dream of being… but above all, be kind. Be just. And stand firm by your decisions, even when the world tries to sway you.”

Alphard’s voice dropped to a low, resonant hush.

“You are a Black. And whatever happens—no matter how dark the road may grow, no matter what storms may rage—you will always have a place to return to. A Black home. My home. Your home.”

Esther blinked furiously, trying to clear her tears. She nodded, her chest tight with love and fierce determination.

Alphard’s stern expression broke into a gentle smile, a spark of mischief flickering in his eyes. He brushed her cheek with his thumb.

“Now enough of my emotional speeches!” he declared, voice lightening like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Be ready by one o’clock—we’re going to Diagon Alley.”

Esther let out a watery laugh, her heart soaring as she flung her arms around his neck, clutching her letter as though it were the most precious treasure in the world.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was a familiar place to Esther—she had been there three times before with her grandfather—but today, it felt utterly different. Today, the cobblestones seemed to giggle underfoot, the window displays sparkled a little brighter, and even the owls overhead swooped in dramatic flourishes, as if performing just for her. This time, she wasn’t merely a curious child tagging along. Today, she was a witch preparing to step into a world that had waited for her since the moment she’d been born.

Clutching a handful of Floo Powder, Alphard cast Esther a look of quiet reassurance before they stepped into the emerald flames. When the whirlwind of color and heat subsided, they emerged into the riotous, sun-drenched chaos of Diagon Alley.

The street was alive with magic. Golden signs spun overhead, witches and wizards bustled past in robes of every hue, and owls swooped low, carrying letters and parcels. Chatter and laughter mingled with the distant clang of cauldrons and the sweet music drifting from Florean Fortescue’s. It felt as though the entire wizarding world was there, preparing for the start of term.

Esther stood in the middle of it all, her eyes wide, drinking in every glittering detail. The scent of parchment, potion ingredients, and roasted nuts hung thick in the air, as intoxicating as any perfume.

Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts, the towering bookshop whose windows seemed to shimmer like liquid gold. Inside, the scent of ink and old parchment wrapped around Esther like a comforting embrace. She trailed her fingertips across the spines of books as though feeling the pulse of hidden knowledge within.

She gathered the six volumes required for her first-year curriculum but couldn’t resist adding two more—one on advanced Defense, another on intricate Potions techniques—and a small, leather-bound diary. As she stacked her selections, her eyes sparkled as though she were holding a chest of hidden treasures.

“Books are portals, my dear,” Alphard said softly beside her. “Never underestimate where they might lead you.”

With eight shiny new books in hand and her heart soaring, they moved on.

At Madam Malkin’s, Alphard left Esther to her fittings while he vanished into the crowd for other errands. Esther stood on the fitting stool, arms outstretched as enchanted measuring tapes slithered around her like curious silver snakes. Silk robes in shades of black and deep green whispered around her legs as Madam Malkin pinned hems and tsked approvingly. By the end, Esther had three dresses, two robes, and a slightly crooked hat she insisted had “personality.”

Outside, Alphard stood with parcels piled higher than his head. “Don’t ask how I managed,” he said with mock exhaustion. “But your cauldron, phials, scales, telescope—and possibly a weather balloon—are all here.”

Next was the trunk shop, where time seemed to pause as Esther faced her first real Hogwarts crisis: “Do I go for practical… or dramatic?”

Finally, her fingers traced the fine carvings of a luxurious four-compartment trunk. The shopkeeper revealed the piece’s true marvel—a hidden staircase spiraling downward, leading into four secret chambers enchanted with an undetectable extension charm.

Esther gasped as she peeked inside, her voice trembling. “It’s like a castle in a box…”

Alphard’s eyes glinted with amusement. “A very fitting choice for a girl who will one day run castles of her own.”

“Sold,” Esther declared, beaming. Alphard just chuckled and shook his head. “Utterly spoiled,” he muttered, not unhappily.

They paused at Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream—Esther picked glittering fairy-vanilla and a swirl of wildberry-chilli, which fizzed and smoked with every bite.

Then came the moment Esther had been waiting for: Ollivanders…..

Inside, the wand shop was all shadows and whispers. Boxes stretched endlessly to the ceiling, and the smell of ancient wood and magic hung thick in the air. Mr. Ollivander was just as eerie and lovely as she'd imagined, drifting through the shop like a ghost with spectacles.

For nearly an hour, Esther tried wand after wand. Spells exploded in unintended bursts of sparks, stacks of boxes tumbled like dominoes. One wand rejected her with a shower of blue smoke. Another cracked the window. A third turned Alphard’s hat a very cheerful pink.

“I think that one liked me,” Alphard said solemnly.

Finally, she picked up a wand made of alder and cherry, with a core of phoenix feather and two thunderbird tail feathers—and the world seemed to still.

A golden breeze swept the room. Her hair lifted gently. Sparks shimmered from the wand tip like fireflies, and a soft humming filled the air.

Ollivander’s eyes twinkled. “Ah. There she is.”

Alphard paid the five sickles, his face pale but relieved. “Let’s hope Hogwarts is insured,” he muttered under his breath.

Their adventure wasn’t over yet.

At the magical pet shop, Esther felt like she’d walked into a dream. Owls blinked solemnly. Cats purred from velvet cushions. Toads hopped in synchronized rhythm. Even a jar of Puffskeins sang lullabies.

She considered a snowy owl… a silvery rat… even a very round bat named Pickle. But her gaze kept drifting to the back, where a cage sat untouched and quiet. Inside lounged a creature with a midnight-blue coat that shimmered like the night sky, eyes green as emerald fire.

“That’s a Kneazle,” the shopkeeper said. “Highly intelligent. Judges character. Won’t bond unless it’s absolutely certain.”

Esther inched closer. The Kneazle sat up slowly and… stared. A deep, almost knowing stare, as if saying, Finally.

“I think she’s been waiting for me,” Esther said with a sudden certainty.

The shopkeeper chuckled. “Everyone thinks that. She never chooses anyone.”

But when he opened the cage, the Kneazle leapt gracefully onto Esther’s shoulder, curling her tail around the girl’s neck and purring like thunder in miniature.

“Well, I’ll be—” the shopkeeper muttered. “She really did choose you.”

Alphard raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Have you thought of a name for her yet?”

Esther stroked the cat’s sleek fur, lost in thought. “Something magical. Something bright… but shadowed. Like the stars.” She looked at the cat’s glowing coat. “Starlet?”

The Kneazle mewed in approval.

“Starlet Black,” Esther declared with a proud smile. “Welcome to the family.”

As the sun dipped below the rooftops of Diagon Alley, Esther felt like her whole world had changed. Her arms were full of treasures—books, robes, her wand—but it was the sense of wonder that weighed most heavily in her chest.

Over dinner at a cozy bistro in Diagon Alley, Esther sighed dreamily. “I don’t even know what I love most from today.” She glanced at Starlet, now snoozing in her lap. “Maybe I don’t have to choose.”

They returned home just before ten, the house still and quiet. Esther hugged Alphard goodnight, then padded upstairs to her room, Starlet nestled snugly against her like a living, purring dream.

She was asleep moments after her head hit the pillow—her trunk at the foot of her bed, her wand on her nightstand, her future wide open and glittering ahead of her.

With only a handful of days left before leaving for Hogwarts, time seemed to slip through Esther’s fingers like glittering sand.

Every tick of the clock felt heavier, every sunrise tinged with anticipation. She clung to these final days, spending them nestled in the comforting presence of her grandfather, Alphard, and the soft, purring warmth of her new Kneazle, Starlet, who followed her everywhere like a slinking shadow stitched from midnight.

When she wasn’t curled up in Alphard’s armchair with a mountain of books, she was tiptoeing around the manor, testing the curious magical objects she’d collected from Diagon Alley. Her wand, when waved absentmindedly, occasionally made the curtains flutter as if caught in a phantom breeze.

Then came the day she and Alphard devoted entirely to the grand endeavor of organizing her enchanted trunk.

It began innocently enough with laughter echoing off polished wooden floors as they sorted quills, vials, and new textbooks into the trunk’s small compartments. The right side soon brimmed with folded robes and crisp undergarments, tucked neatly beside shimmering nightdresses.

But the real adventure began when Alphard tapped his wand against a carved rune on the trunk’s brass latch. The interior shimmered—and a small wooden staircase spiraled downward as though leading to the secret heart of a castle. Esther gasped, her eyes huge, as cool, softly glowing light spilled upward.

“I love Magic” she whispered.

“Sirius would have been jealous,” Alphard said dryly.

Room One became her bedroom. Alphard conjured soft blue walls that sparkled faintly, like stars caught in velvet. A tall closet appeared, complete with elegant brass handles and hidden compartments for jewelry and secrets. In one corner, a plush cushion embroidered with golden moons became Starlet’s throne.

Starlet approved, leaping onto the cushion, tail flicking like a wand casting silent spells.

Room Two was divided into halves. One half transformed into a miniature library where the air seemed to crackle with the scent of ancient parchment and secrets. Alphard carefully selected a stack of imposing tomes from the Black family library.

“You will read these by the end of your first term,” he warned, eyes twinkling beneath stern brows.

Esther stared at the books, some nearly as large as her torso. “Did Mother read all of these?” she asked quietly.

Alphard hesitated. “She read even more.”

The other half of Room Two was a potions lab, walls painted dark green, lit by an enchantment that mimicked bright daylight. Vials hovered weightlessly above tables, shimmering with shifting colors like liquid gemstones. Alphard waved his wand, and a chalkboard unfurled, already filled with neat notes in his crisp handwriting.

Esther’s eyes danced. “It’s perfect.”

Room Three puzzled her. Alphard painted the walls a deep, fathomless black. He reinforced them with ancient magic, adding practice dummies that occasionally blinked and shifted positions when no one was looking. Curious, Esther pressed him for answers.

“What’s this for?”

Alphard worked in silence until the last trap was in place. Then he turned to her, voice low. “It’s a room for Defence Magic,” he said. His voice was quiet, but iron lay beneath each syllable. “Esther, Hogwarts will teach you spells and history—but there are things beyond Hogwarts. Darkness that slithers unseen, waiting for the right moment. You need to be ready.”

Esther swallowed hard. “Is this about… who my parents were?”

Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.

She tried again, the words slipping out like secrets. “Do you regret being neutral in the war?”

Alphard’s face seemed older than she’d ever seen it. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them, steely and determined.

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you want me to do the same if another war comes?” she whispered.

Alphard took her hand in both of his, gripping it so tightly it almost hurt. “No. I want you to choose for yourself.  That’s why knowledge is so important—not just magic, but people, too. It doesn’t matter who your parents were. It doesn’t matter which house the Hat places you in. It matters who you are—and the choices you make.

Know people. Know truths. And remember—your blood doesn’t define you. Neither does your House. Only your choices do.”

Esther stared at him, tears burning behind her eyes. “Do you care which house I’m in?”

Alphard let out a long sigh. “No. Though I pray you won’t go seeking dragons to slay for the sake of glory like certain Gryffindors I’ve known. But wherever you end up, you will always be my granddaughter. And I will always be proud.”

Esther gave a watery laugh “I don’t even know where I’d fit. Maybe the Hat will just give up and send me home.”

“Then we’ll build you a Hogwarts right here in your trunk,” Alphard said solemnly, and Esther dissolved into giggles.

Room Four remained blank. Alphard enchanted the walls with shifting shades of purple, swirling and glimmering like nebulae in deep space. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting gentle illumination.

“This room is yours to decide,” he told her. “A secret room for secret dreams. Or secret mischief.”

Esther eyed him suspiciously. “And the little switches you put in every room?”

Alphard’s lips curved into a mysterious smile. “If anyone is looking for you, they’ll let you know. You’ll see how.”

“That’s delightfully vague, Grandfather.”

“Indeed,” he said with a wink.

When they finally emerged from the trunk, hours later, both dusty and exhilarated, the house-elves were waiting with dinner. The table sparkled under floating candles, dishes steaming and fragrant.

Esther leaned against Alphard’s arm, Starlet perched regally on her shoulder. She felt like she was balanced on the edge of two worlds—one foot still in the childhood she’d known, the other already stepping into the unknown magic of Hogwarts.

And though the future loomed vast and mysterious, for this single, perfect moment, Esther felt certain that she was exactly where she belonged....

Chapter Text

September 1st dawned bright and crisp, gilding the Black family estate in gold, as though the sun itself wished to bless Esther’s journey. The household was ablaze with activity. House-elves darted back and forth, carrying parcels and double-checking luggage, their squeaky voices weaving through the halls like anxious birdsong.

Esther, for her part, felt as though she’d swallowed a potion of pure lightning. Every nerve in her body hummed with restless energy. Determined not to repeat the weary mistakes of her last sleepless excitement, she had forced herself to sleep deeply the night before, though her dreams still whirled with glimpses of castle towers and shadowy secrets waiting at Hogwarts.

It took nearly two hours for her to prepare. She tried on five different outfits, each one scrutinized in the mirror with critical eyes, before finally settling on a light blue floral dress that danced around her knees like soft petals. She gathered her raven-black hair into a sleek half-ponytail, pinned in place with a delicate bow, pearl earrings glinting like tiny stars. A single spritz of floral perfume crowned the transformation.

As she descended the grand staircase, sunlight streaming across the polished banister, she looked every inch a young witch poised on the brink of destiny.

Breakfast was a blur of chaos and nerves.

The long dining table gleamed under floating candles, laden with platters of steaming eggs, toast, and fresh fruit. Starlet, however, was a storm of indignant fury. The Kneazle hissed in her cage, eyes blazing green fire, offended at her confinement.

“I promise I’ll let you out on the train. Just… behave until then.”

Starlet glared, her fluffy tail lashing like a whip, but fell into a sullen silence.

Alphard was another story entirely...... The dignified man who always seemed a fortress of calm was pacing like a trapped lion. His normally smooth voice was sharp with worry as he rattled off questions without pause:

“Did you pack all your books? Your robes?

Bring plenty of warm cloaks; it’s frigid come November.

Did you check your cauldron? Quills—you’ll lose quills, mark my words. And—”

“Grandfather!” Esther cut in, gently but firmly. “I’ve packed everything. Twice!.....  The list from Hogwarts is checked and rechecked.”

But Alphard continued as though he hadn’t heard her.

“This is the first time you’ll be away from me. From home. Hogwarts is safe, yes—but promise me this: if anything feels wrong, write to me immediately. Remember—we are Blacks. No one dares trouble us.

One of your great-great-grandfathers was Headmaster there, and don’t you let anyone forget it.”

Esther felt laughter bubble up, even as tears threatened the corners of her eyes. “I’ll remember. I swear it. Besides, Tonks is there, and Draco and Astra will be starting too. I won’t be alone.”

Alphard opened his mouth for another worried barrage, but she silenced him with a sudden, fierce hug. She buried her face against the crisp linen of his robes.

“I’ll miss you so much,” she whispered. “Please, visit Aunt Meda and your old friends. Don’t stay here alone all the time. I’ll be home for Christmas, and I’ll tell you every single thing about Hogwarts.”

Alphard held her tight, his breath trembling slightly. When he finally pulled back, his eyes shone with unshed tears, though his voice remained low and steady. “I’ll wait for it, my girl. I’ll wait for every word.”

A sharp look at the grandfather clock sent him into sudden panic.

“Merlin’s beard—it’s nine-oh-five! If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the train!”

Esther laughed and finished the last sweet bites of her breakfast. She instructed the house-elves to load her enchanted trunk and her mountain of luggage into the gleaming family car waiting outside. Then, she raced upstairs for one final, lingering look at her room.

The soft morning light fell on the walls she’d known all her life, the bookshelves heavy with secrets, the window from which she’d watched countless sunrises. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling her heart beating like wings.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, voice catching in her throat.

When she finally descended, Starlet’s cage in hand, Alphard was already waiting beside the car, checking his watch obsessively. Esther paused at the door, her eyes sweeping the house-elves lined up in neat rows, their eyes wide and glistening.

“Take care of everything,” she said softly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

With one last look at the manor—her fortress, her prison, her sanctuary—Esther squared her shoulders and climbed into the car, a rush of wind catching her skirt and making the Kneazle hiss in complaint.

The gates creaked open, and as the car rolled forward, the Black estate receded into the distance, shrinking like a memory.

Esther pressed her palm to the window, feeling the pull of the future clawing her away from everything she had ever known.

And though fear coiled in her stomach, a spark of fire lit her eyes.

Because whatever awaited her beyond the gates of Hogwarts—she was ready to face it.

Esther's Pov

It took barely half an hour for us to reach London King’s Cross Station—but it felt like a lifetime. The city roared around us, a blur of car horns, train whistles, and rushing footsteps, as if the entire world were in motion except me.

Inside the station, the crowds surged like a living tide, people weaving in and out of each other, voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. My heart pounded so violently I felt it might burst from my chest. Every step closer to Platform 9 seemed to tighten the invisible cord tethering me to the safe harbor of my old life.

When we finally stopped in front of a perfectly solid brick wall between Platforms 9 and 10, I glanced up at my grandfather, only to see a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Dash through the wall,” he said, utterly casual—as though he’d suggested buying a newspaper.

I blinked. “Excuse me, what? That’s a wall!”

I stared at the bricks, utterly betrayed by reality. My grandfather had been behaving a bit oddly all morning, but this… this was another level.

“Are you seriously that affected by me leaving?!” I demanded, voice rising in pitch. “Because I’m genuinely worried you’ve lost your mind!”

He threw back his head and let out a booming laugh, the kind that drew stares from passersby. “Afraid already, my fearless girl? And here I thought you were ready for new adventures! Come on, Esther—we’re wizards. Since when has anything in our lives been normal?”

I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. “This is not ‘new adventures.’ This is a concussion waiting to happen.”

But the sparkle in his eyes held an unwavering confidence. And despite the sheer absurdity of it, I found myself swallowing my fear. My pulse thudded in my ears as I clutched my robes and took a trembling step forward.

“All right, you lunatic,” I muttered under my breath.

I braced for pain—and ran.

And the world vanished.

Instead of smashing into cold brick, I felt a cool rush of magic swirl around me like a silken veil. My breath caught in my throat. When I blinked, I was standing on Platform 9¾. Steam hissed around me, tinged with the scent of metal and smoke, and sunlight glimmered off the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express.

Grandfather appeared beside me a moment later, grinning like a mischievous cat.

“I still can’t believe it,” I breathed, my voice trembling. “Who in Merlin’s name came up with this? What if Muggles see us?”

Grandfather chuckled, utterly unruffled. “They can’t see us, my girl. Stop frowning, Esther.

Come on now—move along, Drama Queen.”

But I barely heard him. My eyes were devouring the sight before me.

The Hogwarts Express stood like a jewel amid steam and sunlight, its polished red sides gleaming as if painted with dragon’s blood. Voices filled the air—laughter, sobs, shouted goodbyes. Owls hooted from cages, and trunks banged against carriage doors. The platform vibrated with magic, with possibility, with secrets yet to unfold.

My grandfather’s warm hand landed on my head. “The train leaves in twenty minutes. Find a compartment early; it’ll fill up fast.”

And that’s when the reality of it crashed over me.

I was leaving him.

The thought cleaved through the thrill and wonder, leaving only an aching hollow in its wake. My throat tightened so abruptly I could hardly breathe. My arms felt like they were moving of their own accord as I flung myself at him, wrapping him in a hug as fierce as I could manage.

“Just five more minutes,” I gasped, my voice breaking into a sob. “Promise me you’ll take your medicines on time. Listen to Jingle—she’s smarter than both of us put together. And you’re forbidden to get sick while I’m gone. Do you hear me?”

He let out a soft laugh, but it was laced with something fragile, like glass on the verge of cracking. His arms closed around me, safe and strong.

“I’ll be fine, my brave girl,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to my hair. “Go on now. The world is waiting for you. Have fun. Learn everything you can. I love you, Esther. More than you’ll ever know.”

Tears spilled onto my cheeks as I pulled back just enough to look at him, memorizing every line of his face.

“I’ll miss you too,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the shrieking steam whistle of the waiting train.

And with my heart twisting painfully in my chest, I turned and climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express, carrying the weight of my grandfather’s love—and the promise of a future still cloaked in shadows and starlight.

The inside of the Hogwarts Express burst upon my senses like a carnival of color and noise. Velvet curtains in rich crimsons and deep golds framed every window, catching the flickering light of lanterns swinging gently above. The compartments were like snug little parlors strung along the corridor, each one radiating its own warmth and chatter. Steam hissed beneath the floorboards, carrying whispers of adventure through the narrow hallways.

I paused in the corridor, my trunk hovering dutifully beside me, while the mingled scents of old leather seats and sweet pastries wafted through the air. Students darted past, laughter echoing like chimes. For a moment, I was caught in a delightful storm of indecision: should I seek out my cousins, or fling myself into the unknown and meet someone new?

Whimsy won the day.

Spying an empty compartment, I slid the door open, feeling a thrilling sense of trespass. I tucked my luggage beneath the seat and claimed the spot nearest the window. Outside, the platform was receding into a blur of color and steam. I searched the crowd for my grandfather’s face but couldn’t find him among the shifting tapestry of cloaks and bobbing hats.

Turning back, I drank in my compartment’s colors—walls clad in vivid scarlet, the seats a rich chocolate brown, the glass windows edged in brass. A cool breeze trickled through a small crack in the window, carrying with it the scent of coal smoke and wild possibility. My chest swelled with a fierce delight. Hogwarts lay ahead, shimmering just beyond the horizon.

A sudden knock startled me from my reverie.

A girl with a mane of bushy hair poked her head in, eyes bright with curiosity. “Are the rest of the seats empty? Can I join?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed, smiling as though I’d been waiting all my life for her.

She entered gracefully and began organizing her things with a meticulous precision that hinted at endless lists and color-coded schedules. Barely had she settled when another figure hovered at the door—a boy with rumpled black hair and a face pinched with nervousness.

“Is… is there a vacant seat?” he stammered, sounding as if he might bolt back into the corridor.

“Of course there is!” I said, motioning him in like a queen bestowing an audience. “Come sit. No dragons in here—unless you count my cat.”

He gave a shy laugh and shuffled inside.

Outside, I finally glimpsed my grandfather through a swirl of steam, speaking with Aunt Meda. Tonks must have already boarded. A rush of warmth filled me as I turned back to my new companions.

Just as we were about to introduce ourselves, a shrill whistle blew, and the train gave a mighty shudder. The platform began to slide away, each brick and figure blurring like a painting melting in rain. I pressed my hand against the glass, searching one last time for my grandfather. There he was—eyes glistening, waving a white handkerchief. I blew him a kiss, my chest aching with the weight of both loss and longing.

When I turned back, my companions were waiting.

“Hello, I’m Hermione Granger,” the bushy-haired girl said, voice clear as crystal.

She radiated intelligence, her eyes bright with an almost feverish hunger for knowledge. I could easily imagine her in a prefect’s badge, bossing everyone around with perfect efficiency.

The boy went next, trembling slightly. “I… I’m Neville. Neville Longbottom.”

I grinned at him. He was like a startled rabbit—timid yet somehow brave for sitting here at all. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Esther Black.”

Neville’s eyes widened as if I’d declared myself a vampire. “Black? You’re a Black?”

I tilted my head playfully. “And you’re a Longbottom. If we rummage through enough family trees, I’m sure we’d find we’re practically cousins. Or at least neighbors.”

He squeaked and nodded so hard I thought his head might pop off. I glanced at Hermione, silently pleading for a conversational rescue.

Hermione dove in, telling us about being Muggle-born and living in London, and how her parents were dentists—wizards of Muggle teeth. The idea delighted me.

“Fascinating,” I said, leaning forward. “But tell me—who did you trust enough to dash through a wall? I thought my grandfather was playing an elaborate prank!”

Hermione burst into laughter, cheeks pink. Even Neville relaxed, shoulders sagging as a grin tugged at his lips.

“Believe me,” Hermione gasped between giggles, “I was just as terrified. Professor Flitwick helped me buy my supplies and told me it was the only way. He’s going to teach us Charms at Hogwarts.”

Neville mumbled that he’d simply obeyed his formidable grandmother without question. I nodded solemnly. “Smart choice. Grandparents are frightening when disobeyed.”

The conversation flowed like a bubbling stream. We moved from family stories to Hogwarts rumors, and I realized I rather liked these two strangers. There was a sense of destiny in this chance meeting—as though the train itself had steered us together.

Eventually, the talk turned to pets, and I suddenly gasped. “Oh no! I’ve utterly forgotten—Starlet!”

Hermione and Neville exchanged curious glances as I carefully lifted my kneazle’s cage onto the seat. A sharp, offended mew rose from within, like a royal protest.

“Oh, hush,” I told Starlet as I opened the cage. “I know it’s been a dreadful prison, but you’re free now.”

Starlet sprang out like liquid midnight, her sleek fur shimmering under the carriage lights. She prowled across my lap, curling up with a disdainful flick of her tail, her eyes gleaming emerald and full of secrets.

Hermione produced her own cat, Crookshanks, a creature of majestic whiskers and an expression of permanent disapproval. Crookshanks eyed Starlet with grand suspicion. Starlet merely yawned, the picture of feline superiority.

We were deep in discussion about Hogwarts classes when the peace was shattered by a wail of distress from the corridor.

“Trevor!”

Neville was nearly in tears, explaining that his toad had escaped yet again. Hermione and I sprang into action, declaring we would search the entire train if we had to.

I flitted from compartment to compartment, introducing myself to bewildered strangers, asking if they’d seen a wayward amphibian. Some students stared as though I were mad, others offered helpful shrugs. I encountered a pair of identical red-haired boys who tried to sell me a “Trevor-Finding Charm” for two Sickles.

I declined—with great dignity.

Finally, breathless, I returned to our compartment, though sadly Trevor remained at large.

“Don’t worry,” I told Neville, trying to sound wise. “Toads have a talent for appearing at exactly the right moment. I have a feeling Trevor’s simply off plotting his dramatic entrance.”

Neville blinked at me, then managed a watery smile.

And then—just as the sky outside blushed into twilight—the train began to slow. Lanterns glowed along the tracks, and the engine whistled a long, shivering note. My heart fluttered wildly.

The journey was ending. Hogwarts waited beyond the windows like a dream half-glimpsed through mist and starlight.

With trembling fingers, I slipped Starlet back into her cage. My eyes were bright, my heart pounding with wonder and terror in equal measure.

The train shuddered to a halt, and I pressed my hand to the glass one last time.

We had arrived.......... 

Chapter Text

Esther's pov

We stepped off the train, leaving behind our trunks and pets as instructed. A chill wind knifed through the darkness, biting at my cheeks. The platform was a riot of black robes and flickering lantern-light, casting shifting shadows across the bustling crowd. Everywhere around me, voices rose and fell in overlapping waves, the air electric with the scent of steam and magic.

Amidst the chaos, a voice boomed through the night like the toll of a great bell.

“Firs’ Years!”

I turned, heart hammering, and found myself staring at a man who might as well have been a mountain. He loomed above us, his tangled hair and beard wild as thickets, lantern light glinting off his dark eyes.

“I’m Rubeus Hagrid,” he rumbled, “Keeper o’ Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Follow me, yeh lot.”

Clutching Mione’s arm and keeping Neville close on my other side, I joined the throng trailing after the half-giant. He led us away from the chatter and glow of the station, down a narrow, winding path that seemed to plunge straight into the night.

A velvet darkness gathered around us as we walked, trees crowding close like silent sentinels. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes and Hagrid’s lantern swinging in his hand, casting wild, flickering shapes along the ground. Then, the path fell away—and we emerged at the edge of a vast, inky lake.

A gasp escaped my lips.

Moonlight spilled across the water like liquid silver, reflecting a galaxy of stars. Moored at the shore was a fleet of tiny boats bobbing gently as if eager to depart.

“Four to a boat!” Hagrid called.

I climbed into one of the delicate crafts with Mione, Neville, and a sandy-haired boy with a mischievous grin who introduced himself as Seamus. The instant we were all settled, the boats began to glide forward of their own accord, silent as whispers.

The lake stretched around us, a mirror to the heavens. Ripples glided away from the boats like rings of silver. The air smelled of water and pine and secrets. Above, the stars shivered like diamonds scattered across dark velvet. My breath caught in my chest, and I felt as if I were floating between worlds.

And then, as we rounded a rocky spur, Hogwarts Castle erupted into view.

My mouth fell open.

Towers rose skyward, each crowned with battlements and glittering windows, their warm glow spilling into the night. The walls seemed carved from shadow and gold, vast and ancient, watching us approach with silent majesty. My heart surged in my chest, my entire being vibrating with awe.

There it was—my future, my destiny, bathed in starlight.

Twenty enchanted minutes later, our boats glided to a stop beside a landing stage at the base of the cliffs. Hagrid guided us out and pointed to a long flight of stone stairs vanishing into the dark.

“Up yeh go,” he said, grinning. “Yeh’ll know where yeh’re meant to end.”

We gathered our cloaks tighter against the chill and began the climb. The staircase twisted and turned through the rock, the walls cool and damp under my fingertips. Shadows danced like wraiths in the flickering torchlight. My legs burned, my breath clouding in the cold air, but adrenaline kept me moving.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we reached the summit and spilled into a small antechamber. Standing before a towering wooden door was a tall, stern woman in emerald robes. Her sharp gaze swept over us, missing nothing.

The woman introduced herself as Professor McGonagall. She welcomed us and instructed us to wait a moment before we were called inside for our sorting. She briefly explained the four houses—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin—and emphasized that whichever house we were sorted into would become our family for the next several years.

We were listening intently when suddenly, Neville let out a loud shout.

"Trevor!"

He darted forward, face alight. His toad was perched indignantly on the steps, as though it had merely been taking the scenic route. While I was happy for Neville, Professor McGonagall had different expressions, she gave him a sharp stare, prompting him to quickly return to his place. With a slight nod, she disappeared through the towering doors, leaving us trembling in her wake.

As we waited patiently in the stairs, a low murmur buzzed around us like bees in a hive........ I was staring at the polished stone floor when a 'boastful voice' I knew all too well sliced through the air.

“So, it’s true, then. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.”

A confident voice answered, “Yes.”

At the mention of Harry Potter, my mind whirled. The Boy Who Lived. The child who had toppled the Dark Lord before he could even speak… Of course, I’d heard the stories about him. He was my age then, yet the world had already crowned him a hero during his infancy. I was certain he had no understanding of it back then, no idea of the weight the world had placed on his shoulders.

From where I stood, I couldn’t see his face—just a mop of messy black hair that stood out sharply next to the redhead beside him. But it seemed the rumors were true: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was starting Hogwarts this year.

I tried not to be judgmental, but something told me that with Harry Potter in our year, the next few years would be far more chaotic than I’d imagined.

Hermione, standing beside me, was practically vibrating with excitement. "Can you believe it?" she whispered. "Harry Potter, who defeated You-Know-Who, is in our year! I met him, you know, along with the boy next to him—Ronald Weasley. It was when I was helping Neville look for Trevor. They were in the same compartment."

I raised a brow. “So much excitement on your first day, Mione.”

She huffed, “Well, it doesn’t matter that he’s Harry Potter. I’m still going to be the top student at Hogwarts.”

I laughed softly despite the tension gripping my chest. “Careful, Mione. I’ll give you a run for your money.”

We shared a smile, easing the weight of the moment.

At last, Professor McGonagall returned and ushered us into the Great Hall.

If the castle had looked majestic from afar, inside it was pure magic. The Great Hall blazed with golden light. Thousands of floating candles cast pools of flickering brilliance, while the ceiling reflected the night sky in breathtaking detail—stars glittering overhead as if we stood beneath the open heavens.

Four endless tables stretched into the distance, filled with older students in house robes, their faces eager and curious. As we entered in our trembling line, applause erupted from all sides—a thunderous, rolling welcome that made my chest tighten with wonder and terror all at once.

At the far end, a high table rose above the crowd. My eyes were drawn like iron to a magnet to one figure: Albus Dumbledore. He sat serene and wise, blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. In that instant, he looked less like a man and more like a wizard carved from starlight.

I could barely breathe. Every part of me tingled, caught between fear and elation.

Then my gaze fell on a battered old hat perched atop a three-legged stool......  The Sorting Hat......

My stomach dropped.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. “When I call your name, you will come forward, sit on the stool, and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head.”

The first name was called.

“Hermione Granger!”

Hermione squeezed my hand before striding forward like she owned the world. After a long pause, the hat roared, “GRYFFINDOR!” The Gryffindor table exploded in cheers, clapping her on the back as she beamed.

One by one, the names rolled on.

“Astra Lestrange!”

In about five seconds the hat declared, “RAVENCLAW!” Astra looked smugly pleased, her expression one of quiet triumph as she made her way to the Ravenclaw table. I caught a glimpse of Draco, who looked less than thrilled.

“Draco Malfoy!”

 The hat seemed barely to breathe before it cried, “SLYTHERIN!” Draco smirked like a king claiming a throne.

The sorting continued. I grew colder with each name.

My heart battering my ribs.

“Susan Bones!”

“Hannah Abbott!”

The names rolled on, each student taking their turn as the hat determined their place. The line grew shorter, and my anxiety grew sharper.
Finally, there were only three of us left.

“Ronald Weasley!”

Ron stumbled forward, red as his hair, before the hat finally pronounced, “GRYFFINDOR! 

He exhaled in relief and joined Hermione and Neville at the Gryffindor table, greeted by a roar of cheers.

Finally, the moment the entire hall seemed to be holding its breath for:

“Harry Potter!”

A hush fell so deep it felt like the entire castle held its breath. Harry walked forward, small beneath the towering ceiling, the lightning bolt scar on his forehead just visible beneath his messy hair. The hat deliberated longer than for any other student, its brim quivering with indecision. My pulse pounded in my ears.

At last, the hat bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hall exploded in jubilation. Cheers echoed off the enchanted ceiling as Harry stumbled away, face flushed.

My turn was next, and I felt utterly alone as the last name left to be called....... Draco’s piercing gaze from the Slytherin table only made things worse. The Great Hall was hushed so completely, it felt as though even the floating candles held their breath. My name echoed like a spell through the vast chamber:

“Esther Black.”

A chill swept down my spine.

I rose slowly, my legs stiff with nerves, each step toward the Sorting Hat echoing like drumbeats of fate. The weight of every gaze bore down on me—some curious, some doubtful, others wary, even fearful. It was as if they all saw more than a girl in black robes. They saw a legacy.

I caught Hermione’s eye briefly—her warm smile was a lifeline in the sea of whispers and stares.

I sat on the stool. Cold wood. Ancient weight.

Then, the Sorting Hat was lowered onto my head.

And the world vanished.

“Well, well… what have we here?”

A voice rang out inside my skull, ancient, teasing, and amused.

“A time-traveller! My, my… I thought young Potter was tonight’s anomaly—but you…”

The Hat’s voice deepened, smoky with amusement. “You are something else entirely.”

My heart pounded.....

“Two children of prophecy… chaos walks the halls again. Ah, Hogwarts, you never change.”

It chuckled darkly, as if watching a storm brew.

“Let’s see now… a curious mind, quick and clever. Compassion, oh yes. Loyalty… unshakable. And ambition… deep, though not greedy. Such complexity. Such potential.”

The voice softened, almost fond.

“Yet no plea from you—no whispered desire. Most students beg for Gryffindor, Slytherin… but you, you remain silent.

Fascinating.”

Then came a low, knowing hum.

“…Nothing like your father.”

My breath caught.

“You knew him? Was he… here?”

“Oh, yes. He passed through these halls. Though you carry echoes of his shadow, your path is not his. You are forged in something older… and kinder.”

A faint warmth spread through me, unbidden. My mother…

The Hat mused, “Not Hufflepuff. No. You are loyal, yes—but you are fire, not earth. Not Ravenclaw either, though your wit is sharp. Slytherin… tempting, given your blood, your secrets. But no. No, no… there’s courage in you, girl. Courage that burns like a forge. And there is someone… someone who will need your unwavering loyalty.”

Someone? Who?

But the Hat gave no answer. Only one last, booming word:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Cheers erupted.

The hall thundered to life, but I barely heard it. My ears still rang with the Sorting Hat’s cryptic words. I glanced once—just once—at the Slytherin table, meeting Draco’s narrowed gaze.

I looked away.....

Hermione stood, clapping and beaming as if I’d won a trophy. I made my way to the Gryffindor table amidst applause—some warm, others hesitant. Skeptical glances lingered, as if they questioned what a Black was doing in red and gold.

But then—

“Oi! Brilliant, Black!” one twin called.

“Gryffindor’s just gotten a lot more interesting,” the other winked.

The Weasley twins’ mischief split the tension like sunlight through fog.

Hermione threw her arms around me the moment I reached her. “You did it!”

Neville and Seamus offered bashful congratulations, and I sat beside them, still dazed. At the head table, I scanned the faces of our teachers.

Snape’s gaze was unreadable—cold and unreadable as a frozen lake.

But Dumbledore…
He was watching me. Eyes like twin moons, ancient and kind. He nodded, ever so slightly.

I nodded back.

Soon, Professor McGonagall raised her arms.

“Attention, please!”

Dumbledore stood.

“Let the feast begin!”

The plates filled as if by enchantment—because they were. One second, they were silver and bare. The next—roast chicken, golden potatoes, heaping vegetables, pastries that sparkled with sugar, and drinks that fizzed with stardust.

I gaped. So did Hermione.

“I’ve never seen so much food in my life!” she said, breathless.

“It’s like a dream,” I whispered.

We dug in, mouths full and hearts full of wonder. Across from me sat a boy with messy black hair and a lightning bolt scar that seemed almost… too ordinary for the legend it marked…..

“Hello,” I said, offering a tentative smile. “I’m Esther Black.”

He paused, then returned the smile, warm and open. “Hi. I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

There it was—that name. But in front of me sat not a hero of fairy tales, but a boy with kind eyes. Eyes the color of summer leaves, glowing with curiosity.

Beside him, a red-haired boy grinned sheepishly between bites. “Ron. Ron Weasley.”

I laughed. “Nice to meet you both.”

And just like that, the awkwardness dissolved. Ron’s humor, Harry’s humility, Hermione’s eagerness—it blended into something new. Something bright. Our voices mingled in laughter, swapping stories and nerves and excitement.

Neville, quiet till then, suddenly spoke. “My gran thought I was a Squib once,” he confessed. “Until I survived a four-story fall.”

Our jaws dropped as he narrated about the accident that revealed his magical abilities.

Next Seamus joined in, recounting a humorous story about how his Muggle father had been utterly shocked to discover that his wife was a witch.

Hermione and I were nearly choking with laughter.

Percy Weasley, Ron’s older brother attending Hogwarts, stood tall and confident as the Gryffindor prefect, While we were eating, he took it upon himself to introduce us to the teachers and the curriculum.
“You have seven classes this year - Transfiguration, Potions, Astronomy, Flying, History of Magic, Charms and Defence Against Dark Arts.”

He saved the newest addition to the faculty for last. “And that’s Professor Quirrell, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” he said, gesturing discreetly towards a man sitting at the staff table.

I glanced at Professor Quirrell, and something about him felt out of place. He looked nervous, almost terrified—more so than Neville had been when we first met—and that was saying something.

Percy then transitioned to explaining the house rules, his tone formal and authoritative, when suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall creaked open. A collective gasp rippled through the students as a host of ghosts floated in, gliding effortlessly above us, swirling in through the walls, pale and shimmering. Some floated through tables, one zoomed through a candelabra, and another performed a solemn bow midair.

“Wicked,” Seamus muttered.

I couldn’t look away. They were eerie but beautiful—like echoes of old stories, drifting between life and legend.

As dessert appeared—cakes, custards, tarts that floated midair—Dumbledore rose once more. Instantly, the room fell into reverent silence.

“Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” His voice was deep and full of light. “There are a few start-of-term notices…”

He warned us—no entry into the Forbidden Forest.

And under no circumstances, should anyone step foot in the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side.

That sparked whispers like wildfire.

I leaned close to Hermione. “That was… oddly specific.”

“Oddly suspicious,” she whispered back.

Then, Dumbledore smiled. “Now, off to bed with you all.”

Just like that, the night ended. But as we followed the prefects out of the Great Hall, I knew in my bones:  This was not just the end of a feast.

It was the beginning of something vast, and wild, and magical. Something that would change me forever.

Chapter Text

Following Dumbledore’s instructions, Percy leapt to his feet, his prefect badge glinting in the candlelight.

“First Years, form a line and follow me, please!” he barked in his crisp, commanding voice.

Heart hammering with anticipation, I rose quickly and fell into step between Ron and Hermione. The Great Hall’s warm golden glow receded behind us as we spilled into a vast corridor lit only by flickering torches. Shadows danced along ancient stone walls, creating twisting shapes that seemed almost alive.

We began to climb, and after a few steps, the staircases themselves shifted beneath our feet, groaning and grinding as if the castle was a living creature deciding our path. Each step felt like stepping into a storybook—equal parts wonder and trepidation.

Portraits lined the walls, their inhabitants leaning out of gilded frames to wave, whisper, or even shout encouragements:

“Good luck, little Gryffindors!” cried a knight in shining armor, raising his visor with a metallic clank.

“Don’t let Peeves get the better of you!” yelled a severe-looking witch, clutching her painted hat.

Before I could catch my breath, a shrieking cackle split the air. Peeves-the Poltergeist swooped down like a mischievous comet, spinning upside down and hurling an inkwell at our line. The bottle smashed against the stone floor, sending black droplets spraying like a tiny midnight storm.

Percy lunged forward, his face red with irritation. “PEEVES! Leave the first-years alone, you pestilential menace!”

Peeves blew him a raspberry and vanished through the ceiling, singing, “Firsties trembling, nerves a-shaking, Hogwarts secrets ripe for taking!”

Even as my heart raced, a grin tugged at my lips. This place was mad… and marvelous.

At last, we reached a landing where Percy paused in front of a large portrait of a plump woman swathed in a billowing pink gown. She regarded us with a critical eye, one jeweled eyebrow arched as though weighing our worth.

“Password?” she demanded, her voice carrying an imperious lilt.

“Fortuna Major,” Percy declared, chest puffed out with pride.

The Fat Lady gave an approving nod, then swung open like a grand door on hidden hinges, revealing a circular portal glowing with warm golden light.

As I stepped through, the Gryffindor common room unfolded before me—a vision of scarlet and gold so vivid it felt like stepping into a roaring fire. Plush, squashy armchairs lounged around a giant fireplace, flames crackling high beneath a mantle carved with lions. Tapestries shimmered on the walls, telling ancient stories of heroism and magic. Above us, the ceiling soared like a dome, threaded with wooden beams and dangling lanterns that filled the space with gentle warmth.

“It feels… cozy,” I breathed, unable to tear my eyes away from the flickering glow.

Hermione nodded, her voice soft with awe. “Yes.”

Percy cleared his throat, snapping us back to attention.

“Now, First Years!” he declared, tone crisp as parchment. “Remember that everything you do—every success and every mistake—adds or subtracts house points. And this year”—he paused, lifting his chin in solemn promise—“we will bring the House Cup back to Gryffindor where it belongs!”

A tiny cheer went up from some of the first-years, though I saw Ron roll his eyes behind Percy’s back.

Percy continued, sounding as officious as ever. “As much as I’d love to give you a thorough rundown of the rules, the Headmaster has commanded that you all head straight to bed. The spiral stairs behind me—boys on the left, girls on the right. Your luggage has already been delivered to your rooms. Goodnight, and remember… be proud, be brave, and uphold Gryffindor’s honor!”

With a final stern look, Percy turned and marched up the boys’ staircase, his black robes billowing behind him.

The common room fell quiet except for the low crackle of the fire. There were ten of us left, looking at one another with new and uncertain camaraderie.

Ron gave an enormous yawn. “I dunno about you lot, but my bed is singing to me right now.”

I gave a tired, wistful smile. “It’s been the longest, strangest, most incredible day of my life… but I feel like I’m running on my last drop of magic.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips, even in exhaustion. “And we did get strict orders from Professor Dumbledore.”

We all chuckled at that, our laughter echoing softly around the warm, circular room.

One by one, we said our goodnights. Hermione slipped her hand into mine, her fingers warm and reassuring, as we climbed the spiral staircase toward the girls’ dormitory.

My feet felt heavy with exhaustion, but my heart fluttered with the strange exhilaration of belonging to something far bigger than myself.

I couldn’t help but think, as the crimson curtains of the staircase twined around us like velvet vines: This is only the beginning.

Our dormitory felt like a world of its own—tucked high within the castle walls, warm and still, cradled in golden torchlight. Four grand canopy beds stood at each corner of the room, their rich crimson and gold curtains swaying gently with the breeze from the open windows. The flickering flames from the wall sconces cast shadows that danced across the walls like spirits keeping silent watch. Each bed was flanked by a small table and a wooden cupboard, polished and aged, as if generations of students had once whispered their secrets into them. The two bathrooms off to the side shimmered faintly with magical charm—fresh towels folded perfectly, warm steam curling lazily from a still-running tap. Our trunks had been neatly lined up beside our beds, each pet cage resting on top like small enchanted treasures.

I found Starlet curled up in a tight ball in her cage, her creamy fur rising and falling with each slow breath. My heart softened. She looked so peaceful, so untouched by the whirlwind of change around us. Moving silently, I opened the cage door and reached in, gently lifting her into my arms. She gave a soft, sleepy murmur but didn’t wake. I laid her on my bed and tucked the blankets around her tiny form, the way Alphard used to do for me.

Hermione had already begun brushing out her hair, her brow furrowed in thought even in this calm. We were joined by two other girls—Lavender Brown, who immediately claimed the bed nearest the window, and Padma Patil, who offered us a shy but polite smile. Though I longed to talk more, to ask them what they thought of the Sorting or the floating candles or the ceiling that mirrored the stars, the weight of the day pressed down like a thick velvet curtain.

We moved about in soft motions, voices hushed, the unspoken bond of shared awe tying us together. After washing up and slipping into our nightclothes, we each found our way beneath the thick covers of our beds. My sheets were soft and smelled faintly of rosemary and old parchment. The castle groaned gently around us, the sound of distant shifting staircases and whispers in the stone creating a lullaby only Hogwarts could sing.

I turned on my side and whispered across the room, “Goodnight, Mione.”

Hermione’s voice came back, quiet and warm. “Goodnight, Esther.”

I reached out and pulled Starlet closer, feeling her gentle warmth against my chest. Outside, the moonlight poured through the window in silver slivers, tracing the edges of the canopy bed like threads of magic.

And just like that, with Hogwarts breathing around me and Starlet purring softly in my arms, I drifted off into a dreamless, enchanted sleep—wrapped in the spell of a place where anything felt possible.

Dumbledore

After the last echoes of laughter and footsteps faded from the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood alone beneath the floating candles. His eyes twinkled less brightly than usual as he turned, the weight of secrets pressing heavily upon his stooped shoulders.

Cradling the Sorting Hat as though it were a crown, he made his way through the shadowy corridors, his robes whispering over the stone floor. At the base of a spiral staircase, the stern gargoyles blocking his path came to life.

“Password?” one growled.

“Candied Pineapple,” Dumbledore murmured.

With grinding stone and a hidden groan, the gargoyles sprang aside. He ascended swiftly, every step echoing like a ticking clock.

Once inside his circular office, lit only by the flickering glow of enchanted lamps and the quiet rustle of Fawkes shifting on his perch, Dumbledore sealed the doors with a wave of his wand. He placed the Sorting Hat upon a velvet-covered stand and lowered himself into his chair, the springs creaking under the sudden release of tension.

He stared at the Hat, eyes sharp and searching.

“Speak, old friend,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge. “Tell me what you saw tonight.”

The Hat tilted its brim, its embroidered mouth twisting into a smirk.

“My, my, Albus… impatient, are we? You’ve hardly let me catch my breath. Or… well… catch my thoughts.”

Dumbledore folded his hands, his knuckles white. “This is no time for games. Tell me what you know.”

“Games?” the Hat scoffed. “I only sing once a year. The rest of the time, I think. And tonight gave me plenty to think about.”

The Hat’s fabric seemed to shiver with hidden knowledge.

“I sorted many minds tonight… oh, so many secrets in such small skulls. Power, fear, ambition, love… so much love.”

Dumbledore leaned forward. “And what of the boy?”

A softer note entered the Hat’s voice.

“The Boy-Who-Lived? A bright spark, that one. Courageous. Yearning. A heart so large it might burst. But fragile too, like glass. He’s not ready yet… not for what lies ahead. But he will be. He’s stronger than even he knows.”

Dumbledore’s eyes glimmered, troubled. “And the girl? Esther Black.”

At once, the Hat fell silent. A tension as thick as velvet filled the room. Fawkes shifted again, emitting a low trill, as though sensing a storm brewing.

Finally, the Hat spoke.

“Ah… the other one. A hidden star, blazing in secret. She’s as pure as mountain snow and as fierce as fire. She’s the child Alphard kept hidden from the world. A girl out of time, quite literally.

Her mother whisked her to this era as a babe.”

Dumbledore inhaled sharply. “ A time-traveler?”

The Hat continued, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“Yes. She’s woven into the very threads of fate, tangled into Harry Potter’s destiny in ways even I can barely fathom. And yet, she’s nothing like her father.”

Dumbledore sat bolt upright. “You know who her father is.”

“I do,” the Hat said, its voice turning grave. “But I will not be the one to tell you. Some truths, even I am forbidden to speak. Not until the time is right… and for her to discover.”

Dumbledore’s hands clenched. “But why Gryffindor? Why place her so close to Harry?”

The Hat quirked as if lifting an eyebrow.

“Because she’s brave, Albus. And loyal beyond measure. She will stand by him when no one else dares. And perhaps… perhaps she’ll be the one to tip the scales. Or to heal what fate intends to break.”

Dumbledore rubbed his temples. “And you’re sure she’s not… dangerous?”

“She’s no threat,” the Hat insisted firmly. “But she will change everything. Hogwarts… the Wizarding World… even you, Albus. She’s a spark in dry grass. Handle her with care—or watch an inferno blaze.”

The Hat slumped slightly, as though exhausted.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve sung, sorted, and spilled more secrets than usual. I require… a nap.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the shadows lengthening around him. His mind raced with unanswered questions, visions of two children—one with a lightning scar, one with secrets older than her own lifetime.

He cast a long, lingering look at the Sorting Hat.

“Rest well, my friend,” he murmured.

But even as he doused the lights, the twinkle never quite returned to his eyes. For Dumbledore knew that this year, Hogwarts held more mysteries than ever—and that the quietest secrets might prove the most dangerous of all.

And somewhere far away, Alphard Black sat by his seaside window, staring out at the moonlit waves, sensing that soon… very soon… the past would come calling.

Esther's Pov

“Esther! Wake up!” Hermione’s voice cut through my dreams like a wand slashing through silk.

I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. “Why are you… so cheerful at this hour…?”

She was already fully dressed, her hair tamed into neat curls, and an impatient glint in her eyes. “Classes start at eleven. It’s ten already! Do you want to be late on your very first day?”

I sat up, blinking at her like a stunned owl. “Not… particularly.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not a morning person, I see. Come on. Shower. Now.”

Starlet, my kneazle, was perched on the windowsill, tail flicking as though judging me for my sloth. Outside, the castle glowed in pale golden light, the sky streaked with fiery dawn colors.

I scrambled through a quick shower and pulled on my dress robes. My pulse hammered. My first proper day at Hogwarts.

My first real magic class.

The Great Hall was a gentler chaos than the night before. The long tables shimmered with platters of bacon, eggs, toast, and steaming pots of tea. Sunlight poured in through the enchanted ceiling, transforming it into a perfect blue sky.

Seamus waved us over. “Oi, Esther! Try the sausages. They’re bloody brilliant.”

I sat beside Neville, who looked pale and already nervous. “They also balance it out with exercise,” I quipped. “In the form of about twelve thousand stairs.”

Neville gave a weak laugh. “At least we’ll be fit.”

We shared nervous chatter until the clock tolled eleven. My stomach flipped as we left the hall for our first class—Transfiguration.

I grabbed Hermione’s arm. “Mione… our very first magic class. Promise we’ll remember every second.”

Hermione squeezed my hand. “Deal.”

The Transfiguration classroom thrummed with excitement. The Hufflepuffs filed in alongside us, buzzing like bees. A tabby cat with square spectacle markings sat on the desk, tail twitching imperiously.

I whispered, “Is that…?”

Hermione smirked. “Professor McGonagall. Animagus. I read all about her.”

Ten minutes passed, then—BANG!—the door flew open. Harry and Ron stumbled in, red-faced and panting, hair windswept as though they’d outrun a herd of Hippogriffs.

“Oh, brilliant,” Hermione hissed under her breath.

The cat on the desk leapt down, and in a swirl of shifting fur and rippling magic, transformed into Professor McGonagall herself.

Gasps rippled through the room. Harry and Ron looked as if they’d swallowed live pixies.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed into steel slits. “Being late to my class is not the best way to begin your education at Hogwarts.” Her tone could have frozen lava.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and slunk into his seat beside Ron, both of them trying to disappear.

McGonagall surveyed the class. “Transfiguration is some of the most complex—and dangerous—magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone caught messing about will leave my class and never return.”

She raised her wand. “Observe.”

A flick and a murmured incantation—and her cup shimmered, stretching, morphing until a pink piglet stood squealing on her desk.

Half the class jumped back in terror. The other half clapped in awe.

“All right. Wands out. Your turn.”

I tried four times, producing various monstrosities—a cup with pig ears, a squealing mug, a cup that oinked pitifully—before I finally managed a proper pig. Hermione, naturally, achieved hers on the second attempt. Harry’s pig wobbled and squeaked, while Ron stared in horror at a half-melted snout sticking out of his goblet.

Then—BOOM! A loud explosion erupted from Seamus’s desk. Soot and smoke billowed everywhere. Seamus coughed, black-faced, and muttered, “I think I’ve blown up me cup…”

The room roared with laughter. Even McGonagall allowed the tiniest twitch of her lips before regaining her iron composure.

Despite the near disasters, magic hummed in the air like electricity. Transfiguration was… glorious.

We had an hour before our next class—Potions. Unfortunately, that meant nearly a hundred stairs.

As we began the ascent, Harry and Ron groaned behind us, footsteps echoing in the stone stairwell like distant thunder. Hermione and I slipped into conversation with the others, our voices rising and falling over talk of families, wand cores, and the strange, shivering legends whispered through Hogwarts’ ancient halls. Then the topic shifted to bloodlines and after a certain point all eyes turned to me......

I felt heat crawl up my neck.

“I… I don’t really know if I’m pureblood or half-blood,” I said carefully, my voice thinner than I’d intended. “I’m a Black… but I don’t know much about my parents.”

It was a half-truth. One that tasted bitter and metallic on my tongue, like blood.

My grandfather’s voice echoed in my memory:

We were strolling through the Black gardens, the scent of roses heavy in the air. Alphard had stopped walking, his face shadowed.

“Esther… promise me you’ll never reveal at school who your mother is. People assume you’re Regulus’s or Sirius’s child, and I want it to stay that way until you’re stronger.”

I’d crossed my arms. “That’s not fair. I deserve to know—”

He raised a trembling hand. “Your mother didn’t flee to the future by chance, Esther. She was running. There are people out there who’d destroy you for who you are. Let them keep assuming.

When the time is right… I’ll tell you everything.”

I’d glared at him through burning tears. “Fine. But on August 20th, 1993, you promise to tell me everything.”

Alphard’s voice softened. “I promise, my dear girl.”

A soft squeeze brought me back. Hermione was looking at me, brown eyes gentle.

Harry met my gaze too, and I saw understanding there. A boy with his own hidden scars. I wondered if he felt the same gnawing emptiness I sometimes did—an emptiness shaped like missing parents.

Neville gave me a hesitant smile, as if wanting to say I get it.

But Ron… Ron still eyed me with guarded suspicion. His guarded demeanor and the occasional sidelong glance spoke volumes. Like many other Gryffindors, he seemed to harbor a silent disdain for me—undoubtedly due to my family lineage. But I didn’t let it bother me. I had long learned to carry myself with dignity, even in the face of unwarranted judgment. His glance flicked between me and Draco across the hall.

We continued onward until we finally arrived at the Potions classroom, breathless....

"We’re sharing this class with the Slytherins,” Hermione said, her eyes narrowing slightly as we noticed a group of green ties already seated in the front row. “And, the best seats are already taken.”

Disappointed, we settled into seats in the middle. Despite the minor setback, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. Potions had always fascinated me, and Snape had taught me some Legilimency and Occlumency techniques at home. However, learning in a classroom environment with other students was a new experience.

At precisely 2:30, the door slammed open. Snape glided inside like an incoming storm cloud. His black robes billowed as though carried on a chill wind.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I can teach you how to bottle fame… brew glory… even stopper death.”

A shiver passed through the class. I’d heard Snape sound menacing before, but there was an extra venom now. His dark eyes flicked to Harry like a knife sliding across flesh.

“Ah. Our… celebrity.”

Harry froze under Snape’s glare. Snape fired rapid questions at him—about bezoars, wormwood, monkshood—each time his voice dripping with contempt as Harry stammered helplessly. Five points vanished from Gryffindor before we’d even started brewing.

My chest tightened. Snape’s cruelty was one thing—but this was a personal vendetta.

Across the room, Draco watched Harry’s humiliation with gleeful eyes. He hadn’t looked at me once. But I felt his anger radiating off him in waves. He was furious with me. I didn’t know why… but it was simmering, ready to erupt.

Still, even beneath the tension, the class was mesmerizing. Cauldrons bubbled. Steam hissed. Vials glowed like captured stars.

After Potions, the rest of the day passed in a daze.

By the time we reached the common room, the sky was deepening into lavender twilight. Hermione was revising, Ron and Harry battled over wizard chess, and I curled up by the fireplace, stroking Starlet’s soft fur as I penned my first letter to Grandfather......

Chapter Text

Two days later, the Great Hall hummed with the clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of voices as sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, painting the long tables in gold. I was halfway through my toast when the air suddenly shifted—a rush of wind, a whisper of feathers. Flurry wings burst overhead as the morning owls swept into the hall, cascading like a living storm of browns, greys, and snowy white. Letters and parcels rained down like confetti, caught deftly by eager hands.

My heart leapt into my throat as my eyes locked onto a familiar sight amidst the swirling chaos—a sleek, pale owl, graceful and sure in flight...... Luna- Our Black family owl.

She glided down toward me, a small package clutched in her talons and a letter tied neatly to her leg with deep green ribbon. The moment she landed in front of me, she gave an imperious hoot, shaking a few silvery feathers loose, as though scolding me for daring to make her wait.

Hands trembling with anticipation, I untied the ribbon and slipped the letter free...... A rush of grandfather’s familiar scent—parchment, old wood, and just a hint of peppermint—rose up from the paper.

Heart pounding, I unfolded it, eager for his

Dear Esther,

My dearest girl, my heart feels so full tonight as I write this. I can hardly express the pride and joy I felt upon hearing you’ve been sorted into Gryffindor. I have no doubt you will become a great asset to your house, just as I always knew you would.

The house feels impossibly quiet without you. I keep catching myself listening for your footsteps in the corridor or waiting to hear your voice drifting down the stairs. Even Luna's little claws on the floorboards seem to echo more loudly in the silence. It’s a strange thing, how a home can feel emptier even though all the furniture and walls remain the same. But please don’t mistake my missing you for sorrow. I am so very glad you’re where you belong—beginning this great adventure. I hope every corridor you explore and every spell you learn fills you with wonder.

I heard you’ve already made a best friend. That warms me more than you can know. Friends are the family we choose, Esther. Cherish her. I can’t wait to meet her during the holidays and hear all about the mischief you two are bound to get into.

And how is little Starlet adjusting to Hogwarts life? I hope she’s not making a nuisance of herself… though knowing her, that might be a vain hope.

As for Draco—if he’s behaving like the spoiled, bigoted child I know he can be, remember you have my complete permission to put him firmly in his place. Don’t let that Malfoy pride get under your skin.

I hear whispers, too, that the famous Harry Potter is in your year. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. What’s he like, truly? Beyond all the stories and legends?

Promise me you’ll stay safe, study hard (though not so hard you forget to have fun), and write to me whenever you can. There’s nothing I look forward to more than hearing all about your days at Hogwarts.

I miss you terribly. But I am so incredibly proud of you, my brave little lion.

With all my love,

Grandfather

The next two weeks at Hogwarts were a maelstrom. A blur of spell-work, shifting staircases, whispered suspicions, and the thunderous rush of a thousand new things all demanding my attention at once.

Life here was a labyrinth of marvels and madness. Each morning, we Gryffindors stumbled out of bed only to be thwarted by Hogwarts itself—a castle that seemed determined to swallow us alive. The hundred and forty-two staircases twisted and shifted at will, sometimes vanishing beneath our feet like disappearing sand. Doors refused to open unless you tickled their hinges or sang to their knobs. One even demanded a password in French.

If not for Nearly Headless Nick—his translucent neck perpetually half-attached and bobbing like a broken doll’s—many of us would still be wandering the seventh floor, starving and hopeless. He’d float beside us, a pale lantern in the gloom, pointing out hidden passageways and barking, “No, not that tapestry, the one with the trolls juggling pineapples!”

But for every ghostly guide, there was Peeves. Oh, Peeves. That cackling poltergeist with his wicked grin, who thought nothing funnier than hurling chalk dust into our hair, locking us in classrooms, or dropping water balloons filled with ink right onto our heads. I learned very quickly to walk close to the walls and keep my wand ready.

And then there was Argus Filch. The castle’s resident misery. His eyes were like rusty daggers, always scanning the corridors for troublemakers—which apparently meant me simply existing. Each morning, he’d glower at me as though I’d personally murdered his cat.

Classes were a different brand of chaos. Most were utterly fascinating—except for History of Magic.

Professor Binns drifted through his lessons like a faint breeze, droning on and on about goblin rebellions in a voice that could put a Hungarian Horntail into hibernation. Even Hermione, who could find joy in the back of a cereal box, sometimes fought to keep her eyes open. I’d glance over to see her chin jerk up, a line of drool on her parchment, before she’d pretend to resume note-taking.

Ron, meanwhile, snored so loudly that at least two ghosts fled the room in terror.

Astronomy, though…    Astronomy  became the secret flame of my heart.

At midnight, we’d climb the spiraling, seemingly endless staircase to the highest tower, our breath steaming in the cold. The moment I stepped onto the tower platform, the entire sky unfolded above me—a black velvet canvas embroidered with diamond stars. Through the telescope, those stars felt so close I could almost touch them.

Each night, the stars whispered secrets older than magic itself. For a few precious hours, I felt limitless—like I was both rooted to the earth and soaring among the constellations.

Hermione thought I was daft. She’d roll her eyes and tease me, “Honestly, Esther, no one’s going to ask you which star is in conjunction with Jupiter during a duel.”

I’d only laugh. “I’m a Black, Mione. Stargazing is practically in my blood.”

Charms quickly won my admiration as well. Professor Flitwick was a tiny spark of energy, bouncing around the front of the classroom, his voice squeaking with enthusiasm. He treated every student the same, regardless of house. His lessons were a riot of sparkles, floating objects, and delighted applause.

Hermione, of course, adored Charms. It became her turf—she mastered each spell before Flitwick could even finish explaining it.

And then there was Defense Against the Dark Arts.... The subject I was most eager about.

I’d dreamed of this class—imagined duels, hidden curses, secrets of ancient magic. Instead, we were stuck with Professor Quirrell: a quivering wreck with garlic breath, clutching his turban like a life preserver.

He’d start off promisingly—“V-v-vampires in the Black Forest…”—only to descend into stuttering tales about saving a prince from a zombie that no one quite believed. There was no wand waving, No practical lessons.... No duels.....

Professor Quirrell was a joke— an utter disappointment, especially given the potential of the subject.

Outside classes, life was… complicated.

My surname followed me like a shadow.

Every corridor seemed full of whispers:

“Another Dark witch rising.”

“How is she a Gryffindor?”

“She’s just like Sirius Black. Traitor waiting to happen.”

“She should be in Slytherin.”

Some Gryffindors—especially the older ones—treated me as if I were invisible. They’d glance through me, end conversations when I approached, or slip away into other hallways as I passed. Others stared with open fear, as though I might curse them into oblivion at any second.

And that hurt. More than I ever wanted to admit.

The Slytherins were no friendlier—but at least they were honest in their disdain. To them, I was a Gryffindor first, a rival.

Draco, though, was the strangest of all. From the night of my Sorting, he hadn’t uttered a single cruel word to me. He didn’t mock me like he did Harry or Ron. Instead, he maintained a chilly silence, avoiding my eyes as if even looking at me might shatter some delicate balance he was maintaining.

Despite it all, I found a fragile sense of belonging. Hermione became my lifeline. She never once judged me for my name, nor let whispers shake her faith in who I was. In Hermione, I found not just a friend, but a sister—a shield against the cold stares and muttered rumors.

Harry and I, meanwhile, shared a quiet understanding. He carried the crushing weight of being “The Chosen One,” of being stared at and talked about. I bore the stain of being the “Black girl,” suspect even in my own House. Between us existed a silent bridge built of secrets and scars.

Ron was still wary. His eyes flicked to me sometimes, cautious, uncertain. But unlike so many others, he never shut me out. Behind the suspicion was curiosity—a glimmer of the same loyalty that seemed woven into every Weasley bone. I was determined to earn that loyalty.

Neville slowly began opening up, too. As he shared stories of his Gran, magical mishaps, and the thousand ways he’d nearly been labeled a Squib, I realized he carried his own burdens. He was finding his courage, step by trembling step.

Lavender and Padma turned out to be unexpected gifts. They were bursting with chatter and gossip, obsessed with hair charms and magical beauty potions. We’d spend hours experimenting with glamour spells, plotting how to give Hermione a fashion overhaul (a plan she found absolutely horrifying). Sometimes, Hermione and I balanced their bubbly chatter with serious study sessions. By the second week, I’d realized we were becoming something like a family—a sisterhood forged in laughter, secrets, and midnight talks.

But I had my secrets, too.

Every night, after bidding my friends goodnight, I’d slip away to my enchanted trunk. Hidden within was a world entirely my own—a private sanctuary lined with shelves of magical books, brewing equipment, and spells no one else knew I was practicing. In that secret space, I could breathe, far from rumors and judgment.

Starlet always came with me. My clever Kneazle seemed to sense my moods, curling into my lap, her soft purr a soothing balm for my frayed nerves.

Despite the whispers and wariness, my first weeks at Hogwarts shimmered with wonder. Even my wounds glowed in the castle’s candlelight, because here—even amid suspicion and shadows—I could feel something extraordinary beginning.

My journey at Hogwarts was just starting. And already, it felt as though fate had begun to turn its gears around me.

And I would not let it leave me behind.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning cacophony: clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, and a swirling storm of owls swooping overhead like a feathered hurricane.

I was halfway through a slice of toast when Luna dove out of the chaos and dropped a letter onto my plate, splattering jam across my robes.....Grandfather.

Across the table, Neville sat blinking at a glowing Remembrall clenched in his palm, brow furrowed, cheeks pink. “I… can’t remember why it’s glowing,” he muttered, looking utterly defeated.

Meanwhile, Ron tore into a package of sweets like a starving wolf, cramming treacle fudge into his mouth while simultaneously scanning The Daily Prophet, crumbs spraying the table like confetti.

But Harry’s sharp voice cut through the din. “Listen to this!”

He read aloud, eyes wide and voice trembling with urgency:

“BREAK-IN AT GRINGOTTS. The vault in question had been emptied earlier that same day.”

Harry swallowed hard. “It happened on my birthday. Hagrid and I went to Gringotts. He emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen and took a small package. Someone was trying to steal whatever was in it.”

A shiver swept down my spine. Around us, conversation dropped like a stone, curiosity and apprehension replacing the usual morning chatter. But before we could plunge deeper into speculation, the clang of a bell announced our first flying lesson.

My stomach twisted with conflicting emotions.

I wasn’t particularly excited about flying—it was old news to me. Grandfather had taught me to handle a broom before I could even spell “Leviosa.” Hermione, however, was pale as parchment, mumbling about heights and possible concussions….

The boys, on the other hand, were practically vibrating with anticipation.

When we reached the grounds, the Slytherins were already there, glaring at us like we’d tracked mud across their expensive carpets. We lined up in two rigid ranks, brooms glinting in the morning sun.

Madam Hooch strode in, eyes like twin hawks.

“Stick out your right hand. Say ‘UP!’”

Her barked command split the silence.

Harry’s broom snapped obediently into his grasp. Draco’s leapt up too, sleek as a serpent. Mine practically sprang into my palm, eager as a loyal pet. The rest of the class fumbled, broomsticks rolling away like mischievous puppies. Hermione’s broom barely wiggled. Ron’s smacked him squarely in the nose.

Draco’s mood, seemed unusually sour, and I had a sinking feeling he was plotting trouble.

Madam Hooch began pacing, bark echoing over the grass.

“Mount your brooms. On my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hover for a moment, then come back down. No funny business!”

But, before she could even blow the whistle, disaster struck.

Neville’s broom went haywire..... He let out a strangled yelp and shot skyward, limbs flailing. His screams pierced the morning air as he spun higher and higher until, with a sickening thud, he plummeted like a stone and crashed onto the grass. A sharp, brittle snap echoed—Neville’s wrist lay at a sickening angle.

Gasps and shouts filled the field. Madam Hooch knelt beside Neville, her face grim.

“None of you move an inch,” she snapped before ushering Neville toward the castle, his moans fading into the distance.

The moment her cloak vanished around the castle corner, a heavy silence hung between us. My eyes followed Draco’s whose glinted as he bent to pick up Neville’s fallen Remembrall.

“Draco, don’t,” I said, stepping forward, voice firm with warning. “It’s Neville’s.”

He turned to me, his sneer pure venom. “Oh, now you finally speak to me? You’ve been avoiding me since the Sorting. Ashamed of yourself, cousin? Befriending Mudbloods?” His voice dripped with loathing. “You’re a disgrace to the name Black.”

A crack went through my chest. The shame and fury welled up in equal measure, but, before I could summon a reply, Harry’s voice cut across the field like a blade.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

Draco shot Harry a look of icy contempt. “Ah, defending my cousin, Potter? How noble. So this is your new family, Esther? The Chosen One and the Mudblood? I’d laugh if it weren’t so pathetic.”

My breath shook as I held Harry's hand, quietly signaling him to let me handle it.

“Draco,” I began evenly, “I’m not ashamed to be a Gryffindor. I just didn’t want to face your judgment."

Draco’s smirk wavered, and I pressed on.

"Believe it or not, you matter to me. And yes—Hermione Granger is my best friend. If you’re insulted by that, it’s your issue, not mine. I’ve made friends here—Hermione, Harry, Ron, Neville - whose Remembrall you’re still holding. So, please, give it back.”

Draco’s eyes turned to ice, “No, I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find,” he hissed as he mounted his broom and took off. “Perhaps on the roof. What’s the matter, Potter? Afraid of heights?”

I sighed and prepared to follow him, but Harry caught my arm

“I’ll go,” he said, his eyes blazing with determination. “He called me out.”

Hermione gasped, grabbing his sleeve. “Harry, no! Its a bad idea.”

But Harry was already vaulting skyward.

High above us, Draco hovered like a hawk, spinning the Remembrall between his fingers.

“Catch it if you can, Potter!” he shouted, and hurled the glass orb into the air.

Time slowed.

Harry leaned forward, wind screaming around him. His broom shot after the Remembrall like a comet.

A collective gasp tore from our throats as Harry lunged, arm outstretched—and snatched the Remembrall an instant before it would’ve shattered against a window glass. He landed with effortless grace, panting, eyes wild with adrenaline.

The field exploded into cheers.

Our celebration was short-lived, however, as Professor McGonagall stormed toward us, her robes billowing like thunderclouds.

“Potter!” she barked, voice sharp enough to cut stone. “Follow me. Now."

Harry swallowed and trotted after her, shoulders tense, leaving us frozen on the grass, our excitement replaced with cold fear as we returned back to our common room.

That evening at dinner, Harry joined us with an infectious excitement. “I wasn’t punished,” he began, nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. “Professor McGonagall introduced me to Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain. I’ve been selected as Gryffindor’s Seeker!”

“Keep it to yourselves, though,” Harry added. “Wood wants it to be a secret for now.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Ron let out a yell that turned half the Gryffindors’ heads.

“You’d be the youngest Seeker in over a century, Harry!” he shouted, thumping Harry on the back so hard he nearly fell into the gravy boat.

All of us erupted into laughter and congratulations.

Next day dawned cold and bright, sunlight pouring through the windows of the Great Hall. We had no classes.

Breakfast was leisurely, filled with chatter and clinking cutlery. I was laughing at something Hermione said when a cold, familiar drawl cut through the air like a knife.

“So, Potter, got into trouble with McGonagall, did you?” 

Malfoy stood blocking our path, Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him like boulders with fists. His pale eyes glittered with malice, his smirk stretching too wide across his pointed face.

Harry didn’t rise to the bait, but the tension was palpable. Malfoy though, took it a step further, challenging Harry to a wizard’s duel.

“What’s wrong with you, Draco? You’ll get into trouble too,” I tried to reason, but he ignored me entirely.

“Stay out of it, Cousin.”

A flicker of hurt twisted in my chest, quickly swallowed by fury.

But his attention was already back to Harry, eyes gleaming. “How about it? Midnight. Trophy Room. Unless, of course, you’re… scared.”

Harry lifted his chin, fire flashing in his green eyes. “Fine. Midnight.”

Hermione gasped. “Harry, you can’t! You’ll get us all expelled!”

But Harry ignored her, his gaze locked on Draco’s, neither of them willing to back down.

Later that night, the castle lay cloaked in silence, corridors lit only by moonlight pouring through high, arched windows.

Hermione and I blocked the boys at the portrait hole, arms spread wide.

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione hissed. “It’s a terrible idea, Harry”

I nodded. “It’s a trap. Draco will cheat or might not even show up, just to make you wait out all night”

But, despite our warnings, the boys were undeterred. Harry and Ron pushed past us, determined and reckless as ever.

Both us girls tried to return back to the common room, but, we found ourselves locked out—the Fat Lady had gone for an evening stroll. Neville, who had forgotten the password waiting outside, joined us as we all reluctantly decided to tag along with Harry and Ron.

We crept through Hogwarts like shadows, every floorboard creak echoing like thunder. Our wands were clenched tight in sweaty hands.

We reached the Trophy Room, which lay empty, bathed in ghostly silver light. Glass cases gleamed all around us, filled with golden plaques and ancient relics that seemed to watch us like silent witnesses.

Ron squinted into the gloom. “Where’s Malfoy?”

But Harry’s answer was drowned out by a sound that turned my blood to ice—soft, padding footsteps… and a low, echoing meow.

Mrs. Norris.

“She’s here,” Hermione whispered, eyes wide with dread.

Seconds later, Filch’s voice slithered through the darkness:

“I know you’re in here… naughty little students out of bed…”

Panic erupted in our group like a spark catching dry leaves. We tore out of the Trophy Room, adrenaline pumping so loud I could barely hear.

Footsteps pounded behind us—Filch giving chase.

We darted through twisting corridors, gasping for breath, skidding around corners, Filch’s angry shouts echoing ever closer.

Then we collided with a door—locked.

“Alohomora!” I hissed, my wand shaking as the lock clicked open.

We spilled inside, slamming the door shut, hearts hammering, and......

And froze.....

A monstrous shape loomed before us.

A dog. But not a dog.

Its fur bristled as thick as wire, three massive heads snarling and baring jagged teeth. Drool hissed as it hit the stone floor. All six eyes glared at us, burning like molten gold in the flickering torchlight.

Its growls vibrated through the floor and up into my bones.

Hermione whimpered beside me. Ron let out a strangled yelp.

“Oh… Merlin’s beard…” Neville croaked.

Behind the creature, I glimpsed something glinting—the outline of a trapdoor, almost hidden beneath the monster’s gigantic paws.

Then the beast lunged, and we screamed.

We bolted from the room, slamming the door so hard the walls shuddered. Our pounding footsteps echoed down the corridor as we ran and ran until the Gryffindor common room finally came into view.

Inside, gasping for breath, we collapsed into chairs, trembling.

“What the bloody hell was that thing doing in Hogwarts?” Ron demanded, his face as pale as parchment.

I swallowed hard, my voice still shaking. “It’s guarding something. Didn’t you see the trapdoor beneath its feet?”

Harry nodded grimly. “It has to be that package Hagrid took from Gringotts. Why else would Dumbledore have a monster guarding it?”

Hermione, however, had had enough. “We’re going to bed,” she declared, exasperated. “Before you two get any more ideas to get us killed—or worse, Expelled!.”

She spun on her heel, muttering furiously. “Stupid. Reckless. Boys.”

I caught her arm gently, pulling her back for a moment. “Hey. It’s okay, Mione. We’re the smart ones, remember? And… trust me, this won’t be the last time those two drag us into chaos.”

She let out a reluctant laugh, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned into me. “At least I’ll always have you beside me.”

“Always,” I promised, gripping her hand tight.

As I lay in bed that night, staring at the crimson canopy above me, my mind churned. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the vision of those gleaming fangs, the trapdoor, and the secrets Hogwarts seemed determined to hide.

And in the shadows, a new question whispered through my mind…

What exactly was Dumbledore hiding?

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned grey and cold, as if even the castle itself was still rattled from our harrowing adventure.

I stirred under the covers and felt a warm, soft weight pressed against me. Opening my eyes, I found Starlet curled beside me, her golden eyes half-closed in contentment.

“Good morning there,” I murmured, running my fingers through her fur. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

She purred deeply, the sound vibrating against my chest like a tiny motor, comforting yet somehow.

Stretching, I sat up and glanced around. My roommates were gone; their beds empty, covers thrown aside in hurried abandon. On my bedside table lay a folded scrap of parchment in Hermione’s neat, precise handwriting:

I’m going to the library. Might take a bit long. If I’m late, go down and have breakfast.

I traced my thumb over the words, my chest tightening with affection. Hermione—brilliant, stubborn Hermione—was clearly trying to distract herself from last night’s brush with mortal peril.

“Well, Star, looks like it’s just us today,” I sighed, swinging my legs out of bed. “Let’s go face the world. Merlin knows I need a good meal after last night.”

After washing up, I returned to find Starlet gone, as though she’d vanished into thin air.

“Hmph. Typical,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

The Great Hall was humming with chatter, the clatter of cutlery ringing off the high stone arches. Sunlight slanted through stained glass, casting brilliant shards of color across tables piled with platters of food.

I spotted Harry and Ron slumped over plates of eggs and toast, looking more exhausted than ever.

“You’re alone? Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked as I sat down.

“She’s in the library,” I said, buttering a slice of toast. “Trying to bury the memory of nearly becoming dog chow under a mountain of books, probably.”

Harry winced. “I’m sorry, Esther. If I hadn’t accepted Malfoy’s stupid duel, none of this would’ve happened.”

I waved him off, trying to inject some brightness into my voice. “Mione’s strong. She’ll come around. And we’re Gryffindors, aren’t we? Recklessness is practically in the house motto.”

Ron leaned in, his eyes shining with curiosity. “So… what do you reckon that beast was guarding?”

I lowered my voice. “Well, it’s valuable, whatever it is. And connected to Dumbledore somehow.”

Our conversation turned into a quiet whirl of speculation—Gringotts vaults, dark magic, secret plots—when a flurry of wings darkened the hall.

A huge brown owl swooped down and dropped a long, thin package directly into Harry’s lap, feathers scattering across his plate. Gasps and whispers rose around us like ripples on water.

Harry tore it open with trembling fingers. Nestled inside gleamed a Nimbus 2000—sleek, polished, and impossibly beautiful under the enchanted ceiling’s shifting light.

A note fluttered out, bearing Professor McGonagall’s sharp, elegant script:

Your skills are needed, Mr. Potter. Quidditch practice begins tonight.

Ron’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Mate… that’s the best broomstick on the market! They’re worth a fortune! And fast enough to outrun a bloody dragon!”

I grinned, feeling a surge of genuine warmth for Harry. “That’s one thoughtful gift, Harry. McGonagall must be very proud of you.”

But, the celebration was cut short when a sneering voice slithered in from behind us. 

Its becoming childish and repetitive....

“Well, well, Potter… playing favorites with the professors already?”

Malfoy stood there, arms folded, his pale face twisted with envy, Crabbe and Goyle beside him, glowering like thick-necked gargoyles.

“What are you doing with a Nimbus 2000, Potter? First-years aren’t allowed broomsticks!” Draco’s voice cracked with indignation.

I saw the flicker of raw jealousy in Draco’s eyes—a dangerous glint that seemed sharper than ever. I knew the Malfoys; come next year, Draco would show up with an even faster broom, no matter the cost.

Harry lifted his chin coolly. “Why don’t you go cry about it to a teacher, Malfoy? Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve got practice.”

And with that, Harry swept out of the hall, the Nimbus slung over his shoulder, looking every inch the hero in the making.

I turned to Draco, my temper sparking. “Leave him alone, Draco. It’s getting embarrassing how obsessed you are with him.”

Draco’s eyes went flat and cold. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you’re above it all, Esther. You’ve been hanging around Potter and his Muggle-born friends like a stray kneazle looking for scraps.”

“Funny, coming from someone whose entire personality revolves around daddy’s money and his last name,” I shot back.

Draco’s jaw worked furiously, but he finally spat, “Whatever,” and stalked away, Crabbe and Goyle thundering after him.

An awkward silence settled between Ron and me, like a storm cloud refusing to pass.

“Well… you’re nothing like Malfoy, at least,” Ron said finally, scratching the back of his neck.

“Draco’s not… entirely bad,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “He’s just… been raised wrong. Bad parenting messes people up.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, well. He’s still a prat.”

“Fine,” I relented. “He’s a snob and a bully. But somewhere deep, deep, deep down, there’s something worth saving.”

Ron eyed me like I’d just said I fancied Filch. “Good luck with that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Change of subject. Fancy a game of wizard chess?”

“Chess? You play wizard chess?”

“You bet. And I’ll have you know, I’m not half-bad.”

Back in the common room, we set up the board. Despite my brave words, Ron demolished me in under twenty minutes, his pieces crowing insults as mine fell to bits.

“Well, you’re good,” Ron admitted, “better than Harry—or even my brothers. But I’m just better.” He gave me a smug grin that somehow made me laugh instead of wanting to strangle him.

Soon, Hermione swept in, arms laden with books. Her eyes sparkling with frantic intelligence.

“I’ve been reading about enchanted guardians,” she began breathlessly, launching into a torrent of facts about magical creatures, hidden vaults, and protective spells.

I tried to follow every word, but exhaustion tugged at my eyelids. Beside me, Ron was already snoring, drool glistening on his chin.

That night, after everyone had drifted off, I slipped down into my enchanted trunk, seeking refuge among the musty pages of Black family tomes. Candles flickered around me, shadows dancing over gilded lettering and ancient crests.

I scoured page after page, searching for secrets that might link the three-headed dog to my family’s tangled past—or to Dumbledore’s silent machinations. But it was useless.

Eventually, my eyelids drooped, and I fell asleep in the trunk’s velvet depths, surrounded by towers of books and more questions than ever.

Samhain had always pulsed through my veins like old magic. It was the day when the veil thinned, when the spirits of our ancestors drifted closer, whispering secrets only the blood of ancient families could hear. For the Blacks—and for many pureblood lines—it wasn’t merely a festival. It was a sacred rite.

Yet here at Hogwarts, the hallowed date seemed just another day marked on the calendar as Halloween.

My confusion grew the night before, and unable to bear it, I turned to Ron in the common room, where the fire hissed and spat like a creature alive.

“How do you usually observe Samhain?” I asked him quietly, leaning closer so the others wouldn’t overhear.

Ron blinked at me as though I’d sprouted horns. “What are you talking about? Samhain’s some dark ritual, Esther… the sort those creepy pureblood families perform. Ah, but… being a Black…” His voice trailed off, uncertainty warring with suspicion in his eyes. “…I guess you’re somewhat like them.”

His words struck like a slap. A single breath caught in my throat.

I forced my voice to stay calm. “So, you just celebrate Halloween instead?”

Ron nodded, oblivious to the hurt in my chest. “Course. October 31st is the day You-Know-Who fell. We have a grand feast. Everyone celebrates it. It’s one of the happiest days for wizards.”

I nodded mutely, swallowing the bitterness rising in my mouth.

Hermione, who’d been reading nearby, joined in, trying to ease the tension. “I celebrate Halloween with costumes and sweets back home. I’ve no idea how Hogwarts does it yet… I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.”

I tried to smile at her, but it felt thin, brittle as spun glass.

Later that night, Harry’s quiet voice cracked my composure entirely.

“It’s the saddest day for me, Esther…” He stared into the flames, green eyes hollow. “Halloween. That’s when my parents died. Every year, the Dursleys would lock me in my cupboard. I’d hear other kids laughing in the streets, dressed up as ghosts and vampires… while I was locked away in the dark. I hate it. I’d rather just… be alone.”

His words settled in my chest like iron chains, pulling me under.

For me, Samhain was the night I felt closest to my mother. Each year, Grandfather and I would spend the entire evening in the Black family gardens, beneath lanterns swaying gently like spirits. We’d whisper prayers, pour wine upon the earth, and scatter petals over ancient graves. It wasn’t darkness—it was remembrance. Reverence.

How could Ron dismiss it as dark magic? He didn’t understand. None of them did.

But I knew one thing with painful clarity:

I would perform the ritual, Hogwarts or not.

Word drifted through the corridors—Astra told me the Slytherins were holding a private Samhain ceremony deep in the dungeons, joined by a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who shared pureblood ties. I ached to ask Draco if I might join them, but the weight of House rivalries—of secrets and half-spoken truths—kept me silent.

Instead, I resolved to honor my ancestors alone.

For days, I prowled Hogwarts like a restless ghost, searching for a place quiet enough, dark enough, to hold my ritual undisturbed. A place where five hours would pass unnoticed.

Then, during Astronomy class, as I peered through my telescope at distant stars blazing in black velvet skies, the answer struck me like lightning.

My enchanted trunk.

I gasped aloud and smacked my forehead, earning a round of startled stares.

“The blank room… inside my trunk,” I whispered to myself. “It’s perfect. I only need time to prepare it…”

October 30th arrived draped in cold winds and slate-gray skies. We had no classes that day. The castle seemed to vibrate with restless anticipation as students busied themselves with Quidditch practice, library research, or whispered plans for the Halloween feast.

I withdrew into my trunk, Starlet padding after me like a silent wraith.

Inside the blank room, I worked tirelessly, transforming bare wood and shadows into something sacred. I conjured hundreds of floating lanterns, their soft golden glow flickering. Next, I scented the air with lavender and myrrh. Candles burned low, their flames dancing in unseen breezes.

My ritual attire awaited me—a flowing red silk dress embroidered with black vines, cinched at the waist with a golden corset studded in tiny gemstones. Around it, I laid out my gold jewelry: a star-shaped choker, long chain necklace, delicate rings, an arm bracelet shaped like a coiling serpent. Each piece once belonged to a Black ancestor, carrying whispers of their magic.

Almost two hours later, I stood in the center of my secret sanctuary, chest heaving as though I’d run a marathon.

“Perfect,” I breathed, my voice echoing faintly off the walls.

Starlet lifted her emerald eyes and blinked slowly, offering a gentle purr in reply.

I knelt and kissed her soft head. “Tomorrow night… it’ll just be us and the spirits, Star.”

She flicked her tail as if in solemn agreement.

Drawing my cloak around me, I climbed out of the trunk, slipping back into the ordinary world.

Outside, laughter and footsteps echoed through the corridors, oblivious to the ancient magic about to awaken beneath their very feet.

I glanced back at my trunk, feeling the weight of what lay ahead.

Tomorrow, I thought, my pulse quickening, I’ll be closer to my mother once again after a year,  And I would not let Hogwarts—or anyone else—deny me that sacred connection.

Next morning dawned pale and silver under drifting mists. Despite Samhain lingering like an unspoken spell in my mind, the castle was alive with chatter about the Halloween Feast.

We had only one class—Charms.

Professor Flitwick, our tiny wizard professor, whose voice rang out clear as a bell, stood upon his stack of books and announced:

“Today, we shall make objects fly. The incantation is Wingardium Leviosa!”

My heart thudded with eager anticipation. Spells had always fascinated me, and the idea of commanding gravity itself made my blood sing.

Hermione, of course, performed the spell perfectly on her first try, her feather floating gracefully above her desk.

The way she flicked her wand, the confident precision in her voice—it was beautiful. Next to her, Ron’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as frustration colored his face. By the end of class, he was flushed and seething.

As the lesson ended, Professor Flitwick beckoned me over with an excited wave. So, I told Mione to go on ahead "Go, I will meet you directly in the Great Hall for the feast."

“Miss Black, splendid work on your essay!” he exclaimed, tiny hands clasping together. “Your insights into the mechanics of Levitation Charms are far beyond first-year level. I dare say you have a natural gift.”

His praise made me glow inside. We spoke for half an hour about wand movements, magical theory, and the way pure intention shaped spellwork. I left his office feeling almost… seen.

At the top of the staircase, a familiar voice shrieked:

“ESTHER!”

I nearly toppled backward as my favorite cousin, Tonks, barreled into me, hair flashing pink and violet in excitement.

“I cannot believe we’ve both been at Hogwarts a month and only now crossed paths!” she cried, gripping my arms. “Were you hiding from me?”

“You know I wasn’t ignoring you!” I retorted playfully. “I was just adjusting to life at Hogwarts. Besides, I didn’t see you either—maybe you were the busy one.”

We both dissolved into laughter, and she congratulated me on being sorted into Gryffindor.

“Well, isn’t it funny? All of us cousins attending Hogwarts, and we’re all in different Houses,” she mused.

We chatted for a few more minutes before parting ways at the entrance to the Great Hall.

I found Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table, plates piled high with pumpkin pasties and roasted chicken.

“Where’s Hermione?” I asked, sliding onto the bench beside them.

Harry frowned. “I thought she was with you?”

“No, she left after class…” A prickle of unease traced down my spine.

Neville, fidgeting beside me, spoke up timidly. “I saw her running toward the dungeons. She… she was crying.”

My blood ran cold.

“Crying? Why?” My voice trembled despite myself.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet my eyes. Finally, he muttered, “I... Look, I was frustrated, and she—well, she always corrects me—She was being frustrating, and I said something nasty about her. She overheard.”

“RON!” My voice rang sharper than I intended. “Stop being so judgmental, will you? You hate Draco for mocking people, and yet today you acted like a bigoted fool yourself. Hermione is brilliant—and all she’s ever tried to do is help you two. She doesn’t deserve your cruelty.”

A flush crept up Ron’s neck, but I didn’t wait for his reply.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after me.

“To find my best friend.” My voice was steel as I stormed out of the great hall.

The corridors grew dimmer as I moved further away from the bustling Great Hall. The sound of chatter faded, leaving an eerie silence. My wand trembled in my hand as I whispered, “Lumos.” A pale glow spilled across the stones, revealing my kneazle, Starlet, padding silently alongside me.

“You’re here,” I said, relieved. “Are you leading me somewhere?”

She meowed softly, then darted ahead, her fur blending into the gloom. I followed her winding path until we reached a girl’s bathroom, echoing with faint sobs.

Inside, I found Hermione, crumpled by the sinks, tears streaking her cheeks. Her shoulders shook as though the weight of the world pressed upon them.

I rushed forward, gathering her into my arms.

“Ron’s an idiot,” I whispered fiercely, brushing her hair back from her damp face. “Don’t you dare let him—or anyone—make you feel small.

And honestly, missing the grand Halloween feast over him?  So not worth it Mione”

Hermione gave a watery laugh, but her eyes were haunted.

“It’s not just Ron, Esther. In my previous school too, they used to call me a know-it-all, make fun of me.... I was studious back there too and then, when i got my Hogwarts letter, i knew, being a Muggle, i lacked a lot.... I would have to learn a lot, work extra hard to catch up with the students who knew magic their whole life so that I am not left behind, so that they do not look down on me.

That’s why I answer all the questions—I’m scared of falling behind. I’m scared they’ll think I don’t belong here…”

My chest tightened painfully. I cupped her face, forcing her to look at me.

“Listen to me, Hermione Granger. Never apologize for your brilliance. Never dim your light for the comfort of small-minded fools. You belong here more than anyone.

Let those idiot people talk. They are just being petty and jealous and, ultimately, You are the one gaining knowledge, not them.”

Her lips trembled. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” I said fiercely. “And if anyone thinks otherwise—they’ll have to answer to me.”

A small, wobbly smile broke through her tears.

“Now, wash your face. You’re far too pretty for blotchy eyes,” I teased gently.

She wiped her cheeks and splashed cold water over her skin. But as we stepped back into the hallway, a bone-chilling roar made us both freeze.

The corridor trembled as a hulking shadow fell across the stones. A stench of rot and sweat filled the air.

A mountain of grey flesh loomed before us. A troll.

Hermione and I screamed as the creature lunged forward, smashing its club into the walls with an earsplitting CRASH.

We dove back into the bathroom. I shoved Hermione beneath the sinks and slammed myself into a cubicle, heart pounding so violently I thought my ribs might crack.

The troll bellowed and tore the sinks from the wall, tiles shattering around us like exploding stars.

Suddenly—

“ESTHER!” Harry’s voice shouted over the chaos as he and Ron burst in, wands raised.

Harry launched himself at the troll’s legs while Ron desperately tried to remember the charm we’d learned only hours before.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Ron roared, voice shaking with terror.

The troll’s club rocketed upward and crashed down on its own skull. It swayed, eyes rolling wildly, before collapsing in a thunderous heap.

We all stood trembling amid the wreckage, panting, hair plastered to our faces with sweat.

Harry yanked his wand out of the troll’s nostril, grimacing. “That’s disgusting…”

Before we could laugh or cry, Professor McGonagall stormed in, eyes blazing with fury.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?!”

Hermione stepped forward, chin trembling. “It’s my fault, Professor. I went looking for the troll alone… Esther, Harry, and Ron came to rescue me.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Hermione squeezed my hand, silently begging me to stay silent.

McGonagall’s expression softened, though her voice remained stern. “Five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your foolishness, Miss Granger… but ten points will be awarded to each three of you—for sheer bravery and dumb luck.”

Later that night, we sat huddled in the common room, flames crackling in the hearth, the tension slowly draining from our limbs.

Ron stared into the fire, his voice low. “Hermione… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. You’re brilliant.”

Hermione looked at him, her eyes gentle. “Thank you, Ron. And thank you all—for coming for me.”

I patted Ron on the shoulder. "You were exceptional in the dungeons today," I said, meaning every word.

Harry leaned back with a tired grin, the weight of the day finally lifting.

As the embers glowed and the castle settled into silence, I knew something had changed. We’d faced death together. And from that night onward, we were no longer simply classmates.

Exactly an hour before midnight, I rose from the fireside, my heart beating to a rhythm older than time itself.

After wishing my friends a quick 'Goodnight', I swept through the common room like a silent shadow and slipped behind the velvet curtains of my four-poster bed. With trembling fingers, I opened the lid of my enchanted trunk and climbed down into its depths, feeling as though I were crossing a threshold between worlds.

It took me half an hour to transform. Silk rustled as I donned my red floral gown, the golden corset catching the light like molten treasure. My hair, brushed until it shone, spilled over my shoulders like liquid night. Gemstones glimmered at my throat and ears, casting tiny rainbows against the walls of my hidden chamber.

When I stepped into the decorated room, I inhaled sharply. It was like stepping into a different realm entirely.

With a flick of my wand, magic burst into bloom: candles flared to life in a rippling wave, lanterns bobbed and danced in mid-air like ethereal fireflies, casting golden light that glittered off the silk drapes and glass ornaments. The air shimmered faintly, filled with a delicate perfume of sandalwood and sweet rose.

I knelt upon the plush mat I’d arranged in the center of the room, red and gold cushions forming a nest around me. Encircling it all, cream-colored candles flickered gently, their flames bowing and swaying as though acknowledging my presence.

I closed my eyes, my breath slowing. My hands folded, fingers fitting together like a lock and key as I began chanting the ancient Black family incantation—a language older than Hogwarts itself. Each syllable tasted of shadows and stars.

At first, only darkness met me behind my eyelids, vast and cold. But slowly, as though some hidden curtain parted, warmth flooded my chest, rising up my spine like golden smoke. It was as though invisible arms wrapped around me—a touch achingly familiar, like my mother’s embrace from forgotten memories.

Tears spilled down my cheeks. Yet I barely felt them, for my spirit was soaring somewhere high above the world.

Whispers of magic rustled the air, soft and musical, as if the room itself was breathing with me. The candle flames grew taller, brighter, flickering in delicate patterns that seemed to form runes and symbols in the air. A faint breeze blew through the chamber despite there being no windows, carrying with it the scent of earth and rain, of ancient forests and forgotten nights.

For two hours, I was suspended between worlds—half in Hogwarts, half in some timeless plane where the veil was thinnest. The silence was sacred, the flicker of each candle like a heartbeat echoing mine.

At some point, exhaustion overcame my reverie. My chanting faded into quiet humming, then into silence. The candles seemed to dim in sympathy, burning low but steady. I curled up upon my mat, resting my head on a velvet cushion, and drifted into a soft, dreamless sleep.

When my eyes fluttered open, the room was painted in gentle dawn light seeping through cracks in the trunk’s lid. It was past five in the morning.

Beside me, Starlet was curled into a perfect ball, her soft purrs vibrating through the floor like a low song of contentment.

I blinked at her blearily and laughed under my breath.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep here, Star,” I murmured, voice rough with sleep and lingering magic. “Let’s go freshen up. We have a feast day ahead of us.”

I slipped into the little washroom tucked inside my trunk, splashing cool water on my flushed face, then changing back into my favorite pajamas. As I climbed the wooden stairs back to my bed, I pulled open the curtains to find the dormitory still wrapped in pre-dawn hush, my roommates slumbering peacefully beneath their blankets.

Smiling, I crawled under my own covers. The taste of incense still lingered in the back of my throat, and my gown’s gemstones still glimmered faintly in my peripheral vision as though the ritual’s magic hadn’t quite let me go.

Sleep claimed me almost instantly, carrying me away on shimmering currents of gold and crimson light.

Chapter Text

Quidditch never fascinated me... Yes, I adored flying—the freedom, the wind whipping through my hair—but Quidditch twisted that joy into something brutal. Players hurled themselves through the sky like missiles, willing to break bones or worse, all for the fleeting taste of victory. Elbows to ribs. Bludgers aimed at heads. Entire teams stooping to foul play just to claw their way to the top.

And everyone else adored it.

Hermione understood, of course. She and I were in quiet agreement: Quidditch was chaos draped in scarlet and gold banners, and we could live quite happily without it.

But the boys… oh, the boys.

Ron, raised on tales of Quidditch legends, practically worshipped the game. And Harry—though brand new to it—was already hopelessly entangled. Day after day, he vanished for long hours of practice, coming back sweaty and beaming, eyes ablaze with a fierce light that both worried and touched me.

That afternoon, Harry and I sat together beneath the skeletal trees in the garden, leaves crunching beneath our feet like brittle bones. Hermione was buried in the library as usual, and Ron was  still in his dorm.

Harry stared off into the pale November sky, his voice soft but charged.

“It’s the adrenaline rush, the wind slamming into my face… I don’t know how else to describe it. When I’m up there, I feel alive, like I’ve finally found where I belong.”

I tilted my head, studying him. There was something almost haunted in his eyes, as though he’d tasted freedom for the first time in his life and couldn’t bear to lose it.

“I’m glad you found something you love, Harry,” I said gently. “But I still don’t understand how getting battered by Bludgers counts as fun.”

He laughed—a short, bright sound—and held up a battered book. Quidditch Through the Ages.

“It’s from the library. Hermione lent it to me. I’m halfway through. I should finish it by next week.”

“Harry, your match with Slytherin is next week!” I burst out, panic edging my voice.

He gave me his lopsided, reckless grin. “Don’t worry, Esther. I’ve been practicing. I’ll learn the rest of the rules. It’ll be fine.”

Before I could argue further, a cold voice slithered through the air: “Well, well… Potter, skiving off practice to read children’s books?”

We both jumped. Professor Snape stood behind us, his eyes like black glass, his cloak swirling ominously around his ankles.

He snatched the book from Harry’s hands with elegant contempt.

“Library books are not to be taken outdoors.”

I clenched my fists. “But we’re still on school grounds!”

But he was already striding away, cloak billowing like a storm cloud.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said bitterly. “He just hates me.”

Something in his tone made me pause.

“What is it” I asked quietly.

He lowered his voice, glancing around as if Snape might leap from the hedges. “Snape was limping. Badly.”

A chill rolled through me, as though the November wind suddenly turned sharper.

“So?” I said, trying to stay practical. “People get hurt. You’re the one playing suicide sports.”

Harry frowned. “No. This was different. It started after the troll incident.”

My breath caught. The memories of that towering beast, its teeth like daggers, crashed back into my mind.  But there were more pressing concerns. I forced myself to focus and tried to pull him back to the issue at hand.

“Right now, It doesn’t matter if or how he’s hurt. What matters is getting another book or that one back. You need to learn the rules before the match.”

At that moment, Ron burst onto the path, looking flustered. “There you are! Been looking for you everywhere.”

“What took you so long?” I shot back.

Ron opened his mouth to answer, but I held up a hand.

“Never mind. Harry will fill you in. I’m going to the library to find another copy of that book. Harry, see if you can get that book back from Snape.”

“Esther—” Harry began, but I was already sweeping past them.

In the library’s hushed shadows, I found Hermione, her nose buried in yet another tome. When I explained what happened, she slammed her book shut so hard the sound echoed off the high arches.

“Of course he’d confiscate it,” she fumed. “It’s Snape!”

Together, we scoured the shelves until we found another battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. Hermione thrust it into my arms triumphantly.

“Here. Give this to Harry. And tell him to finish it tonight.”

By the time we left the library, darkness was pouring into the corridors like ink. In the Great Hall, the boys were already seated, plates heaped high.

Harry was grinning as we approached.

“Got it back!” he announced, brandishing the original book.

“How?” I demanded.

“I… sort of snuck into Snape’s office,” Harry admitted. “He was talking to Filch. About getting bitten by the three-headed dog.”

Hermione and I froze.

“That explains his limp…” I whispered.

But Harry shook his head, eyes blazing. “No. It’s more than that. He’s after whatever’s hidden in that corridor. I’m sure of it.”

I felt a shiver ripple down my spine. Hogwarts, with all its ancient walls and hidden passageways, suddenly seemed far darker and more dangerous than ever before. 

As the feast roared on around us, laughter and clinking goblets echoing off the stone, I caught Harry’s eye.

One thing was certain:

Whatever Snape was hiding—and whatever lay behind the door guarded by that monstrous dog—we were bound to find out.

Soon.....

The long-anticipated day of the first Quidditch match of the year had finally dawned—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The Great Hall buzzed with an electricity I could almost taste. Students clustered in loud, excited groups, the red and gold of Gryffindor clashing violently against the cool, proud green of Slytherin.

At the Gryffindor table, the team sat already dressed for battle, uniforms crisp, brooms gleaming like swords before a duel. Yet Harry—our newest Seeker, and youngest in a century—barely touched his food. His face was pale, his fingers twitching slightly as they curled around his goblet.

Ron was glued to his side, whispering words of encouragement like a desperate coach before war. Hermione, true to form, was quizzing him on Quidditch rules like it was an exam, ignoring his groans.

I reached across and placed a hand gently on his. “Good luck,” I said with a smile. “Try not to die.”

Harry managed a small smile and whispered, “Watch the match. I promise, you’ll find at least one or two reasons to enjoy it.”

I rolled my eyes but replied, “Of course I’m watching. It’s your first game… Have fun, Seeker!”

Moments later, Oliver Wood arrived, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. The team rose as one and marched out like soldiers to a battlefield. Our table roared with pride.

We joined the stampede of students heading for the stadium. The stands loomed ahead like a fortress. I bundled tighter into my cloak, my Gryffindor scarf fluttering against the biting wind. Beside me, Ron was vibrating with anticipation, muttering predictions under his breath like some deranged commentator. Hermione clutched a borrowed rulebook to her chest, clearly wishing she’d drilled Harry harder.

I couldn’t help but laugh at that and gently nudged her. “It’s all right, Mione. You did your best. I’m sure Harry’s got it.”

Neville and Seamus munched nervously on chocolate frogs, as if sugar could drown their nerves. Seamus brought battered binoculars, which we all agreed to share. Lavender and Parvati were too busy debating which Chaser was the cutest.

Even the older students buzzed with excitement, shouting chants and waving enchanted banners. Gryffindor was on fire—and I was right in the middle of it.

We settled into our seats, and I took a moment to soak in the atmosphere. The stands were buzzing with excitement, a sea of colourful scarves and banners waving in the crisp air. From here, I could see everything—the hoops, the benches, even the anxious shuffling of the players waiting just off the field. The staff sat in their own section—stern, unreadable, except for Hagrid (draped in something red and furry) and Professor Flitwick, who bounced on his cushion with excitement.

But it was Dumbledore who stole my attention— he looked particularly cheerful, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, mysterious sparkle.

Lee Jordan grabbed the announcer's podium like a lifeline, practically buzzing with anticipation. Above him, the points table floated in midair like a silent referee.

Across the field, the Slytherin stands swelled with green and silver. I spotted Draco Malfoy with an absurdly expensive pair of black binoculars. He caught me staring and smirked. I rolled my eyes and turned away.

Moments later, the players burst onto the field, and the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. I quickly spotted Harry, standing confidently next to Oliver Wood. Though his face showed a flicker of nerves, his posture radiated pure determination. I knew he’d catch the Snitch—not because he was the "Chosen One," or because his father had been the fastest Seeker of his time— but because I had watched him train relentlessly for this moment, pushing himself beyond exhaustion with every practice.

As proud as I was, a knot of worry twisted in my chest. I just hoped he wouldn’t get hurt.

The whistle blew.

And the game exploded into chaos.

Gryffindor blazed ahead—three goals within the first ten minutes. Oliver Wood was a wall in front of the hoops, impenetrable, unstoppable. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet moved like fire and wind, dodging Slytherins with breathtaking grace. Harry spotted the Golden Snitch early and shot after it like a lightning bolt, but Marcus Flint, the brutish Slytherin captain, rammed into him mid-air. The crowd erupted in outrage as Flint was penalized, but it was little comfort—while Harry steadied himself, the Snitch had vanished.

Chapter Text

The first week back at Hogwarts felt like living underwater. Everything was muted, distant—my laughter, my voice, even my heartbeat. The castle’s towering walls seemed colder, the corridors longer, as though the very stones were echoing with my sorrow.

Most nights, I curled up inside my trunk, crying alone in the bedroom. Starlet would squeeze in beside me, her soft purring the only thing that kept me tethered to reality.

By day, I drifted through lessons in a fog, barely hearing the professors’ voices. My quill scratched across parchment mechanically, though I couldn’t have told anyone what I’d written. I spent entire evenings staring at the fireplace, waiting for an owl that might not come.

My friends tried at first—small attempts to coax me out. A touch on my arm. A gentle question. But I kept my eyes down, locked in my silence, and they finally stepped back, giving me space to grieve.

That lasted for about two weeks—until Hermione Granger finally decided she'd had enough. One evening, she stormed into the girls’ dormitory before dusk, hair wild, eyes blazing.

“That’s it,” she snapped, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “Enough hiding. Get up.”

I blinked at her, still cocooned in blankets, throat raw from silent crying. “Hermione, I—I can’t—”

She cut me off, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. “You will. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept properly. And you look like you’re about to vanish into thin air.”

And, before I knew what was happening, she was hauling me down the spiral stairs, my slippers scraping over stone.

The Great Hall felt painfully bright, all glinting silverware and roaring chatter. Laughter rang through the air, the sound almost cruel in its normalcy. My legs nearly buckled at the threshold, but Hermione kept hold of me, shoving me firmly into a seat at the Gryffindor table.

Harry was already waiting, dark circles beneath his eyes, worry etched into every line of his face. The instant he saw me; he reached out and took my hand.

“Esther,” he said gently, “He’d want you to be happy. I know it is hard, but you have to be strong. Living your life—that’s what will give him peace.”

His words cracked something inside me, but I was too numb to cry. I lowered my eyes, throat thick with unshed tears.

Hermione pressed a heaping plate of food in front of me. “Eat.”

I stared at the food as if it were poison. But Harry didn’t let go of my hand, and Hermione hovered beside me like a vigilant hawk.

So I swallowed the lump in my throat, picked up the fork and began to eat.

That entire next day, they refused to leave me alone. One of them was always there—watching over me, making sure I wasn’t alone.

Harry walked with me to every class, his presence a quiet shield. Ron cracked jokes in Potions until Snape threatened to throw him out. Hermione sat beside me in the library, her voice soft as she patiently explained the notes I’d missed.

That night, the common room glowed warm with firelight, but I felt like I was standing outside a glass wall, unable to touch the warmth within.

Hermione finally slammed her book shut, frustration sparking in her eyes. “Esther, talk to us. Please.”

For a moment, I tried to swallow it down again. But then Ron pushed a handful of chocolate frogs into my hands, blurting, “Don’t make me sing to cheer you up, because I will and it’ll be bloody awful.”

The absurdity of it—the fierce love in his eyes—was too much. The dam inside me finally shattered.

I broke…….

Sobs tore out of me, ragged and violent, echoing off the walls. My chest convulsed, as though I couldn’t get enough air.

“Thank you,” I gasped between gulps of air, shaking so hard I could barely speak. “Thank you… for giving me space… for not leaving me… for trying so hard to pull me back…”

Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and endless. “I feel so lost. It was always me and my grandfather. Always. I don’t have parents. He’s my anchor, my shield. He’s the only person who’s mine.” My voice fractured, trembling like a candle in the wind. “And now… the thought of losing him—it’s like looking over the edge of a cliff. I don’t know how to keep going.”

Hermione gathered me into her arms so fiercely it almost hurt. “You don’t have to know how. Not today.”

Harry’s voice was low but unyielding. “He’s still here, Esther. And while he’s here, every moment counts. Don’t mourn him while he’s still fighting. When the time comes… we’ll be here for you. But don’t let fear steal the time you have left.”

Ron’s eyes glistened as he leaned forward. “Harry’s right. You’ve still got him. And you’ve got us, whether you like it or not.”

Their warmth closed around me like a fortress. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Until my throat burned and my chest felt hollow but lighter somehow.

And when I finally looked up, wiping the tears from my face, I managed a whisper. “I’ll try. I’ll try to… to hold on to the time we have left.”

Hermione kissed my temple. Harry squeezed my hand. Ron shoved another chocolate frog into my palm, muttering, “Start with this.”

And for the first time since the day I’d heard the words Cankerouf, I didn’t cry myself to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up with a start, as though my lungs were remembering how to breathe again. The sun streamed through the dormitory windows, chasing away the shadows that had clung to me for weeks. For the first time in what felt like ages, I didn’t feel as though my chest was caving in. Drawing a long, steady breath, I treated myself to a scalding, lavender-scented bath that left my skin flushed and my senses clearer than they’d been in days.

When I dressed in my Hogwarts robes and braided my hair into a sleek side plait, the girl staring back at me in the mirror looked almost like the old Esther—almost. There were still shadows beneath my eyes, but they seemed lighter somehow, as though my friends’ relentless love had begun to patch the cracks in my heart.

The smell of toast and roasted tomatoes hit me like a wave of normalcy, as I stepped into the Great Hall. My eyes darted around until they landed on my friends, huddled close together in the middle of the Gryffindor table, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.

Ron spotted me first and his eyebrows shot up. “Whoa. Someone looks… fresh.”

I smirked and dropped into the seat beside him. “So, what’s the gossip that’s got you lot looking like you’ve just discovered Merlin’s beard hiding in your porridge?”

They exchanged a loaded glance, and then Harry leaned forward, his voice low. “We finally know who Nicolas Flamel is.”

Guilt knifed through me so suddenly that I flinched. “Oh … I completely forgot to ask my grandfather over the holidays. I’m so sorry.”

Hermione, ever the gracious soul, waved away my apology. “It’s fine, Esther. We understand.” Her eyes flashed with triumph. “Nicolas Flamel was a legendary alchemist—the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone. The Stone can transform any metal into pure gold… and create the Elixir of Life.” She paused, letting the gravity of her next words sink in. “It grants immortality.”

My pulse quickened. “Then the package Hagrid took from Gringotts… it must be the Stone.”

“It is the Stone,” Harry said, conviction burning in his eyes. “Which means the real question is—why the hell is Snape trying to steal it?”

Before we could delve deeper into the mystery, one of the Weasley twins swooped in with a cheeky grin. “Harry! Just a heads-up—practice at one o’clock. And brace yourself: Snape’s refereeing the next match.”

He waggled his eyebrows dramatically. “It’s gonna be a bloodbath. Adios, juniors!” And with a mock salute, he vanished as quickly as he’d arrived.

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. Ron clapped him on the back sympathetically.

Meanwhile, Hermione shot me a pointed look. “Library. Now.”

I rolled my eyes but rose to follow her. “Bossy witch,” I muttered, though there was laughter in my voice.

That night, after dinner, Harry cornered me in the corridor, his expression intense “I need to show you something.”

I blinked at him. “Harry, if this is another broomstick trick, I’m warning you—my heart can’t take it.”

He didn’t crack a smile. “It’s not that. Come on.

I’ve already shown the others, but since you were grieving, I wanted to wait until you were feeling better.”

What is it?” I asked, curiosity prickling at my voice.

He didn’t answer, instead, he led me to an abandoned classroom, shadows crawling up the walls like watchful eyes. The silence was thick, as though even the castle itself was holding its breath.

Harry shut the door behind us, glancing around to make sure we were alone. Then he said, voice barely above a whisper, ““During the holidays, I found this place—it had a mirror, The Mirror of Erised....... It shows you your deepest desire.  I showed Ron and wanted to show you both too, but Dumbledore found me sitting in front of it one day. He told me that many wizards have gone mad staring into it.

He then moved it somewhere else and warned me not to go looking for it.”

“You saw your parents, didn’t you?” I asked softly.

He nodded, and his eyes shone with the sheen of unshed tears. “They were right there, Esther. Smiling at me. I could almost hear them laughing.”

A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to comfort him, but there were no words big enough to hold that kind of grief. For a brief moment, the weight of his words hung between us, heavy and unspoken. Then, as if shaking himself free from the memory, Harry reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out something shimmering and ghostlike—a cloak so fluid it seemed woven from moonlight itself.

Draping it around his shoulders, he gave me a knowing look. “Watch this.”

I raised an eyebrow as he wrapped the fabric around himself.

“Harry,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh, “I don’t want to judge, but you have terrible fashion sense. That shawl looks hideous.”

He stared at me, scandalized. “You can see me? My whole body?”

I laughed. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak!” he hissed. “It belonged to my father. When I wear it, no one’s supposed to see me. No one… except apparently you.”

I stared at him, mind racing. “Try again.”

Harry yanked the cloak fully over himself.

I squinted. “Okay… well, now I can’t see you—just the cloak draped around… something.”

Harry pulled the hood back, looking both puzzled and intrigued. “To everyone else, I vanish completely.”

I pondered the oddity and then remembered……  my bracelet. I had worn it constantly since receiving it as a Yule gift but hadn’t tested its powers.

I held up my wrist. “Maybe it’s my bracelet,” I said, and explained to him its abilities.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Try it!”

I pressed the blue gem, and light exploded around me. I gasped as brilliant azure wings unfurled from my back, delicate and shimmering like butterfly wings spun from stained glass.

I hesitated, then flapped them—and was airborne in a whoosh of swirling robes and startled laughter from Harry.

“You’re like a flying jewel!” he shouted, eyes gleaming.

I landed, breathless. “One more.” I pressed the violet stone.

Harry blinked. “Well… I can still see you.” He squinted. “Sort of. You’re… faint. Like looking through smoke. Either it didn’t work, or I’m somehow an exception in your case too.””

I frowned. “We’ll test it on Ron and Hermione tomorrow.”

Excitedly chatting about our gifts, we left the classroom.

The next day, I showed Ron and Hermione my bracelet and explained everything Harry and I had discovered the previous night. To test it, I pressed the violet stone—and just as Harry and I had suspected, I vanished from their sight.

Ron blinked in shock. “Blimey! You’re completely gone!”

Hermione reached out, her hand colliding with something invisible. “You’re still here,” she murmured in awe. “But completely invisible.”

It was official: Harry truly was the exception—because while he could still see me, to everyone else, I had completely disappeared.

The end of January arrived shrouded in a biting cold that seemed to seep straight into my bones. But even the chill couldn’t dampen the feverish anticipation that gripped Hogwarts. Today was the Quidditch match—Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff—and everyone knew it would be nothing short of explosive. Snape had appointed himself referee, and the news had spread like wildfire, leaving an undercurrent of dread among the Gryffindors. Some whispered he was only there to sabotage Harry, that he’d do anything to see Gryffindor humiliated.

Originally, I’d planned to stay behind, buried in the cocoon of my trunk with my books and the illusion of safety. But Harry had other ideas. He’d found me in the common room the night before, his green eyes solemn.

“You promised,” he’d said quietly. “No matter how much you hate Quidditch… you’d be there for me.”

And so here I was, trudging with the others toward the stands, my breath fogging in the frigid air.

On the way, I spotted Draco. As usual, we ignored each other. Though we had exchanged letters over Christmas, he pretended I didn’t exist at school. I supposed he wanted to maintain his reputation of being a spoilt classist Slytherin, but I had caught him watching me a few times when he thought I wasn’t looking. Despite his aloofness, my two other cousins— Astra and Tonks had checked in on me occasionally, asking how I was doing. We had kept each other updated about life at Hogwarts, even if Draco acted as if none of it mattered.

We took our seats as the players entered the field.

When we reached the stands, the air was electric. The pitch gleamed like polished emerald beneath the low winter sun. Banners fluttered wildly, scarlet and gold flashing against the grey sky.

Cedric Diggory hovered near the Hufflepuff team, his broom glinting, blond hair ruffled by the wind. Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff Seeker, had two well-known reputations—one for being exceptionally handsome and the other for being an incredibly fast flier.

I just hoped Harry could outmaneuver him and catch the Snitch to secure another win for Gryffindor.

Then, as the players took to the air, a ripple of commotion surged up the rows behind me. I turned just in time to see Draco swaggering closer, Crabbe and Goyle looming at his flanks like lumbering gargoyles. He pointedly ignored me, directing his attention instead to loudly mocking the Gryffindor players, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. It was an obvious attempt to provoke a reaction, and unfortunately, it worked.

Ron—and, to my surprise, Neville—took the bait almost instantly. Before I knew it, they were in a heated scuffle with Draco and his cronies, shoving and shouting as tempers flared.

Rolling my eyes at their predictability, I chose to ignore the commotion and focused on the match instead.

High above the fray, Harry and Cedric were a blur of speed and wind and will. Snape’s black robes billowed as he hovered near them, eyes narrowed in perpetual disdain. Every foul Gryffindor suffered, Snape ignored. Every minor infraction from Hufflepuff earned an instant whistle

Rage simmered through me—hot, dangerous. But Gryffindor didn’t back down.

Five minutes in, the impossible happened.

Harry dove like a falling star, his broom slicing the air with a shriek so sharp it made my heart slam against my ribs. Cedric was seconds behind, stretching desperately for the glint of gold.

I didn’t even realize I was on my feet until the crowd erupted.

Harry’s fist punched into the air, the Snitch trapped in his grasp, its wings beating uselessly against his palm.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then—

The stands detonated with sound.

Roars, whistles, screams of triumph. My own voice tore free, raw and fierce.

Harry Potter had done it again.

Dumbledore’s Perspective

From the very first day of the term, Albus Dumbledore had kept a vigilant watch over two children—Harry Potter and Esther Black.

Together with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, they formed a quartet whose friendship glowed brightly even amidst Hogwarts’ ancient shadows. To the casual eye, they were merely schoolchildren. To Dumbledore, they were a gathering storm.

Harry was as he’d anticipated—a boy forged from loss yet carrying hope in every step. His humility, courage, and capacity for love mirrored the very best of Lily and James. Yet beneath the lightning scar on his brow simmered power vast and wild—a power Harry himself scarcely understood.

Esther Black, however… Esther was a mystery that intrigued even Dumbledore’s keen intellect.

Outwardly, she was every inch a pureblood heir—composed, elegant, her posture bearing centuries of Black family pride. She moved through the castle like a princess from a bygone era, her robes always immaculate, her hair artfully braided, her bearing dignified.

But Dumbledore’s blue eyes, sharper than any eagle’s, saw deeper.

Among her friends, Esther transformed. The icy reserve melted away, revealing warmth, loyalty, and a blazing spark of wit. She defended Muggle-born Hermione with a fierceness that belied her refined demeanor. She stood beside Ron in defiance of her own cousin, Draco Malfoy, making it clear she would not inherit the prejudices of her family name.

And he’d witnessed the small, telling kindnesses others might miss: how she knelt to speak softly to the house-elves, offering them genuine respect; how she noticed the quiet, lonely students and gently drew them into conversation.

Such contradictions fascinated Dumbledore, but it was Esther’s magic that set his mind whirling.

From the professors, he’d heard consistent reports: Esther excelled in nearly every subject, brilliant yet diligent, never arrogant. McGonagall praised her discipline and Transfiguration prowess. Even Severus Snape, whose grudges could span decades, regarded her with an unusual neutrality—sometimes even approval.

Yet none of that explained the aura Dumbledore sensed radiating from Esther.

Powerful. Unclassifiable. Balanced upon a knife’s edge between light and darkness.

He’d felt such a presence only once before, many years ago, and it haunted him still.

At first, he’d wondered if Esther’s polished exterior was simply a mask, a cunning disguise for hidden ambition. But her grandfather’s illness had shattered any illusion of her invulnerability. Dumbledore had seen her in the Great Hall after the news—eyes hollow, movements brittle as blown glass.

Her grief was a raw wound, bleeding openly for anyone who cared to look. In that pain, Dumbledore saw her true depth.

Yet even amidst her sorrow, Esther was slowly emerging, drawn back into life by the quiet, stubborn love of her friends. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were her anchors, pulling her back from the abyss.

And so Dumbledore watched—and worried.

Because Esther Black was more than a grieving granddaughter. More than a clever student.

She was a pivot upon which countless futures might yet turn.

And he could not help but wonder: When the darkness rose, as he knew it will…

Which path would Esther choose?

Esther's pov

It had been three weeks since the Quidditch match, and time seemed to slip through my fingers like water. Days bled into nights in a blur of classes and endless reading. I had nearly exhausted the Black family collection stored in my trunk—only one final book remained.

But I was stuck.

In the fifth chapter of that last, leather-bound tome, a single spell stared back at me from the yellowed pages: Spiegma.

No matter how many times I tried, my wand refused to obey. The incantation felt slippery on my tongue, the movements elusive, the magic resisting me like an animal refusing the leash. I’d torn through the Hogwarts library until my eyes burned, but there was nothing—not so much as a footnote—on Spiegma. Even Hermione, with her encyclopedic brain, could only shake her head in frustration.

Finally, swallowing my pride, I made a decision I almost never did: I would ask a professor for help.

And of all the teachers in Hogwarts, fate forced me to seek out the last man I trusted: Professor Quirrell.

I clenched my jaw, bracing for disappointment. I doubted that quivering, stammering fool could possibly grasp a spell like Spiegma—or anything beyond elementary jinxes.

Just like every other day in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Quirrell droned on, draping the room in monotony as he parroted the textbook in that fluttering, paper-thin voice. My thoughts itched beneath my skin. It was painfully boring; Each tick of the clock felt like a hammer blow. I kept staring at the minute hand, willing it to move faster.

Finally—finally—the lesson ended. I gathered my courage like armor, whispered to Hermione that I’d catch up later, and approached Quirrell as he packed away his parchments.

“Professor Quirrell?” I called, my voice surprisingly steady.

He turned, wide-eyed and trembling, the very portrait of timidity. “Y-yes, Miss B-Black?”

For a split second, I considered retreating, swallowing my question, leaving that wretched spell to rot in my trunk forever. But the hunger to know—to master what had eluded me—was stronger.

“Professor,” I began cautiously, “You see, Over the holidays, I came across a spell while reading called Spiegma. I tried to learn it on my own, but the book didn’t explain much.

I also searched the Hogwarts library but there was nothing on it there either…." I trailed off before admitting, "I just can’t seem to get the wand movements right. Could you help me?"

What happened next made my blood run cold……

His reaction surprised me—shock flashed across his eyes but his face remained neutral showing no emotion. “Spiegma?” he repeated softly, his tone no longer feeble, but… deliberate. Almost silky. “That is… a very dark defensive spell. Where exactly did you come across it, my dear?”

Being a Black, Dark magic was nothing new or shocking to me in fact, I had practiced a few dark spells in the past as well. I remembered my grandfather’s teaching: never judge magic. He’d always said, “Esther, magic is neither light nor dark. All Magic is pure—it is the intent behind its use that defines its morality.”

I lied smoothly, “I found about it in the Black family library over the holidays.”

But what shocked me was his demeanor—he almost looked like a different person as he met my gaze properly for the first time since I'd known him. His gaze locked on mine, intense and piercing, as if he were peering straight into my soul.

“Aaah… the famous Black Library,” Quirrell murmured, almost with relish. He leaned forward slightly. His entire posture shifted, shoulders straightening, chin rising. The usual timid professor seemed to vanish, replaced by someone else entirely— His eyes glittered like shards of obsidian.

A chill slithered down my spine.

“Spiegma is indeed Dark magic,” he went on, voice low and measured. “It requires the wizard’s blood to be infused into their wand. Done properly, it creates a shield capable of repelling even the most lethal curses.”

He tilted his head, studying me as though deciding whether to skin me alive or share secrets. Then, with a thin smile, he said:

“Why don’t we try it… right here?”

Before I could object, he flicked his wand. The classroom door slammed shut with a booming finality, and a spell I didn’t recognize slithered over the walls like living smoke. The air thickened, crackling with energy. It felt as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I swallowed hard. My instincts screamed run—but I wasn’t one to turn my back on knowledge. Steeling my nerves, I nodded.

“Very well, Professor.”

Quirrell’s next words were ice.

“Cut your hand. Let a drop of your blood fall upon your wand. You must bind the magic to your life force.”

I stared at him, searching for any trace of his usual cowardice. But he was utterly transformed—eyes hard, lips curled in an almost cruel smile. My pulse thudded in my ears as I drew my wand across my palm. Blood welled up, scarlet and gleaming. I pressed the tip of my wand into it, feeling the thrum of magic stir.

Quirrell gave a flick of his own wand. “I will cast a minor curse. It will sting if your shield fails.”

He raised his wand with a sharp motion.

“Spiegma!” I screamed.

A violet shield flared around me, but too thin. His curse struck my shoulder like a bolt of fire. I gasped, staggering back, pain rippling down my arm.

“Not bad… for a first attempt,” Quirrell said, his voice like a serpent’s hiss. “Again. Stronger this time.”

Sweat beaded my brow. My hand trembled as I braced my wand against the bleeding cut. Quirrell’s wand shot upward. His incantation cracked through the air like a whip.

As soon as I heard him cast, I responded with, “Spiegma!”

This time, the violet barrier surged out in a solid wall. His curse crashed into it—and shattered into harmless sparks.

A grin split Quirrell’s face. “Excellent, Miss Black… truly excellent.”

My heart pounded as I lowered my wand. I felt shaky, adrenaline buzzing like lightning beneath my skin.

I practiced the spell a few more times, my confidence growing with each attempt. The movements felt smoother, the magic more controlled. Eventually, satisfied with my progress, I excused myself and left to find my friends.

I fled the room, my mind a whirlwind. Not only on the lesson itself but more on the professor. Quirrell had looked like an entirely different person—commanding, sure of every movement. But what unsettled me most was his zero stuttering, he hadn’t stuttered. Not even once.

The transition had been so smooth, so quick, that it felt almost unnatural.

“Split personality?” I muttered to myself. “If he is, I hope he keeps the one from today’s class. Defense Against the Dark Arts could really use a professor like that—not the jittery mess he usually is.”

Even as I tried to shake the thought, a strange feeling settled in my chest…… Something wasn’t right.

I found all three of them in the common room. Hermione looked up as I entered.

“It took you quite a while,” she remarked.

I blushed slightly. “Well, on the positive side, at least my doubt is finally clear.”

I was about to elaborate when Ron interrupted, “Did Quirrell seem different? Like, scared?”

“Scared?” I echoed, confused.

Harry leaned forward. “Yesterday, I saw Snape going into the Forbidden Forest. I followed him on my broomstick.” Seeing my sharp glare, he quickly added, “I was wearing the cloak, so I was fine. Don’t worry……  Anyway, I saw him meet with Quirrell, and they were talking about the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Hermione chimed in, “Harry thinks Snape is trying to force Quirrell to help him get the Stone so he can get rich.”

I frowned, considering their words. Harry’s reasoning felt off to me, but there was no denying that something strange was happening. Snape, Quirrell, and the Stone—they all had secrets, and they seemed deeply intertwined.

“There’s something I need to tell you guys too,” I said, my tone serious. “I doubt Quirrell. I.... I don’t think he’s what he seems to be.”

They all stared at me, their expressions ranging from skepticism to curiosity. I could tell they didn’t fully believe me, and honestly, I wouldn’t have believed myself either if it weren’t for the past two hours.

I sighed and added, “Just don’t trust him, okay? Keep your guard up against him too. ”

After a moment of silence, they nodded in agreement. At least they were willing to be cautious, even if they didn’t fully understand why.

Next evening, right after dinner, we slipped out of the castle under the weight of our own apprehension. The night was bitterly cold, the wind cutting through our robes as we picked our way across the dark grounds toward Hagrid’s hut, determined to learn more about the Philosopher’s Stone. At first, Hagrid tried to shut the door on us, but when Harry revealed that we already knew about the Stone being hidden inside Hogwarts, he reluctantly let us in.

When Harry voiced his suspicion that Snape was trying to steal the Stone, Hagrid immediately leaped to Snape’s defense. “Rubbish!” he huffed. “Snape’s one of the ones protectin’ the Stone! Same as all the other professors!”

I exchanged a glance with Hermione, who gave me a slight nod. Taking the cue, she cast a subtle charm to coax Hagrid into talking more freely. Before long, he began explaining the various enchantments used to guard the Stone.

“Fluffy—my three-headed dog—is the first line of defense,” he said proudly. “Then there’s enchantments and traps set by Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, Professor Quirrell, and Professor Snape. All of ’em workin’ together to keep it safe.”

Just as Hagrid finished detailing the elaborate defenses, a sharp cracking sound interrupted us. Hagrid jumped from his seat and rushed toward the fireplace, where a cauldron had been set. To our surprise, he pulled out a large egg that had started to hatch. Moments later, a tiny Norwegian Ridgeback dragon emerged.

We were awestruck—none of us had seen a baby dragon before, except Ron, who seemed more thrilled, muttering something about how dangerous they were. Just as we were admiring the dragon, there was a sound at the window.

“Malfoy!” Harry hissed, spotting him.

After a hurried discussion, we convinced Hagrid that it was unsafe to keep a dragon in Hogwarts. Reluctantly, he agreed to send Norbert—Hagrid’s chosen name for the dragon—to Ron’s brother Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. As we were preparing Norbert for transport in a crate, the dragon bit Ron’s hand. The wound looked nasty, and we quickly decided to split up—Harry and Hermione would smuggle Norbert to the Astronomy Tower under the Invisibility Cloak, while I took Ron to Madam Pomfrey.

The walk to the Hospital Wing was harrowing. Ron clung to me, half-conscious, his breaths shallow. When we finally burst through the doors, Madam Pomfrey surged to her feet.

“What in Merlin’s name happened?” she demanded.

“He—he was bitten,” I gasped, easing Ron onto a bed. “By a dragon.”

“A dragon? And how exactly did one find its way into Hogwarts, my dear?” she asked, already preparing a potion.

I hesitated but decided to be honest. I explained about Hagrid and the arrangements to send the dragon away. Madam Pomfrey didn’t seem particularly surprised by Hagrid’s involvement—an indication this wasn’t her first encounter with his peculiar antics.

“Will he be alright?” I asked anxiously.

“He’ll recover,” she reassured me briskly. “The venom isn’t lethal—but the swelling and pain will linger. He’ll be here at least a week.”

Relief nearly knocked me off my feet. “Thank you.”

She waved me off. “Out. You’ve done enough. He’ll sleep soon.

You can visit him tomorrow”  

I nodded mutely, glancing at Ron one last time—he had already fallen asleep—and left to find Harry and Hermione.

On my way to the Astronomy Tower, I pressed the violet bead on my bracelet—better to be invisible when your heart felt this exposed.

But halfway up the staircase, I stopped dead. Voices echoed from ahead. My stomach turned to lead as I peered around the corner.

Filch. And behind him—Harry and Hermione, caught in the lamplight, faces stricken.

My breath caught. I pressed myself into the shadows as they were herded into McGonagall’s office. Through the crack in the door, I watched Draco, lounging against the wall, his smirk a dagger in the dark.

McGonagall’s fury was like a physical force. Her voice rose and fell in sharp, merciless waves. She deducted fifty points each from Harry, Hermione, and Draco, and assigned all three detentions.

Guilt tore through me...  My friends, standing alone in disgrace, while I hid like a coward. I didn’t let myself overthink it. I pressed the bead again—stepped into the light—and spoke.

“Professor.” My voice trembled, but I forced it steady. “I was there too.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, shock flickering across her stern features. “You were?”

I swallowed hard. “I… I went a different way. Filch didn’t see me. But I was part of it.”

Silence pooled in the chamber, heavy as a curse. Even Draco looked startled.

McGonagall’s gaze softened, just barely. “And why, Miss Black, are you volunteering this information?”

“I couldn’t let my friends take the blame alone,” I admitted. “It didn’t feel right.”

The pause that followed felt endless.

“At least one of you has learned integrity,” she said finally. “Fifty points will be deducted from you as well, and you will join them in detention.”

I nodded, guilt washing over me for the points lost. But just as I turned to leave, she added, “However, fifty points will be returned… for your honesty.

Now off to bed, all of you.”

Relieved and slightly puzzled, I left with Harry and Hermione.

Outside in the corridor, Draco caught my arm as the others moved past. “You’re becoming quite the reckless Gryffindor, Cousin” he said, voice low, eyes searching mine. “Throwing yourself on the pyre for them.”

I held his gaze. “Maybe. My bonds with my friends are growing stronger... Honestly, Draco, I’m mad at you for a lot of things right now, but... I would’ve done the same for you.”

His smirk wavered. Just for an instant, his expression flickered with something unreadable before he nodded and walked off without another word.

Harry and Hermione waited for me outside. “Why did you do that?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“Its just.... It didn't feel right to hide in the shadows when you both were facing the ire for something which we all were a part of,” I admitted.

Hermione squeezed my hand. “I’m just grateful McGonagall didn’t take more points. Losing a hundred in a single day is bad enough.”

“How’s Ron?” Harry asked.

“Madam Pomfrey said he’ll be fine in a week,” I replied. “Though I had to tell her the truth."

"And Norbert?” I asked, glancing between them.

Harry sighed. “He’s gone, We managed to hand the crate off to Charlie’s friends—they were waiting at the top of the Astronomy Tower. But on the way back down the stairs, we ran into Filch. That’s when I realized... I left the Invisibility Cloak behind.”

Though he sounded guilty, there was a flicker of relief on his face, as if a weight had been lifted.

I nodded, acknowledging the risk we had taken. “We’ll figure it out,” I whispered. “Whatever comes next… we’ll face it together.”

Without another word, we headed back to the Gryffindor common room. As soon as we arrived, exhaustion settled over us. With weary goodnights, we parted ways, finally allowing ourselves to rest after the night’s chaos.

Chapter Text

Harry held my hand as we moved forward, the eerie silence of the forest broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath our feet.... Behind us, Draco incessant complaining continued but we both ignored him... Fang trotted beside us, ears twitching at every sound.

Harry leaned in slightly. “He sounds scared to me.”

"He is,” I muttered, my frustration simmering. “And that’s what makes me even angrier, He knew exactly how Neville was feeling—he knew—and still, he made it worse.”

Harry nodded, then added with a small grin, “I didn’t know you knew so many curses.”

I laughed softly. “A fair warning— I know plenty more, but I only use them when someone really gets under my skin.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side then,” he joked, making me laugh despite the tension.

“Do you know what is hidden within Hogwarts?” 

"The Philosopher’s Stone." Harry answered

The centaur leaned closer to Harry. “And, Do you know who has been waiting for years to regain power?”

The realization hit us simultaneously. “Voldemort,” we whispered.

Hagrid arrived shortly after and introduced us to the centaur, Firenze, who quickly bid us farewell after ensuring we were safe.

Back in the common room, Ron was pacing anxiously. Once Neville had gone to bed, Harry recounted everything we’d seen and learned in the Forbidden Forest. His conclusion was clear: Snape wanted the Philosopher’s Stone…  but not for himself... "He wants to help Voldemort regain his power."

I listened carefully but couldn’t help voicing my lingering doubts. “I don’t know, Harry. Something about Quirrell still doesn’t sit right with me either.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Quirrell? The guy can barely string a sentence together without stuttering. How could he possibly—”

Ron finally broke the tension, his voice resolute. “It doesn’t matter who’s trying to steal it. If they succeed, it means Voldemort is back—and that can’t happen. We can’t let it happen.”

Hermione, ever the voice of reason, tried to reassure us. “Don’t worry. There is one wizard Voldemort has always feared and he is still here— Dumbledore. As long as he’s in Hogwarts, we’re safe. We’ll be untouched.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort felt restless.......

The Philosopher’s Stone was so close—close enough to taste—yet maddeningly out of reach.

He would grant Dumbledore this: the old man’s defenses were formidable. Clever. At first, Voldemort had been certain the Stone lay beneath that trapdoor, hidden under brute force and monstrous guardians. But he’d realized soon enough that the obvious answer was a lie—a deception woven with Dumbledore’s typical arrogance.

He remembered the first time the Stone had entered his mind like a flicker of starlight—a single possibility that could restore him to flesh and power. And as if the Lady Fate herself had bent to his will, Quirrell had come stumbling into the forest where Voldemort’s fragmentary spirit had made its lair.

Ah, Quirrell…

How vividly he recalled that trembling, pale-faced fool, believing himself bold enough to seek out the Dark Lord, dreaming of secrets and power that might elevate him above the sneering wizards who mocked his weakness.

Voldemort had not even needed to lift a phantom finger.

Quirrell’s mind had been as soft as butter beneath a warm knife. Once Voldemort discovered the man’s new position at Hogwarts, the rest had been inevitable.

Possession had been as effortless as inhaling breath. Quirrell’s body had become Voldemort’s cloak, his puppet strings hidden beneath stammering words and darting eyes.

But Quirrell had proven himself pathetically incompetent.

Twice, he had attempted to seize the Stone. Twice, he had failed. He’d even tried to murder the Potter boy outright—and botched that too. Yet he remained useful, extracting secrets from that blundering oaf Hagrid, slipping past traps, unlocking every chamber’s puzzle—until the final obstacle: the Mirror of Erised.

Voldemort’s fury that night had been cold enough to freeze bone.

But rage alone would not grant him victory. Strategy, patience—that was where Voldemort thrived. From whispers carried by loyal Death Eaters, he had learned the truth of the Mirror. To retrieve the Stone, it must be claimed by one who sought it but did not desire to use it for himself.

And there was only one such fool.

Harry Potter.

From the first moment Voldemort beheld the boy, he’d studied him—measured him, dissected him. He had searched for the secret of his own downfall in that infant’s emerald eyes.

And he’d been… disappointed.

The boy was nothing special. A powerful magical core, yes—Voldemort would concede that Mother Magic had blessed him. But the boy’s mind? Ordinary. Colorless. Weak.

No ambition. No cunning. No hunger for greatness. Just another naïve Gryffindor, clinging to the insipid ideals of courage and friendship, blind to the tools that true power demanded.

And those friends of his…

The Weasley boy: barely worth Voldemort’s contempt. A creature of impulse and fear.

Granger: sharp and inquisitive, worthy of respect, but shackled to sentiment and mudblood morality. A mind like hers squandered on loyalty.

But then… there was Esther Black.

Ah, Esther.

Voldemort’s thoughts coiled around her name like a serpent tightening upon prey. Another scion of the Black family—pureblooded, poised, yet different.

Unlike her housemates, she did not wear her virtue like gleaming armor. She did not flinch from shadows, nor shrink from forbidden knowledge. Instead, she observed the world with calculating eyes, always weighing, measuring. She moved through Hogwarts with a grace that spoke of ancient breeding, yet her soul rebelled against the narrow doctrine of blood supremacy.

She was a paradox. A Gryffindor with the mind of a Slytherin.

He had watched her—always watched her. Unlike the others, she showed no blind devotion to Dumbledore. She questioned. She sought understanding.

He had been truly intrigued the day she approached Quirrell, inquiring about a spell he himself had crafted as a student—a spell forged of blood.

Spiegma.....

Other witches might have recoiled in horror. But Esther… Esther had simply learned. She had sliced her palm without hesitation, spilled her blood into her wand, and shaped the shield with fierce concentration. There had been no trembling lip, no sanctimonious sermon about “dark magic.”

And for the first time in decades, Voldemort felt the smallest flicker of… pride.

He remembered the glint in her eyes as she executed the spell. The precise wandwork. The keen hunger for mastery. In that moment, she had regarded Quirrell—not with fear—but with respect. And buried deep in Voldemort’s withered soul was the memory of a boy once desperate to be respected… a boy who dreamed of being a teacher.

She would have been a Slytherin… and a magnificent one.

He watched her now from the recesses of Quirrell’s mind as she emerged from the examination hall beside Potter and the others.

A thought slithered through his consciousness, dark and seductive:

Perhaps she will not be wasted after all.

Once he returned to flesh, he would approach her. Mold her. Shape her. Break the chains of her childish loyalty and forge her into something truly formidable.

But that would come later.

For now, Voldemort’s gaze turned inward, toward the coming day—the culmination of all his schemes.

Tomorrow. The final day of exams.

The day he would claim the Philosopher’s Stone.

The day he would be reborn.

Esther's Pov

It was the first week of May, and we’d just staggered out of our final exam—Defense Against the Dark Arts....  Sunlight spilled across the corridor floor, glinting off our exam parchments, but it felt as though storm clouds were brewing right over our heads. Hermione and I were still caught up in fervent debate about obscure spell theory, our voices low and urgent, dissecting every question as if our very lives depended on it.

Harry and Ron trailed behind us, rolling their eyes at our intensity—but even they couldn’t entirely disguise their nervous smiles.

Suddenly, Harry halted so abruptly that Ron nearly walked straight into him. His green eyes sharpened like twin emerald blades.

“Don’t you think it’s all a bit too convenient?” Harry demanded. “Hagrid wanting a dragon more than anything—and suddenly a stranger shows up, carrying a dragon egg? Who even carries dragon eggs around for casual bar trades?”

His words slammed into me like a cold wind. A chill raced down my spine, and Hermione’s chatter died mid-sentence. We all exchanged uneasy looks, an invisible thread of fear snapping taut between us.

Without another word, we broke into a run.

Hagrid blinked at us, bewildered. His eyes flicked uneasily around as though afraid someone might be listening.

“I never saw ‘is face,” he confessed, shifting uncomfortably. “Kept ‘is hood up the whole time. Met ‘im in a bar… We got talkin’ about dragons. I might’ve… mentioned Fluffy. He was curious, y’know? Asked how to keep Fluffy calm. So I told ‘im… music. Plays a tune, Fluffy goes right ter sleep—”

But he never finished.

A thunderous silence fell over us, crushing in its weight. Our eyes met in mutual horror, the truth blazing between us like lightning.

“He knows how to get past Fluffy,” Harry rasped. “He’s going after the Stone. Tonight.”

We tore through Hogwarts like hunted animals, robes snapping around our ankles, our breaths ragged as we sprinted toward Dumbledore’s office. But our frantic pleas met only with the formidable presence of Professor McGonagall.

Her lips were drawn into a thin, severe line as she listened to our breathless explanation.

“The Stone is perfectly safe,” she insisted, voice like steel. “And Professor Dumbledore has been called away on urgent Ministry business.”

Feeling dejected, we left the office. It was then that the pieces clicked in my mind. “If Dumbledore’s been lured out of the castle,” I said, “this is the perfect time for someone to steal the Stone.”

Harry nodded grimly. “Snape will try tonight. We have to get to the Stone first.”

There was no argument. We agreed to meet in the common room at eleven sharp.

Dinner was a blur as I prepared for what felt like our first real adventure. Yet my thoughts were a tangled mess of doubt.

I didn’t believe Snape was behind this.

Yes, he was a bully, but I didn’t think he was evil or loyal to Voldemort. Snape was far too intelligent to follow someone so reckless and unhinged. And then there were the teachers. Were they so confident in the Stone’s security that they wouldn’t even recheck it after our warning?

Was the Stone even still in Hogwarts? Could it all be a diversion?

Later that night, as the castle fell into the hush of midnight, I stood before the common room mirror, trying to steady my shaking hands. Hermione’s voice cut into my turmoil.

“Esy… don’t you think you’re a bit overdressed for a midnight quest?"

I blinked and looked down at myself: a black dress fitted with a brown leather corset, beads twinkling in my hair, gold-plated necklaces catching the flickering light. I looked like a pirate queen about to storm a galleon, not break into a forbidden corridor.

My face went crimson.

“Exams are over,” I said primly. “And if I’m risking detention, I might as well do it looking fabulous.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in amusement, and we headed downstairs to meet the boys.

Harry and Ron stared at me as though I’d sprouted a second head—and possibly a third for good measure. Ron opened his mouth, clearly ready to make some very-Very Unhelpful Comment, but snapped it shut again when I fixed him with a glare so fierce it could’ve singed his eyebrows.

“Good choice,” I sniffed. 

We descended the dormitory steps only to find Neville standing sentinel at the portrait hole, his face pale but eyes blazing with stubborn courage.

“You’re going out,” he said in a quivering voice. “I… I can’t let you. Gryffindor will lose more points. I’m sorry—but I’ll fight you if I have to!”

He squared his shoulders, fists balled at his sides, trembling like a leaf in the wind. My heart twisted at the sight.

Hermione didn’t even hesitate.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Neville froze mid-motion, rigid as a marble statue. He toppled backward like a felled tree, eyes wide with terror.

A pang of guilt speared through me.

“Hermione, was that necessary?”

She looked at me, her expression both firm and apologetic. “You know it was. I’m sorry, Neville,” she said softly before stepping past him.

Reluctantly, Harry, Ron, and I followed her out. I muttered a quiet apology to Neville as we left, determined to make this worth the cost.

Outside the common room, the castle felt eerily alive. Shadows writhed along the walls, each echo magnified tenfold. Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled beneath the invisibility cloak while I activated my violet bead, blending seamlessly into the shadows. We moved quickly and quietly toward the third-floor corridor, hearts pounding in unison.

Reaching the forbidden door, we entered without hesitation. Once inside, we shed our concealments. Fluffy’s massive form lay sprawled across the stones, lulled to sleep by the delicate silver strains of a harp. But, the trapdoor beneath his paw was ajar.

“Someone’s already down there,” Harry murmured, eyes like flint.

We exchanged a single glance. No hesitation.

Carefully stepping past the slumbering beast, we reached the trapdoor. Just as we were about to jump, the harp’s melody stopped abruptly. Fluffy stirred, growling low and deep, his three heads snapping awake.

“Jump!” Harry shouted, and we did—plunging headlong into the darkness below.

We landed in something damp and icy. At first, I thought it was mere vines—until they moved. A tangle of cold tendrils coiled around my wrist like living ropes.

“It’s Devil’s Snare,” I said quickly, my voice steady despite the panic threatening to rise. “It’s a magical plant, probably set here by Professor Sprout. It can sense touch and uses its vines to ensnare and strangle anyone who struggles against it.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Ron asked, his voice rising in panic. He was already thrashing against the creeping vines, making them tighten around him.

“Stay still!” Hermione warned. “It thrives on movement.

Stop struggling!”

Harry froze, trusting us immediately, and I felt the grip of the tendrils loosen around me. Slowly, I began to sink downward.

“I think it’s letting me go,” I said as I descended. A moment later, I landed on solid ground, dim light revealing a second door ahead.

Hermione landed beside me soon after, followed by Harry. But Ron was still above us, screaming and flailing, the vines binding him tighter with every movement.

“We need a light spell,” Hermione said decisively.

Together, we roared:

“Lumos Solem!”

Bright light erupted from the tips, flooding the room above. The Devil’s Snare recoiled instantly, releasing Ron, who came tumbling down in a heap.

He groaned as he sat up, rubbing his arms. “Well… that was delightful,” he muttered sarcastically, glaring at the harmless pile of limp vines above.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said with a huff, brushing off her robes

“We need to keep moving,” Harry urged, already heading toward the next door.

I took a steadying breath, adjusting the beads in my hair. “One room down,” I muttered to myself. “Let’s see what’s next.”

With that, we pressed forward, ready for whatever awaited us.

The next door, greeted us with a loud buzzing sound. Looking up, we saw a swarm of winged keys darting about like a chaotic storm. A few broomsticks rested against the wall, hinting at what was to come.

“One of those keys must unlock the next door,” I said, scanning the room. “The question is which one.”

“Look,” Harry said, pointing. “There—it’s a silver one with a broken wing. It’s different from the others. That must be it.”

Without hesitation, he grabbed a broom and kicked off the ground. The keys reacted instantly, swarming around him in a flurry of metallic wings, but Harry's Quidditch skills shone through. He maneuvered expertly, dodging and weaving, and within a minute, his hand shot out and grabbed the silver key.

“Got it!” he called, descending triumphantly.

Hermione seized the key, jammed it into the lock, and threw open the door.

We moved forward.

The next room was starkly different. It was arranged like a giant chessboard, the pieces looming over us in their massive, carved glory.

“It’s wizard’s chess,” Ron said, his eyes lighting up despite the tension in the air. “We’ll have to play to get through to the next room.”

Ron, this was his moment. He took charge, climbing onto the knight’s piece. Harry and Hermione stepped into vacant positions on the board, ready to play their roles. I stood on the sidelines, my heart pounding as the game began.

Ron played brilliantly, commanding the pieces with authority and precision. The game was intense, each move carrying the weight of strategy and risk.

Finally, Ron saw the winning move, but it came with a cost.

"No" Harry screamed

“It's the only way. I’ll have to sacrifice myself,” he said, looking at us.

“No, Ron!” Hermione cried, but Ron was resolute.

“This is the only way,” he said firmly.

As Ron gave the command, his knight’s piece was struck down, sending him tumbling to the ground. He groaned in pain, clearly injured, but the way forward was now clear.

“We need to get him to the hospital wing,” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “I’ll take him,” she added, kneeling beside Ron. “You two… go. End this.”

Hermione stood and hugged me tightly. “Take care of each other.”

“You too,” I said, hugging her back. 

“We’ll meet you soon,” Harry assured her, gripping her shoulder briefly. Then, taking my hand, he led me toward the next door.

With every step, the air grew heavier, the anticipation mounting. Together, we pushed the door open, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore stood before the gates of Black Villa.......

The ancient iron twisted into curling vines that glimmered in the gentle dawn light. The villa loomed beyond, a monolith of dark stone and silent windows, exhaling an air of secrets and old magic. Shadows sprawled long and clawlike across the gravel drive, as though reaching for the man who now approached its doors.

He needed answers.

Since her arrival at Hogwarts, the black-haired girl had haunted his thoughts like a prophecy half-remembered. Her bright demeanour, her laughter and loyalty, were at odds with the darkness that seemed stitched into her very bloodline. Her origins were obscured; her destiny shrouded in veils of time. Dumbledore could no longer ignore the questions gnawing at him, nor the quiet, gnawing fear of what path Alphard Black might have carved out for her.

Inside, the villa smelled faintly of old smoke and time-worn parchment. Dumbledore’s footsteps echoed like distant thunder as he made his way to the dining hall.

He found Alphard Black seated at the head of a vast table of polished ebony. Candlelight flickered over Alphard’s face, casting hollows under his eyes and etching deep lines into his pale skin.

“Welcome, Dumbledore,” Alphard said, voice smooth but carrying a brittle edge. “I’ve been expecting you.”

There was a time when Alphard Black had been counted among the most formidable wizards of his generation—a star pupil of Dumbledore’s, a man whose brilliance rivalled Tom Riddle’s. Once, he’d been Riddle’s confidant, the only wizard who’d ever managed to slip from Voldemort’s grasp and live. But now, he looked diminished, frail as parchment, a phantom of the man he once was.

“I’m sorry to hear about your health, Alphard,” Dumbledore said gently.

Alphard gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Thank you, Albus. But we both know my health is not why you’re here.”

Caught, Dumbledore allowed a faint, wry smile. “No. It isn’t. And I suspect you already know the reason for my visit.

You have hidden her well, Alphard. I know precious little about the girl.”

Alphard’s eyes glittered like shards of obsidian. “Do not lie, Albus. You always know more than you admit. You’re aware she’s a time-traveller. The Sorting Hat must have whispered something to you. And I know you’ve been watching her, shadowing her every step.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, shadows shifting across his half-moon spectacles. “Yes. The moment she arrived; my curiosity was inevitable. Your secrecy only deepened it.”

“And what do you think of my granddaughter?” Alphard asked, his voice low, a flicker of tension tightening the air.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly. “She is… unique. Unlike any Black I’ve known. Even Sirius, though he broke from his family, carried bitterness like a wound that would never close. She does not. She still cares for her family—Draco included—and I have yet to see hatred in her eyes. She’s shrewd, a true pureblood in many ways, yet reckless as a Gryffindor. She has bound herself to Harry, Ron, and Hermione—children who represent everything Voldemort despises. She’s capable of love…. At first, I wondered if she was Sirius’s daughter. When I learned she was a time traveller, I thought of Regulus. But no… she reminds me of someone else entirely—someone who once believed Voldemort could be redeemed. Someone whose goodness nearly changed him.”

A shadow passed across Alphard’s face. He let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping with a weight invisible yet immense. “I will tell you about her. But first, I must be honest. I do not trust you, Albus. I hold you partly responsible for Tom’s descent into darkness. Your rigid ideals… your manipulations… they’ve always disturbed me. And let’s not forget Sirius. You know he’s innocent, yet you’ve left him to rot in Azkaban.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth to reply, but Alphard raised a trembling hand, cutting him off.

“Please. Sirius was the Black heir who turned his back on everything for his friends. He loved them with every scrap of his soul. Do you truly believe he’d betray them at the end? Live in filth and rags rather than call for help? We both know the truth. Yet you’ve allowed him to suffer. Before I reveal anything, I demand your word—an Unbreakable Vow—that you will protect my granddaughter.”

Silence bloomed between them, heavy as storm clouds.

Dumbledore’s face tightened, eyes distant with sorrow. “Alphard… I will protect her. But I must know—what side will she choose?”

Alphard’s expression hardened like granite. “She will not remain neutral. She’s already furious with me for refusing to choose a side. She believes neutrality is cowardice, that good and evil live on both sides of every war. She will choose, Albus—and I believe she will choose the path that offers hope for all.

But the decision must be hers.

I had hoped to stand beside her when the time came… but Mother Magic has decreed otherwise. I thought long and hard about who could guide her. It came down to you. But I demand your vow, Dumbledore. Protect her. Shield her from harm—and from your own influence.

Only if she takes the Dark Mark or becomes truly evil may you withdraw your protection.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, as though consulting some distant, inner council. When he opened them, the blue burned fierce and sorrowful all at once.

“Very well. I will make the vow.”

Alphard extended a shaking hand. Dumbledore clasped it. Magic erupted around their entwined fingers—a ribbon of molten gold that coiled upward like a living serpent, pulsing with raw power.

A voice, soft yet resonant as a bell toll, whispered :

“I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore will keep Esther Black safe. I will neither influence her nor allow others to do so. I will guard her secrets and never reveal what I know. I may withdraw my protection only if Esther Black joins the Dark Lord or becomes an evil witch.”

When the glow faded, silence filled the room, broken only by the distant creak of the villa settling into its ancient bones.

Both men exhaled as if releasing centuries of tension.

Alphard’s voice was quiet but steely. “Now, Albus. Sit. And I will tell you everything.”

Esther' Pov

Harry and I slipped into the next chamber, our footsteps echoing off stone walls. The air felt cooler here, almost sharp with anticipation. In the center of the room stood a long table, upon which seven glass bottles gleamed under flickering torchlight, each filled with a potion glowing in vivid hues.

My breath caught in my throat. “This is Snape’s trap,” I murmured, my eyes narrowing as I stepped closer. "He loves riddles."

A long scroll of parchment lay beside the bottles. My fingers trembled as I unrolled it and read aloud, my voice echoing in the silent chamber:

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide,
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

Seven bottles stared back at us in a perfectly straight line. White. Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. Black. Purple. Each one shimmered like a captured star, their colours gleaming menacingly. They were different sizes too—black towered above the others, while blue was a mere squat bottle, barely taller than my wand.

I sucked in a steadying breath. My mind was racing. “We have to figure out which bottle does what,” I said, scanning the bottles again and again. “Give me a second, Harry. I’ve solved some of his riddles before… back when I was a kid. I know I can crack this one.”

I read through the clues once more, my pulse pounding like a drum. The room seemed to close in, shadows pressing closer as if waiting for us to choose wrong.

I clenched my fists, forcing my thoughts into order. “Okay. The fourth clue says the second bottles from either end are identical once drunk. That means red and black are the same—so they can’t be the potion to move forward. And from the third clue, neither the tallest bottle—black—nor the smallest—blue—is poison. So red and black must be nettle wine.”

Harry hovered over my shoulder, tense as a bowstring.

“Next,” I continued, voice rising slightly, “the first clue says poison is always to the left of nettle wine. So whatever bottle sits left of red and black must be poison—that makes white and green deadly.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead, my wand arm trembling slightly.

“Second clue says the bottles at the ends are different, but neither helps us move forward. If white is poison, purple at the opposite end has to be something else—it must be the potion that sends us back. And that leaves yellow as poison, too. Which means….”

I paused, staring hard at the tiny blue bottle. It almost seemed to glow more brightly now, as though urging me onward.

“The only one left is blue. Harry—it’s the potion that lets us move ahead.”

Harry swallowed, nodding. He grabbed the blue bottle, but his hand shook. I took mine, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

We clinked our bottles together like warriors before a battle and drank. The liquid was bitter and icy, like drinking frost. A cold fire slid down my throat.

Just as we were about to step through the black flames barring the next door, Harry caught my arm.

“You said you’ve solved Snape’s riddles before,” he said, eyes sharp beneath his fringe. “That means—”

I exhaled hard, cutting him off. “Grandfather hired Snape to tutor me in potions when I was a child. I have known him since before Hogwarts.”

Harry stared at me, emerald eyes bright with questions. “Is that why you defend Snape? Why you’re so sure he’s not the one trying to steal the Stone?”

I let out a low, weary sigh. “Snape is… complicated, Harry. He’s a master at hiding his feelings. But the first genuine emotion I ever saw him show was toward you—and it was hatred. And that’s exactly why I don’t believe he’s the thief.”

Harry blinked, frowning. “That… doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does,” I insisted, the words spilling out faster, fiercer. “Snape is cruel. He’s a bully. But he’s not careless. If he was trying to steal the Stone, do you really think he’d draw attention to himself by hating you so openly? It doesn’t fit. He’s secretive, calculating—but he’s not reckless enough to play both sides so publicly.”

Harry bit his lip, absorbing my words.

I softened my voice. “At first, I was determined to find the thief. But the longer this went on, the more I doubted Quirrell. I can’t fully explain it—it’s instinct, Harry. Just like you’re sure it’s Snape, I’m sure it’s Quirrell.

But whoever it is… I swear this: I’ll fight them. They won’t get the Stone.”

A spark ignited in Harry’s eyes, blazing with resolve. “There’s only one more room left. And then we’ll know. Let’s go, Esther. We’ll stop them—together.”

And together, hand in hand, we stepped forward into the unknown, ready to face the darkness waiting beyond.

Chapter Text

It was Quirrell………..

Harry squeezed my hand the instant we saw him, his grip fierce, silently pouring his strength into me.

“Welcome, my students,” Quirrell purred, his stammer gone as though it had never existed. His voice oozed silk and poison. “Both of you, don’t look nearly as surprised as I expected. I suppose you’re no fools—unlike your teachers.”

“So, it was you,” Harry shot back, his voice remarkably steady. “You let the troll in.”

“Yes, Harry. It was me,” Quirrell replied with a sneer, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

“And during the match— you’re the one who tried to kill Harry,” I said, my voice sharp as a blade, eyes narrowing into slits.

“Yes,” he admitted, almost proudly. “I tried to kill him. And trust me, if Snape’s cloak hadn’t caught fire, I would’ve succeeded—even with him muttering the counter-curse to save your precious Harry.”

“Snape tried to save me?” Harry said, his voice edged with shock and disbelief.

As Quirrell continued to talk, I let my eyes dart around the room. It was dim, shadows crowding the corners like waiting predators. And at the center stood a tall, ornate mirror, its surface glowing faintly in the gloom.

“The Mirror of Erised,” Harry breathed. “But… why is it here? Dumbledore said he was sending it away—somewhere far.”

Suddenly, Harry staggered, clutching his forehead, pain ripping across his features. A voice rose into the air—a voice that slithered like a serpent through my ears. Cold. Ancient. Hungry….  Yet there was no one else in the room. Only us three. Confusion and dread clawed at my chest.

“Stand in front of the mirror,” Quirrell commanded, his tone snapping like a whip.

Harry cast me a quick, meaningful look, then stepped forward. I hung back, fingers white-knuckled around my wand, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“What do you see?” Quirrell demanded.

Harry’s voice was calm, too calm. “I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore… after winning the House Cup for Gryffindor.”

But I could tell he was lying. His hand kept brushing against his pocket, again and again. Realization hit me like an electric shock. He was hiding something. My focus sharpened to a razor’s edge.

“He’s lying,” hissed the eerie, disembodied voice. “Let me speak to the boy.”

A chill swept through me as Quirrell’s hands rose to his turban. He began unwrapping it, layer by layer, until the last cloth dropped away.

And on the back of his head was a face—a monstrous, pale face, its crimson eyes blazing, the nose replaced by reptilian slits.

Harry stumbled back toward me, horror carved into his features. I felt the blood drain from my own face as understanding crashed over me like thunder.

“It’s Voldemort,” we whispered in perfect unison, our voices shaking.

“Hello, Harry. Esther.” The voice slithered out of that inhuman mouth, smooth and full of cruel delight. “It’s nice to meet you again.”

My stomach twisted, the realization hitting me like a thunderclap. “It was you,”

“You’re the one who taught me that defensive spell,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Voldemort let out a low, mocking laugh. “Yes, my dear. It was indeed me. Refreshing, really, to teach again after so long. You were an eager, brilliant pupil and I rather enjoyed our little lesson.” His crimson eyes glimmered with greed and hunger as they swept over both of us.  

“You both are extraordinary wizards, your magical cores powerful beyond your years. But enough pleasantries.” His voice hardened like steel as he fixed his gaze on Harry. “I want the Stone—the one burning a hole in your pocket.”

Harry’s eyes widened in silent confirmation.

“Don’t give it to him!” I shouted, raising my wand so quickly my arm shook.

Harry began shouting curses at Voldemort, sparks flying from his wand. I joined in, hurling spell after spell, but our magic was battered back like leaves in a hurricane. Voldemort’s voice rose to a roar, and Quirrell lunged forward, seizing Harry.

But the instant Quirrell’s fingers touched Harry’s skin, his flesh blistered and smoked, boils erupting in grotesque blooms.

Harry seized the chance, eyes blazing with desperate determination, and flung the Stone toward me. I caught it, just as Quirrell turned, fury twisting his already hideous face.

Quirrell lunged at me, but Harry, despite his pain, grabbed him again, fingers digging into his face and arms. Quirrell screamed, his skin bubbling and peeling away as black smoke billowed from his body.

Harry collapsed as Quirrell dissolved into a swirling, shrieking cloud of dark vapor. But the smoke gathered itself, rising like a cobra ready to strike.

Thinking fast, I slashed my palm open with a whisper of pain and smeared the blood across my wand.

“Spiegma!” I cried.

A brilliant green barrier exploded outward, enveloping us both in a sphere of shimmering light. The smoke smashed into the shield with a banshee wail and began to disintegrate, fragment by fragment, until nothing remained but silence.

I dropped to my knees beside Harry, my breath ragged. He lay unconscious, but his chest rose and fell. Relief crashed over me like a wave.

“We did it,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “We’re safe. The Stone is safe.”

For a moment, I simply held Harry’s limp hand, trying to calm the shaking in my limbs. Then I pressed the blue bead on my bracelet. Light flared, and my wings unfurled, shimmering like liquid sapphire.

With a fierce grip on Harry, I soared upward, flying us both toward the safety of the hospital wing—away from darkness, at least for now.

Snape and Madam Pomfrey rushed toward us the instant we staggered into the hospital wing, eyes wide with alarm. They gently lifted Harry from my arms and laid him on the bed beside Ron, who remained unconscious, pale as parchment under the glow of the lanterns.

My eyes darted anxiously around the room, searching for Hermione, but before I could ask, Snape spoke, his tone clipped.

“She’s with Professor McGonagall.  The teachers are likely on their way to rescue you both—wait here,”

I nodded, my breath still coming in shallow bursts.

I turned to Madam Pomfrey, voice trembling. “Will they be all right?”

She was already moving with precise efficiency, her wand sweeping over Harry as faint blue light pulsed from its tip.

“Mr. Weasley has suffered significant physical injuries,” she said, her face grave but composed. “He’ll need several potent potions, which Professor Snape is preparing. It will take about two days, but he should recover fully.”

She paused, her sharp gaze flicking over Harry. “As for Mr. Potter… he’s severely magically depleted. But he’ll live. He only needs rest—and time.”

Relief buckled my knees, and I nearly sagged against the nearest bedpost.

Snape, having just finished sending word that we were safe, pivoted to face me. His eyes swept over me, dark and scrutinizing.

“And you?” he demanded, his voice taut. “Are you injured?”

I swallowed. “No.”

“Good,” he snapped, though his eyes lingered on me a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if searching for wounds I wasn’t admitting.

“Now. Tell me exactly what happened.”

I took a shaky breath and recounted everything, carefully leaving out the part about us suspecting him. His face remained impassive, yet his eyes burned with a storm of emotions as he listened.

When I finished, I reached into my dress pocket and pulled out the gleaming Philosopher’s Stone, its crimson glow casting ripples of light across the room. My fingers trembled as I held it out.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” I whispered.

Snape’s eyes flickered to the gleaming object. “I’ll take it,” he said, his voice low and grave. “I’ll ensure Dumbledore decides its fate. Unless…” His eyes met mine, sharp as obsidian. “Unless you’d prefer to give it to him yourself.”

I hesitated only a heartbeat before pressing it into his hand. “Take it. I trust you.”

He accepted it with a nod but didn’t soften. “And you didn’t think to inform any of the staff?” he asked sharply, fury edging his voice. “Not even Dumbledore? Or perhaps your grandfather? I presume he’s blissfully unaware of tonight’s… adventure?”

I flinched as his words struck like whiplash.

He shook his head, exasperation twisting his features. “Reckless. Utterly reckless, Esther. I thought you, at least, would think before acting. . It’s Voldemort we’re talking about, and you’re all mere students—first-year students, no less”

His gaze flicked to Harry, lying unconscious, and for a moment, an emotion I couldn’t name flickered across his face.

“You’re angry,” I said softly, watching him. “Because you care about him.”

Snape stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I care about all my students,” he snapped. But something in his eyes—something raw and conflicted—gave him away.

I filed that glimmer of truth away in my mind, a new mystery begging to be unravelled.

“When did you start suspecting Quirrell?” I asked, seizing the chance to change the subject.

“After the troll incident,” he said tersely. “I caught him letting it in.”

“And you?” he shot back, his eyes narrowing.

I blinked, surprised. “Me?”

He continued, eyes glinting. “When Miss Granger encountered me, she blurted, ‘So it’s Quirrell.’ And when I demanded an explanation, she said it was because you suspected him.”

I nodded slowly. “One day, in class after Christmas break, I asked Quirrell about the spell Spiegma—a dark protective charm. His whole demeanor changed. He stopped stammering. He seemed… ecstatic. Almost manic. That’s when I realized he was faking it all along. I stopped trusting him completely.”

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Down in the chamber, I finally understood why. It wasn’t Quirrell teaching me that day. It was Voldemort.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, calculating, as though replaying every detail. After a pause, he tilted his head.

“How long did it take you to solve the riddle?”

A tiny, exhausted grin tugged at my lips. “About five minutes. You’ll have to try harder next time if you want to keep me out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly, but the faintest ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips.

At that precise moment, Hermione burst into the room like a whirlwind. Her eyes flew straight to me, and before I could speak, she threw her arms around my shoulders, hugging me so tightly it knocked the breath from my lungs.

“Esther! What happened?” she cried.

The door swung open behind her, and the rest of the professors filed in, their faces carved with concern, shock, and fury.

They surrounded us, pelting me with questions about Harry, about Quirrell, about everything. As I recounted the events in the chamber, their expressions shifted from horror to rage to sorrow. I couldn’t tell whether their anger was for Quirrell’s betrayal… or for us, for daring to plunge into such deadly danger on our own… or for themselves, for failing to see the enemy under their very noses.

Snape pressed a small vial into my palm. “Drink this. It will restore your magic—and help you sleep.”

I uncorked it, downed the bitter liquid in one swallow, and grimaced. “Ugh. Tastes like dragon bile.”

“Stop complaining,” Snape muttered.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her eyes stern but glistening with unshed tears. “That’s enough excitement for one lifetime,” she said, her voice trembling despite her usual steel. “Both of you are going straight to bed. No arguments.”

We nodded silently.

As we left the hospital wing, I cast one last look back at Harry and Ron. Harry lay unconscious, his face pale but peaceful. Ron still hadn’t stirred.

The corridor beyond seemed impossibly quiet, as though the castle itself was still reeling from the night’s horrors. Hermione and I walked side by side, hands clasped tightly, our steps echoing in the hush.

We said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

But in the hollow silence between us, one truth burned brighter than any magic: we’d faced the Darkest wizard who ever lived—and somehow, we are still standing.

Chapter Text

The next two days passed in a haze. Hermione and I were practically inseparable, clinging to each other, afraid the silence would swallow us whole. Classes were over, so we spent hours tucked away in our dormitory or hovering around the hospital wing, drawn back again and again by a pull neither of us could resist.

We ventured to the Great Hall only when hunger demanded it, where the Gryffindors watched us from a respectful distance. Whispers fluttered like restless wings, but no one dared to ask questions outright. A few familiar faces—Ron’s brothers, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Dean, Seamus—drifted into the hospital wing, lingering by the beds, trying to lend cheer in subdued voices.

Ron had finally woken up and was on the mend, color returning to his freckled cheeks. Madam Pomfrey announced he’d be discharged tomorrow. Harry, though… Harry remained unmoving, his breaths shallow but steady. Pomfrey administered potions with relentless precision, assuring us again and again that he’d merely exhausted his magic—that he would wake in another day or two.

I was playing wizard chess with Ron, moving pieces like a sleepwalker, while Hermione read nearby, her eyes scanning lines of text without truly seeing them. It was then that Madam Pomfrey approached, her expression solemn.

“Professor Dumbledore would like to see you in his office,” she said.

My stomach dropped as if I’d missed a stair. I nodded, whispered a quick goodbye to my friends, and slipped out of the hospital wing, my heart thudding faster with every step.

Standing before the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, I realized with a cold jolt—I didn’t know the password.

Before I could decide whether to knock or simply wait, a familiar voice spoke behind me.

“Popsicles.”

I spun around, hand flying to my chest, only to see Dumbledore himself, smiling gently, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

“Apologies for not giving you the password sooner,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. “I’ve just returned from the Ministry and heard quite a bit about your… adventures. Why don’t we step inside so you can tell me the entire story?”

He gestured me forward, and together we ascended the spiral staircase.

Dumbledore’s office was dim and hushed, filled with the scent of old parchment and burning candles. Shelves upon shelves of books rose on every wall, forming towering shadows. Behind his desk, a magnificent phoenix perched serenely, its brilliant plumage glowing like embers.

“Beautiful,” I breathed, drawn to the creature’s fiery feathers.

“Fawkes seems to like you as well,” Dumbledore said, smiling.

My gaze drifted to the Sorting Hat on a high shelf, and the dozens of portraits lining the walls, each Headmaster and Headmistress observing us with various degrees of interest.

Phineas Nigellus Black inclined his painted head. “Welcome, my dear. A pleasure to see another Black at Hogwarts.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Dumbledore’s voice broke the spell of my curiosity. “I see you’re quite captivated by my office, Esther.”

“They’re… lively quarters,” I admitted, a small laugh breaking through the tension that still clung to me.

He nodded gravely, then reached for a gleaming red stone on his desk. Its surface seemed to pulse with a faint, living light. “Snape gave this to me.”

I nodded. “He said he would.”

“And you trusted him?” Dumbledore asked, leaning forward, his blue eyes sharp and searching.

“I did. I do trust Professor Snape.”

“Why give it to him, Esther?” Dumbledore pressed, his tone low, each word weighted.

I swallowed, a flicker of unease twisting in my chest. “I trust him,” I repeated, though I couldn’t quite understand why he was questioning me so insistently.

Dumbledore’s voice turned softer, yet somehow more dangerous. “You could have kept it, you know. Used it to save your grandfather. The Stone doesn’t work only for Voldemort—it can grant life, extend it far beyond its natural end. It could have given you happiness.”

His words pierced through me like a blade. My temper flared, heat rising into my cheeks.

“You’re testing me… because I’m a Black,” I snapped, my voice trembling but fierce. “I won’t deny it—I’ve thought about it. About using the Stone to keep my grandfather alive. He’s the most important person in my world. I don’t want to lose him.”

I blinked hard against the sting in my eyes, then forced my voice steady. “But I believe Mother Magic alone decides when our time comes. And besides—I know my grandfather. He understands how much I need him, and I’m sure he already knows about the Stone. If he wanted to use it, he would have done it himself. I am sure the stone has its own harsh consequences and, I will never, ever take what belongs to someone else without their permission. No matter how powerful it is.”

A hush fell between us, the portraits overhead shifting and murmuring among themselves.

Slowly, Dumbledore’s rigid posture softened. His eyes lost their piercing glare, filling instead with quiet sorrow and pride. “I apologize for offending you, Esther. You are right—I should not judge anyone by their family’s name. Old habits… they die hard.”

He reached into a drawer and, with a conspiratorial smile, pulled out a bright pink popsicle. “Peace offering?”

I was still burning with indignation, but accepted it with a slight nod.

“Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone calm but curious., “tell me everything that happened down there.”

So I did. I told him everything, my voice shaking in places, my fingers twisting around the wooden stick of my half-eaten popsicle. When I finally fell silent, an unspoken question that had been eating at me tumbled out.

“Headmaster… can I ask you something?”

“Of course, my dear.”

I inhaled a shaky breath. “Why did you choose Quirrell as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? I mean… how in Merlin’s name did he seem like a good idea to you? He was a complete stammering fool, if you ask me.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with faint amusement as he replied, “To be perfectly honest, finding a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is no easy task. I suspect I was tricked by Voldemort into choosing Quirrell. In hindsight, I should have anticipated that he might try to infiltrate Hogwarts under the guise of a professor. You see, my dear, Voldemort once applied to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts himself. I refused him the position.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. Secretly, I couldn’t deny that—even as unstable as he was—Voldemort had been an effective teacher. But admitting that to Dumbledore didn’t seem wise, so instead, I asked, “Why did you refuse him?”

Dumbledore’s expression grew serious. “Because I feared he would teach the students how to use Dark Arts rather than how to defend against them. That fear may seem like prejudice, but I believe it had merit. I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for my decision.”

I swallowed, thoughtful. Then my gaze fell on the glittering stone still resting on his desk. “What will you do with the Stone now?”

“For that, I must speak with Nicolas Flamel. It is his creation, after all,” Dumbledore said gently. “But for now, let me thank you, Esther. For choosing the path of what is right—even when it would have been so much easier to choose otherwise.”

“It wasn’t just me,” I said firmly. “All four of us made that choice. Together.”

A warm smile spread across Dumbledore’s face. “Indeed. Now, I won’t keep you longer. I believe Ron is still waiting to finish that chess game with you.”

I blinked at him in surprise. How he always knew these small details was beyond me. But I simply nodded, excused myself, and stepped out into the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, my mind still whirling with everything I’d just learned—and everything yet to come.

The next morning, I sat in the Great Hall, half-heartedly picking at my toast. The usual chatter echoed around me—clinking cutlery, the flutter of wings overhead—but it all felt distant, muffled. My mind was still tangled in everything that had happened.

Then came the owls.

A rush of wings swept over the tables, parchment and packages raining down like snow. Luna swooped lower and landed in front of me, dropping a single envelope with elegant, familiar handwriting. My breath caught.

It was from Grandfather.

I froze, toast forgotten, and carefully broke the wax seal. The parchment crackled softly as I unfolded the letter.

Dear Esther,

You asked me to always be honest with you. And yet, it seems my clever girl has secrets of her own.

Dumbledore told me about your… nightly adventure. I suppose I should’ve expected nothing less from a Gryffindor. Recklessness does tend to run in that house like wildfire.

Still, I understand why you did what you did. And no—I am not disappointed.

I only wish I could have been there beside you. To fight with you. To protect you. I still find it hard to believe that my little girl—the one I once had to coax out from behind library curtains—is now brave enough to face monsters alone.

Esther, I am proud of you. Fiercely, endlessly proud.

Come home soon and tell me everything. I want to hear it all in your voice, see the fire in your eyes as you speak of it. I’ll see you in a week. Until then, I’ll count the days.

I miss you, my dear girl.

Grandfather

My fingers lingered on the parchment, reading the last line again and again as tears stung the corners of my eyes. The words blurred, but I could still feel the weight of them—each one heavy with love, and something deeper.

A quiet ache stirred in my chest.

“I miss you too,” I whispered, voice catching as I gently folded the letter and tucked it close to my heart.

Soon, a loud, familiar voice shattered the stillness. “FOOD! Oh, I’ve missed it!”

Ron burst into the hall like a whirlwind, looking healthier than he had in days. He collapsed into a seat at our table and began piling food onto his plate without so much as a glance at anyone.

We burst into laughter, the tension of the past days cracked like thin ice, giving way to something warm, something familiar. For the first time in what felt like ages, everything felt lighter.

It was the day before the end-of-term feast at Hogwarts, and the castle throbbed with restless energy. Laughter and chatter echoed off the ancient stones, banners rippled in unseen drafts, and magic hung thick in the air like a pulse.

As we made our way through the corridors toward the hospital wing, I couldn’t shake an unsettling feeling.

“I feel like someone’s been watching me,” I confessed in a low voice to Hermione and Ron, glancing over my shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s this crawling feeling along my spine… and every time I turn around—nothing. No one’s there.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her eyes shining with worry. “Esther, you’ve been through so much. Seeing the Dark Lord… it’s bound to leave you on edge. Your mind’s probably replaying it all.”

Ron nodded, trying to sound bracing. “Yeah, and besides, it’s Hogwarts. Place is crawling with ghosts and portraits. Anyone’d feel like they’re being watched.”

Their words fluttered around me like fragile parchment, but didn’t touch the tight knot of unease in my chest. Still, I forced a weak smile, pushing the feeling aside.

Ron abruptly changed the subject, scowling as he jammed his hands into his pockets. “We’re losing the House Cup, you know. Slytherin’s miles ahead. And with Harry out of the last Quidditch match, Ravenclaw’s going to swoop in and snatch it.”

I tried to lighten the mood. “Well… at least it’s been a year none of us will ever forget.”

But before Ron could reply, Hermione let out a shriek that sliced the corridor like a blade. “Harry!”

I spun toward the hospital wing doorway and smiled.

Harry was sitting upright in his hospital bed, hair even messier than usual, grinning as he popped chocolates into his mouth like nothing had ever happened.

A rush of pure relief surged through me so fast my vision blurred

“You look well-rested”

Harry’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he held out the box of chocolates. “I feel great. Loads of energy. How are you lot doing? Ron?”

“I’m absolutely fine, mate!” Ron said, his voice booming with delight.

“We’re okay,” Hermione said, wiping at tears that had sprung to her eyes despite her best efforts to hide them.

Harry’s eyes met mine, lingering just a moment longer than the others, searching my face. I nodded, trying to reassure him.

Harry’s smile faltered. “What happened down there… after I passed out?”

A chill swept over me, and I shivered as I remembered the swirl of black smoke, the hiss of Voldemort’s voice. “Voldemort—the Great Dark Lord—turned into smoke and vanished,” I said, sarcasm thinly veiling the raw fear that still lived in my memory. “After that, I dragged both of us up here to the hospital wing.”

Harry let out a dry chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then the question that had haunted me since that night slipped out before I could stop it.

“How did the Stone end up in your pocket?”

Hermione leaned forward, eyes shining with curiosity. “Yes—how?”

Harry shifted slightly on the bed. “That was the first thing I asked Dumbledore”

“Dumbledore?” Hermione echoed, frowning.

Harry nodded. “When I woke up, he came to see me. He said only someone who wanted to find the Stone to protect it—not to use it—could retrieve it. One of his… well… eccentric ideas. Since I only wanted to keep it safe, the Stone appeared in my pocket.”

My chest tightened as he spoke. For a moment, I thought of my grandfather, of all the reasons someone might desperately wish for immortality, and all the ways that wish could go wrong. I nodded silently. It seemed Grandfather agreed that some temptations were never worth the price.

Harry’s voice dropped further. “Dumbledore said they destroyed the Stone.”

“So that means Voldemort won’t be coming back?” Ron asked quickly, hope blazing in his eyes like a flare.

Harry’s face turned grim, shadows gathering in his expression. “No, Ron. I wish it were that simple. Dumbledore said… there are other ways he could return. He’s not… gone. Not really.”

A heavy silence fell over us then, pressing down like a suffocating weight.

Somewhere in the hospital wing, a curtain rustled softly, but otherwise the room seemed to hold its breath. The four of us sat there, tangled in the invisible threads of all the things left unsaid.

Eventually, Ron cleared his throat, determined to lighten the mood. “Well… if Slytherin wins the Cup, I’m hexing the hourglasses. I’ll make sure they’re stuck on Gryffindor red forever.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but gave a small, grateful laugh.

We were just starting to drift into talk of House points and Quidditch when Madam Pomfrey bustled over, her white robes snapping like sails in the wind.

“That’s quite enough gossip for one night,” she declared, eyes sharp as flint. “Mr. Potter still needs rest—and the three of you need dinner. Out. All of you.”

I caught Harry’s eyes one last time, before the three of us made our way to the Great Hall, leaving the hospital wing behind.

“Why are you up so early?” Hermione mumbled from beneath her blankets, her voice rough with sleep.

I paused in the middle of rummaging through my trunk. The dormitory was still shrouded in pre-dawn gloom, the only light spilling in from the high windows, casting silver patterns across the floor.

“It’s five in the morning, Esy…” Hermione groaned.

Today was important—for two reasons. Harry was finally being released from the hospital wing. And it was the day of the end-of-term feast, our second-to-last day at Hogwarts. A day for closure… and new beginnings.

“I just feel like having a good bath today,” I said quietly, pulling out my favorite scented soaps and potions. “Go back to sleep, Mione. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Hermione sighed and rolled over, disappearing back into her cocoon of blankets, while I padded into the washroom, shivering as cold tiles kissed my bare feet. Steam soon filled the chamber, swirling around me like silken veils as I sank into the warm water. I let my head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, willing the lingering shadows of the past weeks to dissolve in the scented bathwater. Voldemort’s voice still sometimes echoed in my dreams. But today… I refused to let fear rule me.

By the time I stepped out, the castle clocks were chiming seven-fifteen. Sunlight spilled through the dormitory windows in bold, golden slashes. Lavender and Parvati were already awake, perched on their beds, animatedly discussing outfit choices for the feast.

I offered them a smile, but my gaze slid to Hermione, still fast asleep, her hair a frizzy halo around her face. A pang of affection and protectiveness twisted in my chest. She deserved every extra moment of sleep after the year we’d just endured. I decided I’d let her rest until nine.

The ritual of getting ready became my shield—a moment to feel like myself again. I dabbed on my creams and potions, the scents of jasmine and citrus calming my racing mind. I brushed on a dewy lip-gloss and a soft sweep of black mascara that made my eyes stand out like dark jewels. For my hair, I tied it back into a half ponytail with a ribbon in Gryffindor red and gold.

Today, I wanted to look powerful. Like a princess who had faced monsters and survived.

Instead of dress robes, I chose an outfit that balanced elegance with rebellion—a white smocked square-neck top with puffed sleeves, a Gryffindor-colored midi skirt, and my school robes layered over it like a protective cloak. I slipped on platinum star-shaped pearl earrings, fastened my delicate bracelets, and felt the reassuring weight of my heirloom bracelet on my wrist.

I finished with high stockings and my polished school shoes. A quick spritz of my favorite perfume, and I was ready.

Hermione finally stirred and emerged from the washroom, blinking at me like a mole coming into sunlight.

“So… how do I look?” I asked, spinning slowly. “I’m going for a ‘princessy vibe’ today.”

Hermione stared for a heartbeat, then burst into a half-laugh. “Wow… You look like a doll, Esther. I’ll never understand why you wake up at a time only ghosts are supposed to be awake just to dress up.”

I smiled and tilted my chin defiantly. “One day, Mione, I’ll make you see the magic of it. Want me to style you today? I swear I’ll keep it modest.”

Hermione snorted. “Nope. Love you, Esy, but that’s a terrifying offer.”

I placed a hand dramatically over my heart. “One day, Mione. Mark my words. I will glam you up.”

“We’ll see,” she said with a shake of her head. “Now, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll be ready.”

While Hermione got dressed, I waved my wand, and my scattered clothes, jewelry, and bottles zoomed neatly back into my trunk. At exactly fifteen minutes, Hermione emerged looking polished in her robes and hat. For the first time all year, we both donned our Hogwarts hats, sharing a small, silent grin of solidarity.

Outside the castle, the morning sun poured molten gold over the grounds. It felt as though Hogwarts itself was breathing a sigh of relief after a year haunted by secrets and shadows.

As we made our way down the corridors, we nearly collided with Ron and Harry, both of them already in their formal robes.

“You’re fashionably overdressed again,” Ron teased, giving me a once-over.

“And you both cleaned up shockingly well,” I shot back, smirking as I nudged Ron’s shoulder.

Hermione’s face softened as she turned to Harry. “Are you really okay?”

Harry nodded, a quiet determination shining in his eyes. “Better than ever.”

As we stepped into the Great Hall, a collective gasp seemed to ripple through the crowd. The hall was a vision of shimmering colorful banners, floating candles blazing brighter than ever. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, making the entire room sparkle as though dusted in diamonds.

Eyes turned toward us—more than a few lingering on me and my Gryffindor-colored skirt. A ripple of self-consciousness passed through me, but I lifted my chin, refusing to let it shrink me.

We joined our friends at the Gryffindor table, where Neville was already seated, giving us a sheepish grin. Each of us had apologized to him individually after that night. Though the guilt still weighed heavy on me, Neville had insisted: “It’s fine,” with gentle earnestness. “And hey, at least we didn’t lose any house points.”

As we settled in, Dumbledore rose from the staff table, his presence commanding instant silence. His blue eyes twinkled, but there was a gravity to his stance as he surveyed the entire hall.

“Another year gone,” he began, his voice resonant. “A year of trials, courage, and unexpected alliances. Now… to the matter of the House Cup.”

A hush fell. The words “Gryffindor is last” struck like a dagger. Around me, shoulders slumped, and an audible groan rippled through our table. Across the room, Slytherin erupted in premature celebration, green and silver banners seeming to glow more vibrantly than ever.

I clenched my jaw…..  I hated losing. Finishing last burned like acid.

“Congratulations, Slytherin. Well done,” Dumbledore said, his tone even. “However, I have some last-minute points to award in light of recent events.”

The Great Hall fell into breathless silence. Even the floating candles seemed to hover motionless in the air.

Dumbledore announced, Fifty points each to Hermione and Ron and sixty points each to Harry and me for our courage, bravery, and—as some might call it—recklessness to do the right thing.

A thunderous roar exploded from the Gryffindor table.

“We’re tied with Slytherin!” Seamus shouted, his voice wild with hope.

I whipped my head toward the Slytherin table. Draco’s face was twisted in disbelief and fury, echoed by his housemates. A pang of sympathy flickered through me, but it was quickly swallowed by an overwhelming surge of Gryffindor pride.

Dumbledore raised his hands for silence, his eyes glittering.

“And finally… for outstanding courage and the rare gift of standing up to his friends when it was needed most—Neville Longbottom… ten points.”

The hall exploded.

“We WON!” Harry and I screamed at the same time, our voices lost in a tidal wave of cheers and laughter. Red and gold banners burst from nowhere, showering us in confetti. The Great Hall shimmered like a living ruby.

At the staff table, McGonagall was on her feet, clapping so hard her hat nearly toppled off. Hagrid’s great booming laughter rolled across the room like distant thunder. Even Professor Flitwick was practically vibrating with joy. Snape sat frozen, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, betraying not a single flicker of emotion.

I was grinning so wide it hurt. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight on my chest lifted, replaced by warmth and triumph. In that brilliant, blazing moment, everything felt right again.

The Hogwarts Express would be leaving in a few hours. And with every tick of the clock, my chest felt tighter, caught between the ache of leaving and the relief of going home. I couldn’t wait to see my grandfather—to feel his arms around me, to sit by the fire in Black Villa and hear him call me his little girl, but I was going to miss Hogwarts, my friends, and even the classes. I never thought Hogwarts could feel like home. But somehow, without me noticing, it had slipped beneath my skin and rooted itself in my heart.

That morning, the Great Hall was buzzing with noise as everyone gathered for breakfast, trunks already packed and cloaks draped over chairs. The chatter was bright, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of farewell.

I hugged Tonks fiercely before she left the table, my voice trembling as I whispered, “Promise you’ll write to me from Auror training. I’ll miss you so much.”

She squeezed me back with her customary grin. “Of course, little cousin. Don’t let Hogwarts fall apart without me.”

Tonks was leaving Hogwarts forever, off to face the world and its shadows. The thought left a hollow ache in my chest. Astra and I had prepared small gifts for her—mine was a sleek charmed bag that could hold almost anything, and Astra had given her a delicate jewelry set that sparkled like captured starlight. Even Draco, stubbornly scowling, had managed to wish her well.

After breakfast, I returned to Gryffindor Tower for one last look around. I stood there in the middle of the common room, drinking in every detail: the worn armchairs, the dancing firelight, the banner overhead bearing the proud lion. I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. I’d packed my trunk the night before with Hermione, who’d helped me fold every robe, and wrap Starlet safely in her cage.

When I finally headed out to the courtyard, my heart beating in a rhythm of sorrow and excitement, my three best friends were waiting.

“Took you long enough,” Harry called, a teasing spark in his tired eyes.

I gave him a half-hearted glare. “My cousins are… interesting people, Harry.”

“Yeah, Malfoy’s very interesting,” he shot back, rolling his eyes dramatically.

I let out a long sigh but decided not to argue. My friends’ dislike of Draco was no secret—and to be fair, Draco never made it easy to defend him. Instead, I said firmly, “Well, I’ll vouch for Tonks. She’s the best cousin anyone could ask for.”

They all nodded, and we fell into step together, heading for the carriages that would carry us down to Hogsmeade Station.

Once aboard the train, we found an empty compartment and settled in. Outside the window, the Scottish Highlands blurred into waves of green and gray, the sky low and heavy with rain.

At one point, Hagrid lumbered past our compartment door, poking his head in and giving Harry a battered leather album. Harry stared at it for a long moment, his fingers trembling slightly as he turned the pages filled with pictures of his parents.

“This is the first time I’m really seeing them,” he murmured, his voice raw and soft.

My heart clenched. I reached across the compartment and took his hand. “I’m so happy for you, Harry. They would be so proud of you. They’d love the person you’ve become.”

Hermione blinked back tears and said gently, “Your mum’s beautiful, Harry.”

For a while, we tried to lighten the mood by reminiscing about the absurd moments from the year—Ron’s disastrous potions experiments, Peeves dumping ink on Malfoy’s head, the time Harry and I ended up in Filch’s office after a secret duel practice went wrong.

But eventually, the laughter faded into silence. The rhythm of the train wheels seemed to pound out a steady reminder: we were leaving.

I looked at each of my friends and couldn’t hold my emotions back anymore.

“I’m going to miss you all so much,” I said, my voice breaking. “Thank you—for making Hogwarts feel like home. When I was sorted into Gryffindor, I could feel people staring at me like…..like I was 'a snake'… because I’m a Black. I’m pretty sure I’d have been an outcast if it weren’t for you, Hermione. Thank you for being my first friend. And Harry, Ron—thank you for accepting me for who I am.”

Hermione lunged forward and wrapped me in a fierce hug. Her voice was muffled against my shoulder. “And you never judged me for being a Muggle-born… or a bossy know-it-all. You accepted me too.”

“Yeah,” Ron said gruffly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re a Black. So what? I’m pretty sure if you dig deep enough, the Weasleys have a Black or two in the family tree.”

I laughed through the tears spilling down my cheeks. “I love you guys,” I whispered.

Harry sat in silence for a moment, then looked at me intently. “Have you ever seen a picture of your parents?”

A chill shivered through me. The question I’d avoided for so long.

I shook my head slowly. “No. I haven’t. But… there’s something else I need to tell you.”

They all leaned closer.

I took a deep breath…... It was time to trust them completely.

“I’m a time traveler.”

Hermione gasped. Ron’s jaw fell open. Harry just blinked.

I swallowed. “My grandfather promised to tell me everything about my parents when I turned thirteen. But I got curious and started searching on my own. My mother… was Elladora Black. She was a time-traveler too. She brought me into this timeline. She was running from someone—someone who wanted me, though I don’t know who.”

“So you’re not Sirius’s daughter?” Ron asked, blinking rapidly.

“No. People assume that because the timelines fit, but… Elladora Black was Alphard Black’s sister. Which makes my grandfather actually my great-uncle.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “And your father?”

“I don’t know much,” I whispered. “I thought he might be a Muggle, but… the Sorting Hat told me he studied at Hogwarts…. So…..”

“So he’s a wizard,” Harry murmured.

I nodded. “I’m sorry I never told you. My grandfather taught me to guard my secrets—to protect me from the people who were after my mother. He said I shouldn’t trust anyone, not even those closest to me.”

Harry leaned closer and squeezed my hand. “Then why tell us?”

I looked at each of them, my eyes stinging. “Because you’re my family. If there’s anyone I’d share my secrets with… it’s you three.”

A hush fell over the compartment, filled only by the steady rumble of the train and the distant cry of the whistle.

Ron cleared his throat, his voice a little thick. “Well… now that you’ve spilled the beans, you’re stuck with us.”

Hermione was still wiping her eyes. “Exactly. You’re our family too.”

Harry smiled, though there was sadness lingering in his eyes. “No more secrets, yeah?”

I smiled through my tears. “No more secrets.”

A Lie

Outside, the sky was streaked with gray and gold as the train began to slow, the whistle keening like a farewell cry.

“We’re here,” Hermione whispered. “Promise me you’ll write. All of you. I’ll miss you more than I can say.”

We linked arms and stepped off the train together, the four of us walking into the swirl of steam and sunlight, toward families and futures waiting for us on the other side of the platform.

And though the tracks carried me away from Hogwarts, I knew my heart would always find its way back.

Chapter Text

It was late when I finally arrived at Black Villa, the night cloaking the grand estate in silvery shadows. The trees rustled softly in the breeze, like whispering sentinels keeping ancient secrets.

Aunt Meda gave my hand a gentle squeeze as she pulled me into a hug.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” I asked, my voice tentative, clinging to the comfort of her presence.

“As much as I’d love to, my dear,” she said, a wistful smile touching her lips, “I think Alphard would want to spend some time alone with you after all these months. Besides, your uncle’s waiting for me back home. Don’t worry—I’ll come visit him soon.”

I nodded, giving her and Tonks a heartfelt goodbye before making my way to the entrance door.

It was Grandfather who opened the door himself.

The instant I saw him standing there, framed by the soft glow of the hallway, I dropped my trunk and threw my arms around him as if my very life depended on it.

“I missed you,” I whispered, the words breaking free like a sob.

He wrapped his arms around me, warm and steady, and his gentle pat on my back was all it took for the dam inside me to burst.

Tears poured down my cheeks, hot and relentless.

“I was so afraid……. Afraid that I wouldn’t get this moment with you,” I gasped between sobs. My voice trembled as I clung to his robes. “I knew you’d keep your promise—you always do—but I was scared, Grandpa. I was so scared. And I… I’m sorry… sorry for not telling you about the stone. I was going to ask you at Christmas, I swear, but… but everything went wrong, and I forgot and I—”

He held me tighter, his voice low and soothing. “Shh… it’s fine, Esther. There’s nothing you need to apologize for. Take a breath, my girl. You’ll tell me everything in your own time.”

I tried to breathe, hiccupping as I wiped my tears with trembling fingers. “I didn’t want to cry this time… I wanted to be strong for you. But I promise, Grandfather, I’ll be strong now. I’ll be strong for both of us.”

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his own shining with emotion. “Tears aren’t weakness, Esther. They’re proof you still have a heart brave enough to feel. Cry when you need to—and never hide it from me. I will always be your safe place.”

I let out a shaky laugh, my tears still flowing as I hugged him again, fiercely. “I love you”

“I love you too, my precious girl,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head. “Now, go wash your face. Jingle will set dinner.”

I nodded, reluctant to let go, but obeyed.

Later that night, we shared dinner beneath the soft glow of the chandelier. Laughter echoed off the marble walls, as though the villa itself rejoiced in our reunion. For the first time in weeks, the heavy ache in my chest eased, replaced by the comforting warmth of home. I slept deeply, wrapped in the silence of my room, and woke later than usual.

Morning sunlight streamed across the ceiling like liquid gold. Starlet lay curled beside me, feathers puffed, snoring softly. I stroked his soft plumage, whispering, “We’re safe, Starlet. We’re home.”

Downstairs, Grandfather was waiting, his robes impeccable, his silver hair catching the light.

“You look well-rested,” he said, eyes twinkling.

I smiled, searching his face for signs of weariness. “You look better than before—healthier even.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve started a new potion,” he admitted. But seeing the hopeful look on my face, he took my hands in his. “It will give me a bit more time, Esther… but my death in the next few months is inevitable.”

I nodded, trying to mask my disappointment. The words slammed into me like a physical blow. I swallowed hard, willing the sting in my eyes away.

After a moment, I whispered, “Can I ask you something? The stone… why didn’t you use it?”

A shadow crossed his face. “The Philosopher’s Stone could have extended my life, yes. But it would have left me weak… bedridden.

More importantly, as long as the stone existed, it would always be a beacon for Voldemort to find his way back. He will return, Esther. I wish I could be there to stand beside you when that day comes. But the Elixir of Life was never meant for me.”

His words hollowed out my chest. The silence that fell between us was thick and suffocating.

“It’s okay,” I finally said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “I’ll be okay. I’ve made amazing friends at Hogwarts, and I know they’ll stand with me no matter what comes.”

Grandfather studied me for a long moment, then gave a faint nod. “Yes… I’ve heard about your friends. From Dumbledore, no less.”

“Dumbledore?” I repeated, surprise and unease mixing in my chest.

“He came to visit me. We… talked about you. About your life at Hogwarts.”

I hesitated. The thought of Dumbledore speaking about me, peering into my secrets, left me cold. Grandfather noticed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“You don’t like him.”

“It’s not that,” I said, pressing my lips together. “I just… don’t trust him. There’s something about him that feels like… like he’s always ten steps ahead, and I’m a piece on his chessboard.”

Grandfather’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Dumbledore is a manipulator, Esther. He’s a man who sees the world in stark shades of black and white, forever dividing people into Light and Dark. I’ve never liked him much either. He’s the last person I’d trust to keep you safe. But… when the Dark Lord returns, he may be the only one capable of standing against him. So… try to keep the peace.”

A chill slid down my spine at the certainty in his words. “Wait… why would I personally need protection from Voldemort?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he replied, his voice lower now, weighty with warning. “Voldemort is a madman, capable of harming anyone. And you’ve already crossed his path once. Esther, I promised your mother I’d keep you safe. But I won’t be here much longer to fulfil that vow. Dumbledore will judge you for your name and your blood—but he’ll also protect you, at least unless you choose the dark path.”

I blinked away the burn of tears. “I’ll try to find some middle ground with him… but that’s all I can promise. When Voldemort returns, it won’t just be me who needs protecting. My friends, my classmates, even the Slytherins… we’ll all need protection.”

Grandfather gave a solemn nod. “Yes. The entire magical world will need protecting. But forgive me, my dear, if I sound selfish. The only person who matters to me… is you. And I would sacrifice anything—anyone—to keep you safe.”

His words were so raw, so unflinching, that for a moment, my breath caught and the silence prevailed for a long time......

We spent the rest of the day in gentle conversation, our laughter echoing through the ancient halls. Grandfather listened to every tale I shared about Hogwarts, his eyes sparkling, as if he were trying to capture every moment to keep with him.

For the first time in a long while, I felt safe. I felt home.

Malfoy Manor 

A storm battered the Malfoy Manor, rain slashing against the diamond-paned windows like claws. The drawing room flickered with the restless glow of the fire, shadows writhing along the gilt-trimmed walls. Lucius Malfoy stood near the hearth, staring into the flames as if seeking prophecy there.

It had been a week since Draco returned from Hogwarts. The boy had spent every day airing his grievances about the so-called shortcomings of the school. He ranted about the poor quality of education, the ineptitude of the faculty, and, most fervently, about the recklessness and cheating of the Gryffindors. According to Draco, they were insufferable, and Dumbledore was blatantly biased in their favour. He also had shared the events of the year, including how the Dark Lord had attempted but failed to make a comeback...

Lucius knew Voldemort would rise again—it was inevitable. Yet, the thought filled him with dread. He didn’t crave chaos or loyalty to the Dark Lord; his ambitions were simpler—money and power, which at the moment, seemed tied to a certain young Black girl.

Behind him, Narcissa watched in silence, fingers knotted together at her waist. When she spoke, her voice was cold silk.

“What are you thinking, Lucius?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he leaned forward and spelled a log deeper into the fire, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. At last, he murmured,

“The girl… Esther Black.”

Narcissa’s eyes hardened. “Must we speak of her again? I’ve had my fill of that name.”

Lucius turned to face her, his pale eyes glinting like knives in the firelight.

“She will inherit the Black fortune—and ten seats on the Wizengamot,” he said quietly. “Ten votes that could shift the balance of power in ways even the Dark Lord never envisioned. Do you understand what that means, Narcissa? She could decide who governs the wizarding world… or who burns.”

Narcissa crossed the room, her steps echoing on the marble floor. “How could I not—If not for that girl, Draco would be the rightful heir. I would have challenged her legitimacy publicly if Alphard hadn’t shown me the blood purity test. She is a Black. Unfortunately.”

Lucius’s gaze grew sharper, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “And that’s precisely why she must belong to us.”

Narcissa recoiled slightly. “You speak as if she were an object to be bought and sold.”

“In this world,” Lucius sneered, “people are objects. They are assets to be acquired—or obstacles to be destroyed. Esther Black is both.”

Lightning flared outside, illuminating the cold determination in his eyes.

“She’s close to Astra, and closer still to Draco,” Lucius went on. “Perhaps it’s time to exploit that. With the right pressure, the right offers… she might willingly fall under our influence. And if she resists—”

He let the threat hang in the silence, as palpable as the rumble of thunder.

Narcissa clenched her jaw. “She’s reckless. She defies the bloodlines, befriends Muggle-borns, and stands with the Gryffindors. She’s like Sirius—a dangerous anomaly.”

“All the better,” Lucius whispered. “An idealist is so very easy to manipulate. You need only offer them a cause. Or threaten what they love.”

Narcissa shivered despite herself. “And what cause would you give her?”

Lucius’s smile was slow and venomous. “We whisper to her of protecting the wizarding world, of safeguarding the ancient families from Muggle encroachment. We speak to her pride as a Black. Or… we remind her of what she stands to lose. Alphard’s life hangs by a thread, after all. And we both know the Dark Lord will rise again. When he does… she’ll be desperate for powerful allies.”

Narcissa stared at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Would you truly use Draco in such schemes?”

Lucius’s expression turned stony. “Draco will do what he must—for the family. For the Malfoy name.” He paused, then added coldly, “And if the girl is… pliable enough, perhaps there’s a future marriage in it. A Malfoy heir seated atop the Black fortune and the Wizengamot.”

Narcissa flinched, rage flickering in her eyes. “I will not have that girl as my daughter-in-law.”

Lucius regarded her coolly. “We all make sacrifices for power. You know this as well as I.”

She drew a trembling breath, fighting the bile in her throat. “She’s dangerous, Lucius. She’s not a child we can bend to our will.”

“Then we will break her,” Lucius said softly, each word like a blade.

Narcissa staggered back, her face pale. For a long, silent moment, thunder crashed above them, and the flames cast monstrous shapes on the walls.

At last, Lucius stepped closer, his voice lowering to a purr. “You worry too much, my love. Let me handle this. Esther Black may think herself untouchable, but every person has a weakness. I intend to find hers. And when the Dark Lord returns, the Malfoys will stand unassailable—wealthy, powerful, and untouchable. And she will be either at our side… or beneath our heel.”

Narcissa stared into his eyes, finding no trace of the man she’d married—only the ruthless politician. She swallowed her fear, smoothing her features into composure.

“Very well,” she murmured, though her voice trembled. “But tread carefully, Lucius. She is a Black. And Blacks have a habit of withstanding.”

Lucius gave a cold, thin smile. “So do Malfoys, my dear. So do Malfoys.”

Together, they turned away from the fire.......  Outside, the storm raged on, as if echoing the darkness brewing within the ancient walls of Malfoy Manor.

Two Months Later

(Esther’s POV)

It was August 20th—my birthday. A day I once thought would be all laughter and cake, bright with hope. Instead, I chose quietness, clutching every fleeting moment with my grandfather like a drowning person gasping for air.

These past two months had felt like a war with time itself. I tried to steal every second, to hoard memories the way misers hoard gold… but time slipped through my fingers faster than water.

Grandfather had grown so frail that it broke my heart to look at him. His once imposing presence, always upright and sharp-eyed, had withered. Now, he seemed a ghost wrapped in his dressing gown, each breath an effort. His once-strong arms had turned to trembling sticks of bone. Lady Brighern, our healer, had confined him to strict bed rest, though it seemed his bed was fast becoming his prison.

And it was killing me.

Some nights, when he groaned in pain so terrible it made the windows rattle, I would bury my face in my pillow and plead with Mother Magic to end his suffering—even if it meant taking him away. My pillow was wet every dawn, but when I went to his room, I forced my brightest smile. Because he hated to see me cry. I owed him that much.

Most of my days were spent at his bedside. I’d read him the Daily Prophet, play endless games of wizard chess, or sit silently holding his hand. Sometimes, he’d talk about his siblings, and in those moments, the glow returned to his eyes, if only for a few seconds.

One evening, as the firelight licked the walls with shadows, he spoke softly, his voice trembling but warm:

“Your mother was a beautiful woman, Esther. Not just in appearance—but in spirit. Disciplined… but ruled by her heart. She could read a room in a single glance. She’d know when someone needed a gentle word… or a fierce defense. She would’ve been the kind of mother who’d know every answer to every fear you’ve ever had.”

He paused, blinking back tears that shone in his sunken eyes.

“I only wish… she’d been here to love you as you deserve.”

I pressed my lips together, swallowing the sudden ache in my throat.

Jingle, our ever-diligent house-elf, hovered at his side day and night, administering potions and gently coaxing him to eat. Every four hours, she checked his pulse, her eyes shimmering with silent dread.

This morning, I was in the kitchen with Wingle, sleeves rolled up, cooking lunch. Baked pasta and a white forest cake. Cooking was my refuge—a small patch of control in a world crashing down around me. When I was a child, I’d driven the house-elves nearly mad insisting I wanted to cook. It had scandalized them—a noble Black child sullying her hands with flour and butter! But I’d won them over, slowly. I still remembered the pride I’d felt the first time I made lasagna at age ten, when everyone had clapped for me. But nothing compared to the smile on my grandfather’s face that day. That memory glowed inside me like a patronus.

We were just finishing up lunch prep when Lucy, our owl, swooped onto the windowsill, shaking off a spray of rain. Letters spilled from her claws. Mione, Ron, and I had been exchanging letters almost weekly, keeping each other updated on our lives. Only Harry had been oddly silent, though I’d bet twenty galleons it had something to do with his dreadful relatives.

Hogwarts was truly his sanctuary.

“Letters from Master Draco, Master Ron, Miss Astra, and Miss Hermione,” Wingle announced, carefully placing them on the table. “And some small gifts for your birthday, Mistress Esther.”

I traced my finger across the parchment, my throat tightening. “Later, Wingle,” I murmured. “I’ll read them tonight.”

I slipped away to shower, not before instructing Wingle to set the table in Grandfather’s room.

“The pasta is delicious, Esther,” Grandfather said, trying to sound cheerful. But his voice was thin as parchment. “I’ll miss your cooking when I’m gone.”

The words struck me like a slap, but I forced a watery smile. 

We ate quietly, talking about small things—flowers blooming in the garden, a joke from the Prophet’s back page. For a few precious minutes, it felt almost normal.

But after lunch, as he leaned back against his pillows, his face seemed to grow more serious, almost grim.

“Esther…” he said softly. “I wanted to be the one to tell you everything. But I also want you to hold on to a few more years of peace at Hogwarts. You deserve to be a child a little longer, my girl… to feel safe. To breathe. Even if it’s only for a while.”

I shook my head, voice trembling. “Isn’t it better to be prepared? I’d rather know the truth than stumble blind into the future.”

He gazed at me, love shining through the deep hollows under his eyes. “Yes… preparation is wise. But innocence… that is something you can never get back once it’s gone. When I’m gone, you’ll carry enough burdens for ten lifetimes. I’d spare you that for as long as I can.”

His frail hands fumbled at the side table. He pulled out a sealed letter and a tiny glass vial.

“This… is my birthday gift to you.” His voice cracked. “The letter contains the truths I kept hidden—about your parents… and about you. And the vial… it’s a gift from your mother, Elladora. I’ve protected it all these years.”

He pressed them into my hands, his fingers icy and trembling. “You may open them—but promise me you’ll wait until your next birthday.”

A bolt of anger flashed through me. “Grandpa, you can’t ask me that! I’ve waited my whole life to know about my parents—about my father. I don’t even know his name… whether he’s alive or dead… I can’t just hold this in my hands and not look at it for an entire year!”

His hand tightened around mine with surprising strength.

“I know, my child. But please… just one year. Consider it my final wish.”

I felt hot tears spill down my cheeks. “Fine…” I choked out. “But… tell me his name. Please. At least his name.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were glistening.

“Tom,” he whispered. “Tom Riddle.”

For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. Tom. Such a simple, common name… like a Muggle’s.

Before I could question further, he squeezed my hand painfully tight.

“Promise me you won’t search for him for one year.”

I stared at him, heart pounding. After a long moment, I nodded.

He slumped back, eyes closing in relief.

“I’ve told Andromeda everything. If you feel lost, go to her. She’ll be there for you. Keep the letter and the vial safe. And remember… I love you. You might hate me for this, but I’m doing what I believe is right.”

From the corner, Jingle’s soft voice broke the silence. “We will always be here for you, Mistress Esther.”

I wiped my eyes, managing a trembling smile. “Thank you, Jingle.” I turned back to my grandfather. “Rest, Grandpa. Enough heavy talk. You need your strength—”

But my words were cut off as he began coughing violently.

“Jingle, fetch Lady Brighern!” I screamed. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Grandfather gasped for breath, his chest rattling, pale lips flecked with crimson. I tried to hold a glass of potion to his mouth, but he turned his head weakly away.

“It’s… alright… my dear…” he wheezed. “My time… has come. I’m… grateful… Mother Magic gave me… these months with you…”

“Don’t say that!” I sobbed, gripping his shoulders. “Just hold on. Lady Brighern will be here. You’re not leaving me—”

He pulled me closer, his voice a rasp barely above a whisper.

“Esther… listen to me… You are… the driver… of your life. It’s your choices… that shape your destiny. Not your blood… not your parents… only you… And whatever path you choose… know that I… am proud of you…”

His eyes locked onto mine, filled with love—and sorrow—and pride. He looked at me as though memorizing every inch of my face.

And then…

Silence.

My grandfather was gone.

Chapter Text

It was all a mess..... 

A swirling, suffocating, disorienting mess. I felt...... shattered—splintered into a thousand pieces, as numbness wrapped around me like a vice, pressing the air from my lungs, and yet… the tears would not come. My eyes burned, dry and aching, as though grief itself had turned to stone inside me.

Lady Brighern finished her quiet examination, her trembling fingers slipping from Grandfather’s wrist. She turned to me, her eyes wet and glassy, and gave the slightest shake of her head. The finality of it hit me like a blow to the chest, hollow and echoing.

A sharp sob caught in my throat, but refused to escape.

Wordlessly, I sent for Aunt Meda. 

She arrived sooner than I could have hoped, as though summoned by some silent string of magic that bound us all. The moment she stepped into the room and saw Grandfather’s still body, her face crumpled. For a few seconds, she merely stared at him, lips parted, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She moved forward and laid her hand gently over his, whispering something too soft for me to hear.

Finally, she turned to me and pulled me fiercely into her arms.

“He’s… at peace now, Esther,”  she murmured, her voice raw, trembling. “His suffering is over.”

I didn’t speak. I just leaned into her, anchoring myself to the warmth of her presence, letting the silence speak what words couldn’t. Her scent—a faint trace of jasmine and old parchment—wrapped around me like a fragile shield.

We stood there for what felt like an eternity, saying nothing, because there were no words large enough to fill the cavern that had opened in my chest.

At last, she pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“Go freshen up,” she said gently. “We’ll leave for the Black ancestral home tonight. Alphard… he’d want you composed. Dignified.

Her words felt absurd in the wake of such loss, but she was right. In this world, grief was never an excuse to forget appearances. There were traditions to uphold, masks to wear, even while dying inside.

Eyes would be watching. Judging.

Reluctantly, I nodded.

Still, I lingered by his side, desperate to find some piece of him lingering in the quiet of the room—a warmth in his hand, a spark of breath. But his skin was cool beneath my trembling fingers, and there was no comfort to be found in the silence that wrapped around his bed like a shroud.

With a heart that felt carved from ice, I tore myself away and prepared for the journey.

By midnight, we arrived at the Black ancestral home, a towering fortress of black stone glimmering under the cold light of the stars. Shadows pooled in every corner, like ancient memories refusing to sleep.

In the center of the moonlit garden, they had prepared a coffin for him. It rested atop a beautifully carved wooden stand, wreaths of dark lilies and silver ribbons surrounding it. Candle flames flickered in the breeze, casting trembling golden light across the polished mahogany surface. Grandfather would lie there through the night, watched over by the stars and the hush of the Black gardens.

Rooms were arranged for us. Aunt Meda reached for my hand, eyes pleading.

“Stay with me tonight, Esther. Please. You shouldn’t be alone.”

But I pulled my hand free. My voice came out hollow. “I… can’t. I need to be alone, Aunt Meda.”

She tried to argue, but I turned and slipped away into the darkness before she could say more.

Sleep was impossible. It felt obscene even to close my eyes, as though doing so would sever the last fragile thread that tethered me to him.

Instead, I wandered the Black Gardens. The wind hissed softly through the ancient hedges, carrying whispers of secrets older than any living Black. The stars glared down like cold diamonds, each one sharp enough to cut. Again and again, my gaze was drawn back to the coffin, its polished surface catching every glint of starlight. The sight carved fresh wounds into my chest each time I looked. Everything felt numb. As though the entire world had slipped underwater, leaving me suspended in silence, unable to breathe. The stars shone with cruel indifference.

The world hadn’t stopped.

But mine had.

As the first rays of sunlight broke across the sky, spilling a wash of molten gold over the garden, I finally rose from the cold stone bench where I’d sat the whole night. The dawn was breathtaking—mockingly beautiful, as though the world dared to glow while my own had collapsed into darkness. I dragged my feet inside, each step feeling heavy, as though the floorboards were pulling at me, trying to keep me tethered to the shadows. Today would be a day of masks, of forced composure. No matter how raw my insides felt, I had to hold my head high.

I was Alphard Black’s Granddaughter.

The world would not see me shattered. No one would question my grandfather’s legacy through me.

I dressed in silence, slipping into a simple A-line black dress that fell to my calves like mourning silk. The stockings clung to my trembling legs, and I left my hair cascading loose down my back. Around my neck and wrists, I clasped pieces of jewellery Grandfather had given me—tokens of love that felt almost like shackles today, binding me to memories too painful to bear.

My eyes found the mirror. The girl reflected there was pale and hollow-eyed, a ghost wrapped in black. I forced my chin up. Spritzed a mist of vanilla perfume. Pretended that I could still breathe.

Downstairs, the house was alive with movement and muted conversation. People drifted from room to room, whispering condolences that curled like smoke in the heavy air. The scent of fresh flowers was overpowering, battling the cool draft that slipped through the ancestral halls.

Among the crowd, I spotted familiar faces: the Malfoys, with their icy elegance; the Crowpers, cloaked in stiff formality; and the Greengrasses, speaking in hushed tones as though afraid the walls might overhear.

Aunt Meda moved through the sea of guests like a dark star, her expression controlled, eyes flickering constantly as she offered polite smiles that never reached her soul.

Across the room, laughter—a brittle sound—drifted from the kitchen. I turned and found Tonks standing there beside Astra, the two of them out of place in this house of mourning.

“Hey, Esy. Need anything?” Tonks called out, her voice soft yet laced with the usual irreverence that clung to her like a second skin.

I shook my head, trying to force my voice steady. “When did you both arrive?”

“This morning. Dad and I came early,” Tonks said, tilting her head as she studied my face.

“I just got here a little while ago,” Astra chimed in, her eyes gentle. “Draco’s here too. I’m so, so sorry for your loss, Esther.”

The ceremony unfolded in the garden beneath a bruised, dawn-lit sky. A hush hung over the ancient grounds, heavy as velvet. Every flower, every stone seemed to hold its breath. The house-elves had arranged everything with obsessive precision—wreaths of black lilies and deep crimson roses framed the path, glistening with dew like unshed tears. The air thrummed faintly with old spells of protection and reverence, weaving unseen sigils around us.

We stood vigil for an hour, motionless shadows gathered around Grandfather’s body as it lay beneath the paling stars. A profound stillness settled over us—a silence so deep it felt as though time itself refused to move forward, unwilling to step beyond this moment of loss.

Aunt Meda spoke first, her voice rose into the silence. It didn’t waver, but grief clung to each word like frost. Her memories painted my grandfather as fierce, steadfast—a man of stubborn pride but a heart as fierce as a lion’s. Others followed. Faces both familiar and distant spoke of him in reverent tones: a patriarch, a protector, a man who wielded respect like a wand yet held gentleness in the crook of his arm. Each word carved fresh wounds into me, reminding me how many pieces of him I’d never truly known.

Then it was my turn.

My feet felt as heavy as lead as I climbed the dais, my trembling fingers clutching the parchment Grandfather himself had once read aloud—half-mocking my earnestness, half-smiling with secret pride. I hadn’t changed a single word. It was mine—and his.

My breath hitched as I began. The words spilled out cracked and trembling, my voice raw as an open wound:

“He was my hero. The man who taught me that magic without intent is nothing but noise. He was my grandfather… and the only father I ever truly knew. The first person who ever made me feel wanted… unconditionally.”

My eyes blurred as tears finally slipped free, hot against my chilled cheeks. My voice faltered.

“I wish you are in peace now, Grandfather. Taking a long due rest”

When I lowered the parchment, the hush that fell over the garden was absolute. Even the breeze seemed to have died, afraid to disturb the moment. I stepped down from the dais, feeling as though something inside me had been wrenched out and left behind in the morning air.

Next, came the most emotionally difficult part: the burial.

Four robed figures, faces hidden beneath dark hoods, stepped forward. They lifted his coffin with measured, solemn care, and carried it along the winding path to the Black family’s sacred resting grounds. As they moved, a lone enchanter stood beside the grave, chanting ancient rites in a tongue older than any wizard alive. The words were like echoes rising from the earth, stirring the very air into shimmering waves of magic.

One by one, the mourners approached, murmuring their farewells into the heavy silence.

I knelt beside the casket, my knees sinking into the damp earth. My trembling fingers traced the polished wood as though I could imprint my touch into it forever.

“Thank you…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “For everything.”

I scooped up a handful of earth. The soil felt cold and alive in my palm. As I let it fall over the coffin’s lid, the hollow thud sounded like a closing door.

And with it, I buried a part of my soul.

Back inside, the ceremonial house buzzed with muted conversations. I glanced around the hall and noticed Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Snape were also present among the attendees…...  Gathering myself, I approached each of them to greet them individually. Professor McGonagall was compassionate, patting my head gently and offering kind words. While Snape, in his usual reserved manner, gave me a firm nod, and somehow…. that was enough.

Last, I reached Dumbledore.

Sensing my presence, he began the conversation. "He was a family man, unwavering in his beliefs. While our ideologies often differed, he never sought to persuade me. Instead, he tried to understand my perspective – find a common ground……

He was the first to show me that darkness is not inherently evil, that we all have shadows within us. It is the part we choose to embrace that defines us."

I nodded. “He always believed our intent defines our magic. Not our name. Not our blood.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he continued. "He loved you, Esther. He vouched for you..... I won't deny that I have my reservations about you—I’m sure you’re aware—but I had promised Alphard I would protect you. And I will, unless you choose the other side."

“I’m not fond of you either, Headmaster,” I said quietly. “But I trust my grandfather. I can’t predict the future, but I give you my word: if I ever choose the Dark side, you’ll be the first to know."

He smiled warmly. "I expect no less, my dear. Now run along. I’m sure there are other guests you need to attend to."

I nodded, offering a quick farewell before turning away.

As I made my way to the other side of the hall, a sudden commotion sliced through the low hum of murmured conversations. Aunt Meda and Lucius Malfoy were squared off, their voices echoing against the stone walls, each syllable crackling with fury and barely restrained magic.

“She is now the heir of the Blacks,” Lucius bellowed, his voice sharp as a whip, “There is no way I’m allowing her to remain in some filthy Muggle household!” His pale eyes glinted, darting venomously toward Uncle Ted, who clenched his jaw but said nothing.

“Stop insulting my husband, you arrogant prick!” Andromeda spat, stepping closer, her face flushed with rage. Then she turned her wrath on Narcissa. “Alphard would have wanted her with me. You both know it. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Narcissa wavered, shifting her gaze away, but Lucius only curled his lips in a cold, reptilian smile.

“Well, yes,” he sneered, voice dropping into a dangerous purr, “but unfortunately, Alphard is no longer with us, is he?”

My hands curled into fists so tight, my nails dug crescent moons into my palms. My blood burned hot under my skin.

HOW DARE HE…   

Mere hours after Grandfather was laid to rest… how dare he turn this day into a battleground for his own twisted ambitions? Lucius Malfoy was a snake, pure and simple—a man whose cowardice always masqueraded as cunning, whose thirst for power knew no decency. I felt hatred for him blooming in my chest like a black flame.

Before the shouting could escalate into hexes, a sharp crack split the air, and a man in crisp Ministry robes materialized in the center of the hall, wand still raised from Apparition.

“Good evening, everyone,” he announced briskly. “Miss Esther… I am Bailey Scout, from the Ministry’s Department of Custody. I’m here to present the last will and testament of Mr. Alphard Black.”

A hush fell over the hall as every head turned toward him.

I inclined my chin, summoning the dignity Grandfather had drilled into me. “Please proceed, Mr. Scout.”

Mr. Scout cleared his throat, unrolling a long scroll of parchment with a deliberate air that drew every eye in the room. The golden seal of the Ministry shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

“By the decree of the Department of Custodial Affairs, and in accordance with the Last Will and Testament of Lord Alphard Black,” he began, his voice clear and unwavering, “all properties, assets, and titles belonging to the Black bloodline—specifically the Black Ceremonial House and the ancestral Black Villa—are hereby transferred to Miss Esther Black.”

A hush swept through the gathering like a sharp wind. A few guests gasped softly. Even Aunt Meda looked momentarily stunned.

Mr. Scout continued, unbothered.

“Additionally, eight more Black estates located across the continent fall under her sole ownership. For estate management and vault oversight, Goblin Hufster of Gringotts has been appointed as Miss Black’s exclusive financial advocate.”

Whispers began to ripple across the crowd now—names murmured, calculations made, the weight of ancient wealth finally coming into view.

I held my breath.

“You will also inherit ten permanent seats in the Wizengamot,” he went on. “These seats, vested by birthright, may not be actively claimed until your seventeenth birthday. Until then, your appointed guardian will carry the proxy vote and may represent your voice in all political matters.”

My pulse quickened.

“And who is my appointed guardian?” I asked, my voice steady despite the tremor crawling beneath my skin.

Mr. Scout looked up, meeting my gaze with quiet gravity. “Miss Black, before I reveal that, I must state—your place of residence will be yours to decide. You may choose to remain in the Black Villa under the care of your house-elves, or stay with any relative who is willing. The law grants you full authority over this decision.”

A long pause followed, and then, without ceremony, he spoke the words that silenced the room.

“Your legal guardian until you come of age shall be… Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

The world seemed to still. Even the flickering torches on the walls felt like they paused mid-dance.

“PREPOSTROUS!” Lucius Malfoy exploded, his voice sharp enough to slice through bone. His face contorted with fury. “A child, living alone? And Dumbledore as her guardian? That meddling old—this is a farce!”

“Lucius,” Narcissa hissed, gripping his arm tightly, but he shook her off, seething.

I didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, I turned to Dumbledore. He was already watching me, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a softness, a respect. He gave me a small nod, as though confirming that yes, this was always part of the plan.

“Is there anything else?” I asked quietly, trying to drown the roar of blood in my ears.

“Yes.” Mr. Scout reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, elegantly carved wooden box. Its surface shimmered with faintly glowing runes—wards of protection, secrecy, maybe even memory. It pulsed in his hand like it remembered my name.

“Your grandfather left you this as well. His instructions were clear—it is for your eyes only. I was told only to deliver it.”

I stepped forward to receive it, hands trembling ever so slightly as I took it into my arms. The weight of it wasn’t much—but the weight of its meaning was crushing.

“If you require further clarification,” Mr. Scout added, “you may contact my office at the Ministry, or speak directly to Mr. Hufster at Gringotts. My condolences again, Miss Black. May Lord Alphard’s soul find peace.”

With a respectful bow, he turned—and with a soft crack, he vanished, leaving behind only stunned silence and the raw scent of magic in the air.

For a single heartbeat, the silence reigned. It was as though the room itself held its breath, caught between grief and the storm that was about to break.

Then Lucius’s voice cracked the stillness like a whip.

“That old fool!” he snarled, his pale face flushed red, eyes blazing with cold fury. “I’ll see to it that this Will is overturned. This is a travesty. An insult to the Black name!” His voice ricocheted off the marble walls, rattling the chandeliers...

“Enough!” I screamed, the force of my magic flaring outward in an invisible wave. My voice thundered through the ceremonial hall, echoing off the black stone and shaking ancient portraits on the walls. “Do not forget where you stand, Lucius Malfoy—this is the Black Ceremonial House. It hasn’t even been four hours since my grandfather’s farewell. You dare speak of overturning his will? You dare insult his name in this sacred place?” Magic crackled around me, lifting the edges of my hair as though caught in an unseen wind. The shadows seemed to deepen, the torches flickering wildly in their sconces. The whole hall trembled beneath my anger, as though the manor itself recognized the heir of the Blacks.

“If I hear one more word of disrespect from you,” I hissed, my voice low and trembling, “I swear on the Black blood that runs in my veins—I will see you stripped of your seat in the Wizengamot…... And that is a promise.”

Lucius stared at me, his sneer frozen on his lips, the certainty in his gaze briefly flickering with unease. He tried to mask it with disdain, but I could see the way his jaw clenched.

“I will not stand here and be insulted by a grieving child,” he spat, though his voice was softer now, wary. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, girl. For soon… you will belong at Malfoy Manor.”

And with a swirl of his cloak, he turned sharply, grabbing Narcissa’s arm and dragging her away. Draco lingered for a breath longer, his grey eyes meeting mine with a silent apology before he, too, followed his parents into the swirling darkness of the hall.

The moment they were gone, the tension seemed to drain from the air like water from a cracked basin. One by one, the remaining guests began drifting away, leaving only hushed whispers and a lingering sense of unease in their wake.

One by one, the remaining guests began to leave. Aunt Meda was the last to approach me, her eyes red-rimmed but fierce. She cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Come with us,” she pleaded softly. “At least for tonight. The villa will be… too empty.”

I swallowed hard, forcing words past the lump in my throat. “I know. But I… I need to be there, Aunt Meda. That villa… it’s all I have left of him. It’s my home… my solace. Please. Just a few days. I promise I’ll visit before Hogwarts.”

She sighed, her breath shaky. Then she pulled me into a tight hug, her arms trembling around me. “Remember, Esther—you have family. You have friends. You are not alone. Don’t lock yourself away in your grief. Come to us when you’re ready.”

“I will,” I whispered, though the words felt like they were carved from stone.

At last, Dumbledore stepped forward, his presence calm and gentle, like cool water over scorched skin.

“Shall we, Miss Black?” he murmured.

A moment later, the world twisted and folded in upon itself as we apparated, and landed softly in the front hall of the Black Villa. Jingle, my faithful house-elf, was waiting anxiously, wringing her tiny hands.

“You knew,” I said, my voice raw, looking at Dumbledore.

“I did,” he replied quietly. "But, as much as I’d like to continue this conversation, it’s been a long day. No matter how strong a facade you are showing, you need proper rest……

Always remember Esther, what Andromeda said: "Lean on your family and friends when you need to…... Let them carry a part of the weight.”

Lingering a compassionate look, he disapparated, leaving me standing in the vast, silent villa……. and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt truly alone.

I skipped dinner, ignoring Jingle’s protests, and drifted like a ghost up the grand staircase. Starlet was waiting for me on my bed, blinking her bright eyes as though sensing the storm in my soul. I washed my face, brushed out my hair with trembling hands, and climbed into bed. The silence pressed against my ears, oppressive and endless.

And then the dam broke.

The sobs tore out of me, wounds ripped open. I wept for my grandfather, for the secrets he’d left behind, for the weight of the Black legacy now resting on my shoulders. I cried until my chest ached and my pillow was soaked through, until exhaustion finally pulled me under into a dark, restless sleep.

The days that followed were an endless blur of sorrow. It felt as though the sun had forgotten how to shine for me, leaving the Villa steeped in a perpetual grayness. My face remained blotched with tears, my eyes swollen and raw. Grief clung to me like a second skin, a silent shadow that crept into every thought, every breath.

Starlet and the house-elves hovered near me at all hours, their devotion turning almost frantic. They tiptoed around me, whispering among themselves as though afraid even their voices might shatter me. Jingle, my steadfast companion, was relentless in her quiet care—ensuring I ate, ensuring I slept, fussing over the smallest details while pretending not to notice the silent rivers that kept spilling from my eyes.

Aunt Meda and Tonks visited often, each appearance a fragile light in my darkness. They brought warmth, gentle conversation, and the kind of affection that tried—futilely—to patch the holes torn in my heart. Yet, even in the comfort of their presence, the absence of my grandfather loomed so large it felt like standing beside an invisible mountain.

Nothing filled the emptiness. The Villa itself seemed haunted, each corridor echoing with memories—his footsteps, his scent of parchment and cloves, the soft scrape of his cane along the marble floors.

Still, I tried. With trembling resolve, I forced myself to move through the days, to exist within these silent walls that once brimmed with his presence. It took an entire week before I could make it through a day without tears spilling down my cheeks...... The nights, though were merciless. In the dark, my mask crumbled. My sobs shook the bed until exhaustion dragged me under, my pillow soaked and cold by dawn.

Each morning, I’d find the linens replaced, crisp and dry. Jingle never mentioned it. She only smoothed my hair and offered a tiny, trembling smile, as though trying to carry my grief on her small shoulders.

Then one morning, her voice broke the silence, soft as a sigh.

“It’s okay, Miss Esther… take your time. There’s no rush to stop hurting. Remember him in your own way. Don’t hide your tears here… we will always take care of you.”

I stared at her, my throat tightening around unshed sobs, until all my composure shattered. I dropped to my knees and hugged her fiercely, weeping into her little shoulder as if I were five years old again.

I kept my promise and visited Aunt Meda one day. I sat beside her in silence, staring into the fire as it crackled and hissed. Words felt useless, and so I said nothing. She never pressed. She simply sat beside me, her presence a sturdy wall against the tide threatening to drown me. Their patience, their quiet understanding, became the anchor that kept me from drifting away completely.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—I began to find my footing again. Step by step, breath by breath.

But nothing could convince me that the world would ever feel whole without him.

29th August

After nearly three long, hollow months, today—finally—I was going to see my friends again, and, for the first time since Grandfather’s death. An honest-to-Merlin smile dared to grace my lips, breaking through the grief like sunlight piercing storm clouds. We had written to each other throughout the summer, letters full of affection and curiosity and aching to return to something normal… but parchment could never compare to presence. No ink could replace their voices, their laughter, the comfort of simply being. And the best part? Harry was coming too.

Ron’s last letter had been bubbling with excitement—they’d rescued Harry from those wretched relatives of his. I didn’t need to ask what Harry had endured; the silence between our letters spoke volumes. But I knew—I knew—he was aware of Grandfather’s passing. And somehow, just knowing he would be there made everything feel lighter.

Hermione had returned from France as well, and for the first time in what felt like years instead of months, the trio I had grown to love and trust would be whole again.....  We were to meet at Diagon Alley at noon.

Jingle all but shoved a plate into my hands, fussing over me as though I were five again. I gave in, eating quickly just to soothe her worry. Then I slipped away to my room, heart fluttering, almost nervous—excited.

I chose a knee-length white chiffon dress, soft and elegant, embroidered with delicate swirls of green and red, coloured strings. My new white slip-ons were simple but graceful. My hair, always a bit rebellious, was pulled into a sleek ponytail, anchored with a silver clasp. Long, thin earrings glinted in the morning light. A touch of floral perfume. A last glance in the mirror, and.... and I didn’t see grief clinging to me like a veil.

I looked… like me.

Descending the stairs, I was met by Jingle’s beaming face. “Waaah… Mistress looks beautiful today,” she squeaked, her voice thick with emotion.

Beside her, Wingle added softly, “Mistress seems happy too. It’s good to see Mistress happy after so long.”

Something in my chest cracked open at their words. Their loyalty, their love—it had been the quiet thread holding me together. I smiled, this time not just for them, but for myself. “Thank you,” I whispered.

I paused by the fireplace. Starlet, curled up on the windowsill, gave a lazy flick of her tail. “I’m leaving her at home,” I said to Jingle. “Take care of her. And don’t wait up.”

Jingle gave a deep bow. “Take care, Mistress… and have fun. The home will miss you.”

I clutched the Floo powder tightly, heart pounding as I stepped into the hearth. “Diagon Alley.”

The flames roared to life, swallowing me whole—and with them, the weight of the summer seemed to lift.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was stepping toward something—not away from it.

Diagon Alley pulsed with life, as though nothing in the world could ever go wrong. Bright banners fluttered overhead, witches and wizards in shimmering robes bustled past, and the scent of parchment and ink mingled with the sweeter wafts of honeydukes samples carried on the breeze. Children laughed, parents scolded, and owls swooped between shop windows, hooting impatiently at the crush of shoppers below.  A carnival of colour and noise overlaying the ache still thrumming in my chest.

I was glancing around, trying to decide which way to go, when a pair of arms crashed around me, squeezing the breath right out of my lungs.

“I’ve missed you so, so much,” Hermione choked out, her voice trembling, her hair tickling my cheek as she buried her face against my shoulder. “I really wish I could’ve been there for you last week, but I… I…”

She broke off, words tangled in emotion.

I closed my eyes, hugging her tighter, feeling my heart swell and crack all at once. “I missed you too, Mione… You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

We stayed locked together a few moments longer, neither of us wanting to let go. When we finally stepped apart, Hermione’s eyes were glassy, but her familiar determined smile was already fighting its way through.

“When did you get here?” I asked, brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

“Just a few minutes ago,” she said, voice steadier. “My parents are waiting outside the Leaky Cauldron. They’ll pick me up at five. I haven’t seen the boys yet.”

I nodded, and we drifted away from the crowd, our steps falling into an easy rhythm.

“I’m so excited about Professor Gilderoy Lockhart,” Hermione gushed, her eyes lighting up. “I’m sure he’ll be so much better than Professor Quirrell. Did you see all the books he’s written?”

“Mione, anyone would be better than a stuttering fool,” I teased, rolling my eyes.

She burst into laughter, the sound bright and clear above the noise of the Alley. It felt like a healing charm washing over the heaviness inside me.

We started gossiping about teachers, classes, and books, and for the first time in weeks, I felt truly light—like I could actually breathe.

Then, Hermione’s head snapped up, eyes going wide. She gasped, clutching my arm. “Harry!”

Before I could even register it, she was gone in a blur of brown curls, tearing through the crowd like a spell gone wild.

I followed her line of sight and there he was—Harry Potter, standing awkwardly amidst the throng, his hair as messy as ever, but his green eyes bright and searching. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which made him look strangely vulnerable and odder all at once. Beside him loomed Hagrid, towering over the shoppers like a gentle mountain.

“Hello, Hagrid!” I called, my voice lifting above the din.

“Hullo, Esther, Hermione!” Hagrid boomed, grinning beneath his wild beard. “Well, Harry, now you’re with yer friends, I’ll leave yeh to it.”

He gave Harry a gentle pat on the shoulder, like he was afraid of knocking him over, and lumbered away into the crowd. Hermione was still latched onto Harry, squeezing him for dear life. I stepped forward, reaching out, and Harry’s face softened as he pulled me into a warm hug.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice low.

I nodded, fighting the sting in my eyes. “I am now…... What about you?”

“Much better,” he said, giving me a small, crooked smile that tugged at my heart.

“Where are your glasses, Harry?” Hermione demanded, pulling back and peering at him like a suspicious prefect.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Er… I had a bit of an accidental adventure with Floo powder. They got broken.”

He launched into the tale, words tumbling over each other as he described the soot, the spinning fireplaces, and finally crashing into the wrong shop entirely. Hermione’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper, until she snapped her wand out with a decisive flick.

“Oculus Reparo!”

The lenses knitted back together as though they’d never been broken. Harry slipped the glasses on, blinking in relief.

“Harry!” a voice bellowed across the street.

We all turned to see Fred and George Weasley striding toward us, identical grins plastered on their freckled faces.

“Blimey, Harry! Thank Merlin you’re safe. Mum’s been in a right state,” George exclaimed, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

Fred glanced at Hermione and me, sweeping a mock bow. “Ah, Hello ladies!

Come on, you lot—everyone’s waiting in Flourish and Blotts. Lockhart’s there, preening himself stupid.”

I laughed, feeling a warmth begin to glow in my chest. For the first time since Grandfather’s death, the world felt alive—and I felt like I belonged in it again.

We trailed Fred and George into Flourish and Blotts, the familiar scent of parchment, ink, and spell-dust wrapping around us like a comforting cloak. The store was bursting at the seams, books stacked high as towers, customers weaving between shelves, voices buzzing like a swarm of bees.

No sooner had we crossed the threshold than Ron barrelled toward us, breathless and grinning.

“Mate, you look alright,” he said, clapping Harry on the back, then giving Hermione and me a once-over. “Hermione, Esther… you both look… the same.”

I let out a small laugh and pulled him into a hug, ignoring his awkward squirm. “Good to see you too, Ron.”

Ron proceeded to introduce us to his parents. Molly Weasley enveloped me in a motherly hug, smelling of flour and wool sweaters, while Mr. Weasley pumped my hand enthusiastically, eyes sparkling with curiosity. Ginny, wide-eyed and red-faced, gave me a shy smile from behind her mother’s arm. They greeted me warmly, yet I felt it—the flicker of hesitance, the tiny shadow passing over their expressions—probably recognizing me as the Black Heiress from recent Daily Prophet articles.......   The memory of my first, awkward meeting with Ron flickered through my mind.

Just as my chest tightened, a warm hand slipped into mine….  Harry.

“They don’t know you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently against my knuckles. His quiet, steadfast presence thawed the icy knot in my stomach. I managed a small, grateful smile.

Suddenly, a shrill voice sliced through the murmur of the store.

“Harry Potter!”

Professor Gilderoy Lockhart stood atop a dais, all dazzling teeth and flowing turquoise robes, hair gleaming like gold in the lamplight. He practically lunged for Harry, dragging him forward as flashbulbs exploded around them.

“Let’s have a nice photograph for the Daily Prophet!” Lockhart crowed, planting Harry beside him and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Smile, Harry! And of course, you’ll want a free set of my entire works!”

Harry’s face was a portrait of mortification. My best friend looked irritated, and I didn’t blame him—he hated being the center of attention, something which seemed to follow him from birth...

He flinched at each camera flash as though struck by spellfire.

Ron as always tried to lighten the mood. "Well, mate, at least you got free books."

Hermione giggled, shaking her head, and we drifted off to gather our own supplies. For a few minutes, things felt light again.

But alas! the reprieve didn’t last.

From the upper staircase, a voice slithered into the air, cool and cutting.

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?”

Draco stood there, sneer firmly in place, silver-blond hair glinting under the chandelier’s glow. His icy eyes locked on Harry, brimming with disdain.

“Famous Harry Potter can’t even walk into a bookshop without making headlines.”

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again. The endless banter between them was becoming exhausting.

Ginny was the one who jumped to Harry’s defence, face flushed but fierce. “Leave him alone!” she burst out, voice trembling but bold.

Draco opened his mouth for another retort—but at that moment, a new presence slid into the room, changing the entire atmosphere like a chill breeze through an open crypt.

Uncle Lucius……..

He stepped inside with gliding elegance, his cane tapping softly on the wooden floor, eyes cold and pale as moonlight. His long blond hair fell like silk over his shoulders, and his gaze swept the store with quiet, predatory interest until it settled on Harry—and lingered.

“My, my… Harry Potter,” he drawled, stepping closer, close enough to inspect the lightning bolt scar. His voice oozed polite malice. “Always in the papers, aren’t we? Tell me… enjoying your fame? ”

His voice was velvet laced with poison. His pale fingers nearly brushed Harry’s forehead, hovering over the lightning bolt scar as though it were some priceless artifact under glass. His fascination bordered on obsession, like a collector admiring his rarest specimen. “Your scar is Legend, as of course the Wizard who gave this to you “

Harry’s emerald eyes blazed. “Voldemort killed my parents. He was nothing but a murderer.”

A flicker crossed Lucius’s face, gone as quickly as a snake’s tongue. Smirking, he shifted his attention to Hermione and the Weasleys, his sneer deepening as he delivered pointed insults. He targeted Hermione for being a Muggle-born, his tone dripping with disdain, while mocking Ron and his siblings for their financial struggles, ridiculing their second-hand belongings and large family.

His words were sharp and cruel, designed to wound, but Hermione stood tall, her expression defiant. Ron’s face turned red with anger, but before he could retaliate, Uncle Lucius turned his piercing gaze toward me...

“Ah… my dear, dear Esther.” He tilted his head, regarding me like some curious artifact. “I see my son was right about you… keeping all the wrong company. And how are you enjoying the Black Villa, my dear? Don’t fret. Soon enough, I’ll end your misery and send for you to join us at Malfoy Manor.”

My pulse thundered in my ears, fury coiling in my chest like a striking serpent. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack. I stood my ground, lifting my chin, voice like a blade.

“Sure,” I said coolly. “Keep dreaming, Uncle.”

Uncle Lucius sneered, his pale eyes glittering like shards of ice, clearly readying another cutting retort. But before a single venomous word could leave his lips, Arthur Weasley stepped forward, drawn by the rising commotion.

“Lucius,” Mr. Weasley said, voice low, “that’s enough.”

The air seemed to tighten around them, charged with invisible currents. Two men, polar opposites—one fueled by cold arrogance, the other by fierce loyalty—stood nose-to-nose. Their words collided like hexes in midair.

“Prying into other people’s business, as usual, Arthur?” Lucius spat, voice dripping contempt. “Such noble virtue from a man who can barely afford new robes for his children.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Better to be poor and honest than rich and corrupt.”

Their conversation escalated into a full-blown argument, their voices slicing through the murmurs of the shop like splinters of glass. Every eye in the bookstore turned toward them, shoppers frozen, clutching books and bags to their chests as if for protection.

Then Lucius, with a swift, theatrical gesture, snatched one of Ginny’s second-hand books from her basket, flipping through it as though it were infested with vermin. “Second-hand goods, second-rate family.”

He hurled the book back at Ginny, the pages fluttering like startled wings. She flinched but caught it against her chest, silent and pale, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Before the atmosphere could snap into outright violence, Hagrid loomed forward, massive as a mountain, his voice thundering through the store.

“THA’S ENOUGH!” he roared, the shelves rattling under the force of his words. “This ain’t the place fer fights!”

Lucius turned his frigid gaze on Hagrid, measuring, assessing—but even he seemed to think better of provoking a half-giant twice his size. With one final, contemptuous sweep of his pale eyes over all of us, Uncle Lucius straightened his immaculate robes.

“Enjoy your squalor,” he said coldly. “While it lasts.”

And, with a swirl of black robes, he pivoted on his heel and swept from the shop like a gathering storm departing over the horizon. Draco lingered a moment longer, his eyes flitting toward me with an unreadable look—some mixture of resentment, conflict, and something softer. Soon he turned and followed his father into the bustling street beyond.

The silence they left behind was deafening, as though the entire shop had exhaled at once.

I exhaled a trembling breath, realizing my hands were balled into fists. Stepping closer to the Weasleys and Hermione, I finally said, “I’m sorry… for him. He’s a bigoted, duplicitous man with no redeemable qualities—but I’m sure you both know that better than I do. Unfortunately, he’s my family. And I really am sorry for his behavior.”

The words hung in the air until Fred, ever the jester, broke the tension with a grin. “Hey, it’s not your fault you’re related to an obstinate prat.”

A laugh escaped my throat—small at first, then genuine. Harry slid his hand into mine, his grip warm and grounding. The Weasleys crowded around me with murmurs of reassurance, as if determined to shield me from the lingering poison of Lucius’s words. Their kindness soothed the sting in my chest, and bit by bit, the bookstore began to feel like itself again.

The rest of the day unfolded in gentler colors. After finishing our shopping, the four of us slipped away to Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream, settling into a corner table under twinkling enchanted lanterns.

Hermione chatted animatedly about her trip to France, describing rolling vineyards and medieval castles. She even rattled off a few sentences in flawless French.

“You’re glowing, Mione,” I said with a soft smile.

Ron, spoon halfway to his mouth, rolled his eyes. “Blimey, she’s been speaking French all day. Even Mum can’t understand half of what she’s saying.”

Hermione swatted his arm, and we all dissolved into laughter.

Ron launched into tales of the chaos at the Burrow, grumbling about the noise and confusion as the family prepared Ginny for Hogwarts.“She’s got half the house stuffed into her trunk,” he complained. “Mum’s convinced she’ll forget something vital—like her wand, or an entire cauldron.”Despite his griping, his eyes gleamed with a quiet pride as he spoke about Ginny. Being the first and only girl in the Weasley family, she was clearly the jewel of their household.

I could already see Ron slipping into his role as the overprotective big brother, his words laced with both exasperation and affection.

Hermione and I exchanged a knowing look.

As for Harry, his summer seemed to mirror his previous years. He sat quietly for a while, swirling his spoon through his melting ice cream. Eventually, he spoke, his voice low. “It was… alright. Now that I know I have somewhere to run off to, it felt a little less unbearable, but these three months still…… were very long. And lonely….”

My jaw tightened, fury bubbling under my skin. “Any form of abuse is never justified, Harry,” I said sharply. “At this point, I don’t know who I hate more—my magical uncle or your Muggle relatives. Both worlds seem to have their own monsters… people who hide their cruelty behind polite smiles and pretty titles.”

“I hate both of them equally,” Hermione said firmly, her eyes flashing.

There was a hush as the others turned to me, waiting. I swallowed, gathering courage….

It was my turn…...

“These past two months… I spent every day I could with him. Making memories. I watched him weaken day by day, until he was so sick that…” My voice wavered, tears pricking my eyes. “I almost begged Mother Magic to take him. I couldn’t stand seeing him suffer. And when the end came… it felt like my whole world collapsed. Like my home was gone.”

My voice broke entirely. Hermione pulled me into a fierce side hug, her own eyes brimming.

“Grandfather tried to prepare me for this… but nothing could have prepared me for how empty I feel now. The first week, I was barely human. Starlet… the elves… Aunt Meda, Tonks… they held me together piece by piece. It’s still hard. I’m not okay yet… but I’m trying.”

Harry squeezed my hand, his emerald eyes luminous. “And that’s what matters. Take your time. We’re here for you.”

Ron’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Time heals every wound, Esther. I’m sure Mr. Black is watching over you. Through Mother Magic.”

Their words wrapped around me like a protective charm. I wiped my tears and managed a watery smile. “Thank you. That’s… that’s all I needed to hear. Somehow, you’ve all become my source of strength in the past year….. I’ll take my time and bounce back."

"Also, Grandfather chose Dumbledore as my guardian.”

Hermione’s eyes flew wide. “Is that why Mr. Malfoy was so irked?”

I nodded. “He wanted custody. Grandfather knew it all along and made sure a Ministry official read his will publicly, so Uncle couldn’t pull any schemes behind closed doors. Lucius was furious—especially about losing the guardianship. It cost him several seats in the Wizengamot. Can you believe it? That’s what mattered most to him.”

Ron grinned, eyes glinting. “Well, I think your Grandfather made a brilliant move. Dumbledore’s influence in the wizarding world far outweighs the Malfoys.”

Pride and grief warred in my chest, but I felt the scales tipping toward hope.

The conversation shifted to lighter chatter about Hogwarts, classes, Quidditch, and the mysterious new year ahead. And for the first time in weeks, I felt laughter rising in my chest without guilt.

When the clock struck 4:50 PM, we exchanged tight hugs and heartfelt promises.

“See you in three days!” we chorused, voices overlapping as we headed off in separate directions, carrying the weight of grief and the spark of hope side by side.

Chapter Text

Esther’s POV

1st September…

A whole entire year since I first stepped onto the Hogwarts Express, heart hammering in my chest, eyes wide with wonder. But this time… everything feels different.

This time, Grandfather isn’t here to see me off.

A deep ache coils around my ribs as I picture him standing on the platform last year, tall and austere, his sharp eyes scanning the crowds. He’d hardly spoken, but I knew—always knew—how fiercely he cared. How every line of tension in his face was really love. I miss him so much it physically hurts.

Dawn was only just brushing pale light across the sky when Jingle entered my room, as she had every day since Grandfather passed, carrying her new mantle of authority like a general commanding troops.

“Come on, Mistress,” she scolded, voice brisk and businesslike. “The train leaves at eleven. You need to wake up, or you’ll be late.”

I groaned, burying my face deeper into my pillow, trying to hide from the reality of a morning that felt far too heavy. But there’s no hiding from Jingle. She’s relentless as a storm tide.

With a resigned sigh, I forced myself upright, my movements sluggish.

“Freshen up. Breakfast will be ready in two hours. Miss Nymphadora Tonks will arrive at nine.” She gave me a severe nod and bustled away, the crisp swish of her apron following her down the stairs.

I lingered in the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water try—and fail—to wash away the weight pressing on my chest. When I finally emerged, I dressed in a simple white embroidered top and baggy blue jeans, pearl earrings glinting in the light. I slipped on my favorite bracelet, the one Grandfather had once charmed for protection, and left my dark wavy hair loose, pinned back only by a white hairband.

Pausing at the mirror, I studied the girl who stared back. Her eyes looked older somehow, the innocence of last year chipped away, piece by piece.

Downstairs, my trunk was packed and waiting by the door. Starlet’s empty cage stood beside it like a silent sentinel. My loyal kneazle perched beside me, midnight blue eyes watching my every move.

I took my time over breakfast, savoring every bite, as though trying to hold onto the familiar taste of home for just a few moments longer. When I finished, I looked at the house-elves standing nearby. Their solemn little faces were almost comically serious—but my chest tightened with love for them all the same.

“See you in a year,” I said softly, voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Stay safe… and take care of the house.”

They nodded, blinking quickly, as though fighting tears of their own. It struck me then how much Grandfather had meant to them, too—that his absence lingered like a missing note in the music of our lives.

As I finished my last bite of ham sandwich, a car horn blared outside, jolting me from my thoughts.

“They’re here,” I murmured, pushing back my chair. I quickly finished my pudding, unwilling to leave even a spoonful behind.

With one last look at the home I’d shared with Grandfather—its shadows, its silent corners, its echoes of laughter—I stepped outside into the cool September morning.

Tonks stood beside the car, hair blazing purple today, grin wide as sunrise. She swept me into a hug the instant I emerged.

“This feels so surreal,” she exclaimed, laughing. “Not going to Hogwarts myself—but dropping off my little cousin instead!”

I smirked through the ache in my chest. “Well, big sister… big responsibilities.”

Tonks gave me a playful shove, and together, we loaded my trunk and Starlet’s cage into the car.

Soon we were off—rolling away from Black Villa, my past receding in the rear-view mirror, and Hogwarts waiting on the horizon.

We arrived at King’s Cross precisely at 10:15 a.m.

The station buzzed around us, filled with echoing footsteps and the rumble of passing trains. My chest tightened as we neared the barrier, but this time, unlike the trembling first-year I’d been last September, I took a steadying breath and charged through the brick wall without a flicker of hesitation.

The roar of Platform 9¾ enveloped me on the other side—the swirl of steam, the shrill whistles of the scarlet train, the mingled scent of metal, magic, and sweets. Parents clung to their children as though trying to press years of love into one final embrace; siblings laughed or cried; trunks banged against the ground as students hoisted them aboard.

It was chaos… beautiful, familiar chaos.

And for a single, aching moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Because last year, he’d been here too.

I could see him in my mind’s eye—Grandfather standing apart from the crowd, arms folded behind his back, robes immaculate, eyes sharp as flint yet softening just for me. Even when he said so little, his presence had wrapped around me like a protective cloak.

A tear slipped free before I could stop it, gliding down my cheek like a droplet of melted ice. The weight of missing him squeezed my chest until it hurt.

Before I could drown in the memory, warm arms folded around me, pulling me close.

“It’s fine,” Tonks murmured, voice hushed and rough with emotion. “I’m sure Alphard is proud of you… That old man is surely watching over you from somewhere above.”

Her words hit me like a spell, cracking something open inside. My throat went tight. “Some days, I really miss him,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the clatter of trunks and the steam hissing from the train.

“And that’s perfectly normal,” Tonks said, leaning back just enough to look me in the eyes. There was such fierce tenderness in her gaze that it nearly undid me. She let me breathe for a moment, then tilted her head, lips quirking into a mischievous grin.

“Now… before you vanish into one of those compartments and forget I exist, here are the rules: No Recklessness. Though, knowing you’re a Gryffindor, that’s probably hopeless.”

Despite the sting in my chest, I laughed, a brittle sound breaking into real warmth.

Tonks chuckled and continued, “Just be safe, enjoy your second year, and—oh, if possible—try to humble our blond-haired cousin. Someone needs to knock a few galleons’ worth of arrogance out of that one.” She winked, bright hair shimmering in the station lights.

“Humble Draco? That’s impossible, Tonks,” I shot back, shaking my head with a grin. “But… I’ll try my best.”

“Off you go, then,” she said, hugging me one last time, squeezing as though trying to shield me from the world. Her voice turned gentle again. “I’ll miss you, little star.”

“I’ll miss you too,” I murmured against her shoulder, the scent of lavender clinging to her hair.

She released me, eyes bright, and nudged me toward the train.

With a final glance back, I stepped aboard, the Hogwarts Express rumbling beneath my feet—a living heartbeat carrying me toward another year, another chapter… and away from the shadows of loss.

The train was set to depart in seven minutes, and I found myself running later than last year. The platform was alive with the shriek of the locomotive, hissing steam, and the clamour of trunks thudding onto the train. A swirling chaos of parents, students, and owls in cages.

With a last look over my shoulder, I slipped into the train’s corridor, Tonks’s farewell still echoing in my ears.

This time, as a second-year, I felt less like prey and more like a predator stalking familiar ground—but my heart was tight all the same. The compartments were crammed, voices rising in laughter and chatter. I peered into compartment after compartment, my footsteps echoing against the narrow passage, searching for familiar faces.

Nine compartments. Nine empty searches.

At the tenth, relief flooded me. There was Hermione, seated with Neville, Seamus, Dean, Lavender, and Padma. Most of the second-year Gryffindors were clustered together—except Harry and Ron.

I stepped in, raising a questioning brow at Hermione. She read me instantly.

“I didn’t see them when I got on,” she said, worry flickering in her brown eyes. “Either they haven’t boarded yet, or they’re in another compartment.”

I slipped into the seat beside her, fighting an unease that curled cold fingers around my spine.

“Hey, guys. How was your summer?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“Mine was brilliant!” Seamus exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. “Oh—and I heard the news.”

“For the last two weeks, The Daily Prophet wouldn’t stop talking about you,” Lavender chimed in, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “The Black Heiress and all that.”

Padma’s voice was soft, gentle as silk. “I hope you’re doing okay. Losing someone that important… it must be awful.”

Neville nodded solemnly. “I’m really sorry about your grandfather, Esther. Gran told me he was a good man.”

I swallowed hard, touched by their concern. Seeing them here was a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d needed.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “It’s been hard. Some days, it still is. But… I’m trying. I’ll be alright.”

A shrill whistle split the air, announcing the train’s departure—but still, no sign of Harry and Ron. I glanced at Hermione, who wore a look of quiet dread.

“They better be in another compartment,” I muttered under my breath.

“They probably are,” Hermione said, trying to sound breezy—but failing.

“Don’t worry, you two,” Seamus interjected. “I’m sure they just jumped on at the last second and grabbed the nearest seats.”

I forced a nod. “Yeah… I hope so.”

They did not.

The train rolled out of King’s Cross, wheels clattering like a heartbeat, carrying us away from London and deeper into the green English countryside.

Our compartment hummed with life. Lavender regaled us with gossip about the wizarding world—who’d been seen with whom, rumours of a new Quidditch star at Puddlemere United—and I laughed, though my heart wasn’t in it.

Soon, the trolley witch rolled by, her cart rattling with the familiar clink of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. The sweet, sugary aroma wafted into our compartment, stirring a memory so vivid it almost hurt.

Last year… Harry and Ron, had bought the entire lot of treats, which had annoyed me to no end once I found out.

"It was selfish! What about everyone else?” I had scolded them back then.

Harry’s face had crumpled into a sheepish half-smile, half-apology, his green eyes earnest and pleading.

“Well… it was my first time, and I was excited to see all these new sweets” he’d mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And… uhm… Ron was hungry.”

“Mate, why would you drag me into this?” Ron had groaned, throwing Harry a betrayed look, then attempting some utterly ridiculous excuse about needing the sugar for “magical stamina.”

But seeing my face, he immediately shut up…

Harry had sighed, gaze dropping to the floor, then peeking back up at me through messy hair.

“Come on, Esther,” he’d said, voice soft and apologetic. “I’m sorry you couldn’t buy any chocolates. I promise I won’t do it again.”

And I’d melted, despite my best efforts, because it was Harry…... Because he meant it.

Now, as the trolley rolled past, the shelves stacked high with sweets and chocolate glinting in the light, I found it oddly untouched. Almost too full.

He’d kept his promise.

Yet a chill rippled through me, a tightness blooming in my chest—a sensation like dread clawing at my ribs......  I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Terribly, inexplicably wrong.

Finally, unable to silence the restless churning in my chest, I rose abruptly from my seat.

“I’ll be back,” I murmured to the others. “I need to visit the loo,”

Starlet trotted loyally at my side as I slipped out into the corridor, the door sliding shut behind me. The train swayed gently beneath my feet, lantern light flickering against the windows as countryside blurred past in streaks of green and gold.

I started moving down the corridor, peering through compartment windows, my eyes darting from face to face.

One. Two. Five. Eleven compartments—and still no sign of that unruly mop of black hair or the shock of ginger beside it.

A sickly dread gnawed at my insides.

Where are they?

At last, I stumbled upon a compartment teeming with red hair and Weasley laughter. Relief pricked my chest even before I slid the door open.

“Hello there, Princessy Black!” Fred cried the instant he spotted me, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Come to pay homage to your pledged knights, have you?”

I let out a small, breathless laugh, some of the tension loosening in my shoulders. “As much as I adore my knights, the reason for my visit is… different.” I glanced around the compartment. “Have any of you seen Harry or Ron? I’ve searched nearly the whole train, and they’re nowhere.”

Ginny looked up sharply, concern clouding her bright brown eyes. Percy, however, seemed utterly unmoved, his nose still buried in his book.

“We all came together,” Fred began, leaning forward, his voice a shade more serious.

“But we were running late,” George finished, arms folding across his chest. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they boarded the first compartment they could squeeze into.”

I inhaled a shaky breath, trying to let their words calm the pounding of my heart.

“Don’t worry,” Lee Jordan added gently from beside them, his grin reassuring. “I once got separated from these two. We found each other in the end.”

I nodded at that, “I guess, I am just paranoid........ After last year…...."

"See you guys back in school” I said, forcing a note of lightness into my voice as I started tracing back  to my compartment……

“See you at the feast, princess!” Fred called just before I shut their door.

Back in my compartment, the countryside blurred past the window, the metallic hum of the wheels rumbling beneath my feet like a distant storm. With less than an hour left until we reached Hogwarts, the mood in our compartment shifted to anticipation. One by one, we changed into our dress robes, laughter and chatter filling the air.

I fed Starlet a few creamy treats, as she purred her appreciation, leaning her head into my hand. A small, genuine smile tugged at my lips. Her soft fur and trusting eyes were a comfort I desperately needed.

Outside the window, the sky was beginning to darken, streaks of crimson and violet bleeding across the horizon. A hush seemed to fall over the train as we sped toward our destination.

Then, at last, the whistle pierced the evening air—a high, echoing note that vibrated in my chest.

We’ve arrived......

One by one, we spilled onto the platform beneath the towering silhouette of the mountains, the crisp night air cool against my cheeks. Lanterns flickered like tiny stars, throwing shifting pools of gold across the churning sea of students and trunks. There was still no sign of Harry. Or Ron.

Beside me, Hermione twisted her fingers together, her eyes scanning the crowd with frantic urgency.

“I can’t see them anywhere…” she breathed, her voice trembling on the edge of panic.

I slipped my hand into hers, trying to anchor her—even as my own pulse raced like a runaway broomstick.

“Fred said they were running late, but they were all at the station together,” I said, forcing my voice into something calm and measured, though dread gnawed at the edges of every word. “Hogwarts is Harry’s home, Mione. He’d never stay away willingly. Something must have gone wrong.”

A gust of wind blew through the station, whipping loose strands of hair across my face. We stood there for a moment, caught in each other’s wide, worried eyes, the hum of conversations all around us blurring into a dull roar.

Before we could speak further, Percy’s voice rose above the chaos, calling for all the second-year Gryffindors to gather.

“This way, quickly now!” he barked, gesturing sharply. “No boats this year—you’re all to use the carriages!”

Hermione glanced toward the path leading to the black lake, eyes shining with unshed tears. “We should get to the castle first,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “Then we can tell Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore. They’ll know what to do.”

I nodded, though my chest felt like it was bound in iron bands. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

We joined the tide of students surging toward the waiting carriages, lanterns swinging wildly as trunks bumped over the uneven ground.

“Harry?” Neville’s voice called out, trembling as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Ron?” Lavender added, her eyes wide with hope, scanning faces one by one.

Hermione and I both shook our heads, the weight of it heavy as stone.

“They weren’t on the train,” I said, my voice low and hollow.

“They missed the train?” Neville repeated, eyes round with disbelief. “But… how?”

“Oh, that’s bad,” Seamus murmured, his brows knit in worry.

Hermione drew a sharp breath, her determination suddenly shining through the fear. “We’ve decided to tell the professors the moment we get to Hogwarts. It’s the only thing we can do.”

“Yeah,” Padma said, stepping closer, her expression soft but firm. “That’s the best idea. They’ll find Harry and Ron. They have to.”

The carriages stood waiting like dark beasts in the night, their doors open, lanterns glinting off polished wood. As we climbed in, my eyes kept darting back toward the train, as if somehow, against all odds, I’d see my friends come running at the last moment.

But the platform remained empty. And the silence where Harry and Ron should have been felt like a gathering storm.

We trailed after Percy through the gates of Hogsmeade Station, the crisp night air sharp with pine and distant chimney smoke. Beyond the wrought-iron fence, carriages stood waiting, lanterns swaying in the breeze.

But as we drew closer, I froze mid-step.

Because they weren’t just carriages.

Hitched to the shafts were strange, spectral creatures—tall and bony, with slick black skin stretched taut over visible ribs. Their heads were dragon-like, skullish, and their wings were vast membranes of dark leather. Pale, milky eyes gleamed in the lantern light, empty of pupils, shimmering like moonlit frost.

A chill skittered across my spine. I stood rooted to the ground, unable to tear my gaze away from the creatures as they shifted restlessly, their long, sinuous necks snaking through the night air.

“Esther!” Hermione’s voice jolted me like a splash of cold water. I blinked and tore my eyes away, finding her leaning halfway out of the carriage, worry etched into her features.

“Come on!” she urged.

Swallowing hard, I grabbed the handle of my trunk, my fingers trembling, and hauled myself into the last carriage just as it jolted forward.

For a moment, silence fell inside, the gentle creak of wheels on gravel filling the darkness. But I couldn’t keep it in.

“Guys… do you know what magical creatures are pulling these carriages?” I blurted out, my voice tight, still echoing with awe and unease.

Hermione blinked at me, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

I frowned, glancing back through the window as the spectral figures receded into the shadows. “The creatures pulling the carriages. They look like horses—but skeletal, with wings and—”

“There’s nothing there, Esther,” Hermione cut in, her brow furrowed as she exchanged worried glances with the others. “The carriages move on their own. Everyone knows that.”

My pulse quickened. “But I saw them. They were right there—”

“Thestrals.”

The single word was so soft, I barely heard it.

We all turned. Neville sat hunched in his seat, his eyes shadowed, fingers twisting the edge of his sleeve.

“My gran told me about them,” he continued, his voice no louder than a breath. “You’re not imagining things, Esther… The carriages are pulled by Thestrals. They’re magical creatures. But only people who’ve seen death can see them.”

His words seemed to echo in the air, as though the night itself was listening.

I felt as though the bottom dropped out of my stomach. Cold spread through my chest, sharp as shards of glass.

“I… see,” I managed, my voice barely steady. A small, grateful smile twitched at my lips as I met Neville’s eyes.

Hermione placed a gentle hand over mine, her own eyes shining with sorrow. “It must be your grandfather…” she whispered.

A lump formed in my throat. I could only nod, pressing my lips together to keep them from trembling.

Trying to shake off the chill wrapping around me like a shroud, I cleared my throat. “Well… let me describe them to you,” I said softly.

And as the carriage rattled toward Hogwarts, I began to paint a picture of the eerie beauty I’d glimpsed—a tale of shadowed wings and moonlit eyes—while deep inside, I grappled with the knowledge that my world would never quite look the same again.

We stepped down from the carriages into the shadowed twilight of Hogwarts grounds. The castle loomed ahead like a sanctuary carved from starlight and stone, but I had no time to admire it .

There was still no sign of Harry or Ron.

Inside the Great Hall, the grandeur surrounded us as always—the star-kissed ceiling, the glowing candles, the long house tables—but it all felt distant. Hollow... My eyes locked onto the staff table immediately, scanning for a sign of guidance.

Professor McGonagall was absent.

Without another word, I tugged Hermione forward. The murmurs of arriving students faded behind us as we approached the head table. Dumbledore, in the midst of quiet conversation with Professor Sprout, caught sight of us and stood up, surprise flickering across his features.

Before he could speak, I cut in—urgent and breathless.

“Harry and Ron didn’t make it onto the train.”

Hermione added quickly, “They arrived at King’s Cross with the Weasleys—but they never boarded. We checked the entire train. They weren’t there.”

For a moment, Dumbledore said nothing. The twinkle in his eyes dimmed slightly, his expression unreadable. But behind that calm facade, I sensed the tension coil, sharp as a wand drawn under the table.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice deep and measured. “Thank you, Miss Black. Miss Granger.”

“But, Headmaster—” Hermione started again, unable to hide the fear.

He raised a hand gently, the gesture quieting her like a charm. “Do not worry, Miss Granger. I assure you, we will look into this immediately. They will be found—and brought safely to the castle.”

He turned to me, eyes locking with mine. There was warmth there. But also steel. “You’ve done right, both of you. Now return to your seats. The first-years await their Sorting—and we must not let them begin their journey with fear.”

Reluctantly, we obeyed, returning to our seats at the Gryffindor table.

“Dumbledore will find them,” Hermione said quietly, though her eyes didn’t leave the staff table. “He will.”

I gave her a small nod, swallowing the knot in my throat. “He has to.”

Moments later, the doors opened and the Sorting Ceremony began. One by one, nervous first-years stepped forward under the enchanted ceiling. There were seven new Gryffindors this year—among them was Ginny Weasley, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming.

“Ron’s going to howl when he finds out he missed her Sorting,” Fred whispered with a crooked grin.

“He’ll probably demand a re-sort just to watch it happen,” George snorted.

Their banter tugged a reluctant laugh from my chest. But the moment was shattered by a sudden, shrill shriek echoing through the hall. The kind of sound that slices into bone. Panic surged.

Gasps and whispers erupted. A few students jumped to their feet. Others twisted in their seats, eyes wide.

“Silence!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed, silencing the hall in an instant.

He raised a hand calmly. “Please, remain seated. It’s just the Shrieking Shack.”

His tone was smooth, but I saw it—that subtle glance he exchanged with Professors Snape and Flitwick. Without a word, both men rose and exited swiftly.

The feast resumed. Plates refilled. Conversations restarted.

But I couldn’t eat. Not a single bite. Hermione, too, only pushed her food around her plate. My appetite had disappeared somewhere on Platform 9¾.

Over an hour later, the feast concluded. As we filed toward the exits, Dumbledore’s gaze swept the hall once more—and landed on me. He gave a subtle nod. Gentle.... Reassuring. But there was something in his eyes.

A twinkle—bright, resolute.

I stopped cold, eyes widening. “They’re back,” I whispered.

Hermione turned toward me. “What?”

“They’re back, Mione. Harry and Ron—they are here.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, we broke into a fast walk, almost running with the rest of the Gryffindors back to the common room.

And there they were.

Harry and Ron, sitting by the fire, looking like they’d wrestled a hurricane. Ron’s robes were torn, his wand in two. Harry had a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek, and his hair was an even bigger mess than usual.

Relief crashed over me like a tidal wave.

“Where’s Ginny? I heard she’s a Gryffindor!” Ron asked immediately, his voice eager despite his fatigue.

“She’s with the first years, Ronnykins. They’ll be here soon,” Fred quipped from behind us.

Ignoring the exchange, I stepped towards Harry. My voice caught between sternness and concern. “What happened to you two? You look like you fought a troll.”

Harry gave a tired sigh and began recounting their insane journey—blocked platforms, flying cars, the Whomping Willow…

Hermione gasped. “You drove to Hogwarts in a flying car? That’s absolutely ridiculous! You could’ve been expelled!”

“Well, we didn’t have much of a choice, did we?” Ron shot back defensively.

I sighed, taking in their battered appearances. “Did you at least see Madam Pomfrey? You both look like you’ve been through a battle.”

“We did,” Harry said with a faint smile. “Madam Pomfrey had a fit, She gave us some potions. We’re fine now—much better, actually.”

Though missing the feast and only having sandwiches was a total letdown,” Ron grumbled.

“Tragic,” Fred said dryly.

“For Merlin’s sake, Ronald! Your wand is broken” Hermione sighed exasperatedly.

And somehow, despite it all, we laughed. The tension lifted. For the first time in hours, I could breathe again.

We were all together and safe…..

The first morning of my second year at Hogwarts greeted me with something I sincerely hoped never to personally experience—a Howler.

It all began innocently enough. We were halfway through breakfast, forks clinking and owls swooping overhead, when suddenly a scarlet envelope dropped onto Ron’s plate like a dead bird.

“Oh no…” Ron whimpered, eyes wide as saucers.

Fred and George leaned in instantly, grinning like hyenas.

“Go on, Ronniekins—open it!” Fred said brightly.

“Best not to keep Mum waiting,” George added, his face practically glowing with evil delight.

The entire Gryffindor table fell silent, every single person craning their necks to see the spectacle.

Padma looked horrified. “Is…is that a Howler?” she whispered.

I cringed. “I’ve heard about those. Apparently, they explode if you ignore them…”

“OPEN IT, RON!” Seamus bellowed from down the table.

Ron, pale and sweating, reluctantly tore the envelope open.

At once, Mrs. Weasley’s furious voice blasted through the Great Hall at a decibel level that could have cracked the windows:

“RONALD WEASLEY!! HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR!!”

Several first-years dove under the table. Owls screeched and flapped overhead. Plates rattled as her voice rolled on, shrill and relentless, recounting the flying car, Muggle sightings, and the potential DISGRACE he’d brought upon the entire family.

“YOUR FATHER IS FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK—AND IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT!!”

I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bench. Harry looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

By the time Mrs. Weasley’s voice finally shriveled into a huffing gasp, Ron’s face was the color of a ripe tomato. Smoke literally curled from the remnants of the letter as it lay in shreds on his plate.

“That was…” Hermione said faintly, eyes still huge, “…horrible.”

Ron slumped over the table, muttering, “Kill me now.”

Just then, as if on cue, Professor McGonagall appeared beside us, looking entirely unfazed—as though public shrieking was an everyday breakfast affair.

“Goodness, Mr. Weasley,” she said coolly, “your mother does have a powerful set of lungs.” She proceeded to hand out timetables with perfect composure.

I tried desperately to keep a straight face as I unfolded my schedule.

This year, we still had seven classes—but Flying had been replaced by Herbology.

“We’ve got two classes today,” Harry said, trying to break the lingering tension as he peered at his timetable.

“Well, I’m excited for Herbology!” I announced, forcing my voice into a cheerful pitch. “It’s a brand-new subject to dive into. Can’t wait!”

Hermione practically glowed. “And Defense Against the Dark Arts! Finally, we have a proper teacher this year!”

Ron gave her a look of pure disbelief. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Hermione turned on him, eyes flashing. “And WHY not?”

Ron threw his arms up. “Because he looks like a git. Come on—I can’t be the only one who thinks that!”

Harry and I exchanged a long look. Neither of us was willing to admit it aloud…but…well…Lockhart’s perfect hair and pearly grin did seem suspiciously like the signs of a man more interested in mirrors than monsters.

Hermione huffed. “Honestly, Ron. Just because someone cares about their appearance doesn’t mean they’re incompetent!”

Ron muttered, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Not wanting our breakfast to end in bloodshed, I cleared my throat. “Well… let’s finish up quickly. The greenhouse is going to be quite the walk.”

Ron groaned, poking his toast. “Brilliant. Nothing like a long hike to look at dangerous plants right after your mother screams your crimes for the whole school to hear…”

George leaned in. “Don’t worry, Ron. We’ll write home and tell Mum how well you handled the Howler.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “And that you only wet yourself a little bit.”

“OH, SHUT IT!” Ron snapped, burying his face in his timetable as the twins cackled.

Despite everything, I found myself grinning. Hogwarts was chaos—but at least it was never boring.

It took a solid twenty minutes of trudging through damp grass and misty Hogwarts grounds to reach Greenhouse Three—a quaint, slightly wonky wooden building that smelled like a suspicious mix of earth, fertilizer, and something vaguely resembling a bog monster.

Sunlight streamed through the fogged glass panes, casting shimmering patterns across a room so crammed with exotic plants, it felt like we’d stumbled into a jungle.

Some plants twitched. Others rattled. A few seemed to be giving us the evil eye.

In the center stood two long tables, each lined with potted plants, empty pots, soil scoops…and an ominously neat row of earmuffs.

I leaned closer to Harry, whispering under my breath. “What in Merlin’s name do you think we’re in for today?”

Harry, who was eyeballing a spiky plant that appeared to be growling, whispered back, “I dunno…but if anything tries to bite me, I’m leaving.”

The door swung open, slamming against the wall with a BANG. Professor Sprout bustled in, wearing her signature patched hat and earth-stained robes. She clapped her gloved hands together, beaming at us like we were about to be offered tea and biscuits instead of mortal peril.

“Good morning, everyone!” she trilled. “Today, we’ll be repotting… Mandrakes!”

“Mandragora… that explains the earmuffs,” I muttered under my breath as Hermione’s hand shot into the air.

“Mandragora, or Mandrake, is a powerful restorative,” Hermione announced, looking positively giddy. “It’s used to return people who’ve been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”

“Excellent, Miss Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout, beaming. “The Mandrake is an essential part of many antidotes…but it’s also quite dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Hermione didn’t even pause for breath. “The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it!”

Ron gave a strangled noise. “Fatal?”

“Very good!” Professor Sprout chirped. “Now, let’s move on to the practical portion of the lesson. You’ll be uprooting your Mandrakes and transferring them into the larger pots. And remember—wear your earmuffs!”

I glanced at Ron. He was staring at the earmuffs like they were a pair of medieval torture devices. “Screams that kill you… brilliant. Just brilliant.”

We all shuffled forward, donning the earmuffs. Mine were a hideous mustard yellow and smelled faintly of cabbage.

“Ready?” Professor Sprout called cheerfully. “One… two… THREE—PULL!”

I grabbed the leaves of my Mandrake and yanked.

Instantly, an ear-splitting shriek burst forth—a sound so shrill it vibrated in my bones even through the earmuffs. The Mandrake was a baby with green, warty skin, flailing limbs, and a face contorted in an expression of pure tantrum-fury. Soil flew everywhere.

My precious Ears……

Neville dropped his Mandrake and toppled backward like a felled tree. Ron went white as a ghost, while Draco shrieked in a pitch that probably shattered glass back at the castle.

“OH, MERLIN—PUT IT BACK, PUT IT BACK!” Ron howled.

“Keep potting!” Sprout called over the cacophony, as if we were merely planting daisies.

Heart hammering, I crammed my Mandrake into the new pot, heaving soil over it until the hideous wailing finally stopped. Across the table, Ron’s Mandrake flung dirt at his face before he managed to shove it down.

When the last shriek died, Ron slumped over the table, panting. “Enough screaming for one day. I’ll be hearing that bloody thing in my nightmares…”

Suddenly, the greenhouse door swung open again, and in strode Professor Lockhart, hair gleaming and robes billowing as though he was starring in his own personal drama.

“Ah, Professor Sprout!” he declared, flashing a dazzling smile. “So sorry to intrude—but I must borrow Mr. Potter for a little… important matter.”

Professor Sprout gave him a look so withering that even the nearest plants seemed to shrink away.

“Fine. Take him,” she huffed, brushing soil from her robes. “But try not to distract the rest of my class!”

Lockhart winked at Harry, who looked as if he’d rather repot Mandrakes for eternity than leave with him.

As Harry trudged off, Sprout waved her trowel. “Class dismissed!”

We spilled out of the greenhouse, still buzzing from the chaos. Ron staggered along beside me, rubbing his ears. “You reckon Madam Pomfrey’s got something for Mandrake-induced trauma?”

I snorted. “We’d better hope so, or Hogwarts will have an entire ward full of second-years screaming in their sleep!”

Despite the near-death experience, I couldn’t help but laugh. Hogwarts was off to its usual start—and somehow, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Next, we had Transfiguration. The moment we stepped into the classroom, a hush fell over us like a silencing charm. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, glinting off rows of desks neatly aligned, each one awaiting its occupant with an air of solemn expectation. At the front stood Professor McGonagall, regal and imposing as ever, her sharp gaze scanning us with hawk-like precision. The faint swish of her emerald robes seemed to echo through the room as she moved.

“Wands out,” she commanded, her voice crisp as snapping ice. “Today we will be perfecting object-to-animal transformations. Precision, control, and focus are imperative.”

A frisson of nervous energy crackled through us as we raised our wands.

For most of us, the lesson went smoothly. Sparks danced through the air, and tentative squeaks and fluttering wings filled the classroom as pencils transformed into field mice and paperweights sprouted tiny feathers.

All except for Ron.

He aimed his battered, Spellotape-bound wand at his matchstick and muttered the incantation. A spark shot out—and instead of a neat transformation, his matchstick exploded into a puff of purple smoke. When it cleared, the matchstick now sported furry ears and what looked suspiciously like chicken legs, twitching in a most unsettling way.

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron groaned, smacking his forehead as the abomination attempted to scuttle off the desk.

Professor McGonagall swooped down upon him. “Mr. Weasley—kindly restrain your… creation… before it makes an escape!”

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles, while Harry and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. Despite the chaos, McGonagall managed to reverse the spell with a sharp flick of her wand, leaving Ron pink-faced and muttering under his breath.

By the time dinner rolled around, the tension of the day had begun to fade. We returned to the common room, the warm glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows on the walls. The evening was spent in easy conversation, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Hermione, as always, was fussing about finishing the homework we’d been assigned that day, eyes darting between her parchment and her friends, as though afraid we’d vanish before the week was up.

Harry was practically bouncing in his seat, unable to hide his excitement. “First Quidditch practice this Saturday,” he announced, green eyes shining. “Wood says this year’s our year!”

Ron slumped dramatically into his chair, waving his wand in disgust. “I just hope my wand doesn’t explode in my face again. Honestly, I’m one spell away from becoming a hazard sign.”

Neville chimed in, his round face alight with enthusiasm. “At least Herbology was fun today. I think Professor Sprout actually likes me!”

I gave a soft smile, fiddling with the bracelet on my wrist. “I wish I could write to Grandfather about all of this. He’d have loved hearing about our classes.” My voice caught for a moment, a sharp ache twisting in my chest.

The others fell silent for a heartbeat, the crackle of the fire filling the quiet. Then Hermione gently laid a hand over mine. “He’d be proud of you, Esther. And you can always tell us everything. We’ll listen.”

I managed a small, grateful laugh. “Thanks, Mione. I know.”

Soon, the hour grew late, and one by one, we drifted off to bed.

When I returned to my dormitory, the shadows seemed softer, the castle’s magic pulsing like a living heartbeat around me. Starlet was already curled up on my pillow, her fur rising and falling with tiny, contented breaths.

I quickly slipped into my nightclothes, brushed my hair, and whispered a quiet goodnight to the room.

As I slid beneath the covers, a comforting warmth spread through me. Despite the chaos and the lingering shadows of worry, I felt safe. I closed my eyes, letting sleep claim me, carrying me into the swirling depths of dreamland…

Chapter Text

Friday dawned bright and crisp, deceptively peaceful for what turned out to be an absolute circus—our first class with Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.

From the moment we entered the classroom, I sensed trouble. It was like stepping into a museum. Every wall was plastered with enormous portraits of Lockhart, each one winking, tossing his golden hair, or striking dramatic hero-poses while holding oddly sparkly wands. 

Harry leaned closer and whispered, “I swear, that one just blew me a kiss.”

I glanced around and shuddered. “Merlin help us all.”

Lockhart swept in like he was descending a grand staircase at a gala, teeth sparkling, robes swirling, and hair so perfectly coiffed it defied gravity.

“Good morning, class!” he boomed, flashing a grin so blinding I was sure it could double as a Lumos spell. “Today, we embark on an exciting journey into the wonders of my life!”

And thus began the longest twenty minutes of my life.

He regaled us—at ear-splitting volume—with tales of his numerous awards, miraculous escapes from banshees, his alleged invention of “Lockhart’s Legendary Lightning Charm,” and, to top it off, his personal hair-care routine.

“And let’s not forget my own line of shampoo!” he declared, flipping his hair theatrically. “Available exclusively at Madam Malkin’s!”

Ron leaned over, gagging slightly. “Bet it smells like ego and hair gel.”

Just when I thought we were free, Lockhart clapped his hands and said, “Time for a little quiz!”

It had nothing to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts. Instead, it was a Fifty-four-question test titled:   How Well Do You Know Gilderoy Lockhart?

A collective groan rolled through the classroom......

I stared at the paper in horrified disbelief.

• What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?
• What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s ideal birthday gift?
• What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?

“I can’t believe this,” I whispered. “Never thought I’d see the day when someone out-Draco’d Draco in pure self-obsession.”

Harry didn’t even pick up his quill while Ron just scribbled “Who cares?” on half the questions.

I was proud of my boys.

For the first time ever, I turned in a completely blank test. It felt like sacrilege, but I was sure Grandfather would have forgiven me for not knowing Lockhart’s favorite shampoo scent.

Only Hermione finished every question, looking radiant as she handed in her paper.

“She’s hopeless,” Ron groaned. “Bloke’s a walking hair commercial, and she’s in love.”

I shook my head. “Just give her time. The sparkles will fade eventually.”

Lockhart, meanwhile, looked genuinely wounded as he flipped through our pitiful quizzes.

“Class! My favorite color is lilac!” he said in a tragic voice, pressing a hand to his chest. “I just mentioned it minutes ago! Well… you’ll all learn more about me in due course.”

“Oh, joy,” Ron muttered.

Next came the practical lesson—and things somehow got worse.

Lockhart proudly unveiled a cage filled with "freshly caught" Cornish Pixies- small, electric-blue creatures, no more than eight inches tall, with sharp faces and shrill, mischievous voices.

I blanched “Oh, no.”

The moment Lockhart released them, chaos erupted.

The Pixies darted around the room in a wild frenzy. Two snatched Neville by the collar and hoisted him into the air, leaving him dangling helplessly from the chandelier. Several others tore apart the classroom, shredding books, toppling desks, and ripping down the countless portraits of Lockhart. One pixie zoomed by Ron’s head, shrieking insults in a high-pitched voice. Another tried to steal my hairband, chittering madly. 

With his usual flair, Lockhart dramatically flicked his wand and declared, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

Absolutely nothing happened.

The pixies didn’t even pause. One blew a raspberry at him and started snapping quills in half.

“Uhh… right! Carry on, everyone!” Lockhart said, going slightly pale as he fled into his office and slammed the door shut, leaving us, students to deal with the disaster.

Hermione and I immediately began fending off the pixie horde, blasting Freezing Charms at them to force them back in the cage, while Ron and Harry wrestled Neville down from the ceiling, who kept squeaking, “My shoelaces are caught!”

By the time we wrestled the last pixie back into its cage and restored the overturned desks, we were all sweating, panting, and looking half-deranged.

As we staggered toward lunch, still covered in pixie scratches and bits of shredded parchment, Harry sighed. “I don’t know who was worse. Quirrell or Lockhart.”

Ron rubbed his ear where a pixie had tried to nibble him. “At least Quirrell didn’t try to sell us hair products.”

We all burst out laughing, even as we limped into the Great Hall, still ranting about Lockhart—the sparkly fraud whose Defence Against the Dark Arts class was anything but safe.

That afternoon found us gathered in the common room, parchment and textbooks spread out across tables, quills scratching away as we tackled the mountain of homework already assigned in our first week. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, thunder rumbling like distant giants.

It was into this cozy chaos that Percy Weasley suddenly appeared, his prefect badge gleaming, his expression unusually serious.

“Esther,” he said curtly, “the Headmaster wishes to see you.”

My quill froze mid-word. Hermione’s head snapped up, eyes wide with worry.

“He’s probably just checking in on you,” she said quickly, though her voice trembled a little. “You know… since he’s your guardian now.”

I tried to smile, but my stomach twisted into a nervous knot. I gathered my books, murmuring a hasty goodbye, and slipped from the warmth of the common room into the chill of the castle corridors.

My footsteps echoed as I made my way toward the stone gargoyles guarding the spiral staircase. For a brief second, I hesitated, palms clammy against the banister.

Then I squared my shoulders and spoke the password in a clear voice: “Sweet Pops.”

With a low grinding noise, the stone creatures sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase, gliding upward like a silent, enchanted serpent. I ascended slowly, the flickering torchlight throwing my shadow in twisting patterns along the walls.

Dumbledore’s office awaited me at the top, its oak door slightly ajar, as though the room itself was holding its breath.

I stepped inside—and for a moment, it was as though time stood still.

Books crammed every shelf, trinkets whirred and spun on cluttered tables, and the air shimmered with faint motes of magic. Fawkes, perched on her golden stand, looked at me with luminous eyes, her feathers catching the light like burning embers. She was noticeably larger now, regal and silent, her fiery plumage pulsing gently.

Behind his massive desk sat Professor Dumbledore, his silver beard flowing over stacks of parchment as he read intently, quill scratching in deliberate strokes. He didn’t glance up, yet his voice curled into the air like smoke.

“Take a seat on the couch, Esther. I’ll be with you in a moment. And do help yourself to some sweets.”

I lowered myself onto the velvet cushions, heart thudding in my chest, as a silver dish of lemon drops floated silently toward me. Suddenly a flutter of scarlet wings caught my eye. Fawkes glided down from her golden perch and landed delicately on my lap.

I froze for an instant—then, tentatively, I reached out and brushed my fingers through her feathers. They were warm, impossibly soft, as if I were stroking living flames. Fawkes made a low, melodic trill, as though sensing the storm of emotions inside me.

It was oddly comforting.

A few minutes later, parchment crackling under his fingers, Dumbledore laid aside his quill and finally lifted his gaze. He rose and crossed the room, lowering himself into the chair opposite mine.

“Esther,” he began, and immediately I noticed it—the note of vulnerability in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “The truth is… I failed as a family man in my own life. And I doubt I could ever be the guiding presence your grandfather was to you. But… I want to try. I wish to make this work between us. Will you help me?”

I blinked, stunned by the rawness of his confession. He looked so… human. Flawed. Earnest.

I met his piercing blue eyes, feeling the tight knot in my chest loosen just a fraction.

“You don’t have to be my grandfather, Headmaster,” I said softly. “Nor anyone else. We don’t need to replace people we’ve lost… we just….. we just have to make space for each other—in our own ways.”

He listened, silent, as I drew a slow breath and continued, my voice strengthening.

“But I won’t lie to you. It’s true—I don’t trust you.”

A flicker of something passed across his face, but leaning forward I pressed on “And that’s because, for some reason… I don’t think you trust me, either,” my pulse thundering in my ears.

“Also, I’ll be honest with you, Headmaster—I share my grandfather’s beliefs. I believe all magic is inherently neutral. The magic itself isn’t good or evil.

It’s what you choose to do with it that matters.”

Dumbledore remained very still, his eyes glittering like chips of ice under the lamplight.

I swallowed hard and forged ahead.

“I won’t pretend otherwise. I will learn Dark Magic. I intend to study everything I can. But I will never use it to harm the innocent. Dark Magic holds immense power, and I refuse to ignore half the spells in existence just because some ridiculous superiority complex held by the so-called ‘light side.’”

A sharp current of silence stretched between us. Even Fawkes stilled, as though sensing the magnitude of my words.

“If—no, when—when Voldemort rises again,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “we both know he won’t hold back. And I refuse to rely only on light spells to protect myself or the people I love. So yes—I will practice Dark Magic. If you have a problem with that… you’ll have to tell me now.”

For a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. His gaze drilled into me, ancient and fathomless, as though he were weighing not just my words but my very soul.

Then, at last, Dumbledore exhaled, a slow, measured breath.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I will allow you to study any branch of magic you wish—but under three conditions.”

I stared at him, shocked. Of all the outcomes I’d imagined, his agreement was not one of them. He—Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the Light—was actually allowing me to study the Dark Arts. I could hardly believe it.

“I’m listening,” I managed, my voice a whisper.

“First,” he said, steepling his fingers, “every fortnight, you will meet with me to discuss the spells you’ve learned. No secrets between us.”

I nodded, tension vibrating through my limbs.

“Second,” he went on, “Dark Magic—aside from the three Unforgivable Curses—is not illegal. However… the wizarding world is steeped in fear. Light extremists will judge you, hound you. I will not see you become a target. So my second condition is this: you must practice in secret. No one must know.”

“My friends wouldn’t judge me,” I said defiantly.

His expression didn’t waver. “Even friends can fear what they don’t understand.”

I bit my lip, then gave a grudging nod. “Fine. I’ll keep it secret. And the third?”

Here, Dumbledore hesitated. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, grave murmur.

“You must never reveal your father’s identity to anyone.”

A jolt of pure shock pulsed through me.

“My… my father?” I stammered. “You… you know who he is?”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “I do. Your grandfather shared that truth with me before he entrusted me with your guardianship. It was the single piece of information I insisted on knowing.”

My world seemed to tilt around me. My hands curled into fists in my lap.

“But why should I hide it?” I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief. “Tom is just a Muggle name, isn’t it? Was he really that important in the wizarding world? The way you—and my grandfather—speak of him, it’s as if he was someone monumental. The only Tom I know is the bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, and he’s far too young to be my father!”

A flicker of sadness crossed Dumbledore’s face.

“You know his name?” he asked quietly. “Your grandfather told you?”

I nodded slowly. “He only gave me a name—Tom Riddle—over the holidays. And a letter, also a vial from my mother. But he made me swear not to open them until my thirteenth birthday.”

“I see…” Dumbledore murmured. He fell silent for several seconds, the ticking of a silver clock the only sound in the room.

Finally, he looked me dead in the eyes.

“Esther, you must promise me—you will not reveal anything about him. Not his name, not his parentage, not his part in the war. Not until you know the full truth yourself.”

The weight in his voice turned my blood to ice.

I swallowed hard, throat dry. “Alright. I promise.”

“But in return,” I said firmly, lifting my chin, “once I turn thirteen, I want honesty from you. No more riddles. No more half-answers. If you know the truth—I want it.”

A glimmer of pride sparked in Dumbledore’s eyes. Slowly, he inclined his head. “I promise, Esther. When the time comes… I will tell you everything.”

A silence fell between us, heavy yet oddly peaceful.

Then Dumbledore gave a faint smile, trying to lighten the air. “Now… tell me how your second year is unfolding so far.”

I grabbed two orange-flavoured candies from the crystal dish on the table, unwrapped them, and held one out toward Dumbledore.

“Here, Headmaster. I’ll bribe you for a longer audience,” I said, forcing a mischievous grin.

His eyes twinkled as he accepted it. “A cunning tactic, Miss Black. I suspect you’ve inherited that from both sides of your family.”

I popped the candy into my mouth, the citrus bite cutting through the tension, and launched into my tales. I told him about my first week, my classes, my friends… and, inevitably, my simmering fury at Lockhart.

“Honestly, Headmaster,” I exploded, throwing my hands in the air, “where do you even find these incompetent clowns for our Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers? It’s such an important subject—so many fascinating things to learn… but that man spends the entire class lecturing us about his favourite colour and the contents of his vanity kit! It’s absolutely ridiculous!”

Dumbledore leaned back, chuckling softly. “I’m afraid the blame for that falls partly on me… and on your father.”

My breath caught. The candy nearly slipped from my fingers. “My father?” I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression tinged with regret. “You see… once upon a time, he applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. As Headmaster, it was my duty to decide whether to accept or reject his application. And I declined, believing him… unfit for the post.”

A chill rippled down my spine.

This was the first hint… the first clue where I should have connected the dots. Both my father—and that man—had tried for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, both rejected. But I was too naïve. Too wrapped in the illusions of childhood to even imagine that I could be the daughter of that man. I never dreamed the truth waiting for me at the end of this term—a truth sharp enough to shatter my world.

“And, well…” Dumbledore gave a wry, almost bitter smile. “Your father did not take rejection lightly. In his anger, he cursed the position so that no professor could ever hold it for more than a year.”

I could only stare at him, thunderstruck.

“He cursed the post?” I finally spluttered. Then, an incredulous, disbelieving laugh burst from my throat. “That’s… that’s childish! I don’t know whether to applaud him for his level of mischief—or be furious that his bruised ego means we have to suffer incompetent professors for eternity!”

Dumbledore’s answering smile was faint, edged with sorrow. “Yes. A battle of ‘what-ifs’ still haunts me for that decision, even all these years later.”

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping a tear of amusement from the corner of my eye. “Well, at least I know one thing about my father’s personality now: he held a grudge spectacularly.”

We spoke for hours after that, the conversation drifting between shadow and light. Dumbledore told me about his own family—his father, Percival, who died in Azkaban; his mother, Kendra, who met a tragic end; and his sister, Ariana, whose life was extinguished by a single moment of chaos. He spoke of Aberforth, still living in Hogsmeade, and of simpler days when he taught Transfiguration at Hogwarts, long before the weight of the Headmaster’s chair settled on his shoulders.

He also confessed his peculiar love for colourful socks and bizarrely flavoured candies, drawing a reluctant grin from me despite the weight pressing on my chest.

Finally, the clock chimed, a soft, silvery echo that filled the room like the final note of a spell.

I stood, feeling both older and younger than I had when I entered.

As I reached the door, Dumbledore spoke again, his voice gentle yet laced with steel.

“You are not alone, Esther. Not as long as I am here.”

I met his gaze, and—for the first time—a small spark of trust flickered to life between us.

And I thought, with a cautious, fragile hope:

Maybe… just maybe… I still have someone to guide me.

Saturday morning dawned crisp and cold, the sky as sharp and bright as cut glass. It was the first Gryffindor Quidditch practice of the year. Harry had slipped out early to meet the team, while the rest of us lingered over breakfast, planning to watch from the stands and catch up on homework.

But the moment we arrived at the pitch, it was clear something was very, very wrong.

From the stands, we could see two groups facing off on the grass below—the red and gold of Gryffindor blazing against the green and silver of Slytherin. Voices carried, echoing off the empty seats, laced with fury.

“Wood looks furious,” Ron muttered beside me, eyes wide.

“The Slytherins must be causing trouble again,” Hermione said, already marching forward. “Come on—we have to see this.”

We hurried down, our footsteps crunching on the frosted grass. As we pushed through the crowd, the reason for the commotion came into view— Slytherin had a new Seeker.

My cousin. Draco Malfoy.

He sat astride a brand-new Nimbus 2001, the broom glinting like polished obsidian in the pale sunlight. His hair, pale as moonlight, was slicked back perfectly. His smirk could have curdled milk. I had expected him to have a new broom—he’s a Malfoy, after all—but what I hadn’t anticipated (though I really should have) was that Lucius Malfoy had bought Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin team.

Typical.....

That, however, wasn’t the main issue.

The real problem—Professor Snape stood beside them, arms folded, his black robes billowing in the wind like a thundercloud. He was announcing—loudly—that the Slytherins had special permission to use the pitch that morning, to “break in their new Seeker.”

Harry was glaring daggers at Draco. Wood’s face was turning a shade of purple not found in nature.

Draco, of course, wasted no time taunting Ron, jeering about his family’s financial situation, and the usual childish insults flew back and forth..

Hermione soon stepped in, pointing out that Draco had bought his way onto the team rather than earning his spot through skill. While I disagreed—Draco was a good flyer—he didn’t even bother defending himself. Instead, he went straight for the lowest blow.

"Mudblood."

The word hit the air like a slap. The silence that followed was deafening. It felt like the entire world froze around us. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

“That’s low, Draco,” I snapped, my voice shaking with rage. “Even for you.”

Before I could say more, Ron lunged forward, wand trembling in his hand.

“Eat slugs!” he bellowed.

A bright flash—then disaster.

The spell backfired, rebounding into Ron’s chest. His eyes went wide. He doubled over, gagging—then promptly began vomiting slugs. Thick, glistening slugs that splattered onto the grass with sickening thunks.

Slytherins howled with laughter, pointing and jeering, their cackles echoing like cruel bells. Draco leaned back on his broom, grinning in triumph.

Hermione and the Gryffindor team scrambled to help Ron, half-dragging, half-carrying him away from the pitch.

I stayed behind, my gaze fixed on Draco.

“I’ll admit it—you’re a good flyer, Draco. You deserve your position as Seeker,” I said evenly. “But mocking someone for their family’s financial struggles? You have no idea when times might change, Cousin”

I turned to leave but paused, glancing back at him one last time. My voice cut the air like glass.

“And one more thing—Hermione might be Muggle-born, but she did come second in our year. Two spots ahead of you. So, if anyone here needs to prove their worth, Cousin…. it’s certainly not her.”

I didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, I spun on my heel and hurried after my friends, heading toward Hagrid’s hut.

Chapter Text

Inside Hagrid’s hut, the air was thick with the scent of tea and the faint, unpleasant sound of Ron still retching into a bucket. He looked miserable, his face pale and clammy,...  while the rest of us hovered around Hermione, who sat stiffly in one of Hagrid’s oversized chairs. Her usual bright eyes were downcast, and she looked... almost broken.

Without thinking, I crossed the room and wrapped her in a tight hug.

“Listen to me, Mione,” I whispered firmly. “Don’t let that idiot’s words get to you. Classifying wizards by blood is just some ridiculous excuse Purebloods use to make themselves feel superior. It doesn’t matter if your parents are Muggles. What matters is they are good people, they raised you in a loving home and gave you every chance to thrive.”

I pulled back, meeting her eyes.

“And Draco probably just learned that fancy insult over the summer to make himself feel superior. You know he’s a prick—just another spoiled brat who unfortunately, is trying to follow in his classist father’s footsteps.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath, but she still didn’t look convinced.

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Next time he calls you that... just sneer right back and say, ‘Pureblood.’”

I mimicked Draco’s pompous drawl perfectly, and finally—finally—a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“She’s right, yeh know,” Hagrid rumbled from his chair by the fire. “Whatever Draco said is codswallop. I haven’t heard a spell yet that Hermione Granger can’t do better than half the professors.”

That did it. Hermione’s smile bloomed fully, and the tension in the room eased.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in Hagrid’s warm little hut, sipping tea and nibbling on slightly stale biscuits while Ron continued his unfortunate slug ordeal. It took nearly four hours before he finally stopped vomiting, and by then, the sky outside had darkened.

When we finally left, the cool evening air felt lighter somehow, as if the weight of Draco’s words had been left behind with the last of Ron’s slugs.

The next few days passed in a blur. Harry and Ron spent the entire week serving their detentions, and every night, without fail, they’d return to the Gryffindor common room grumbling about their punishments before collapsing into our common-room sofas...

“He makes me answer his fan mail,” Harry groaned one evening, flopping into the sofa. “Thinks it’s an honor. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more boring punishment in my life.”

“Oh, please,” Ron snapped, throwing a cushion at him. “You got lucky with Lockhart. I’ve been polishing every single school trophy in the castle. I swear, I’ve scrubbed over eighteen hundred in the last four days, and there’s still no end in sight!”

While, they endured their tedious chores, my nights were quieter—though no less restless. I spent most evenings tucked away in my trunk, practicing spells from the Black family books or revising lessons from class. Sometimes I’d experiment with new potions, letting the familiar routines of brewing calm my mind.

But more often than not, I found myself staring at the letter and the vials, their presence a constant weight in my thoughts. Resisting the urge to open the letter was becoming increasingly difficult—especially after my conversation with the Headmaster. Both Grandfather and Dumbledore had hinted that my father had been someone significant in the wizarding world, and the mystery gnawed at me. Despite my efforts, I had found no trace of his name in either the extensive Black family library or even in Hogwarts' vast archives.... Only in the Trophy Room, I finally uncovered a clue—his name, etched into a plaque commemorating an award for special service to the school. From there, I figured out that he had studied at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Also, he must be a good person, I mean winning service award for school... So, I just could not understand what the fuss was all about...

What was the secret that everyone seemed so determined to keep from me?

From whatever little information I had gathered, I guessed two scenarios about him -

First, He was a Muggle-born wizard so maybe the Blacks despised him for it, and that’s why my parents left the family behind. But when Voldemort discovered them, he killed my father, forcing my mother to time-travel to save me.

And second, He joined Voldemort with my mother in the past …. Perhaps they both realized too late how mad he truly was and when they tried to leave, Voldemort found out and killed my father.

I kept hoping neither of those theories were true—that somehow, he was still alive, hiding somewhere, waiting to find me. But that hope felt foolish.

If he were alive… surely, he would have come for me by now.

Today marked the last day of Harry and Ron’s detention. Both of them looked relieved beyond words. After lunch, they trudged off to serve their final punishment, while Hermione headed to the library. I, on the other hand, was on my way to my first lesson with Dumbledore.

I hadn’t learned any new dark spells over the past couple of weeks, so I told him about the ones I had mastered before. Most were from the Black library and taught under the guidance of my grandfather, including two healing spells. Then there was the spell I’d learned last year from Quirrell—Voldemort, the same spell I’d used against him in that cursed room.

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with interest when I mentioned that last part. I spoke honestly, admitting, “He was a good teacher… just creepy.”

The Headmaster nodded slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes remained tense, troubled. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell the idea of me learning dark magic directly from the Dark Lord unsettled him.

Wanting to ease the tension, I shifted the conversation to my Samhain plans. I told him I planned to perform the ritual this year, just as I had last year.

“It’s a way for me to feel closer to my mother,” I said quietly. “And this time, I’ll be praying in respect for my grandfather too.” My voice grew stronger, frustration creeping in. “I don’t understand why Ron and most Gryffindors think it’s wrong to celebrate the ritual. It gives such peace… blessings… solace.”

Dumbledore smiled gently and nodded. “You may celebrate the ritual, my dear. And, I won’t lie—I have my own prejudices against it, for personal reasons of course. But if it brings you peace, I would never stand in your way.”

After two hours of meaningful conversation and lessons, Dumbledore finally excused me. “Go on,” he said warmly. “Your friends’ detentions should be over by now.”

I nodded and made my way out. I was halfway through the dungeons, heading toward the Great Hall, when I froze.

A strange, sinister voice echoed through the cold stone corridors, hissing in Parseltongue.

“Come,”

“ Blood,”

“ Let me rip you”

At first, I was confused. The voice was faint, eerie, and unfamiliar. But in true reckless Gryffindor fashion, I veered off my path and followed the sound, my curiosity getting the better of me. The winding corridors led me deeper into the dungeons, only to end at a blank, cold wall—a dead end.

There was nothing there. No sign of anyone. No flicker of movement in the shadows. I stood there for a moment, straining to catch even the faintest whisper, but the voice was gone. I figured it must’ve been a snake, perhaps driven mad with hunger..

Eventually, I shrugged it off and let it slip from my mind, too preoccupied with preparations for Samhain.

But the strange voice wasn’t finished with me yet.

It wasn’t until Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party that I heard it again...

We were crammed into an old, dusty classroom, the walls lined with cobwebs and flickering, pale-blue candles. The air was damp and cold, filled with the hollow sounds of ghostly moans and the rattling of spectral chains. The party was, unsurprisingly, meant for the ghosts, but thanks to some odd twist of fate, Harry had been invited—and, of course, he’d dragged us along.

It didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off. The rotting food laid out for the ghosts to “taste” was nauseating, and the chilling atmosphere made our skin crawl. We exchanged looks, silently agreeing that we’d had enough. After politely excusing ourselves, we slipped out, eager to return to the warmth and liveliness of the Great Hall for the grand Halloween feast.

We were halfway down the corridor when it happened….

The voice again—low, slithering, and sinister—echoed through the empty hall, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Kill”

“Kill you”

“Let me kill you”

“Let me rip you”

“Its that voice again..” Harry muttered “I had heard this voice before… on the last day of my detention with Lockhart……”

“What noise, What are you talking about mate” Ron asked confused.

“I can’t hear anything either Harry” Hermione shared and all three looked at me….

I…. I was stunned…. Harry…., he could hear the voice too… Harry was a Parselmouth, just like me. But before I could dwell on it any further, the snake hissed again, its voice slithering through the darkness.

"It’s time."

We followed the sound, my heart pounding with each step. Ron and Hermione trailed behind, clueless but curious, their eyes darting nervously down the dim corridors. The eerie voice led us to the second floor, where we stopped abruptly. The corridor was flooded, water pooling around our feet, reflecting the flickering torchlight—and something far more sinister.

A wall, streaked in red.

“The wall…” Ron muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as we all looked up.

‘The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.

Enemies of the heir… beware.’

“It’s written in blood,” Hermione breathed, her face pale in the torchlight.

Then Harry’s voice broke the silence. “Oh no…” he whispered, his eyes wide. “It looks dead.”

We followed his gaze. Hanging from a torch bracket was a limp, lifeless cat.

“That’s Mrs. Norris… Filch’s cat,” Hermione whispered, horror in her voice.

We barely had time to process the scene when the echo of footsteps thundered down the corridor.

“The students,” I realized. “They’re coming back from the Halloween feast.”

They rounded the corner, their laughter fading into stunned silence as they saw the wall. A crowd gathered, whispers spreading like wildfire. Draco, my attention seeker cousin, stepped forward, his voice loud and mocking as he read the words aloud, savoring every syllable.

Then Filch arrived, his face contorting with horror as his eyes landed on Mrs. Norris. The teachers weren’t far behind, and even Dumbledore’s usually calm expression tightened at the sight of the message.

Filch’s grief turned instantly to fury. “You murdered my cat!” he roared, his finger shaking as he pointed at Harry. “I’ll kill you!”

But Dumbledore stepped in swiftly, his voice firm yet gentle. “Argus,” he said, raising a hand. “She is not dead. She’s been petrified.”

Before the tension could ease,  Professor Lockhart shoved his way to the front, his flamboyant robes billowing. “Ah, yes! Petrification!” he declared pompously. “If I had been here, I would have known just the right counter-curse to save poor Mrs. Norris!”

I rolled my eyes, according to me whatever he said was total balderdash, and when I caught Professor McGonagall doing the same, I couldn’t suppress a smirk.

Filch wasn’t convinced. His eyes remained fixed on Harry, full of accusation. “It was him,” he hissed.

“We were with Harry the whole time, Headmaster,” I said firmly, stepping forward. “We were at Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party. That’s why we were late for the feast. You can ask the ghosts if you don’t believe us.”

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, but before he could speak, Snape’s silky voice cut through the tension.

“But what were you all doing here?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing. “The ghost party is on the fourth floor.”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Harry beat her to it. “I… I wasn’t feeling hungry anymore,” he lied, his voice steady. “So I asked if we could head back to the common room.”

Snape’s expression gave nothing away, but I could tell none of the teachers believed us. Still, they didn’t press further. Dumbledore reassured Filch that Mrs. Norris would recover with the right potions, then dismissed us all to bed.

On our way back to the common room, I muttered under my breath, “Why does something always have to happen on this date?”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Ron grumbled. “And it’s always during the feast.”

I chuckled. “What, upset about missing the food?”

“You know me too well, Esther,” Ron replied with a grin.

The lighthearted mood didn’t last long; Hermione’s voice was quiet, serious. “Harry… why did you lie?”

Harry hesitated, running a hand through his messy hair. “I… I don’t know. It’s just… Should I have told them? Dumbledore and all?”

“Are you mad?” Ron looked horrified. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t exactly a good sign—even in the wizarding world.”

I reached out, gently taking Harry’s hand. “It’s all right,” I said softly. “I think you did the right thing.”

He looked at me, uncertainty flickering in his green eyes. Lowering my voice, I added, “People get scared when they don’t understand something. It’s even worse in the wizarding world. Fear takes over, and instead of trying to understand the unknown, they push it away.” I sighed. “Yeah… I hate that part too.”

Harry squeezed my hand, a small, grateful smile creeping onto his face. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and for the first time that night, I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“And one more thing, Harry… you weren’t alone. I heard the voice too.” I whispered in his ears, before turning away, leaving him in stunned silence as I made my way toward my dormitory

I wanted to explain more, but it was already past 10:30, and I needed to be in my ritual room before midnight. So, I quickly told them I was exhausted after tonight’s events and needed some sleep. The others stayed behind in the common room, likely discussing everything that had happened, but I slipped away, my mind already elsewhere.

Once inside the dormitory, I drew the curtains around my bed and quietly climbed into my trunk. Changing into the outfit I had set aside a week ago—a black midi dress cinched with a leather belt, paired with platinum earrings, the gifted bracelet, and rings—I took a deep breath..... This year, I added a touch of cocoa-scented perfume to my skin. A small comfort.

After one final glance in the mirror, I stepped toward the fourth room.

Like last year, I began by lighting the candles. This time, I chose a mixture of black and white, their glow casting flickering shadows on the darker cushions and lanterns. Sitting cross-legged on the mat, I closed my eyes, steadying my breathing as I let the chants flow.

Almost instantly, an image of my grandfather’s smiling face filled my mind. Warmth spread through me, a calm I had been longing for. But tears followed, slipping down my cheeks unchecked. I held onto the vision of him, grounding myself in his presence—until the lights around me began to flicker.

A strange chill crept in, but I didn’t stop chanting.

And then, I heard it.

A voice. Faint but unmistakable.

“…is here… careful.”

“You… strong.”

I could only catch fragments, but I knew—it was him. He was warning me. The candles wavered, their glow unsteady, but then, just as quickly, a warmth enveloped me. A protective embrace.

A bear hug.

" Grandfather…"

The touch was familiar, comforting. He was here. Even in death, he was guiding me.

Tears blurred my vision as I whispered into the air, "I promise I’ll be safe, Grandfather. I promise I’ll try to make the right choices."

A final whisper echoed back.

“ …proud… ”

And then, the warmth faded. The cocoon lifted, leaving me alone once more. My tears fell freely now, unstoppable.

"I miss you…" I choked out one last time before silence reclaimed the room.

I stayed there for hours, unmoving. Starlet curled beside me, her gaze mirroring the emotions etched into mine....

Chapter Text

The next morning, breakfast in the Great Hall was cloaked in an eerie silence. Every face bore a solemn expression, from students to professors.

The events of the previous night had clearly left their mark.

Personally, I hadn't had much time to dwell on the incident with the wall due to my ritual, but now, as I sat among my peers, questions swirled in my mind.

First, the voice - it was in Parseltongue, indicating it had to be a snake. Yet, I'd never heard of a snake capable of petrifying someone. Also, the blood—it didn’t seem like something a snake would cause.

Second, Harry, he was a Parseltongue like me. My grandfather had always told me Parseltongues were rare, often associated with old pureblood families, typically from Slytherin. Yet, neither Harry nor I fit that mold. It also seemed Harry was unaware of his ability.

“I wonder if Dumbledore knew about mine, a secret I'd never shared with him.”

And, third, who was this maniacal braggart claiming to be the Heir of Slytherin? Did he even understand that being the heir implied a connection to Voldemort? Clearly, this person had no interest in peace.

"Must truly be his child then," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" Hermione asked beside me.

"Nothing, just thinking about last night. Everyone seems shaken," I replied.

"Hmm, all except the Slytherins. Why would they be worried? After all, the heir must be among them," Ron muttered.

"I don’t think that’s true, Ron. Dumbledore said last night it was powerful dark magic, hard for a student to perform," I defended.

"Hard, but not impossible," Ron quipped back.

"We need to talk," Harry said urgently  "Last night, you said you heard the voice too?"

"I did," I confirmed.

"I don’t get it. Why are you two the only ones who can hear that voice?" Hermione asked, puzzled.

I wanted to explain, but something held me back. I decided to discuss it with Harry privately first.  After all it was something related to him.

That day, we only had History of Magic with Professor Binns. Surprisingly, unlike his usual droning lectures that put half the class to sleep, today, everyone was awake and listening intently. Fifteen minutes in, Hermione raised her hand and asked about the Chamber of Secrets. Seeing our eager faces, Binns hesitated before reluctantly launching into an explanation:

"One of the founders of Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin, believed that only those of pure wizarding blood should be admitted to the school. This led to a bitter dispute with the other three founders. Eventually, the rift became too great, and Slytherin left. But, according to legend, before he departed, he built a hidden chamber within the castle—one that only his true heir could open. This 'Chamber of Secrets' is said to house a monster that only the Heir of Slytherin can control, a creature that would rid the school of all Muggle-borns."

Binns, assured us the chamber was nothing more than a myth, claiming that thorough searches had been conducted over the centuries.

But none of us believed him.

I doubted the legend’s authenticity—it could be factual or just a rumour spun by some fear-mongering, prejudiced wizard. And honestly, I really wanted to wipe that smug smirk off Draco’s face....   What was with him acting like he was the Heir of Slytherin? He wasn’t nearly clever enough to pull that off. Though, if given the chance, I’d bet ten Galleons he’d do anything to claim the title. My cousin had always been that short-sighted.

After class, I wanted to talk to Harry, but Dumbledore summoned me, A call I was expecting since last night….

This time he was already sitting in his sofa, Tea cups and biscuits laid on the table…

I quickly took the seat opposite him, immediately reaching for a biscuit, manners forgotten. Truthfully, I was nervous and wanted him to start the conversation, but the ever-patient old man simply smiled, watching me in silence.

Sighing , I gave in. "Did you know I’m a Parseltongue? Did Grandfather ever tell you?"

"No, he did not," Dumbledore replied calmly. "But I had my suspicions."

Why? I thought Parseltongues were extremely rare, and born only into dark families."

"They are rare," he admitted. "Usually found in old, dark lineages. It is an ability that dark wizards treasure dearly and treat with great reverence."

"Grandfather told me to hide it, though."

"He did it to protect you, Esther. Parseltongues appear only once every few generations, and also, the last known wizard to possess this ability was Voldemort."

Of course," I sighed, rolling my eyes. " Just another reason for his followers to worship him blindly and feed his god complex."

Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Yesterday, I heard a voice speaking Parseltongue." I met Dumbledore’s gaze, my voice steady. "We weren’t on the second floor by accident, Headmaster. I followed the sound—Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed me. Also, it wasn’t the first time, either. I had heard the voice two weeks ago after leaving your office. At first, I thought it was just a snake, but after last night... I’m not so sure."

Dumbledore sighed, his expression shadowed with concern. "You’re right, Esther. It’s not just a snake. The Chamber of Secrets exists, and I believe, if the message is true, then it has been opened."

His gaze lingered on me, knowing. "I suspect you and your friends will search for it, no matter my wishes. I would rather you stay far away from this danger, but I know better than to believe you will. All four of you carry that deep-rooted Gryffindor recklessness."

His words should have felt like a reprimand, but instead, they held a deep, undeniable warmth—one that only made the worry in his eyes more pronounced.

"Esther, it’s dangerous—very dangerous," he warned. "The last time the Chamber was opened, someone was killed. You all need to be careful. Extremely careful, my dear."

I froze. "It was opened before?"

Yes. Fifty years ago, a Hogwarts student opened it."

"But…  But, you said students cant open the chamber…?"

Dumbledore’s expression darkened. "He was an extraordinary student, twisted by darkness—but brilliant."

That sent a chill down my spine.

"The problem is," Dumbledore continued, his tone grave, "he was also the one who closed the Chamber last time. Which means we have no idea where it truly is. Hogwarts is vast—filled with countless floors, wings, and dungeons.... Finding it will take time."

His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine. "Let me be absolutely clear: no one is safe until the Chamber is closed. No one—not even the purebloods. This isn’t just some school mystery, Esther. It’s deadly. So be careful. And follow the rules."

He exhaled, and for the first time, his voice held the weight of authority I rarely heard from him. "Consider this your first order from your guardian."

I swallowed hard, the seriousness of his words sinking in. My fingers tightened around the arms of my chair as a quiet determination settled in my chest.

This wasn’t just a game. It wasn’t just a legend.

It was real. And it was dangerous.

And whether Dumbledore liked it or not, I had to see this through.

Outside the Hogwarts Library…

"It's true, then. There really is a Chamber of Secrets."

"Yeah, couldn’t you tell? Dumbledore’s worried—and so are all the teachers."

"If the Chamber of Secrets truly exists and it’s been opened, then that means…"

"The Heir of Slytherin has returned to Hogwarts." There was a tense pause. "Now the question is—who could it be?"

"Let’s think. Who do we know that believes all Muggle-borns are scum?" Ron stated directly looking at Draco Malfoy

"Malfoy? The Heir of Slytherin?" Hermione’s voice was skeptical, but a flicker of curiosity crept in.

"Maybe Ron’s right," Harry said, frowning in thought. "His family has a long history in Slytherin, and he is a pureblood supremacist."

"It’s Malfoy, I’m telling you," Ron declared confidently, crossing his arms as if the matter was settled.

"There’s a way to confirm it," Hermione said quietly, her voice laced with caution. "But… it’ll be dangerous. It’s a potion—the recipe should be in the Restricted Section of the library. We’ll need a teacher’s signature to access it."

"Lockhart," Harry quipped. "He’ll be the easiest to convince. We just need to… uh, stroke his ego a little."

"One more thing, We can’t tell Esther," Ron stated firmly. "Come on, she’s his cousin. You both know she doesn’t hate him like we do."

"Ron, she’s our friend," Harry shot back, glancing at Hermione for support. But Hermione seemed deep in thought.

"I think Ron’s right," she said finally.

"Hermione?" Harry’s voice was sharp with disbelief.

"They’re family, Harry. And… I have a feeling she’s been keeping something from us too. Remember Halloween? She went to bed early, said she was tired, but when I checked on her later, she wasn’t there. I waited for hours before I fell asleep, the next time I saw her was the next morning."

"She must’ve been with the Slytherins, then—performing Samhain or something dark. I always knew she was hiding something. Maybe she’s tied up with Draco. I mean, She is a Black. She could also be the Heir of Slytherin!" Ron’s words spilled out in a rush, his suspicion growing.

"Ron, calm down," Hermione snapped. "Esther’s my best friend. She’s not dark, okay? Sure, she’s got her secrets—but that theory is way off…. First of all, we saw her go up to the dorm that night. We were in the common room the whole time, so she didn’t sneak out to meet any Slytherins. Even if she’d used her ring, Harry would’ve seen her."

"I didn’t see anyone leave," Harry added quietly, processing everything.

"And secondly," Hermione interjected, her voice firm, "she was with us the whole time when the incident happened. Plus, she’s a Gryffindor—how could she be the Heir? And… she’s our friend."

Ron nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes.

Harry sighed. "Alright… let’s keep her out of it, then."

Esther’s POV

Finding Harry alone had become nearly impossible lately. With Gryffindor’s first Quidditch match just two weeks away—against Slytherin, no less—he was always busy, either caught up in practice or surrounded by the rest of us.

Even Ron seemed to be giving me the cold shoulder, and I couldn’t understand why. Hermione was almost always missing, and whenever I asked about her, Harry would just flash a guilty smile and say, “She’s busy, Esther… Give her time. She’ll come around.”

Their behavior puzzled me, but I decided to give them space. I’d had my own phases before—maybe they were going through theirs. Besides, I’d already made up my mind to wait until after the match to tell Harry about the voice we’d heard.

Thankfully, there had been no more strange incidents. And honestly, I didn’t want to distract him before such an important game.

I was sitting alone alone in the gardens, working on my Transfiguration homework. My friends were nowhere to be found—just like they had been for the past few days. I wouldn’t lie; it felt lonely. Ever since arriving at Hogwarts, I’d always had them around, and now their absence left an unexpected ache. Their indifference stung more than I cared to admit.

“Where are your stupid lackeys?” Draco’s voice cut through my thoughts as he suddenly appeared, plopping down beside me.

“They’re my friends, Draco,” I sighed, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “And why aren’t you at practice? The game’s in three days.”

“Just taking a break. Don’t worry, Esy—I’m not letting your stupid lions win this time,” he smirked.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help a grin. “Well, my lions will give it their all on the field, so your snakes better be ready.” I tilted my head, studying him. “Still, I’m sure you’ll do great in your first official match, cousin.” Then, leaning in slightly, I smirked. “But… my house is winning.”

“Maybe. But I’m catching the Snitch for sure,” Draco gloated, his confidence radiating.

“Good luck with that. But Harry’s an incredible flier, so my bet’s on him,” I said with a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, yeah—‘Harry Potter, The Chosen One,’” Draco replied, his jealousy thinly veiled.

I arched a brow at him. “You’re being dramatic...."

Draco scoffed. “Am I?"

"It’s not because he’s the Chosen One, Draco. He’s just a normal student, like the rest of us.”

"Oh Please, There’s nothing normal about him.....

Face it, Esy—Potter gets special treatment. If I pulled half the stunts he does, I’d be expelled before I could say ‘Quidditch.’”

I sighed, turning a page “Harry never asks for any of it, you know. He doesn’t walk around expecting people to praise him. If anything, all the attention just puts a bigger target on his back.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, how tragic. Poor, poor Potter. Must be so hard being the Boy Who Lived.”

“Draco,” I warned, my patience thinning.

But he wasn’t finished. “You know how I think they pick people for the Gryffindor team? They choose people they pity. There’s Potter—no parents. The Weasleys—no money. Who’s next? Maybe Longbottom, no brains.”

My fingers curled into fists as my patience snapped. With a sharp movement, I shut my book, the sound echoing in the quiet garden. “That’s enough, Draco,” I said, my voice ice-cold with restrained anger. “I won’t sit here and let you insult my friends. And for the record—the team you just trashed? They beat your snakes in the last match.”

“For Merlin’s sake, stop being such a moron. You’re better than this, cousin.”

I shoved my books into my bag and stood up, my frustration bubbling over. “Good luck with the match—and thanks for the conversation. I was feeling really lonely today.”

I turned—and froze.

A few feet away, standing in an unmoving line, were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Watching. Listening. Their expressions unreadable.

Something twisted in my chest, but I forced myself to walk past them without a word.

Their recent distance still hurt more than I wanted to admit. And with my anger at Draco simmering just beneath the surface, I needed space—before I said something I’d regret.

"Go.

“You go, you’re her best friend.”

“I think Harry’s right.”

"Maybe we should all go together.”

“Are you sure that’s a great idea?”

I sighed softly, immediately recognizing the familiar voices—my friends, bickering in hushed tones.

I was in the library, scanning the shelves for a book when their whispered debate drifted from the next aisle.

“Or maybe I can come to you,” I said, stepping around the shelf with an arched brow.

“Esther,” Harry greeted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck while Ron and Hermione flashed me guilty smiles.

“We… we just wanted to say we’re sorry,” Hermione stammered, her usual confidence replaced with hesitation.

I crossed my arms, tilting my head slightly. “Will you tell me what this was all about?”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath. “It’s about the Heir of Slytherin. We think it’s Draco, and we wanted to test our theory. Since he’s your cousin, we thought it’d be best to keep you out of it. It… it was my idea.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly and looked straight at Ron. “It was Ron’s idea.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “Okay, yeah, it was my idea, but we all agreed to it,” he muttered.

“We’re really sorry, Esther,” Harry added earnestly. “We didn’t think we’d hurt you.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ron admitted grudgingly, then added, “And… thanks for defending my brothers yesterday.”

I softened a little, rolling my eyes playfully. “I wasn’t lying, Ron. The twins are the best Beaters in all of Hogwarts—and my favourite Weasleys.”

That earned a faint smile from him, and I continued, “So… how exactly are you planning to find out?”

“Polyjuice Potion,” Hermione replied quietly.

“Polyjuice?  Mione, that’s dangerous!” I exclaimed, my eyes widening.

“I know,” she admitted, “but I’ve thoroughly researched the recipe from Moste Potente Potions. The potion will take another two weeks to brew. We’ve gathered almost all the ingredients—two even from Snape’s private stores—but I still need one more thing: bicorn horn. If I can’t find it this week, I’ll stop brewing.”

“And once it’s ready,” Harry added, “we plan to take it in the second-floor bathroom. No one ever goes there—not with Moaning Myrtle around—so it’s the perfect place to stay unnoticed. Hermione’s already started brewing with what we have. We’ll take the potion after my Quidditch match.”

I sighed, realizing they’d thought this through far more than I’d expected. “I know where we can find bicorn horn.”

“You’ll help?” Ron asked, shocked.

“I will.” I paused, letting my frustration flicker through. “I’m still angry with you guys for keeping me out of it. And, I’d bet a thousand Galleons that Draco isn’t the Heir of Slytherin—he’s too loud and too weak for that. But… I’ll let you confirm it your way.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again quietly.

“We all are,” Hermione added, stepping forward to pull me into a hug. “I should’ve included you. I just… I was confused.”

I hugged her back, the tension easing a little. “It’s alright. Next time something like this comes up, let’s just talk it out—properly.”

They all nodded, guilt and frustration giving way to a quiet understanding.

Chapter Text

I woke up early on the match day,  excitement and tension lingering even before the sun had fully risen....

After a quick visit to the hidden potions lab inside my trunk, I carefully retrieved a bicorn horn. Hermione was still fast asleep, so I placed it securely on my bed, making a mental note to hand it to her before we left.

Dressing casually for the chilly morning, I slipped into a cozy red pullover sweater, paired with blue jeans and my favorite sky-blue sneakers. I gathered my hair into a neat side French braid, securing the end with my Gryffindor scarf. Satisfied, I turned away from the mirror—just in time to see Hermione stirring awake. She was already dressed, her school robes layered over a pair of jeans.

Harry’s face lit up with surprise when he saw me. “You’re here!” He reached out, giving my hand a quick squeeze.

“I am.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why do you sound so shocked?”

He let out a short laugh. “Because you hate Quidditch. I figured you’d find any excuse to skip it.”

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “I know how hard you—and every single member of the team—have trained for this match. I wouldn’t miss cheering for my team.” I hesitated, then added quietly, “Besides… it’s Draco’s first game.”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly, jealousy flickering in his eyes. “Well, good luck to him. But by the end of the match,

I’ll be the one holding the Snitch.”

I chuckled, lifting my Gryffindor scarf. “I don’t doubt it. Just… be careful, alright? Quidditch can be ruthless. Try not to get hurt.”

His grip on my hand lingered for a moment, his gaze softening. “I’ll be fine. We all will. Just enjoy the match, Esther.”

He wasn’t fine.

The whistle blew, and the match exploded into action. The Slytherins had the advantage with their brand-new Nimbus 2001s, but Gryffindor’s skill and determination outshone even the fastest brooms.

For the first twenty minutes, the game was fair—fast-paced, intense, but fair. Draco wore a smug expression, clearly reveling in his position on the Slytherin team. And despite everything, I felt a flicker of pride for him. I could only imagine how proud Uncle Lucius must have been, watching from the stands, his sharp gaze fixed on his son. For all his flaws, Lucius Malfoy’s love for his family was unwavering.

But then things took a dark turn;

Unlike last year, it wasn’t Harry’s broom that was cursed—it was one of the Bludgers. The rogue ball locked onto Harry like a predator, relentless and unyielding. Normally, Bludgers targeted all players indiscriminately, but this one had a singular focus. It didn’t take long for the crowd to realize something was wrong.

I glanced nervously at the professors' table, expecting panic, but there was none—just silent observation.

I clenched my fists. “Why does he have to face a life-or-death situation every time Gryffindor plays Slytherin?” I muttered, frustration bubbling over.

“We can’t do anything—not unless the game is stopped,” Hermione whispered beside me, her voice tight with worry.

“Then why aren’t they stopping this stupid game?!” I snapped, my heart hammering as I watched Harry dodge the Bludger, skimming dangerously close to the stands.

Then the Snitch appeared—a glimmering beacon of gold. Both Harry and Draco dove after it, the cursed Bludger now targeting both of them, adding to the chaos.

Harry caught the Snitch, securing Gryffindor’s victory—but ot without a price. The final dive left his arm broken.

The rogue Bludger was finally destroyed as the match ended, but the nightmare wasn’t over. Lockhart, in all his pompous uselessness, rushed forward to “help.” and instead of healing Harry’s arm, he managed to vanish all the bones in it.

I HATE THAT FOOL.

That night, I heard the voice again. It was midnight, and the dormitory was cloaked in silence, all the girls fast asleep. Thinking quickly, I pressed the violet bead, slipped out of bed, and quietly left the Gryffindor common room, the portrait door closing with a faint click behind me.

This time, the voice seemed to echo from the first floor, distant yet distinct. I hoped Harry was already asleep—I didn’t want him restless tonight. He needed proper rest.

A soft purr broke the stillness.

"Starlet," I whispered, relieved to see her graceful figure padding beside me, her eyes gleaming like twin embers in the dark. She must have sensed my unease and come to my aid. Together, we followed the voice—its eerie pull guiding us through shadowed corridors.

Then we saw him...

Colin Creevey, the first-year Gryffindor, Muggle-born, and Harry’s most ardent admirer, stood frozen—his small hands clenched tightly around his camera. But he wasn’t moving.

He was petrified, his face frozen in a mask of sheer terror—eyes wide, mouth half-open as if mid-scream, forever caught in the moment of his last breath of fear.

I knelt beside him, my fingers hovering near his unmoving form. “I need to inform the Headmaster, Star. He needs immediate attention.”

As I weighed my options, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Dumbledore appeared with several professors in tow. I quickly stepped aside as they assessed the situation and, with quiet urgency, carried Colin away—likely to the hospital wing.

I didn’t follow. I decided to explore the area further, hoping to find more clues......but there was nothing—no signs of struggle, nothing out of place. The corridor was eerily clean.

Then suddenly with no warning, someone apparated before me.

I turned, scanning the shadows.

"Dobby?"

Curious, I followed him...

He led me through dimly lit hallways until we reached the entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens. The space was immaculate, filled with neatly arranged cabinets and a small wooden table by the window. Three house-elves chatted near the counter, their voices hushed, and soon  Dobby joined them.

An idea sparked in my mind.... Pressing the violet bead once more, I stepped inside, startling the four elves.

"Miss Esther Black, what are you doing here this late?" Toby, one of the elves, asked.

I hesitated for a moment before offering a warm smile. "Hello… Well, I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d cook something. I enjoy cooking, and I’d love to make something for myself—and for all of you, if you’d like."

"For us?" Sisa, a smaller elf with bright green eyes, asked in surprise. "Miss Esther, you want to cook for us?"

I nodded. "May I?"

Ribus, the sternest of the three, studied me carefully before speaking. "Miss Esther, generally, no one knows the way to our kitchen. And those who do only request food. No one has cooked here except us." He paused before adding, "But if you truly wish to, we won’t stop you. After all, Hogwarts is your home—you don’t need our permission."

I shook my head. "Hogwarts might be my home, but this kitchen is your domain. So yes, permission is needed, Mister Ribus. And thank you."

Slipping on an apron, I turned toward my feline companion. "Any special requests, Starlet?" She blinked lazily.

I glanced at Dobby. "What about you?"

The house-elves just stared at me blankly. Smiling, I decided to go with the flow. "Alright then, let’s make two medium-sized pizzas."

Rolling up my sleeves, I started on the dough while the elves gathered ingredients. Starlet perched herself on the windowsill, watching curiously as I worked. Once the bases were ready, I spread the sauce, added toppings, and sprinkled a generous amount of cheese. Ribus took the trays and carefully placed them in the oven.

As we waited, I turned to Dobby. "What are you doing here, Dobby?"

His ears drooped, and he wrung his hands anxiously. "Miss Esther, oh please forgive me. I… I… Master Lucius brought me here with him."

I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I see.... Relax Dobby, You look exhausted. Eat with us and get some rest."

He hesitated before nodding. "Yes, Miss."

Soon, the kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baked pizza.

"Ah, it smells amazing. Great job, everyone!" I grinned. "Sisa, could you bring the plates?"

"Yes, Miss!" she chirped, hurrying off.

I plated the pizza, cutting Starlet’s portion into small bites. As we sat down to eat, a sense of warmth settled over me. The flavors were delightful, but more than that, it was the quiet companionship that made the meal special.

Cooking always reminded me of Grandfather—I was sure he would have loved this.

The elves seemed to enjoy the food too. Before leaving, I packed the leftover slices in a small box and cast a stasis charm to keep them fresh.

"I'll visit again," I promised, and with a happy feline trotting by my side and a satisfied smile on my face, I returned to my room, feeling just a little more at home at Hogwarts.

The next day, I went to visit Harry in the Hospital Wing. Colin was there too, lying stiff on one of the beds, frozen in the exact position I’d found him the night before—his wide, terrified eyes staring into nothing.

Harry was awake, his arms heavily bandaged, but he looked better.....  Madam Pomfrey stood beside him, pressing a vial into his hand, which he gulped down quickly, making a face of pure disgust.

“Ugh… I hate this taste,” he groaned.

"Well, if Professor Lockhart hadn’t vanished your bones, I could’ve fixed you in a minute,” Madam Pomfrey huffed. “But alas… Now, rest up. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

Next, she turned to me with a brief nod. “See to it that he doesn’t move around much.”

I nodded as I took the seat beside his bed. With a quick flick of my wand, I spelled the white curtains shut, giving us some privacy.

“Here,” I said, pulling out a small bundle from my bag. “I thought this might be more to your taste.”

Harry peeked inside, his face lighting up. “Pizza? Where did you get this?”

“A gift from an elf,” I replied with a teasing grin.

He nearly choked. “Please tell me the elf’s name isn’t Dobby.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Dobby? How do you know him?”

Harry’s expression darkened. “You know him? Good. Please tell him to stay away from me. Because if I see him again, I swear—I’ll kill him.”

I blinked. “Whoa! That’s the angriest I’ve ever seen you. What did that poor house-elf do to deserve such fury?”

Harry took a deep breath, his frustration bubbling over. “Apparently, he was trying to save my life. But in doing so, He intercepted all my mail over the summer, trying to convince me you all had abandoned me. Then, he caused a scene at the Dursleys', using a Hover Charm on Aunt Petunia's pudding and dropping it on Mrs. Mason’s head so they’d forbid me from returning to Hogwarts. When that didn’t work, thanks to the Weasleys rescuing me, he sealed the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, hoping Ron and I couldn’t board the train!”

I stared, stunned. “Wait… so that’s why you couldn’t get through the barrier? Waahhh! Dobby really didn’t want you back at Hogwarts.”

“That’s not even the worst of it,” Harry grumbled. “The rogue Bludger? That was him too. He visited me here last night, admitted to everything. Said he’s trying to protect me, but all he’s done is make my life miserable. He also let slip that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened before—but wouldn’t say who did it. Then, right when they brought in Colin, he straight up disappeared.

I thought I heard the voice again last night, but Dobby showed up right after. Did you hear it too?”

Realization struck me. “So that’s when he Apparated in front of me.” I set the pizza aside, gathering my thoughts. “Harry… Dobby serves the Malfoys.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“They’re cruel to him because he’s… different. Unlike most house-elves, Dobby wants freedom—he has his own hopes, desires, opinions. When I met him yesterday, he seemed guilty, kept shying away from me. Now I understand why. He truly is trying to protect you, even if he’s doing a spectacularly awful job at it. His intentions are pure. Also, he can’t tell us everything—house-elves are magically bound to their masters’ commands. That means Lucius Malfoy is connected to the Chamber somehow. We just need to figure out how.”

Harry’s eyes darkened. “Is Dobby still here? Can you ask him more?”

I shook my head. “He left early this morning. And even if he hadn’t, I couldn’t force him, Harry. He’s magically bound. Besides… after Dumbledore took Colin away, I searched the first floor where I heard the voice. There was nothing.”

“That’s dangerous, Esther,” Harry scolded. “You know Dumbledore told us to follow the rules. He was really tense last night—the school is in grave danger. You need to be careful.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I know, I know. But I was invisible—I thought it’d be safe. I’ll be more careful, I promise.” I hesitated before finally adding, “There’s one more thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Harry… can you talk to snakes?”

Harry blinked. “I can. Can’t everyone here?”

I shook my head. “No, they can’t.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice. “The only people I know who can speak Parseltongue are you and me… and the last known Parselmouth was, well, it was Voldemort.”

Harry stiffened...

Choosing my words carefully, I continued, “Wizards associate Parseltongue with dark magic, and Voldemort didn’t exactly help that reputation. Some believe it’s a rare ability linked to Salazar Slytherin, so people fear anyone who has it. My grandfather advised me to keep it hidden—for my safety.”

I met Harry’s uncertain gaze. “Only Dumbledore knows I’m a Parselmouth—I never told him about you. That’s your choice to make, Harry.”

Taking a breath, I continued, “The voice we’ve been hearing? It’s in Parseltongue. At first, I thought it was just a snake, but when you said you heard it too, I knew you shared the ability. I told Dumbledore I was the one who heard it, and that the rest of you just followed me....

But he said the creature isn’t just a snake… it’s something else.”

Harry nodded slowly, absorbing my words. “Did Dumbledore judge you when you told him?”

“No,” I replied softly. “He said he had a hunch, though the reasons are unknown to me….     I’ll tell you what my grandfather once told me when I first spoke Parseltongue:

Any ability Mother Magic gives you is a gift. Others may fear it or envy it, but it’s yours to wield as you choose. It’s not the power itself that’s dark, Harry—it’s the intent behind it.

I won’t lie—I enjoy speaking to snakes,” I admitted with a grin. “They’re snarky and full of gossip.”

He chuckled. “I guess… I’d like to keep this to myself a little longer before sharing it with anyone else...”

....

Suddenly, the curtains were yanked open. I hastily vanished the plates just as Ron and Hermione stepped in, their faces full of curiosity and concern.

Chapter Text

With Christmas around the corner, Hogwarts was blanketed in white, the Great Hall beginning to glow with festive decorations... It felt as though a bit of happiness was returning to the school. Harry had returned that morning, his arm fully healed...... We shared breakfast, filled with lighthearted conversations, before submitting our names to Professor McGonagall to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas.

Interestingly, Draco too was also staying back this year, along with his usual companions, Crabbe and Goyle.  

Strange.... 

Knowing Lucius and Narcissa's love for Hogwarts, allowing Draco to remain at school longer than necessary was certainly out of the ordinary.

As for me, I had chosen to stay back as well, because the thought of returning to an empty house this year felt unbearable. I knew the house-elves would be disappointed, so I'd informed them of my decision before leaving for Hogwarts…. At least here, I had my friends to keep me company, so I wouldn’t feel lonely. And besides, since I already knew the direction of the kitchen, I could whip some delicious cakes to celebrate it here……

We also signed up for the Duelling Club, which I was genuinely excited about—that is, until I discovered that Lockhart was going to be one of the instructors.

“Why…?” I groaned. “What’s he going to teach us— How to dress fancy for a duel?”

“Or, What not to do in a duel,” Ron added, making me laugh.

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Hermione huffed, folding her arms. “You both just hate him for no reason.”

I had plenty to say to that, but I kept them to myself, hiding a smirk. “One day, Mione… you’ll see through his nonsense.”

The four of us entered the Gryffindor common room to find a group of students huddled together on the sofas, their faces tense with suspicion and whispered theories. The room grew uncomfortably silent as every head turned toward us.

Goldien Barry, a fourth-year, was the first to speak, his words sharp and directed straight at me.

“It’s you, isn’t it? The Heir,” he sneered. “You’re a Black, after all.  Being in Gryffindor must have given you easy access to hurt one of our own. What was that boy’s name again?” He turned to his friends, ignorantly.

“Colin. Colin Creevey,” I replied coolly, refusing to let my voice waver.

“See? You even know his name. It has to be you—hiding in the shadows, waiting for You-Know-Who’s return, hating Mud-Bloods. I don’t even know why Hogwarts lets witches like you in. You should be in Azkaban.”

Before I could react, Ron stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. “Shut it, Barry. You’re way out of line.”

I felt a flicker of gratitude but held up a hand, signaling Ron to let me handle it, I’d always been taught by my grandfather to fight my own battles, and I had no plans to let him down....

“Thank you, Ron,” I said softly, then turned back to Barry, my voice steady but laced with steel.

“Not let witches like me in, huh? Sounds like you’ve got more in common with Salazar Slytherin than I do—if we’re following baseless rumors, that is…..  Colin Creevey is a first-year from Our House who was attacked by whatever monster’s lurking in that chamber. The least you could do is remember his name.”

I took a step closer, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“And if you’re blind—or just too busy wallowing in your own ignorance—let me remind you that my three best friends are a pure-blood, a half-blood, and a Muggle-born. And believe me, I love Hermione the most among them.

My beliefs? They’re simple. Magic is a gift from Mother Magic herself. Anyone blessed with it, regardless of their blood status, background, or beliefs, deserves the right to learn and grow. It doesn’t matter who their parents are or what side of a war they were on, It only matters what choices they make.

So maybe take a good, hard look in the mirror before throwing around accusations. Because all I see is a stuck-up, arrogant bully hiding behind his own fears and insecurities.”

The room was silent when I turned and walked away, my heart pounding. I didn’t want to admit it, but his words stung more than I’d expected. The moment I reached the sanctuary of my room, the tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over.

I was wiping them away when I felt arms wrap around me in a warm, comforting hug.

“They’re idiots,” Hermione whispered, her voice soft but fierce.

“Yes, don’t mind them. We’re here for you, Esther,” Lavender added, pulling me into another embrace.

“We trust you,” Padma chimed in, her arms wrapping around us both.

Surrounded by their warmth, the ache in my chest began to ease. Slowly, a smile crept back onto my face. That night, they turned my sadness into something softer—a spontaneous girls’ night filled with laughter, new hair masks, face packs, and whispered stories. A reminder that even in the darkest moments, friendship was the light that never faded.

Next morning brought with it the last day before the holidays and also the first session of the Duelling Club. I felt refreshed after the previous night’s laughters and a long, deep sleep..... Us girls, woke up around eleven, hurriedly got ready, and made our way down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Stepping inside, I was suddenly pulled into a warm hug.

“Harry?” I asked, a little confused.

He didn’t let go.....  “Are you all right? You know how baseless and ridiculous some wizards’ prejudices can be. Don’t let them get to you.” His voice was soft but filled with conviction.

I smiled, my heart warmed by his concern. Before I could respond, Neville chimed in earnestly, “You’re a good witch, Esther.”

“And an intelligent one too,” Seamus added with a grin.

“Not to mention the one who topped the entire class last year, stealing first place right out from under the Slytherins,” Ron said proudly, giving me a hearty pat on the shoulder.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you all for your kind words. Honestly, I was a bit down last night, but my girls hyped me up with a full-on therapy session,” I said with a playful smile, glancing at Hermione, Lavender, and Padma. Then, meeting Harry’s eyes, I added softly, “But yes—I’m fine now.”

We enjoyed a leisurely, late breakfast before making our way to the Duelling Club. Nearly every second and third-year student had signed up, so the room was packed, a sea of black robes buzzing with anticipation….  A long, narrow stage stood in the centre, clearly set up for the duels.

The eight of us hurried to the front, eager to get a good view.

It wasn’t long before Professors Snape and Lockhart took their places for the demonstration duel. Unsurprisingly, Snape wiped the floor with Lockhart in less than a second—his spell swift, precise, and devastatingly effective...

 I cheered loudly, unable to hide my satisfaction.

Lockhart barely managed to cover his own ineptitude by claiming he had let Snape win—a lie so transparent it visibly infuriated Snape. Even Lockhart, usually oblivious to social cues, picked up on Snape’s simmering rage and quickly decided to let the students practice dueling on their own.

We were split into pairs: I was matched with Daphne Greengrass, a second-year from Slytherin; Hermione was paired with Millicent Bulstrode; Ron faced off against Dean, and Harry, unsurprisingly, got Draco Malfoy.

One by one, the pairs took to the dueling platform. A total of forty-eight pairs were formed, my number being thirteen.

The dueling grew increasingly chaotic, spells flying in every direction—some poorly aimed, others surprisingly powerful. Snape had to step in more than once, casting “Finite Incantatem” to break up particularly intense matches.

When it was my turn, the duel was over in precisely ten seconds. Two well-aimed attacking spells, and Daphne was disarmed and flat on the floor.

Ron wasn’t as lucky—he ended up losing his duel, much to his frustration. Meanwhile, Hermione’s match with Millicent escalated so quickly that they abandoned their wands altogether, grappling in what could only be described as full-on physical combat.....

By the time Harry’s turn arrived, half the duels had already concluded. Both he and Draco climbed onto the platform with unwavering confidence, wands at the ready.

Draco struck first, casting a swift spell that Harry deflected with ease. But, what started as a standard duel quickly escalated into something far more intense—spells flying back and forth with growing ferocity, each more aggressive than the last.... The air crackled with magical energy as they hurled malicious curses, neither willing to back down. Draco cast a snake-summoning spell next, conjuring a large, menacing serpent that slithered aggressively toward Harry.

'Idiot...'

And, to add to my frustration, Professor Snape took his own sweet time reacting, his sharp eyes observing rather than intervening and this hesitation gave Lockhart the perfect opportunity to make things worse....

With an exaggerated flourish, Lockhart shouted, “Alarte Ascendare!”— launching the snake several feet into the air, the impact only enraged the creature further.

Hissing furiously, the snake turned its attention away from Harry and slithered straight toward another student—Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff.

“The silly pests disturbing my sleep and attacking me.
Get me out of here!   What are you looking at, boy?”

In truth, both Justin and the snake were terrified, trapped in situations neither of them wanted. Seeing no other way, I decided to step in, when I heard another voice—soft, hissing, unmistakably Parseltongue.

Harry....

I glanced at him, but his focus was entirely on the snake, his expression calm and steady.

“Stop,” he hissed gently. “I’m sorry they brought you here…….   I know you’re scared—but so are the students. So, please, just move away from them.”

The snake froze, halting just inches from Justin before Professor Snape flicked his wand, vanishing the creature with a swift spell.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Snape’s face twisted with horror, not at the snake—but at Harry. And it wasn’t just him. Every student in the room stared, their eyes filled with fear and suspicion.

Harry’s gaze finally met mine. Despite the tension thick in the air, he gave me a small, reassuring nod.

Snape, still visibly shaken, abruptly called off the meeting, his voice sharp with urgency, the recent revelation leaving the room buzzing with whispers.

"Mate, you’re a Parselmouth—you can speak to snakes!" Ron exclaimed as soon as we were out of the classroom.

“I didn’t know,” Harry replied quickly, casting a subtle glance my way, signaling me to stay silent. “I was just trying to stop the snake from attacking the students.”

“We know that, Harry,” Hermione said, her expression serious. “But….. But to everyone else, it looked like you were egging the snake on. There’s a reason Slytherin’s symbol is a serpent Harry—Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth.”

“Exactly! And now the whole school’s probably thinking you’re his great-great-great-grandson or something,” Ron added with a grimace.

“Well, he’s not,” I finally interjected, my voice firm.

“But Salazar Slytherin lived over a thousand years ago,” Hermione continued thoughtfully, her eyes drifting to Harry. “For all we know, you could be.”

Harry’s face darkened at that. I had so much I wanted to say to defend him, to snap back at the absurdity of it all, but Harry gently squeezed my hand—a silent plea to let it go.

Within the next three hours, Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord—became the number one suspect in the eyes of Hogwarts students for being The Heir of Slytherin.

The incident in the dueling room spread like wildfire, whispers and accusations trailing us wherever we went. By the time we sat in the Great Hall, Harry was under the weight of countless burning, suspicious stares.

"Please excuse me. I need some air," he muttered getting up, his voice tight.

“I’ll go after him,” I said quietly to Ron and Hermione, standing up and slipping away to follow him.

I thought the plan was to keep the information a secret for a while,” I said, spotting him sitting by the window, staring out at the darkening sky.

“Yes, it was,” Harry replied quietly, his gaze distant, Then he turned to me, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination. “But then I saw your eyes… If I hadn’t spoken to the snake, I knew you would’ve—and I couldn’t let that happen, Esther. Most of the students already suspect you’re the Heir. If they found out you were a Parselmouth too… they’d have outcasted you completely.”

I sat down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Even if that were the case, I’d still have you, Hermione, Ron… maybe the twins, and our Gryffindor second years too.”

He gave me a small, tired smile. “At least now I know how it feels—to be judged for something completely out of your control. How are you always so calm,….  It’s been just three hours, and I already feel like flipping every table in the castle.”

I chuckled softly. “It’s because they don’t matter. Their words sting sometimes, sure—but I focus on the people who do matter to me—you guys. That’s what keeps me grounded.” I then turned towards him, my voice gentle. “Don’t let the harsh looks get to you, Harry. You’re not the Heir of Slytherin just because you can speak to snakes. You  are  a  Gryffindor—Sorted by the hat himself.”

“It’s just…” He hesitated, his eyes clouded with doubt. “The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin at first, but it agreed to my request and placed me in Gryffindor.”

“So that means Gryffindor was your choice, Harry. And the Sorting Hat still saw qualities in you that made you worthy of this house—otherwise, it would’ve never sorted you here…... Besides, even if by some chance you were related to Salazar Slytherin, it wouldn’t mean you’re this unhinged chaotic heir who opened the Chamber.....

And, if you ask me, I’d say it’s pretty fascinating to be related to one of the founders of Hogwarts.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, if speaking Parseltongue makes someone related to Salazar Slytherin, that means we both are related to him.”

“Honestly, I’d be proud to be his great-great-great-granddaughter,” I replied with a grin. “I know the rumors about him, but I don’t believe them…..     Growing up and reading about the wizarding world, I realized how much wizards love to twist stories based on baseless rumors. They outcast anyone who seems different, villainize what they don’t understand. They fear the unknown and create divisions—by blood, class, or ideology. Voldemort was just one of those intelligent wizards who exploited those divisions marvelously to rise as the Dark Lord. I hate that madman, but the real problem was—and still is—the mindset of the wizarding world.”

I nudged Harry playfully. “Also, can you imagine Draco’s face if he found out we’re actual descendants of Salazar Slytherin? He’d die of jealousy.”

Harry laughed, the tension easing slightly. “As fun as that would be… I still think it’s Draco. He’s the Heir.”

Here we go again....

But, before I could respond, that sinister voice echoed again—cold, whispering, and closer than before.

We quickly got up and followed the eerie noise.

“It feels like it’s coming from the walls,” I muttered.

“This way—let’s go,” Harry urged as we turned a corner, our footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

Then we stumbled to a halt.

This time, lying motionless on the floor were two persons; Justin Finch-Fletchley and our favourite Ghost Nick—petrified.

“They have been attacked…” I whispered, my stomach twisting.

A sharp, triumphant voice cut through the silence.

“Aha! This time, you’ve been caught red-handed!” Filch sneered. “Wait here, both of you—”

“No, no, Filch—” we started, but he was already gone, his hurried footsteps fading down the hall.... 

Moments later, Professor McGonagall arrived, her expression severe.

“Professor Dumbledore wants to see both of you,” she said briskly. Then, turning to me, she added, “I assume you know the password, Esther?”

I nodded, and together, Harry and I made our way to the Headmaster’s office.

It was Harry’s first time there, and as we stepped inside, he took a moment to take in the surroundings—his eyes trailing over the mysterious silver instruments, the towering bookshelves, and the warm flicker of candlelight. He hesitated before approaching the Sorting Hat, probably whispering the questions that weighed on his mind. Their conversation was hushed, words too low for me to catch.

I turned away to see Fawkes, he looked weak and baleful—and then, suddenly, he burst into flames right before our eyes.

“Did he just… die?” I murmured in shock, staring at the pile of ashes where Fawkes had been moments before.

Dumbledore smiled gently. “No, Esther. It’s simply unfortunate timing that you both had to witness his Burning Day. You see my dear, Phoenixes are immortal—they perish into ashes before being reborn anew.”

As if on cue, a tiny, wrinkled chick emerged from the ashes, its soft cries filling the quiet room.

All three of us watched in awe as Fawkes was reborn.

"Now, I believe we are in for an important conversation," Dumbledore said, turning to both of us.

"Professor, I didn’t do it… I swear, it wasn’t me," Harry began, his voice urgent, but before he could continue, the door burst open.

"Dumbledore! It’s not Harry!" Hagrid declared, striding into the room, his massive frame tense with worry.

Dumbledore merely nodded. "I know, Hagrid."

Hearing that, Hagrid visibly relaxed. Dumbledore then turned his piercing gaze toward Harry. "I believe you, Harry. But, unfortunately, a large portion of the school is now convinced that you are the Heir of Slytherin." He paused, his eyes searching Harry’s face. "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"

Harry hesitated for the briefest moment before shaking his head. "No, sir."

Dumbledore observed him for a long moment before nodding. "Very well. Off you go, then. Hagrid will be waiting outside. I would like to speak with my ward for a few moments."

Harry turned toward me, frowning slightly. "It’s not her either, Headmaster. She was with me the whole time. We were talking when we heard the voice."

The way he immediately defended me sent a wave of warmth through me.... The only person who had ever spoken up for me before was my grandfather—but now, I had someone else too....

I gave Harry a small smile. "It’s all right. He probably just wants to continue our usual sessions. Go on, I’ll see you in the common room."

He hesitated, giving me one last glance before nodding and leaving.

Once the door shut behind him, Dumbledore finally turned his attention back to me. "I must say, Miss Black, you have forged quite strong friendships here at Hogwarts—if today and last Tuesday’s events are anything to go by."

I arched an eyebrow. "You heard about that?"

"Minerva informed me," he admitted. "Are you all right? I imagine those accusations must have been difficult to bear."

I exhaled softly. "They did hurt, Headmaster, but… as you said, the bonds I’ve created helped. They lifted me up in their own ways, making me feel… loved." I smiled, recalling their words and support.

Dumbledore nodded, then fixed me with a more serious expression. "And did you know?"

I knew exactly what he was asking. This time, I decided to answer honestly. "I did. The day Mrs. Norris was petrified, Harry heard the voice too. That’s when I realized he was a Parselmouth. I didn’t say anything because… because, it wasn’t my secret to share. And because I didn’t want him to go through what I did. But it didn’t go as planned, did it?

He was their hero, and now, suddenly, they fear him—blaming him for everything."

Dumbledore sighed. "In time the real culprit will be found Esther, and Harry will be cleared in their eyes. But until then, the weight of suspicion is a heavy burden."

"He is innocent," I affirmed.

Dumbledore studied me for a long moment before speaking again. "Esther, there is one more reason I asked you to stay behind today."

I frowned. "What is it?"

He took a measured pause before saying, "Esther, I need to see your mind."

I stiffened, staring at him in shock. "Headmaster!"

"I know this is an unusual request, and you may feel betrayed, but understand this—I do not distrust Harry. It is you I do not trust."

A sharp pang ran through me. "You think it’s me? That I’m the Heir? Why?" My voice wavered slightly, a mix of disbelief and anger. "I thought we were building trust between us, Professor. Why now?"

"For that final step of trust," he answered simply.

I scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"I am a man who values control, Esther. That is why I read the thoughts of students when they first arrive at Hogwarts—to understand their beliefs, their intentions, to determine whether they may walk down a dark path." He clasped his hands together. "I have read the minds of every student in this school at least once. Except yours."

I swallowed hard.

"On your first night at the Welcoming Feast, I tried to enter your mind," he admitted. "I failed. Miserably. The pain I suffered from the backlash lasted the entire night. I knew then that Alphard had taught you Occlumency—to shield your thoughts from me."

Yes, Grandfather had always warned me to guard my mind carefully...

"That is why I have always kept an eye on you," Dumbledore continued. "And why I have struggled to fully trust you. Since the attacks began, I have searched the minds of those I believed might hold answers. Yours is the last mind I have yet to see. My doubts remain, and I must ask—will you let me read your mind, just this once?"

My fingers curled into fists. "I can’t believe this."

"I need to do this, Esther. Afterwards, I will never ask again.... I Promise,......  But I need to see for myself—for that leap of faith."

My jaw tightened. "If you need to invade someone’s mind just to trust them, then that is not trust at all, Professor. If you judge students the moment they step into Hogwarts, categorizing them as good or bad based on your own perception, then you are the one who cannot be trusted." I met his gaze defiantly. "I could let you read my mind right now, but I know that one day, when we stand at another crossroads, your trust in me will flicker again."

Dumbledore remained silent, his expression unreadable.

I exhaled sharply. "Fine. You can read my mind. But I will never trust you again, Headmaster.

And, Now I understand why my grandfather never did."

His eyes dimmed slightly. "I know I have hurt you, my dear. Believe me when I say, you were the first person I truly wanted to trust blindly. But I fear that the one who opened the Chamber may be someone close to you. That is why I must do this, Esther. One day, when all the truths come to light, I hope you will understand."

I didn’t answer. I simply closed my eyes and let down my mental defenses.

I had arranged my mind as a dollhouse set—a choice made when I was nine, long before I understood how unusual it might seem. Snape had advised me to shape my mental defenses around something familiar, something I knew intimately. And so, my childhood sanctuary became my fortress. It may have looked like a simple dollhouse, but it was far from ordinary. Within its delicate walls, I had built intricate traps and layered puzzles, each crafted with meticulous precision and reinforced by sheer will. Now, as I felt Dumbledore’s presence press against my defenses, I silently triggered them—allowing him entry, but only on my terms.

He sifted through the memories of my life—childhood moments, whispered conversations with my grandfather, stolen laughter with friends, exchanges with professors,…..  even my tense encounter with Quirrell last year. He examined everything with quiet intensity, his piercing gaze analyzing not just the events but my reactions, my thoughts, my fears....

But as I watched him, something became clear. He wasn’t nearly as interested in my mother—despite her being a Black—as he was in my father. Whenever my mother appeared in my memories, he remained neutral, passive even. Yet the mere mention of my father—Tom—made his brows furrow, his eyes darken with something unreadable.

I didn’t understand.

Finally..... after what felt like several hours, he withdrew from my mind, his expression unreadable.

"I am sorry, Esther," he said, his voice quiet. "You were right. I found nothing here."

Without another word, I turned and left.

I used my violet bead and slipped back inside my trunk, shutting the lid behind me. I had no interest in talking to anyone at that moment. Something about having someone use Legilimency on you left you feeling drained—moody, sick, and exhausted all at once. And beyond that, I was furious.

I wasn’t even sure who I was angrier at—Dumbledore, for prying into my mind, or my mysterious father, whose mere existence seemed to be a constant shadow over my life. I had had enough.

Taking a deep breath, I strode toward the small closet inside my bedroom and pulled out my grandfather’s letter. My fingers trembled as I tore it open, ready—desperate—to finally see the words within.

But before my eyes could scan the page, a loud purring snapped me out of my trance.

Starlet.

She rubbed against me insistently, her bright eyes watching me with quiet understanding.

I exhaled sharply, closing my eyes for a moment before sighing in defeat.

I made a promise.

With reluctant hands, I folded the letter back up and placed it safely in its spot.

"Eight more months," I murmured to myself. "Eight more months, and no one will stop me from reading that letter."

Starlet climbed onto my shoulder, pressing her small head against my cheek as she purred soothingly.

"You know, speaking Cat language would have been far more useful than speaking Parseltongue," I mused, stroking her soft fur. "At least then we could have an actual conversation, Star. I just wish… there was someone I could talk to..... Openly. No secrets. No doubts. No trust issues."

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I miss you, Grandfather."

After spending some time alone in my trunk, I finally forced myself to leave and went in search of my friends. I found them in the Great Hall, huddled together at the Gryffindor table. Sliding into the seat beside Harry, I let out a small sigh.

"There you are. Your session ran long today," Hermione noted as I sat down.

I huffed. "The conversation ran long....  The glares seem to have increased tenfold "

Harry shook his head, picking at his food; "Well, Justin being petrified right after the Duelling Club incident kind of sealed the deal," he muttered. "Some people are even convinced you’ve hypnotized me."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

"Just one more day, mate," Ron said, trying to sound cheerful. "Tomorrow, they’ll all be gone home for the holidays."

"I just wish this stupid Heir would be caught already so everyone would leave us alone," I muttered, frustrated.

"Don’t worry, Esther," Ron grinned. "Once the potion is ready, we’ll catch Malfoy."

"And the professors are doing everything they can to find them," Hermione added, "Just get some rest tonight, both of you."

I let out a deep breath. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

And for once, I actually listened……..

That night, I let exhaustion take over and drifted into a long deep sleep.

Chapter Text

Christmas this year was different—a celebration with my friends. I missed Grandfather, of course. After spending the last eleven years marking this day with only him, everything had changed. But I wasn’t alone. Not for a moment. My friends stayed by my side the entire day, even Starlet, who refused to leave me.

In the morning, I simply freshened up and went down to the common room with Hermione, both of us still in our pajamas. Harry and Ron were already there. Almost all Gryffindors had left for the holidays, leaving the dormitory unusually quiet. A beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood beside the fireplace, its twinkling lights casting a warm glow over the room. Beneath it, a small pile of presents awaited.

"Finally! I thought you two would sleep till noon," Ron teased as he spotted us coming down the stairs.

"Good morning to you too, Ron," Hermione replied cheerfully.

I walked over to the tree, admiring the intricate decorations. "The elves did a brilliant job," I murmured. "It almost feels like home."

Harry squeezed my hand gently, then gestured toward the pile of gifts with my name on them. "Go on," he said with a smile. "They're waiting."

"You both opened yours already?" I asked.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I loved the charmed pillow, by the way."

I smiled. " I hope it keeps away your nightmares, giving you a good night’s sleep."

With that, I knelt by the gifts, ready to unwrap the surprises waiting for me.

Hermione gifted me a set of hair accessories along with some Muggle chocolates—Aah! My favourites......  Mrs. Weasley had knitted another cozy sweater for me, this time in green with my initial, E, stitched onto it.

Harry gave me a pair of black leather gloves and some scented candles—their fragrance was absolutely divine, something I would use every night while doing my skin care... Tonks, ever predictable, sent me the same enchanted quills as last year, along with a book on runes—an incredibly useful gift, and one I knew I’d be relying on again this year.

Astra’s gift was a stunning platinum pendant, while Draco, in true Draco fashion, gave me a fancy dress—Slytherin colors, of course. I shook my head at his choice, amused, before turning to the last present in the pile.

It was an elegant black coat, perfectly tailored, accompanied by a matching black cocktail hat. A note was tucked inside:

"My dear Esther, remember to always carry yourself with grace.  

You are a Black heiress now."

I laughed softly as I read the familiar handwriting—Grandfather’s. He must have arranged for the gift to be delivered today. My heart swelled with warmth….

"I miss you," I whispered, my fingers lingering on the fabric.

A soft purring pulled me from my thoughts. Starlet nudged me gently, reminding me she was still there.

"Alright, you," I said with a smile, scooping her up before heading back to my friends. For Star, I had picked out some cat licks and a fur brush—something I planned to put to good use later.

Hermione had already opened her gifts, and the three of them were seated on the sofa, deep in conversation about the Polyjuice Potion.

"It's ready," Hermione announced. "I’ve also managed to gather three Slytherin robes."

"Then let’s do it today," Harry suggested.

"No, tomorrow. Do it tomorrow," I finally spoke up, making them all turn toward me.

I sighed before explaining. "Today it’s Yule, Christmas—a day to celebrate and relax. The truth can wait one more day. This so-called ‘Anonymous Slytherin Heir’ has already disrupted our regular lives at Hogwarts. Let’s not allow him to ruin this one special day too."

Hermione nodded in agreement, and after a moment, the others did too.

"Alright," Harry said at last. "Tomorrow, then."

I opted for a cold shoulder ruffle layered crop top paired with a red floral skirt, complemented by white stockings and red ballerina shoes. Letting my hair fall naturally, I secured it with a delicate red bow clip. To add a polished touch, I layered a red blazer over my outfit and kept my makeup minimal—just a hint of mascara and a bold red lipstick. For accessories, I chose studded diamond earrings and Astra’s pendant, completing the look with a subtle yet refined charm

"Esther!"

"Coming!"

With a final spritz of vanilla perfume and one last glance in the mirror, I hurried to join Hermione, and together, we made our way to the Great Hall.

The hall was breathtaking, adorned with twinkling lights and a grand Christmas tree standing proudly in the center, its ornaments shimmering under the enchanted ceiling.

"The elves truly outdid themselves," I murmured, taking in the sight. "It looks even more elegant than the Halloween feast."

"It does look magical," Hermione agreed. "Oh, here come the boys."

I turned toward the entrance to see them approaching, both wrapped in their respective Weasley jumpers.

Ron gave me an exaggerated once-over before smirking, "You look like a spoiled princess."

I arched a brow. "I'll take that as elegant. Thank you, Ron." I scoffed, then turned to Harry, who was staring at me intently.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing..." He shook his head, quickly looking away as they both took their seats across from us.

Moments later, the feast appeared before us—roasted turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, some rich gravy, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, and perfectly cooked vegetables. For dessert, there was Christmas pudding drizzled with butter and cream, along with my absolute favourite—trifle.

"Whoa... This looks amazing," Ron practically shouted in excitement.

With quiet gratitude, we offered a moment of prayer before diving in. The food was, as always, was absolutely delicious.

After enjoying our delicious lunch, we wandered down to the gardens, settling in front of the Black Lake. The sun was nearly setting, casting a golden glow over the sky, painting it in warm hues. We sat in comfortable silence, taking in the peaceful atmosphere, our conversation light and easy. As the sky deepened into darkness, stars began to shimmer above us.

I stood up, brushing off my dress. "It’s time. I’ll be back in an hour. Any of you want to join?"

They all shook their heads, but Hermione gave me a concerned look. "Be careful. We have two hours before the deadline strikes."

"We’ll be waiting here," Harry added. "Stay within our sight."

I nodded before stepping closer to the lake. With a flick of my wand, I formed a circle of flowers and knelt at the centre. Eyes closed, I remained vigilant, praying to Mother Magic, feeling the energy of Yule surround me. After an hour, I knew it was time to rise.

When I returned, we all made our way back to the Great Hall. As we entered, I spotted Draco standing with his usual cronies. Excusing myself, I walked toward my cousin, who smirked as I approached.

"Merry Christmas, cousin. Hopefully, this Yule grants you enough modesty to start behaving like a mature person," I beamed at him.

Draco scoffed. "Merry Christmas to you too, Esther."

Smiling at his response, I rejoined my friends.

The professors joined us for dinner, taking their seats as carols played softly in the background. The atmosphere was joyful and warm, as if, for a moment, everyone had forgotten about the monster lurking in the Chamber of Secrets. We savored the delicious meal and dessert before Dumbledore reminded us it was time for bed.

The four of us hurried back to our common room, but none of us were ready to sleep just yet. We stayed up late, planning for the next day. It was decided that I would stay out of the Polyjuice plan and only interfere if absolutely necessary—something I reluctantly agreed to.

Eventually, exhaustion caught up with Hermione. She rubbed her eyes, looking drained. "I think I need to rest. Brewing those potions really took a toll on me."

I hugged her. "Go, you need sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day too."

"Good night, Hermione," Harry added, while Ron—already sprawled on the couch—snored loudly.

The three of us laughed.

As Hermione left, Harry turned to me, his expression thoughtful. "You really don’t believe it’s Draco, do you?"

"No, I don’t."

"Because he’s your cousin?" he pressed.

I sighed. "No. I won’t lie, Harry—I don’t hate him like you three do. I… I can never hate him. He’s my family. I know he has a lot of flaws, but deep down, he’s just a boy who desperately wants his father’s approval. And as long as that’s the case, there will always be hope in me that he’ll become a better person one day."

I hesitated before continuing. "But that’s not why I believe he isn’t the Heir. Whoever this person is, they are cold and calculating—Draco is not, he's impulsive a, loudmouth......  And more importantly, the Heir of Slytherin is a Parselmouth..... Draco isn’t.

But, one thing I do believe… is that Lucius Malfoy is somehow involved in all of this."

Harry studied me for a moment before nodding. "I don’t want this school to close, Esther… Back in London, my life is—" He trailed off.

"Harsh," I finished for him.

His silence was enough of an answer.

I sighed. "I really hate those Muggle relatives of yours. Why are uncles always so bad at parenting?"

Harry laughed at that. "I think we should head to bed now. Ron looks completely dead."

I smirked, flicking my wand. "Wingardium Leviosa."

Ron’s body lifted slightly off the couch. "There. Now you can carry him up the stairs easily."

Harry chuckled. "You’re evil."

"Good night, Harry." I turned to leave.

Just as I reached the stairs, he called out. "Esther…."

I glanced back.

His green eyes held something unreadable as he spoke again—this time, in Parseltongue. "You looked beautiful today."

The next morning, I woke up late. Hermione was already gone, so I figured they must have left without me. Quickly freshening up, I threw on Mrs. Weasley’s knitted jumper and one of my favorite pairs of jeans before hurrying downstairs to see what the three of them were up to.

The common room was empty.

Frowning, I made my way to the Great Hall, but it was deserted too.

"What, your friends left you all alone again?"

I turned to see Draco smirking behind me.

"Well, you’re not with your friends either, cousin," I shot back.

"True. And it’s odd, really. They never leave my side, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere. Though I have a feeling they’re near some food… those two can never get enough."

Something clicked in my mind. Hermione, Harry, and Ron had gone ahead with their plan. I didn’t know all the details, but I knew they were impersonating Crabbe and Goyle to get information from Draco. This, caught in a dilemma—should I stay with Draco to keep an eye on things, or leave them to handle it on their own?

Before I could decide, Draco’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Crabbe? Goyle? What are you two doing here?"

I looked up just as Percy rounded the corner, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

My eyes narrowed. Something felt off. Then, I noticed Goyle?—wearing spectacles?—staring a little too intently at me. Recognition dawned.

Harry!

Draco glanced between us, confused, but I instinctively stepped forward.

"Hello, I’m Esther—Esther Black. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, considering you two are my cousin’s best friends."

"Uh… nice to meet you too," Harry replied, his voice a little too polite for Goyle. Ron-Crabbe quickly echoed the greeting, shifting awkwardly. They were nervous—probably hadn’t planned this part out too well.

Draco eyed Goyle suspiciously. "Why are you wearing glasses?"

Harry flushed. "I was reading."

I smirked at that.

Subtly, I turned to Crabbe—Ron. "Where’s Hermione?" I whispered.

He leaned in. "Last I saw her, second-floor bathroom. She was going to take the form of Millicent Bulstrode."

I nodded, debating my next move.

"Join us," Goyle-Harry suddenly suggested, his tone casual but a little too eager. He turned to Draco. "She’s never seen the Slytherin common room, has she? Don’t you think your dear cousin should see what she’s missing?"

I stared at him, wide-eyed. What are you doing, Potter?!

Crabbe-Ron looked just as alarmed, shooting daggers at Harry, but Draco, predictably, thought it was a brilliant idea.

"Excellent point! Come on, cousin," Draco said, grinning. "Let me show you what you’re missing by not being a Slytherin."

The Slytherin common room was deep in the dungeons, bathed in various shades of green from the eerie glow of the lake above. Greenish lamps flickered against the dark walls, their light reflecting off the deep green leather sofas and dark wood furnishings. The room had an undeniable grandeur, with low-backed, button-tufted chairs, gothic skull decorations, and an imposing fireplace crackling to one side.

It felt cold—both in atmosphere and temperature—but strangely enough, there was something about it that felt… familiar. Almost comforting; And that unsettled me.

"Mesmerizing, isn’t it?" Draco said, sprawling onto one of the sofas with a satisfied smirk. "Much better than that shabby den of yours with the lions, I’m sure."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Goyle-Harry open his mouth—probably to defend Gryffindor—but I quickly cut in.

"I won’t lie, your common room has its own perks and charms, but I prefer mine, thanks."

Draco scoffed but didn’t press further. Instead, he turned his attention to Crabbe and launched into a familiar rant—this time about the Weasleys, then Dumbledore. I could see both of my friends growing more agitated. Ron, surprisingly, held his tongue, but Harry looked seconds away from snapping.

I shot Harry a warning glare.   'Keep your mouth shut, Potter.'

Finally, the conversation shifted to the topic we had been waiting for—The Heir of Slytherin.

"It’s not me," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I don’t know who it is. But I do know one thing—it definitely isn’t that Saint Potter."

I giggled at that before steering the conversation further.

"Do you guys know if the Chamber has ever been opened before?"

Draco straightened slightly, looking pleased to share something he knew. "Yeah, fifty years ago. My father told me about it. He wouldn’t tell me who opened it, but he did say that last time when the chamber was opened, the person was expelled and also a Mudblood died....

Personally, I hope—"

"Don’t you dare finish that sentence." My voice came out sharp, laced with warning. "Or I promise, cousin, you won’t be able to walk for the rest of the holidays."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What, are you going to attack me in my own common room?" Then his expression shifted to something between amusement and disdain. "And while we’re at it—what in Merlin’s name are you wearing?"

I smiled sweetly. "A woolen sweater woven with a mother’s love."

From the corner of my eye, I noticed something alarming—Harry’s scar was visible. Damn it. Ron had also spotted the issue, looking increasingly panicked. We needed to get them out now.

Thinking quickly, I turned to Crabbe-Harry and Goyle-Ron.

"Crabbe, Goyle—go find my friends for me, will you? I have no idea what they’re up to."

I subtly signaled them to leave.

Draco frowned. "Why would my friends go looking for your friends?"

But thankfully, the two quickly stood up and muttered a quick "Sure," before making their escape.

Draco groaned, throwing his hands up. "What is wrong with them today?"

I shrugged innocently. "Why, they’re just being helpful. You should try it sometime." I smirked, quickly changing the subject before he could dwell on it. "I won’t lie, I do like this room. It feels… calm."

Predictably, Draco preened at that, launching into a long-winded speech about how much better the Slytherin common room was compared to Gryffindor’s. I nodded along, only half-listening, knowing it was time to make my exit.

Before leaving, I gave him one last warning.

"You really think this monster will only target Muggle-borns," I said softly, "Be careful, Draco. At the end of the day, it's still a monster."

With that, I turned and walked away.

On my way upstairs, I found Harry and Ron standing anxiously with Hermione—who was now completely covered in black fur.

My eyes widened. "What happened?" I asked, hurrying toward them.

Hermione looked horrified. "I... I made a mistake," she stammered. "Instead of Millicent’s hair, I accidentally added her cat’s hair to my potion..."

Well, That explained the fur.

I gently took her hand. "It’s alright. Madam Pomfrey will fix this. Let’s get you to the hospital wing."

We escorted Hermione to the wing, hastily making up a story about how she had brewed the potion herself for educational purposes. Madam Pomfrey was furious, but after a brief scolding, she assured us Hermione would be fine in a few days—though she would need proper rest.

Reluctantly, we left her there and returned to the Gryffindor common room.

Ron flopped onto the sofa with a sigh. "So… it’s really not Malfoy, then."

"Nope," I chirped                                                         

Harry exhaled, looking determined. "Then that means we need to start from basics again...."

I nodded. "And this time, we do it properly."

The four of us celebrated The New Year’s Day, exploring the entire Hogwarts grounds before finally settling by the Black Lake for a picnic. The house-elves had helped me prepare the food basket the night before in the kitchens, and I had stored everything using a Stasis Charm. It was packed with chicken sandwiches, cookies, a rich chocolate cake, and a proper meal, along with a two bottles of fresh fruit juice packed with four large glasses. We enjoyed every bite while watching the breathtaking year-end sunset, savoring the peaceful moment together.

Later that night, the Weasley twins surprised us with a spectacular fireworks display—one they proudly claimed as their own invention. Honestly, I was impressed by their creativity.

Together, we bid farewell to 1992, praying for blessings, peace, and a happy new year.

Deep down, though, I knew that was a foolish hope. Chaos had become the new normal at Hogwarts—and in our lives. Instead, I wished for the knowledge to face whatever challenges lay ahead and the strength to overcome them. This year also, at least, I would finally learn the truth about my father—a silver lining to look forward to and hopefully soon we will catch this heir and send this monster in its own place too…

For now, I cherished the calm of the holidays, knowing that in just two days, the castle would once again be filled with chatter and mischief as the students returned.

Wrapped in the warmth of the moment, I hugged Hermione as we sang old ballads and carols, savoring the fleeting peace while it lasted.

Three weeks had passed since the students returned, and everything seemed to have settled back into normalcy. There had been no new attacks, and the whispers about the Chamber of Secrets and The Heir had begun to fade. But I doubted this peace would last—it felt like the calm before the storm. Another attack was inevitable, and we were nowhere close to uncovering the monster's identity or the true Heir of Slytherin.

One Friday, I made the decision to meet with Dumbledore again. I had avoided these meetings ever since he attempted to peer into my mind. But considering he already knew everything we had uncovered, I figured it was time to gather information from him instead. So, I sent him a letter requesting a meeting.

His reply came within an hour....

Meet me in my office tomorrow at 11 AM.
Happy New Year, Esther.
I truly hope you can forgive me, my dear.

I read the note, but it stirred no emotions in me. Dumbledore was an emotionless, war-hardened wizard who viewed people as either Light or Dark. HI understood that he would guide me only as long as I followed his path, and the moment I strayed, he would see me as an enemy. A traitor. But I wasn’t here to please anyone—least of all him.

So the next day, as I entered his office, I kept my guard up, my face impassive.

I spoke plainly. “I don’t trust you. Honestly, at this moment, I borderline hate you. But my friends and I are searching for the ‘Heir of Slytherin’—which I’m sure you already know about and We’ve hit a dead end.” I hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing, “Since you were a professor here fifty years ago, I thought you might know more about the incident.”

Dumbledore studied me before responding, his voice calm. “Fifty years. How do you know the Chamber was opened fifty years ago?”

“Sources.”

He sighed. “Esther… I understand that you’re still angry with me, and I don’t blame you. But I’m sorry—I won’t tell you any more about the Chamber.”

I clenched my fists, about to snap, but he continued.

“The monster in the Chamber is dangerous, Esther. Deadly. I won’t risk the lives of students by revealing information that could put them in harm’s way. I don’t even know where the Chamber is yet—we are still searching for it.”

“But you do know who opened it last time, don’t you?” I pressed.

“I do.”

“And was he truly expelled?”

“..........”

Silence, but I kept pressing... “Do you think it’s the same person this time?”

“No. I don’t believe it’s possible… but I can’t say for certain.”

“And the monster?”

He hesitated before replying. “I have an idea, now that I know it speaks Parseltongue. But I’m not completely sure.”

I leaned forward slightly. “I’m going to find this Chamber, and you know my friends are too. Is there any hint you’d like to give us? Or are you just going to watch from the sidelines?”

Dumbledore exhaled, then finally relented. “Fine. I’ll tell you this—the Chamber can only be opened by someone who speaks Parseltongue. The Heir must have that ability.”

My eyes narrowed. “Is that why?”

“Why I thought it was you? Yes. Though there is another reason, one I’m sure you will figure out in time. But, I see now that I was mistaken. You are different, Esther.” He paused. “I know you don’t trust me right now, and that’s fair. But please, listen to two pieces of advice of this old man.”

His voice softened, almost pleading. “Do not roam around after curfew.  And do not go anywhere alone.”

I nodded, trying to process the new information when suddenly, I heard it again—

The voice.

I shot up from my seat, alarmed. Dumbledore noticed my reaction and immediately understood.

"Let's go," he said without hesitation.

We rushed out together.

"It's coming from downstairs," I said urgently as we hurried down the staircase. But before we could pinpoint its source, the voice suddenly stopped.

"It... it stopped, Headmaster," I muttered, scanning the corridor for any sign of movement.

Despite that, we continued moving downstairs. Something in my gut told me the voice had come from the second floor, so we headed there.

But when we arrived, the corridor was empty. Nothing. No shadowy figure lurking in the dim candlelight, no sign of movement—just the eerie silence hanging in the air.

I frowned. Was I imagining it?

Dumbledore studied the hallway carefully before turning to me. His expression remained unreadable, but I could tell he was thinking.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "I should still inspect the school to see if anything is out of the ordinary. You should return to your common room, my dear."

I hesitated. "Harry... He must have heard it too. He would’ve followed the voice."

Dumbledore’s gaze held something unreadable. "You will find all your friends in the common room. Trust me, Esther."

Before I could question his cryptic response, Filch appeared, mumbling complaints under his breath.

"If you'll excuse me, my dear," Dumbledore said, nodding toward Filch. "I have matters to attend to."

While walking back to the common room, I overheard Filch grumbling about water leaks, his ever-increasing workload, and something about leaving Hogwarts for good.

I won’t lie—the last part sounded like a relief. But I kept that thought to myself and quickened my pace.

Sure enough, just as Dumbledore had predicted, all three of my friends were huddled around something on the desk when I entered.

"Esther!" Harry called out the moment he saw me.

"How was the meeting?" Hermione asked.

"Pleasant," I replied sarcastically.

Hermione sighed. "Esther…"

Ignoring her concern, I turned to Harry. "You heard it?"

He nodded. "I did… but when Ron and I got there, there was no one—just this waterlogged diary." He pointed toward an old, worn-out book on the desk.

I stepped forward to take a look when Ron chimed in. "Any new information?"

I nodded and lowered my voice. "Dumbledore confirmed that the Heir of Slytherin is a Parselmouth, and the monster—whatever it is—must either speak or understand Parseltongue. But, it’s not a snake; that is something he confirmed during our first meeting."

The three of them absorbed the information silently.

"He also warned us not to go out alone or after curfew. He looked… worried. The monster is deadly, so we really need to be careful," I added with all seriousness.

"Not just him," Ron said. "All the professors look on edge."

I picked up the diary—the very thing they had been gathered around when I entered.

"It looks like a nor—" I froze.

My grip slackened, and I nearly dropped the book.

Stamped on the back of the diary was a name.

A name that was all too familiar.

Tom Marvollo Riddle.

Chapter Text

I stood frozen, still in my stance, staring intently at the simple, old black diary....... My thoughts racing.........

“Where… where exactly did you find this?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“Second-floor bathroom,” Harry replied. “Ron and I followed the voice there. The place was flooded—again—and Myrtle was, well, sulking.”

“She was crying because someone flushed the diary down the toilet onto her,” Ron added helpfully.

Harry leaned in slightly, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

No… Yes… I didn’t know what to say....

After years of searching, after endless dead ends, to suddenly find something connected to him—it felt surreal, almost like a dream.

I glanced at each of them, debating. I wanted to tell them the truth about my father. But the promise I had made to Dumbledore held me back.

I sighed, reining in my emotions.

“It’s just... the name—Tom Riddle,” I said slowly. “I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite remember where.”

“Of course!” Ron exclaimed. “I saw his name in the trophy room during detention. He—”

“He won an award for special services to the school… fifty years ago,” I finished, the realization hitting me.

I slapped my forehead. “Fifty years ago… How could I forget? He was at Hogwarts the last time the Chamber was opened.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she pieced it together  “Then he might have been the one who caught the person responsible for the attacks back then."

"It matches perfectly," she continued, voice laced with certainty. "He must’ve won the award for catching the culprit."

‘Of course… that it, that must be it.’

“It’s... blank?” I muttered, puzzled.

“It is,” Ron confirmed.

“But, then why would someone flush a blank diary down the toilet?” I muttered, confused.

“It must be the Heir,” Hermione chimed in, her brain storming “They must be holding a grudge against Riddle for catching the Heir fifty years ago.”

Well, It made sense.

“Then we need to ask Myrtle if she saw who flushed it. That would solve everything,” I said excitedly.

“It would… except Myrtle didn’t see a thing,” Ron pointed out.

I frowned. She didn’t? “Oh… That’s bad.”

“Well, at least we have a clue now,” Harry said optimistically. “We just need to dig deeper.” His gaze shifted back to the diary, his expression unreadable. “I want to keep it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Ron beat me to it.

“It could be dangerous, Harry.”

“Dangerous? Come off it, how could a diary be dangerous?” Harry scoffed.

“You’d be surprised mate,” Ron countered. “Some of the books the Ministry confiscates—Dad told me—there was one that burned your eyes out just from reading it.”

Harry hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “I... I can’t explain it, but I feel a strong connection to this diary.”

I didn’t want to part with it either, but I wasn’t sure how to argue without revealing too much. Instead, I offered a compromise.

“Let’s take turns keeping the diary,” I suggested. “I’ll keep it tonight, and tomorrow morning, I’ll give it to you. We can switch every other day. Does that sound fair?”

Harry considered my words for a moment before nodding.

Satisfied, I smiled and reopened the diary. The pages were still empty, a blank slate waiting to be filled.

“You’re right, Harry,” I murmured, running my fingers over the parchment. “The diary.... it does feel... special.”

Ron and Hermione were busy discussing something else, leaving Harry and me alone with our thoughts.

“Let’s keep it safe, yeah?” Harry said quietly.

I nodded, clutching the diary a little tighter.

That night, I tucked it under my pillow, refusing to part with it for even a second. For some reason, it felt warm, almost protective—if a diary could even feel that way.

And for the first time in a long while, I had a peaceful, long sleep.

Next morning, as promised, I handed the diary to Harry. Over the next few days, we continued rotating it among ourselves.

Yet, despite my curiosity, I couldn’t bring myself to write in it—not even a single mark. It felt wrong, as if disturbing the pages of this fifty-year-old artifact would somehow erase the history it held.

Each night, when it was my turn to keep the diary, I would open it, slowly turning the pages, my fingers tracing the parchment. I would stare at a single blank page for hours, lost in thought.

After years of knowing nothing about him—searching for even the smallest trace of his existence—Now, I suddenly possessed something that had once belonged to him.

And somehow, holding it in my hands made it feel like he was here, right beside me.

Time passed, and peace seemed to have returned to Hogwarts... No more attacks, No eerie whispers echoing through the corridors—it almost felt as if everything was back to normal. We all breathed a little easier, laughter returned to the common rooms, and the castle once again felt like home.

Then came one seemingly ordinary morning.

I freshened up and headed down to the Great Hall with my friends for breakfast, chatting casually—until we crossed the threshold.

I froze....

The entire hall was drenched in pink. Every surface was covered in flowers, heart-shaped streamers floated through the air, and pink confetti drifted down from the enchanted ceiling like falling snow.

“What in the world…” I muttered, half in awe, half in horror.

“Look,” Ron said beside me, nodding toward the entrance.

We turned just in time to see Professor Lockhart stride into the hall, dressed in an absolutely revolting shade of lurid pink.

“He looks horrendous,” I whispered.         

Hard to believe, but yeah—worse than usual,” Harry sighed

“Is it just me, or does he get uglier with confidence?” Ron whispered back.

Judging by the expressions on the other teachers’ faces, we weren’t the only ones unimpressed. From across the room, I spotted Snape sneering, his face thunderous, while Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes in sheer disbelief.

“Why…?” I asked, genuinely baffled.

Hermione, who had been oddly quiet, finally sighed. “It’s… Valentine’s Day.”

“And?”

She hesitated, clearly embarrassed. “Well… Lockhart decided to decorate the Great Hall as a ‘morale booster’—to lift everyone’s spirits after the Chamber of Secrets attacks. He thought it would help.”

“Help?” Ron scoffed. “By giving us pink-induced nightmares?”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head.

As we took our seats, I noticed a group of girls crowding around Lockhart, eagerly handing him gifts.

“Are they… giving him presents?” I asked in disbelief.

“I think so,” Ron muttered, watching as Hannah Abbott handed Lockhart a box of chocolates.

Next, Lavender Brown stepped forward, offering him a rose and a letter.

And next,

“Wait—no—wasn’t she just—” I turned, only to realize my best friend was no longer at my side. Instead, she had joined the line, clutching a scented letter and a box of chocolates.

I groaned. “What has that pink peacock done to my best friend? How can she, an ultrasmart witch, not see through that fraudster?”

“It’s disgusting,” Ron grumbled.

I shot him a look.

“What? I thought you felt the same,” he muttered defensively.

Ignoring him, I turned my attention back to Lockhart, who had begun another one of his grand, self-indulgent speeches.

“Aah! Thank you, thank you, my dear students!” he beamed. “Forty-four… forty-five… forty-six Valentines! A few less than last year, but never mind that—I am inside a school this time, after all!”

I resisted the urge to gag.

Lockhart continued, his voice positively dripping with self-importance. “Now, as today is a very special Valentine’s Day, may I make a delightful suggestion to my esteemed fellow professors—Professor Flitwick and Professor Snape—to use this wonderful occasion to teach our dear students about Entrancing Enchantments and the brewing of love potions!”

“He’s mad,” I muttered.

Ron snorted. “Well, his ‘special suggestion’ doesn’t seem too popular… Look at the teachers’ table.”

I glanced up. Flitwick had buried his face in his hands, clearly mortified. Snape, on the other hand, looked murderous.

“I bet Snape would make the first student who asked him for a love potion drink poison instead,” Harry said confidently.

Ron smirked. “I’m not betting against you on that one.”

At that moment, the doors of the Great Hall swung open, and in marched a small army of dwarfs—dressed in pink robes, wearing golden wings, and carrying harps.

I felt dread settle in my stomach.

“Aaah! My dwarfs have arrived!” Lockhart announced gleefully. “Fear not, children! My delightful little messengers will deliver your Valentine gifts and love letters throughout the day—even if they must do so forcefully!”

I buried my face in my hands. “It’s going to be a long day.”

“A long, disastrous day,” Ron corrected.

Hermione soon reappeared, rejoining us at the table. She blinked at our judging expressions.

“What?” she asked defensively.

Ron opened his mouth, no doubt ready to go on a rant, but I cut in first. “Nothing. We’re just waiting to see how long it takes for the illusion to shatter.”

“You all hate him for absolutely no reason,” Hermione huffed.

“Actually, we have plenty of reasons,” Ron countered. “You’d see it too if you just opened your eyes.”

I sighed. “Alright, enough arguing about a complete nincompoop. Let’s go, or we’ll be late for Transfiguration.”

Hermione scowled. “Esther!”

“What?” I grinned at her. “I love you, Mione, but that man is an idiot. Now, come on.”

And with that, we left the madness behind—at least for the moment.

The entire day, dwarves kept barging into classrooms, delivering valentines and thoroughly annoying the professors.

I myself received five valentines—three of them accompanied by gifts. The first was an anonymous scented letter with a single red rose. The second came from a first-year Gryffindor and included a beautiful picture of me, most likely taken with Colin’s camera.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione said beside me, peering at the photo.

I smiled and opened the third one, finding it was from Dean. He quickly looked away, his face turning red when I caught his gaze.

The fourth was from one of the Weasley twin—George Weasley, complete with a box of sweets.

"Mad. Absolutely mad. What was my brother thinking?" Ron muttered.

“That I’m a loving, beautiful, and elegant girl,” I replied, blinking my eyelashes with an innocent stare to annoy him more....

Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes while, I opened the fifth and final letter—and froze.

It was from Blaise Zabini.

I was momentarily stunned. Blaise and I had only spoken once, long before Hogwarts, when we were children visiting Malfoy Manor one summer. The memory made me smile.

“What are you smiling at?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just a childhood memory,” I replied coolly. “I won’t lie, these feel quite special. What about you? Have you opened all yours?”

“Do I even have a choice? The dwarves follow me around until I do,” Harry grumbled.

I patted his back sympathetically. Harry had received twelve valentines so far, while Hermione had received two—one anonymous, and the other, much to Ron’s horror, from Fred.

Ron, to his increasing frustration, had yet to receive even one.

“Oh no, here comes another one,” Harry muttered as a dwarf approached.

The dwarf cleared his throat and, to Harry’s utter embarrassment, read the valentine aloud:

"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."

There was a brief, stunned silence before Ron choked in horror.

“Oh Merlin, that was from Ginny!” he spluttered. “What in the world is wrong with my siblings? Am I the only one still sane in this family?”

“Oh, stop exaggerating, Ronald. I think it’s cute,” I said, laughing.

Both Harry and Ron turned their glares on me.

“What?” I said, shrugging. “They like you, Harry. You’re important to them, even if it’s just your presence.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re wrong, Esther. They don’t like me. They like the Chosen One—the vanquisher of the Dark Lord.”

I smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I know. But all those things are you, Harry. Girls dream of princes and heroes, and you fit that perfectly. On top of that, you’re kind, humble, and, well… handsome. So it’s only natural they’d admire you. I’m sure they put a lot of effort into writing those letters, so don’t belittle or scoff at them.”

Harry held my gaze for a moment before sighing. “Alright. I get it.”

Just then, another dwarf came marching toward us. Harry groaned, bracing himself for yet another valentine.

But this time, it wasn’t for him.

Nor was it for Hermione or me.

It was the first and only valentine Ron received that day—anonymous, yet, If that perfume was anything to go by I would bet a thousand galleons it was one of my roommates

Lavender Brown.

Chapter Text

We all were down in the great hall for breakfast—some still grumbling about yesterday’s pink-themed horrors, while others whispered eagerly, trading secrets and speculations about everyone’s latest crushes....... Lavender and Padma were especially loud at our table, their laughter echoing over the clatter of cutlery.

Harry was still missing.

Oh, stop staring at the door, will you” Ron muttered, chewing on a piece of chicken fry. “He’s probably still asleep after staying up half the night.”

I sighed. “Just eat, Ron.”

A few minutes later, the massive doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and Harry walked in...

Finally

He looked absolutely wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual—but there was a strange gleam in his gaze, like he was carrying a secret too big to contain.

“Let me guess, you didn’t sleep at all last night,” I said as he sat across from me.

“No,” Harry admitted, running a hand through his messy hair. “But—it was worth it.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice so only the three of us could hear. “Last night... I met Riddle.”

What

“Where?” I almost shouted, earning a few curious glances from nearby students.

Harry studied my face, as if trying to read my expression, but I ignored him, too eager to hear more.

He sighed and continued, “Last night, some ink accidentally spilled onto the diary.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded.

“Just listen,” he urged. “The ink didn’t stain the pages—it got absorbed into them.”

“Soaked?” Ron repeated, frowning.

“Yes. It… it uhh disappeared completely…. At first, I was shocked, so I wrote something in the diary. The words stayed for a second, then they, too, got absorbed…. That’s when I decided to introduce myself, just to see what would happen.”

I held my breath, already knowing what he would say next.

“A few seconds later… a reply appeared. From Riddle himself.”

Silence fell over us as Harry continued explaining how he and Riddle had communicated through the diary. Riddle had told him that the diary contained all of his memories from when he was a student at Hogwarts. He also confirmed what Hermione had suspected—he was the one who caught the last person to open the Chamber of Secrets.

“Did he say who?” Hermione asked, her face serious.

My heart pounded in my chest. All this time, I could have spoken to my father—if only I had written in the diary. The one thing I refused to do, thinking it would disturb his preserved artifact…

 I felt so foolish.

And then, the regret truly settled in when Harry revealed what happened next.

Not only had he spoken to my father—he had seen him.

Harry described how he had been pulled into a recording of Riddle’s memories, transported back to June 13, 1943.

“There, I saw a younger version of Dumbledore—he was the Transfiguration professor back then—taking Riddle to the then Headmaster, Armando Dippet. Dippet told Riddle that Hogwarts was going to be shut down because a Muggle-born girl had died.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Wait—a Muggle-born died? That means…”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, nodding grimly. “It was the last time the Chamber had been opened.  Riddle was upset. He didn’t want to be sent back to the orphanage.”

I stiffened. “Orphanage?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded. “Yeah… He grew up in a Muggle orphanage. They treated him horribly because… you know, he was different- A freak in their eyes….

I clenched my fists.

Harry kept going. “Dippet assumed Riddle was Muggle-born, but Riddle corrected him—he’s actually half-blood. His mother was a witch who died after giving birth to him, but before she did, she named him Tom, after his Muggle father, and Marvolo, after his wizard grandfather.”

Half-blood. My father was a half-blood. That meant I was a half-blood too.

I could hardly believe I was learning more about my father from Harry than from my grandfather or even Dumbledore. But I had no complaints…. This was more than I ever could have hoped for.

Harry then explained how he followed Riddle into the dungeons, where he witnessed him confronting a much younger Hagrid.

“Riddle found Hagrid hiding a young Acromantula in a cupboard,” Harry said. “He accused him of keeping the monster responsible for the Muggle-born girl’s death and reported him to Dippet. Hagrid tried to defend himself, saying his Acromantula—who he had named Aragog—had never harmed anyone. But after it was caught, the attacks truly stopped. Hagrid was expelled.”

“Hagrid…?” Hermione asked, brows knit in concern. “He does have a peculiar fondness for dangerous creatures, but… would he really try to hurt students?”

“He doesn’t hate Muggle-borns either,” Ron added. “That’s not him.”

I felt a sharp need to defend him—to protect the idea of him, even if I barely knew him. “Maybe he didn’t mean to. We know how Hagrid treats dangerous creatures—like family. Maybe he brought Aragog to Hogwarts thinking it was harmless. And maybe… maybe it just attacked whoever got too close. Not because of blood status—just instinct.”

“I agree with Esther,” Harry said quietly. “And since, the attacks have stopped. Maybe Hagrid and Dumbledore took care of it themselves.”

“That would explain a lot,” Hermione admitted. “It’s been four months since Justin was attacked, and the professors seem calmer lately. Should we ask Hagrid about it?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I think he already carries enough guilt. If it is over, there's no reason to dig it up again.”

And just like that, the conversation drifted to an end.

But not for me.

I needed more..... I wasn’t done—not even close. I wanted to know everything about my father.

I turned to Harry, the question already on my lips. “What house was he in?”

Harry hesitated only for a moment, but that was all the answer I needed

Slytherin

“Slytherin.”

Both my parents had been in Slytherin. And he was a half-blood, too. I could already imagine the prejudices he must have faced from those narrow-minded fools, the constant battle to prove himself in a house that valued blood purity above all else.

I clenched my fists, pushing those thoughts aside.

“The diary Harry,” I said firmly. “I want to meet him too.”

Harry hesitated. “It’s in my room, I’ll—”

“Let’s go,” I said, already standing.

Harry and my friends exchanged confused glances, but I needed to do this. I could finally meet him. The judgments could wait.

Harry got up as well, ready to take me to the diary—

But before we could move, Seamus came running toward us.

“Harry—your bed! Come quickly!”

Something in his tone sent a chill down my spine.

We sprinted up to the boys’ dormitory and stopped in our tracks.

Harry’s bed was a mess. His belongings were scattered everywhere, the blankets thrown to the floor.

“Someone was searching for something,” Ron muttered.

My stomach twisted. “The diary,” I said, my intuition screaming at me.

Harry rushed to his trunk, rummaging through it. Moments later, he turned to us, his expression grim.

“It’s gone,” he confirmed. “Someone stole it.”

“But that means—” Hermione’s eyes widened. “It has to be a Gryffindor… or a staff member. They’re the only ones who know the password.”

I barely heard her.

Gone.

Once again, my father had been snatched away from me.

But this time, I wasn’t going to let it go.

I was going to find that diary—no matter what it took. Even if I had to turn this entire school upside down.

What, you thought I’d let you go alone?” I smirked at a dumbfounded Hermione. She had used the distraction of today’s Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff to sneak away and investigate; probably about the monster or the heir.

Hermione sighed, realizing I wasn’t going to back down. “I was hoping to be quick about it,” she admitted.

“Let me guess,” I said, studying her face. “You’ve figured something out about the Chamber?”

 “No, it’s not about the Chamber and neither the Heir,” she replied. “But I think I have a vague idea about the monster.”

“Aragog?”

“No… Esy, come on, we both know the monster can’t be a spider. No matter how big or unique it is, it can’t speak Parseltongue.”

I hesitated. I wanted to argue, but deep down, I knew she was right. Admitting it, however, meant accepting that my father had been wrong, and that was hard to swallow... 

“If it’s not Aragog, then what do you think it is?”

“Well, Parseltongue gave me three options—a snake, a basilisk, or a wyvern,

But only looking into a basilisk’s eyes can cause instant death.”

“And if you see it through something else, it only petrifies you…” I added, my mind working through the clues. “Then—Filch’s cat saw it through—”

“Water.”

“Yes! Water. And Colin… he had his camera.”

“Justin must have seen its eyes through Nearly Headless Nick,” she finished, her voice steady despite the chilling realization. “That’s why he was only petrified instead of—”

“It is a basilisk,” I breathed. “Everything matches”

We both stood there for a moment, processing it.

“Now we need to figure out where the Chamber is,” I said. “A basilisk is huge, and if it’s been living in Hogwarts all these years, it has to have a hidden passage.”

“We need to be careful,” Hermione warned, pressing a mirror into my hand. “Are you absolutely sure? Harry’s going to be upset if you’re not in the stands. He thinks you’re his lucky charm.”

I felt warmth creep up my face. “He just wants to prove to me that Quidditch is fun,” I muttered. “I still don’t understand most wizard’s love for it though … I just love watching my team play.”

Hermione gave me a look but didn’t comment. “Alright. Any ideas on where to start?”

“The second-floor washroom,” I said. “Most of the attacks happened nearby, and hardly anyone ever goes there.”

Hermione nodded. “Let’s go.”

The second-floor washroom looked just like it always did—damp, dimly lit, and covered in puddles of water, the usual eerie silence hung in the air. Only one thing was different—Myrtle was nowhere to be seen.

"Let's look around carefully. There might be something here," Hermione said as she stepped forward, eyes scanning the room.

"Be careful, Mione. Keep the mirror close," I cautioned, gripping mine tightly as I moved toward the center of the bathroom, where the basins stood.

From a distance, everything seemed normal, but as I looked closer, my breath hitched. There, on one of the taps, was a small engraving—A Snake……  Slytherin’s symbol.

I reached out and traced the mark with my fingers, but nothing happened.

“I didn’t find anything. Did you notice something?” Hermione asked, stepping beside me.

"Look," I pointed to the sink.

“A snake symbol… The pipes… The Basilisk must be using them to move around the castle,” she realized aloud.

“That’s why all the attacks happened near the second-floor bathroom,” I added, my heart pounding.

Without hesitation, Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment and started scribbling down notes, probably to inform the boys. Her left hand still gripped the mirror tightly—something that proved to be a lifesaver just seconds later.

Before we could take another step, a pair of enormous, glowing yellow eyes locked onto us.

It happened so fast.

Hermione, ‘Thank Mother Magic,’ was facing the other way. She saw the eyes through the reflection of her mirror, while I—I faced it directly.

Hermione collapsed, stiff as a board, petrified. The Basilisk withdrew instantly, vanishing back into the pipes.

And yet... I was fine.

Not dead. Not petrified. Completely untouched.

How? Why? My mind raced. Was it because I was a Parseltongue? Could I be immune?

I stared at Hermione’s unmoving form, my thoughts a tangled mess of confusion and fear. This year had thrown so much at me—whispers of an Heir, an ancient diary, secrets about my father. I didn’t know what was right anymore. I didn’t know who I was supposed to believe...

But Hermione needed me.

"Come on, Esther. Get it together," I muttered to myself, taking a steadying breath. I cast one last glance at the pipes, committing their location to memory, before bending down to lift Hermione.... I managed to support her weight and hurried out of the washroom.

As I made my way toward the Hospital Wing, a familiar purring sound made me pause.

"Starlet?" My Kneazle stood in my path, tail flicking, golden eyes gleaming with concern.

"Star, not now. I have to get Hermione to Madam Pomfrey—"

"And what, announce to the entire school that you’re the Heir of Slytherin?"

The smooth, deep voice sent a chill down my spine.

I turned sharply.

Professor Snape.

“I—I’m not,” I stammered, clutching Hermione tighter.

“I know that,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “But you know how things are at this school, Esther. Rumors spread faster than fire. If anyone sees you carrying a petrified student—your best friend or not—you’ll be the first person they suspect.”

He stepped closer. “Give her to me—I’ll take her.”

I looked at him, hesitant. “And what will you say?”

“That I found her in the corridor. Already petrified.” Snape placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Now Go. Before anyone sees you here."

I hesitated, searching his expression. He knew. He understood exactly what would happen if anyone saw me carrying a petrified Hermione out of the nowhere…

"...Do you know who this Heir is?" I asked quietly.

Snape’s dark eyes flickered. "Do you think I know?"

I studied him for a moment before shaking my head. "No. If you did, Dumbledore wouldn’t have spent this entire year searching for them like a madman."

For the first time, a hint of amusement touched Snape’s otherwise blank expression.

"Go, Esther," he said firmly. "The match will likely be adjourned in the next fifteen minutes. Your friends will need you when they hear about this." His gaze darkened. "And remember—tonight, you were with me. Serving detention."

I gave a small nod, then watched as he turned and carried Hermione toward the Hospital Wing.

A soft purr drew me back to reality.

I looked down at Starlet, who nudged my leg expectantly.

"Let’s go, Star," I whispered, adjusting my robes. Then, without another glance back, I changed course—toward the Quidditch pitch.

At the Quidditch pitch, I immediately noticed that something was off. The game hadn't started.

"It got canceled," Ron muttered beside me, his expression grim. "Where were you? I didn’t see Hermione either."

"I… I…" I stammered, unsure of what to say. My throat felt tight as my mind raced for an answer.

Before I could speak, Professor McGonagall appeared, walking briskly toward us. Harry was by her side, looking equally confused.

"There you two are," she said firmly. "Come with me—this is important."

The three of us followed her, Ron and Harry exchanging uneasy glances while I hurried along, my heart hammering in my chest. Soon, we arrived at the Hospital Wing, where Hermione lay motionless on one of the beds—petrified. Her fingers were curled tightly around the small mirror she had carried, and in her other hand, almost hidden, was a crumpled note—the one she had written in the bathroom just before everything went wrong.

My breath caught in my throat.

Harry and Ron stood frozen, listening intently as Professor McGonagall explained what had happened. But I barely heard a word. My feet carried me to her side, and I sank into the chair beside her bed.

“I’m so sorry, Mione,” I whispered, guilt twisting in my stomach. “I should have talked you out of this instead of joining in…” I reached for her hand, careful not to disturb the mirror she still clutched.

“I promise—I’ll find the Heir, I’ll find the basilisk, and I’ll bring peace back to Hogwarts. Just… hold on.” My throat tightened, but I forced myself to stay strong. “Professor Snape and Professor Sprout will have the mandrake potion ready soon. You’ll be back before we know it. You will be okay”

I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping—praying—she could hear me.

“She will be fine,” Harry assured me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don’t worry."

Ron, however, was less patient. “I just don’t get it! Why would she go looking for that thing alone?” he asked, frustration evident in his voice.

She didn’t go alone. I was with her

 I wanted to scream, to tell them everything—but for some reason, the words wouldn’t come. I had seen firsthand, what happened to Mione when we went searching for the monster. I couldn’t let Harry and Ron take the same risk. Harry might be immune to the basilisk, just like me for being a Parseltoungue, but it was too dangerous to test that theory…

So, I kept it all to myself, pushing down the urge to confess. Instead, I silently began forming a plan—a way to return to the pipes and uncover the truth at the first opportunity.

Ron broke the tense quiet. “We need to talk to Hagrid. He’s the only one who can tell us what really happened fifty years ago.”

"Yeah, Ron’s right," Harry agreed, pulling me up from the chair. "Come on, Esther."

I hesitated. I didn’t want to leave her side. But I knew staying wouldn’t help.

"Just one more minute," I murmured, sending a silent prayer to Mother Magic before casting one last look at Hermione.

With a quiet promise to solve this mystery and set things right, I followed them out of the Hospital Wing.

We never made it to Hagrid that night—or for the next several days. Nor did I get the chance to sneak back into the second-floor bathroom.

For some reason, we had become the focus of the entire school.

I felt eyes on me wherever I went. Some were curious, some were pitying, some were understanding. But others… others burned with pure hatred.

The rumors had spread. The school seemed to have collectively agreed that Harry wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin—after all, why would he attack his best friend? But me?

I was still a suspect .

Because, of course, it made perfect sense that I could attack My Best Friend.

I tried to act nonchalant—ignore the stares, the whispers, accusations that lingered in the halls. But the weight of it pressed down on me, making my chest feel tight, my steps heavier.

Harry and Ron stayed by my side whenever I left the dormitory. But unintentionally, I had begun distancing myself from everyone else.

I barely spoke to my roommates. Avoiding the common room and retreating into myself. Most of my time was spent curled up in bed or tucked away in a quiet corner of the Hogwarts library—Hermione’s favorite spot.

Restless. Hopeless.

The weight of everything pressed down on me, making it hard to focus, hard to care. Even my trunk remained untouched, as if opening it would unleash emotions I wasn’t ready to face.The isolation was suffocating.

Until, finally—Harry had enough.

“Let’s go talk to Hagrid. Tonight.” His voice was firm, unwavering.

Ron frowned. “How? You know it’s impossible to go anywhere unnoticed. Those bloody eyes are everywhere.”

“Actually…” I sat up, feeling a familiar rush of excitement creeping back in. “It’s possible.”

Both boys turned to me.

“Tomorrow, we have our Transfiguration exam. Everyone will be buried in their books tonight. If we go after curfew, most of the castle will be too busy studying to pay attention to us.

 Though, We’d be breaking a lot of rules” I pointed out

Ron raised an eyebrow at that. “And when exactly have we ever followed them?”

I scoffed, grinning. “Fair point. Alright, let’s do it.”

Harry smirked. “Tonight, then.”

Chapter Text

‘I saw Father’s diary in….. Ginny’s hand? ......But why.... why would she have it?’

We had our plan set—midnight, Hagrid’s hut. Everything was in place...... After dinner, I suddenly felt the urgent need to use the bathroom. I excused myself quickly and rushed to the nearest one I could find—and that’s when I saw her. Ginny.

She looked pale, anxious… like she was trying to hold something in—or hold something back. The moment her eyes met mine, she froze, then darted into one of the stalls without a word. The shift in her demeanor only deepened my unease.

I knocked on the door. “Ginny? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry Esther… Just feeling a bit homesick, that’s all ,” she replied in a small voice.

A lie.

“Does Ron know? Or any of your brothers?”

“Percy does. He’s looking after me. Esther, I just… I just want to be alone. Please.”

I hesitated. “Okay, but honestly, you don’t sound fine, I’ll stay out of your business if that’s what you want, but—just remember—some of the professors here are really reliable. And you have four brothers at Hogwarts who care about you. Spend some time with them, talk to them. It might help. And if you ever need a girl’s perspective, you can always come to me.”

She didn’t respond. I wanted to say more, but the pressure in my bladder was unbearable, and I had no choice but to rush into the nearest stall.

When I came out, Ginny was waiting by the exit, clutching an old, worn-out book in her hands.

No—not just any book. My breath caught in my throat. That wasn’t a book at all.

It was my father’s diary.

But why did she have it?

“Uhh… thanks for the advice,” Ginny stammered, her voice uneven. “But I’m fine.”

“Ginny,” I said slowly, eyes locked on the object in her hands, “is that… Tom Riddle’s diary?”

Her grip on it tightened. “Tom Riddle? Who? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just… just a book. A book I got from the library.”

Another lie.

Before I could press further, she mumbled another excuse and hurried out of the bathroom.

I stood frozen, my mind racing—the diary was in the hands of someone I never would have guessed, not even in my wildest dreams.

This wasn’t just another mystery; it was a dead end, an unexpected wall blocking my path. What did this mean? Who could I tell? Could Ginny be the Heir of Slytherin?

No—that didn’t make sense. She was only a first-year. So how did she end up with the diary?

Questions swirled in my head as I made my way back to the common room, uncertainty tightening around me like a vice.

I needed to return to that washroom and find a way into the Chamber. It was the only place where I could uncover the truth. And also, I had one advantage—the Basilisk. It couldn’t kill me… at least, not through its eyes.

Should I tell Dumbledore everything I’ve discovered? No. He would doubt me again. I had to do this myself...... First, I needed to see what Hagrid had to say today.

“Woah, you took your own sweet time,” Ron’s voice snapped me back to reality.

“We’re leaving in half an hour. All the students are back in their dorms,” Harry added beside him.

“Okay, let me just close the curtains around my bed. I’ll meet you guys outside,” I said with a quick nod before turning away, trying to push aside the chaos in my mind and focus on what needed to be done.

Half an hour later, I stood outside the Gryffindor common room, invisible. I wore my favorite lavender frock and a black blazer. The castle was eerily silent—portraits slumbered in their frames, and the corridors were swallowed in darkness.

I get that it’s past curfew, but why would the professors leave the castle this dark when there’s a monster roaming around? It made no sense.

Harry and Ron slipped out through the portrait hole, wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak.

“Waited long?” Harry asked.

“Well, punctuality is a good habit to follow,” I teased.

“Yes, Professor,” Ron scoffed.

Before I could retort, Harry quickly explained, “Neville took his sweet time falling asleep. We couldn’t risk coming out until we were absolutely sure everyone was asleep—you know why. Let’s go.”

I nodded, and the three of us set off.

Before long, we reached Hagrid’s hut, only to be greeted by the sharp tip of a spear aimed directly at us.

Hagrid’s hands were trembling, his nervousness palpable. Almost like Ginny in the washroom…

He lowered the weapon slightly. “Come on in… It’s just… for safety.”

Harry didn’t waste time. “Hagrid, do you know who opened the Chamber?”

Hagrid hesitated, his lips parting as if ready to answer—but before he could speak, a loud knock echoed through the hut.

“Quick, hide!” he whispered urgently.

Without hesitation, I slipped under the cloak with Harry and Ron.

“It’s Dumbledore… and Cornelius Fudge,” Ron muttered.

“Who?” Harry asked.

“He’s the Minister of Magic,” I whispered. “He was at my grandfather’s funeral…”

“This looks bad,” Ron murmured.

It did. Fudge had long suspected Hagrid of opening the Chamber before, and now, as a ‘precaution,’ he was being sent to Azkaban. Dumbledore defended him, but the decision had already been made.

And then things got worse.

Lucius Malfoy swept in, his presence as venomous as ever. He coldly announced that he and the other governors had voted to suspend Dumbledore. The reason? Unknown.

“Angry, Dumbledore?” Lucius sneered. “Though I have my own reasons for being furious with you, your worst mistake was taking that girl out of my clutches. Now, let’s see how long she resists returning to the Malfoys.”

I clenched my fists, rage burning through me, but Harry’s hand found mine, grounding me. I forced myself to stay still.

Dumbledore, ever calm, simply smiled. “I will only leave this school when none here remain loyal to me, Lucius.” Then, he turned towards us? —though we remained unseen—he added, “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

And with that, he was gone.

Soon, Hagrid followed, escorted by Fudge, throwing one last cryptic message over his shoulder:

“If anyone wants to find something… follow the spiders.”

The next four hours were ones I would never want to relive—and I was certain Ron would agree without hesitation.

Following the trail of spiders led us deep into the Forbidden Forest, further than we had ever ventured before. The deeper we went, the thicker the air became with tension, the shadows stretching ominously around us. At last, the path ended in a massive webbed lair, where we came face to face with Aragog—Hagrid’s monstrous, aging Acromantula, still formidable despite his years.

Aragog revealed what we had hoped to learn: Hagrid was innocent. He spoke of his past—how he had been gifted to Hagrid as an egg by a distant traveler, raised in secret, and later accused of being the monster within the Chamber of Secrets. When Harry pressed him about the real creature responsible, Aragog refused to name it. He only confirmed that it was an ancient being—one feared by all spiders, even the giant ones. Even when Hagrid had begged for answers, Aragog and his kind had never dared speak of it. He did, however, let slip one crucial detail: the girl who died in 1943 had been found in a bathroom.

Myrtle. The realization struck me like a lightning bolt.

Everything had been fine till then—until it wasn’t.

Just as we turned to leave, Aragog made his final decision. He would not let us go. His children were hungry, and to them, we were nothing more than prey.

WE RAN….

The ground trembled as hordes of skittering legs closed in around us. The sound alone was enough to make my skin crawl. But just when it seemed we had nowhere left to go, salvation came crashing through the trees—Mr. Weasley’s enchanted Ford Anglia, its headlights blazing, engine roaring as it plowed through the layers of spiders.

We barely had time to scramble inside before it sped off, tearing through the forest and back to the safety of Hagrid’s hut. As soon as we climbed out, the car—battered and worn—disappeared once more into the night.

Ron was furious. Understandably so. His arachnophobia had already made this ordeal unbearable—being chased by hundreds of man-eating spiders had pushed him to the brink.

In the end, all we truly gained was the confirmation that Hagrid was innocent. But how much could I trust the word of a spider who had just tried to eat us? Especially over the word of my father?

That was a question I wasn't sure I wanted to answer….

It had been a week since the Aragog incident, yet I still couldn't get anywhere near the second-floor girls’ bathroom—or even the corridor—thanks to the tight security.......  My patience was wearing thin.

The only thing I had managed to do this past week was keep an eye on Ginny. I never saw her with the diary again, but her reflection remained the same—haunted, flinching at the smallest sounds. She sought solitude, always alone whenever I spotted her. Around others, she masked her emotions well, but if you looked closely, you could see the frightened girl beneath, silently screaming for help.

With a sigh, I stood up from my dinner.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked from beside me.

"I need a girls' talk. See you later, boys," I replied before heading in the direction I had seen Ginny go.

"Muffliato"

The corridor was dimly lit, empty except for Ginny. She was standing alone, her arms wrapped around herself.

"We need to talk," I said firmly.

She tensed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I told you to leave me alone."

"Yes, you did," I acknowledged, stepping closer, "but your eyes Ginny, —they're pleading for help." My voice softened. "Please, tell me what's going on. Talking about it might help, even just a little."

She shook her head violently. "You don’t get it... No one can help me, Esther. I… I think I’m going mad."

Without hesitation, I pulled her into a hug. "It’s okay. Breathe."

Ginny trembled in my arms, then finally spoke, her voice barely holding together.

"I... I opened the Chamber," she admitted, her grip tightening. "But I don’t know why. It was like I was being controlled. My memory keeps vanishing—I lose track of days, every time there's an attack, I can't remember where I was.

One morning, I woke up with rooster feathers on my robes.

I think I’m the one attacking students, but I swear, I don’t want to. I’m scared, Esther...

I think it all started with the diary."

"The diary?" I repeated, my pulse quickening.

"You were right that day. The thing I was holding—it was a diary. I found it in my school supplies when I arrived at Hogwarts, so I thought it was a gift from Mum. At first, it was just a normal diary, but then... strange things started happening." Her voice cracked. "I don’t know how to explain it, but the diary… it influenced me. That’s why I flushed it down the second-floor bathroom."

I inhaled sharply. "And Harry found it."

Ginny nodded. "Yes, but I was terrified it would affect him too, so I stole it back. I wanted to tell you all... but I was scared. I—"

"It’s okay, Ginny," I reassured her, pulling her into another hug. "Breathe... Do you remember how you opened the chambers"

Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "I… I opened the Chamber by hissing at a pipe in the second-floor washroom. But I swear, it wasn’t me."

I nodded, piecing everything together. "I believe you. I think you were influenced… we need to figure out how."

"It’s the diary," she whispered. "I can’t explain it, but I know—it has a soul."

.....

My blood ran cold. "Where is it now?"

"I hid it in an old classroom, locked in a drawer. The… the soul inside it seemed angry when I decided to tell you all everything."

I exhaled, already making my decision. "Let’s go get it."

Ginny hesitated, then nodded.

When we retrieved the diary, I took it into my hands, and she let me.

I knew I should go straight to the professors. I knew I should tell Harry and Ron everything. But something inside me held back.

I needed to hear him first.

Just once.

Before I destroyed it all…

Chapter Text

Two days later, I stood inside the second-floor girls’ washroom, my father’s diary clutched tightly in my hand, ready to enter the Chamber of Secrets.

I hadn’t opened the diary once...   I was scared— scared  of what I might find inside.

For the past two days, I had carefully crafted a plan—a way to enter the Chamber unnoticed. My bracelet had proven useful, and I had resorted to a tiny bit of dark magic to make the boy standing guard tonight conveniently forget about his duty...

Before coming here, I had made my rounds, saying my silent goodbyes in case things didn’t go as planned.

In the Hospital Wing, I had stood by Hermione’s bedside, brushing a strand of hair away from her still face. "Wake up when I next see you…. Professor McGonagall informed us that the Mandrake Draught will soon be ready. You will be fine Mione, and, I promise I’ll be fine too ..... won’t let the basilisk cause any more accidents."

I had hugged Harry and Ron....  They had seemed confused by my sudden display of affection—especially Harry, whose green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You’re hiding something from us," he had accused.

"I am," I admitted honestly. "But I need to figure it out myself before I can share it. Otherwise, it might turn into a harmful rumour."

"Will it put you in danger?" Harry pressed.

"The whole school is in danger, Harry," I had countered.

"Esther—"

"I’ll be fine. I promise."

"Be careful," he had murmured in return.

The last person I met was Ginny.

"If you don’t see me with your brothers by tomorrow evening, tell the professors everything you know," I told her.

Her eyes widened in alarm. "What? Where are you going?"

"To find the one who influenced you." I met her gaze, unwavering. "Now promise me."

Ginny hesitated but finally nodded. "I promise."

"Good."

And now, here I stood, facing the ancient tap carved with a snake, my heart hammering in my chest.

"Open,"

At once, the sinks shifted, revealing a dark, gaping pipe leading downward. I exhaled sharply.

There is no way I am sliding down that.

Pressing the blue stone on my bracelet, I activated my butterfly wings and descended, gliding safely to the bottom. My feet landed on a plain surface, littered with dirt and bones.

I had a lot of complaints about this place, but I pressed on.

The tunnel ahead stretched ominously, though it was well-lit enough for me to see. As I moved forward, my breath caught at the sight of a massive, discarded snakeskin—the basilisk’s, no doubt. I swallowed hard but forced myself to continue.

At last, I reached a towering stone wall covered in carved serpents.

I took a steadying breath before hissing once more in Parseltongue.

The doors groaned as they began to shift.

And finally…

The Chamber opened.

Inside was a vast hall, dimly lit, with a wet stone floor that echoed with each step. At the far end stood a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, its presence ominous and watchful. I had expected to find the basilisk here, lurking in the shadows, but there was no sign of it.

Should I speak in Parseltongue? The thought crossed my mind, but before I could act, the diary in my hand began to glow. A bright, white light erupted from its pages, and a figure emerged—a tall, pale boy dressed in elegant Slytherin robes, his jet-black hair falling neatly around his sharp features. His dark eyes locked onto mine with quiet calculation.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at Hogwarts before,” I spoke first, breaking the silence.

“Well,” he mused, a smirk playing on his lips, “are you sure you know your seniors that well?”

“Yes, I do.

So?  Will you tell me who you are? Are you the soul Ginny spoke of—the one trapped inside this diary?”

“And why should I answer?”

“Because I asked...”     

A stupid retort Esther

His smirk deepened. “How do you know Ginny?”

“She’s the sister of a friend of mine.”

“A friend of the Weasleys,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Then you must be someone against me.”

I could tell he was gauging my worth, deciding whether I was an asset or an obstacle. A true Slytherin—always playing the game. But I had grown up with Slytherins; I knew their tactics. And this time, I intended to win.

“Or maybe,” I countered, “I’m someone against them.”

His calculating gaze lingered, but I gave nothing away. Finally, he asked, “How did you enter the Chamber? As far as I know, only Harry Potter is a Parselmouth in your generation… and he doesn’t seem to be here.”

“You know Harry is a Parselmouth?”

“Ginny,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “The girl does like to talk.”

“I’ll only share more if you start talking”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “I am a memory, preserved in this diary for the past fifty years.”

“A memory…” I repeated, processing the implications. My heart pounded in anticipation, a small part of me hoping—praying—I was wrong, and yet… I asked anyway. “A memory of whom?”

He arched a brow. “Your turn.”

“I am a Black.” My voice was steady. “Now, memory of?”

His expression shifted, intrigued. “Black… You’re Alphard’s granddaughter? Or Orion’s?”

I inhaled sharply. He knew my grandfather. “Alphard’s.”

“I see…” He studied me with renewed interest. “I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, Miss Black. A good friend of the Blacks—though I knew Orion better than Alphard, I must say.”

‘It is Him’

I cannot explain the feeling that overwhelmed me at that moment. I stood before my father. I wanted to reach out, to tell him who I was, to tell him how much I had missed him and my mother. Whoever had preserved this memory in the diary—whether by accident or design—had given me the greatest gift imaginable.

Everything was perfect. Except for one tiny, tiny detail—Ginny’s confession.

I pushed my emotions down and continued. “Hello, Tom. I am Esther Black.”

“A Black in Gryffindor?” He raised a brow. “You must have caused quite a stir.”

“I did, though the reaction was mild. There was one other Black in Gryffindor before me.”

“Ahhhhh…... Being second does make you less important” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Now, tell me how you entered the Chamber?”

Stubborn. Focused. Just as I expected.

I took a deep breath. “I am a Parselmouth, too.”

Shock flickered across his face. I could see his mind working rapidly.

“What?” I asked

“When I learned Harry Potter was a Parselmouth, I was surprised. Parseltongue is a gift given by Mother Magic to the Slytherin bloodline. From what I know, he has no ties to us. And now you, too…” His eyes darkened as he muttered, “Something must have changed.”

“Well, the Blacks are one of the oldest wizarding families,” I said defensively. Then, deciding to push my advantage, I asked, “Did you… did you know someone named Elladora?”

His expression softened at the name. “Elladora…” he repeated, almost reverently. “She is… She was very dear to me. Of course, you must be related to her. Do you know what happened to her?”

“She died.”

He fell silent. The weight of my words settled over him, his body momentarily frozen.

“I see…” His voice, for the first time, wavered. “I always wanted to protect her, but it seems I failed her, too.”

“She was my mother.”

His gaze snapped back to mine. “What?”

“She was my mother,” I repeated firmly.

A stunned pause. I could almost hear the gears in his mind turning, piecing it all together. Then his expression shifted from disbelief to realization.

“But then—your age—it doesn’t fit…” His voice trailed off before he whispered, “Wait… that explains… You’re a Parselmouth…

You are my daughter.”

And there it was—the moment I had always dreamt about... 

He knew.

He knew I was his daughter. And from the way he spoke of my mother, I knew he had loved her. He would have loved me.

“I am,” I confirmed.

“But how? Your age…?”

“I am a time traveler,” I admitted. “My mother wanted to protect me from someone in the past, so she time-traveled with me to my grandfather when I was a baby. She died in the process.”

His expression darkened. “Who? Do you know who was after you?”

“I assume it was either her relatives… or Voldemort.”

At the mention of the name, his face twisted with distaste, but I continued. “Grandfather promised to tell me everything when I turned thirteen, so I’ve been waiting years for the truth.”

“It wasn’t Voldemort.”

“What?”

“Voldemort wouldn’t have killed you or your mother.”

“How can you be so sure? He’s a mad, power-hungry coward who would do anything to gain control.”

“And who told you that? Dumbledore? The Weasleys? Potter?”

I scoffed. “Books, actually. I don’t form opinions based on hearsay.”

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “You hate him.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because in his quest for power, he destroyed innocent lives. He survived a war—he knew the consequences of one…… And yet, he started another in the wizarding world”

“But I didn’t start it, Esther,” he said softly. “The wizarding world is always at war.”

“What?”

Oh

“Yes,” he continued. “Purebloods always believe they are superior, while the so-called Light insists, they alone are righteous. They will never find common ground because of their own inherent prejuduces.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding. “No—what do you mean you didn’t start a war? We… we were talking about Voldemort.”

He smirked, but this time, there was something almost amused in his expression. “I think you already know what I mean, my dear… You are my daughter, after all.”

“But that’s—” My voice faltered. No, it was possible. Both of them were half-bloods, and he must have had ties to the Slytherins. With everything Ginny had confessed, all the pieces fit together into one undeniable truth.

“You’re the Heir of Slytherin?” I whispered.

“Well, by lordship, that title belongs to you now,” he replied, still in that infuriatingly lighthearted tone, while my mind was spinning.

“You’re the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

He tilted his head. “Well, you did too.” He almost sounded proud.

“Father!” I all but screamed.

He chuckled. “I must admit, it’s… odd to hear someone call me that. I never imagined a future where I’d have a child.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure you were too busy planning how to acquire more power.”

His smirk faded, and his voice hardened. “Do not mock me. If you had lived my life, you’d understand... Staying alive—staying safe—meant staying above everyone else.”

I sighed. “Alright, then. Let’s talk. I’ll try to understand you just this once… but first—where’s the basilisk?”

“Resting. Have you met her yet?”

“Just a glimpse. Right before she petrified my best friend.”

His expression shifted slightly. “Best friend?”

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

“Ah.” His eyes darkened in thought. “I’ve heard of her from Ginny. A Muggle-born… but a brilliant witch.”

“An excellent one,” I corrected.

His gaze lingered on me. “What’s your rank?”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He merely waited.

I rolled my eyes. “First.”

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips. “Good. You’ve done well.”

The conversation had been surprisingly easy so far, but now we were coming to the hardest part.

I took a deep breath. “So… why the name Voldemort?”

Harry’s POV

Upstairs in the Hospital Wing, Harry finally noticed the note clenched in Hermione’s hand.

Basilisk…

“We need to inform the teachers, Ron”

The urgency hit him like a hex. He and Ron were already halfway to find the professors when Ginny suddenly appeared, fidgeting with her uniform, her face pale with worry.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Ginny, I’m really sorry, but we’re in a hurry—” Harry started, attempting to move past her, but soon, stopped dead when he heard the next words.

“It’s Esther… She might be in danger.”

I knew it.

“What?” Ron asked, confused.

“Explain,” Harry demanded, pushing his emotions aside.

Ginny swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she recounted what she had told Esther a few days ago….

“Esther knows… She went down the pipes to face the Basilisk. And the diary—it’s with her. She told me to inform you if she didn’t return by evening, but I… I was scared…”

Harry took a sharp breath.

“Good job, Ginny. Thanks for telling us.” He gave her a grateful nod while his mind worked rapidly to form a plan.

“What now, mate?” Ron asked, looking uneasy.

“We have to go down too. We can’t leave her alone.”

“That mad girl…” Ron muttered beside him. “I bet she dressed up in some weird costume and ran straight into danger with zero plans.”

Harry wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was fixated on her. The way she had been acting recently—always watching, always thinking, always somewhere else in her head.

Damn it. I should have figured it out sooner.

‘ Don’t you dare die on me, Esy.’

A sudden shout stopped them in their tracks.

“Another child has been petrified! Come quickly, Professor!”

Harry’s stomach clenched.

“No… Please, no…”

Both he and Ron rushed to check the new victim.

It wasn’t Esther.

It was Daphne Greengrass—a pureblood Slytherin.

The sigh of relief they let out was short-lived when McGonagall’s grave voice rang through the corridor.

“Hogwarts will be closed from tomorrow. It is no longer safe for the students.”

“No… the school can’t be closed…” Harry muttered to Ron, dread sinking into his bones.

There was no time. They needed to act now.

They set off to find Professor Lockhart—the so-called expert who claimed he could handle the monster. But when they reached his office, they found him packing his bags, ready to flee.

So, naturally, they did the stupidest thing possible.

They forced him to come with them.

Inside the second-floor girls’ washroom, Myrtle stood trembling in a corner. She confirmed what they had suspected—she had been the girl murdered fifty years ago when the Chamber was first opened. The last thing she saw before she died was a pair of enormous brown eyes staring back at her. The eyes of a Basilisk.

Harry sighed, his chest tightening.

Why would she do this alone? She knew how dangerous it was.

Is there even a way back?

“Mate?” Ron’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You need to say something in Parseltongue.”

Harry stepped forward, swallowing hard.

“Open.”

The sinks trembled and shifted, revealing a dark, gaping hole leading downward.

“We have to jump,” Harry muttered.

“Yeah… I don’t feel too good about this,” Ron grumbled.

Yet, without hesitation, the two of them shoved Lockhart down first before quickly following, leaping into the darkness.

One thought echoed in his mind…

“Please, just keep her safe.”

Inside the Chamber of Secrets

Esther’s POV

What was the right way to react when you realize that the man you’ve revered your whole life is actually the villain in many people’s stories….

In all the predictions I had made about him, never once had I imagined he could be this. And now, I didn’t know how to respond—whether to fight him or save him. Whether to betray my father or betray my friends.

Was there even a middle ground?

 One decision at a time, Esther..

“So… why the name Voldemort?” I asked.

He looked at me like it was the stupidest question in the world.

“I hated the name Tom,” he said flatly. “It was the name of my Muggle father—the man who abandoned me before I was even born, simply because he found out his wife was a witch. So, I scrambled those letters to create a new name. One that people would fear when I became the greatest sorcerer in the world.”

“Really? And you came up with Voldemort?” I raised a brow.

“Your mother liked it just fine.”

“I’m sure she preferred Tom more,” I retorted.

He shrugged. “She might have.”

I crossed my arms. “And what was your grand plan to become the greatest sorcerer of all time?”

“To gather power, wealth, and followers.”

“Through fear?” I asked, silently pleading for him to deny it.

“Through fear,” he confirmed without hesitation. “The wizarding world is fickle-minded, Esther. They fear what they don’t understand—until they find a way to use it to make themselves feel superior. I learned what they feared most and rose above them all.”

I exhaled sharply.

“You went mad, Dad,” I whispered. “You tortured people, ended lives—Muggles, wizards, anyone in your way. You even tried to murder a baby.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I admit my future self became… a tad more murderous than necessary,” he mused. “Blew it all up in the end, didn’t I? As for Harry Potter… I won’t lie—I was intrigued. He was the one who succeeded in killing me when he was just a baby. His magic… it feels so familiar. Powerful... I debated whether to kill him or—” his lips curled in amusement—“possess his body and make my comeback.”

Hearing him speak like this hurt.

“Why… how are you even at Hogwarts?” I asked.

He sighed, looking almost bored.

“Honestly? I had no plans to be here. At least, not now. I was with the Malfoys, but one of those fools must have thought it useful to send me to Hogwarts—perhaps to drive Dumbledore away. At least that worked.”

“You fear him?”

“I hate him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a nosy professor who always likes to act as judge, jury, and executioner.” His voice turned sharp. “He despised me simply because I was sorted into Slytherin. Because I was a kid who stole toys when I had none. Because I wanted more power and respect than I was given.”

I shook my head, the weight of his words pressing down on me.

“And that’s why you turned into this? Into a mass murderer?” My voice rose. “I don’t know what you originally wanted to be, but the future you went beyond normal evil. You became a man who thrived on fear, horror, and bloodshed. I know Hogwarts is full of prejudice—I know you faced it too.

But if you had really wanted power, you could have used your mind—your intelligence—to rise above it all, to actually change the world instead of making it worse. Maybe then, you could have had what you actually needed—peace.

But instead, you took that power and increased the misery of everyone. You lost everything.” I took a deep breath, my voice steady but pained. “Even now, you’re thinking of killing someone.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I need to kill him, Esther. I need a body to survive.”

“Harry is my friend.” My hands clenched into fists. “I won’t let you kill him. I’ll send you back to the Malfoys, and I’ll close this Chamber forever.”

His smirk didn’t waver.

“And the Basilisk?”

“I’ll put her to sleep—just like Salazar Slytherin did before you woke her up and terrorized this school.” My voice was firm.

He sighed dramatically.

“If that’s what you want, Esther… then I’m sorry.” His gaze darkened. “But I need to put you to sleep. Perhaps, when we meet again in the future, you’ll understand the true need for power.”

……………..

His head tilted.

“What?”

He smirked suddenly.

“I think your friends are here… Ahh, I can’t believe it. He actually came for you.” His smirk widened. “Too bad—I’ll have to kill him.”

My breath hitched.

Harry is here.

There was no time. No time to debate, no time to think.

Father was distracted.

My fingers curled around my wand.

Without hesitation, I made a single, rash decision.

“Obliviate.”

Did it work?

Chapter Text

"Who are you?"

It worked….

"Answer me—why am I back inside the Chamber?"

"Do you remember who you are?" I tried to pacify him but it was all in vain.

"Who are you?" he asked again, voice sharper now.

I could see it in his eyes—caution, distrust. He didn’t remember everything, but enough to be dangerous.

"I am Esther... Esther Black," I said, more confident this time.

"A Black...?" he echoed, eyes narrowing.

"Last I remember, I was stuffed inside a rusty old desk in some forgotten classroom by an idiot Gryffindor. How did I get here?"

Great. I had hoped the spell would wipe out the entire year, but no—his magic was too strong. It had only erased a single day. Damn him. I needed an excuse, and fast.

"Yes, you were there. That’s where I found you. I brought you here."

"Why? And why don’t I remember anything?"

"I..."

Before I could spin another lie, the Chamber door creaked open.

"Esther...?"

Harry.

"Are you alright?"

I nodded. His eyes flicked to the other figure in the room.

"Tom?"

A slow smirk tugged at Riddle's lips.

"Ah, Mr. Potter... now this man I do know," he said with sarcastic charm.

For someone who thrived on control, I could only imagine how infuriating this situation must be for him.

"You two friends?" he asked, his gaze returning to me.

"Yes.  

Tom, listen—I brought you here because I needed to talk to you."

"About?"

"About... about the Heir."

"The Heir?"

"Tom, Just listen—"Harry said urgently, standing beside me. And within the next few minutes, he uncovered what I had realized not long before….

Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort.

I needed more time. Time to breathe, time to think. But Merlin clearly wasn’t in a generous mood. Because as soon as the introductions were finished, both of them moved—swift, tense, ready for battle. And though I wanted to stay neutral, I already knew whose side I was on.

I stood confidently beside my best friend.

"A Black against me..." Riddle said, his voice eerily calm. "I guess you'll be the first, Miss Black." The memory of a 16-year-old Tom Riddle stared through me like a ghost.

"Hope it’s worth it," I shot back, just before he hissed in Parseltongue—calling the Basilisk.

"Harry, close your eyes!" I shouted. I kept mine open, watching the snake emerge from the shadows. "I’ll guide you. Head into one of the side tunnels and hide there."

"You?"

"I’ll take the other path. I’ll make it follow me."

"Esther—"

"Trust me. I’ll be fine

 I…. I  have a plan"

"Promise?"

"Promise….. Go"

I stood at the entrance of the main tunnel, shielding it with my body as I guided Harry to the right.

"Open your eyes and walk until you find a dead end," I instructed firmly. "If you hear any slithering, shut them immediately. Don’t come out until I call for you."

He gave a tense nod before disappearing into the darkness.

Then I turned toward the massive serpent.

"Follow me."

She obeyed, silently slithering behind me.

"Please... help me. I don’t want to kill you, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt. There has to be another way."

"Mistress," the Basilisk replied gently, "I do not wish to harm the children either. Humans don’t even taste that good, you see. But I could not disobey my master's command. I haven’t harmed anyone directly—but I cannot stop the petrification if someone meets my gaze."

"What can I do?"

"You could put me to sleep, as my first master did. Or... send me elsewhere."

"Do you want to sleep again?"

"No... but I cannot refuse you, if that is your will."

We stared at each other in silence. Her great golden eyes, though deadly, held a strange sadness.

I made my decision.

"Then I’ll put you to sleep."

"Yes, Mistress," she said, her voice tinged with melancholy.

I placed a hand gently on her head.

"Listen to me. I’ll put you to sleep only until I find somewhere safe to take you. Somewhere better. It may take a few days, but I swear—I will come back for you. Will that be alright?"

A soft hiss escaped her, almost like a purr.

"Yesss..."

"Now tell me—how do I stop him?"

"The diary. It holds the memory. Destroy the diary, and you destroy him."

I nodded slowly.

"Is there a way to save him... without killing him?" I asked quietly, unsure if I wanted an answer.

"He loves me, you know. In his own broken way. But he is dangerous. Until he understands the value of life, he will always be a threat. I do not wish for his end either, but..."

"He’s unhinged," I finished for her.

She lowered her head.

"Take my poison. It will destroy the diary."

"How?"

"It runs in my blood."

Before I could ask the basilisk anything more, I saw Harry running toward me, a sword clutched in his hand.

I looked at her—one last time—before gently casting the spell to put her to sleep.

"What happened here?" he asked, panting slightly.

"She’s asleep now. The sword—Tom?"

"Fawkes brought the Sorting Hat. The sword was inside it. After I found a dead end, I waited for your signal, but when nothing came, I followed the path back. I didn’t find you, but it led me straight to the main chamber. Tom’s still there. He thinks the basilisk has killed you. He looks... smug."

"Good. Let him think that." I nodded, piecing together the plan quickly. "The basilisk’s venom can destroy the diary. Harry, you need to keep him distracted. Tell him the basilisk got me. He needs to believe he’s won."

He nodded, understanding immediately. "Here—take the sword. I’ll give you five minutes."

"I’ll be there," I promised.

"Sorry," I whispered to the sleeping serpent as I made a shallow cut along her scales, collecting as much venom-rich blood as I could before healing the wound with trembling hands.

Then I ran.

"Harry!" I shouted, bursting out of the tunnel and with one swift motion, threw the sword toward him who caught it easily and, without hesitation, drove it through the diary.

My eyes weren’t on the book, though. They were locked on the boy—my father—whose expression shifted the moment he saw me emerge from the tunnel. Confusion turned to disbelief. Then defeat.

His body flickered, began to fade.

Goodbye, Father.

"Looks like we won," Harry said beside me, his voice barely above a whisper—before he collapsed.

"What, Harry!" I rushed to his side, panic flooding my chest. "What is it?"

"It’s okay…" he rasped, wincing. "The sword... it was soaked in basilisk venom. Must’ve gotten into a cut."

"No—no. We need to get you to the hospital wing!" I tried to lift him.

But he grabbed my hand, his grip weak. "There’s no time, Esther. It’s alright... I promise."

"No!" I cried.

I refused to lose him— there must be something……

Then, in a burst of golden light, Fawkes appeared. He perched gracefully on my arm, then moved to Harry, a single tear dropping onto the wound.

"Phoenix tears…"

"Of course," we whispered in unison as colour returned to Harry’s face and strength returned to his limbs.

He stood slowly, breathing deeply.

"Let’s go," he said, voice steady again.

"Wait—there’s one more being I need to rescue."

"Five minutes!" he called after me—but this time, there was relief in his voice.

Chapter Text

I returned exactly five minutes later to find Harry and Fawkes locked in what looked like a rather intense staring contest.

"You two seem to be having a deep conversation," I teased.

"Well, you can’t be the only one having meaningful talks with magical creatures," he quipped, giving the phoenix an appreciative glance.

I scoffed, amused, but didn’t press further. "Come on, let’s go." I held out my hand.

He took it with a grin and stood up. We followed Fawkes down the long corridor until we reached the exit. I spread my wings, ready to fly us out.

"I really miss my broom," he muttered.

"Oh, come on, I can carry you just fine, Princess," I said with a mock bow.

He gave me a look, clearly unimpressed. Instead of accepting my help, he grabbed onto Fawkes’ tail feathers.

"Seriously?" I scoffed.  "Fine. Be that way."

With that, we both took off—me by wing, him by phoenix—and ascended through the dark tunnel back toward daylight.

By the time we emerged, we were both wearing ridiculous, relieved smile—Harry clutching the sword, and me holding the diary.... but, the smiles instantly disappeared the moment we were greeted by the stern faces of Professors McGonagall and Snape.

Snape let out a long, resigned sigh. "The Headmaster is waiting for you both in his office."

"He’s back?" Harry asked, eyes lighting up.

"He is," McGonagall confirmed with a sharp nod. "Now hurry along, both of you."

"Yes, Professor," we said in unison, already rushing off toward Dumbledore’s chambers.

Inside Dumbledore’s office, everything appeared to be in its proper place, as if untouched by the chaos of the last few hours... Fawkes had settled back into his perch, ruffling his feathers in his usual regal way. Upstairs, the Headmaster sat serenely in his high-backed chair, engaged in quiet conversation with the Weasleys.

Ron, Ginny, and their parents were all present. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked visibly tense, while Ron seemed on the verge of being sick.

The room fell silent for a brief moment as Harry and I entered, but Dumbledore gave us a small nod before continuing.

“Please set your worries aside, Arthur,” he said gently. “Ginny is completely innocent in all of this. If there is anyone to blame, it is Voldemort—and Voldemort alone.”

At that, he turned his eyes toward me. Now that, I knew the truth he had carefully concealed all year, his gaze lingered, his eyes twinkling, waiting—perhaps testing—to see how I’d react.

I met his gaze evenly, offering him nothing but a calm, unreadable stare.

“Thank you, Albus… Thank you,” Arthur Weasley said with genuine relief, breaking the tension.

“Ginny needs proper rest. Take her to the hospital wing, Arthur. You may stay here at the castle until she’s fully recovered,” Dumbledore added kindly.

Next he turned towards the three of us, his expression warm.

“Harry, Ron, Esther… I would like to award each of you one hundred and fifty points for Gryffindor, and special awards for services to the school.

You all have earned them—truly.”

His words were sincere, his smile full of quiet pride.

The Weasleys gathered around Ginny, exchanging words of relief and gratitude, before heading out to the hospital wing. That left Harry and me alone with Dumbledore—and both of us had more questions than answers.

Harry stepped forward first, voice uncertain.

“Headmaster… about my house, are you sure I was sorted into the right house? The Sorting Hat said I’d do well in Slytherin. And then there’s the Parseltongue…”

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, eyes crinkling with that familiar, enigmatic smile.

“And why weren’t you placed in Slytherin, Harry?”

“Because… I asked not to be. I wanted to be in Gryffindor.”

“Exactly, my dear boy” Dumbledore said, his tone both gentle and firm. “It is our choices, Harry, far more than our abilities, that reveal who we truly are. I suspect, the night Voldemort gave you that scar, he also transferred some of his powers to you. Hence, your ability to speak Parseltongue,

Also, The Sword” He gestured toward the sword still in Harry’s possession.

“Look at it closely.”

Harry examined it, brushing a finger over the inscription.

“Godric Gryffindor,” he read aloud, the name etched in bold silver.

“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that sword from the Sorting Hat.”

Harry nodded slowly, still processing everything. I could see lingering doubts in his eyes, but also a flicker of understanding… and peace.

Soon we were interrupted by the arrival of Uncle Lucius, who stormed into the office, outraged. Dobby trailing behind him, his large eyes downcast, his movements sluggish.

“He looks like he’s in pain,” Harry whispered beside me.

I nodded silently. He did—more than usual. His posture was slouched, his ears drooped, and every step seemed heavy.

Lucius didn’t waste time.

“I see you’ve returned, Dumbledore,” he said sharply, his voice clipped and cold.

“Yes, Lucius,” Dumbledore replied with infuriating calm. “The school governors felt it appropriate I return, especially after learning that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been attacked. They asked me to handle the matter personally.”

Lucius stiffened at that but gave a curt nod.

“Very well. I trust you’ll take better care of Hogwarts this time... at least for as long as you’re allowed to remain.”

Dumbledore said nothing. His only response was a slight smile and a twinkle in his eyes that seemed to unsettle Lucius more than words ever could.

With a final sneer, Lucius turned to leave, Dobby scrambling after him.

He shot Harry and me a scathing glance on his way out, but—thankfully—said nothing.

Good, I’m really not in the mood for another argument.

Just then, Harry turned to me, his expression suddenly resolute.

“Give me the diary.”

“What?” I asked, confused as I handed it over.

But he didn’t answer. Without another word, he took the diary and hurried out after Lucius, leaving me standing in silence……  alone now with Dumbledore.

“So…” I began, trying to keep my voice steady.

“So…” he echoed, wearing that maddeningly calm smile of his.

“So,” I sighed, but kept going. “Voldemort is the father here.”

“He is.”

I let out a breathless, bitter laugh, emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. He was the only one who knew the full truth, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

 “How funny it must’ve been, watching me imagine him as some kind of hero… while all along, you knew he was the villain.”

“Esther…”

“And why am I even in Gryffindor?” My voice cracked. “I’m the Heir of Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake.”

I didn’t even notice the tears at first. They just kept falling, a silent stream down my cheeks.

“I always believed a parent’s choices didn’t define their child… but what do you do when your parent is the Dark Lord? The man who murdered without reason. The man who shattered families. The man who—”

My voice broke.

“The man who killed my best friend’s parents…”

Pat-pat….

I looked up to find Dumbledore was gently patting my head.

“Calm down, my dear,” he said softly, reaching into his robe. “Here, take this. Works for me most days.”

He handed me a bright orange candy and kept patting my head until the storm inside me eased, just a little.

“I understand now why you entered my mind,” I said, voice low. “I’m still angry about it, but I get it. It must have been hard… seeing me every day, knowing who my father is, and still watching me stay at Hogwarts.”

“I never hated you, Esther,” he said gently. “I was curious, yes. And at times, I had my doubts. But I never hated you. That day, when I looked into your mind… it didn’t condemn you. It cleared every doubt I had.”

He moved closer, taking my hand in his. It was warm. Steadying.

“Your father… he became one of the most evil men the world has known. But I’ll admit something I haven’t said to anyone—I never gave him a chance to be better. I hated him from the moment I met him. Even though……”

“Even though…?” I asked, sensing more behind the words.

Dumbledore paused. A rare moment of vulnerability passed across his face.

“Even though I once tried to understand a Dark Lord before. And when I failed… I swore I never would again. Sometimes I wonder if part of Tom’s path was my failure too.”

He took a deep breath.

“But you? I will do better for you. I promise I’ll be better for you.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“You’re not your father, Esther. You know love. You know friendship….. You’re Alphard’s granddaughter—and he raised you with love and wisdom. He gave you the name ‘Black’ so you’d be protected. So you’d never have to bear the weight of Riddle’s name. Because blood might bind you to your father, but that’s where the connection ends.”

I bit my lip, trying to hold back fresh tears.

“How do I even tell my friends?” I whispered. “How do I tell Harry? I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Honestly, I wish I had never found out.”

I felt ashamed

“Then don’t tell them yet,” Dumbledore said kindly. “Not until you can accept it yourself. The time will come, and it will be hard… but you’ll know when you’re ready.”

I nodded slowly. “I think I’ll go now. I need some air… some time to clear my head.”

“I understand,” he said with a knowing smile. “I believe Harry is still waiting for you in the corridor.”

I turned to leave, taking one last look at the man who suddenly didn’t seem like just a Headmaster anymore.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard him call out one last time.

“Esther—”

I paused.

“I promised Alphard I’d protect you, and I intend to keep my word and do my best to be that guardian. Whenever you need me… I promise, I’ll be there.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

And then I was gone.

“You took your time,” Harry said as I stepped into the corridor, surprised to see him—and Dobby? —waiting there. Both wore bright, triumphant grins, almost enough to make me forget the emotional storm I’d just weathered.

I took a long breath, trying to rein in my feelings, and forced a smile to match theirs. “What happened here?”

“What happened,” Harry said proudly, “is that our dear friend Dobby is now a free elf.”

I raised an eyebrow, expecting more of an explanation, but the only response I got was Dobby handing me the diary—now with a scrap of black cloth tucked inside. I wanted to ask more, but neither seemed inclined to elaborate, so I let it go.

“Where are we headed next?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I don’t know about you,” Harry said, stretching, “but I need a shower.”

“I need sleep.”

“I shall take my leave now, Harry Potter, Esther Black,” Dobby announced, bowing low before disappearing with a pop, leaving us alone in the corridor.

“Ron’s with his family tonight. Hermione should wake up tomorrow, with the others.” Harry said as we began walking slowly toward the Gryffindor common room, our footsteps echoing in the now-quiet halls.

“The Mandrakes are ready, then?”

“They are. Professor Sprout announced it this morning—right about the time you decided to run off and face the monster alone.”

“Stop jabbing me.”

“What were you thinking, going in without a plan? No backup? You know what happened to Hermione.”

“I know…” I exhaled. “But the thing is, Mione wasn’t alone when she was attacked.”

Harry froze mid-step, his full attention on me now.

“I knew she was going to look for the Basilisk,” I said softly. “She figured it out before anyone else, and that day, I followed her, We started searching for the Chamber together. We decided to split up—the second-floor washroom was my idea.”

I paused, my voice barely above a whisper. “When the Basilisk appeared, she saw it through a magnifying glass. I saw it directly.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“For a few seconds, I looked into its eyes. But nothing happened. I was fine. I got Hermione out, and Snape found us shortly after.

I knew I had that advantage when I went down to the Chamber, Harry,” I said, finally meeting his gaze. “I wanted to tell you. But then, I knew you’d come with me… I couldn’t be sure the eyes wouldn’t affect you either and I didn’t want to put you in that risk….”  

Bump.

Suddenly I was pulled into a warm, tight hug.

“Idiot,” he murmured.

“Harry?”

“Thank Merlin you’re safe. It must’ve been hard, keeping that all to yourself.”

“It is,” I admitted, though I was thinking about an absolutely, different secret at the moment.

“Let’s get some sleep. We’ll see everyone tomorrow. Can’t believe the year ends in a week.”

“Please. It felt like a decade.”

“Mmm.” He chuckled.

We kept talking as we walked, our voices growing softer until we split off to our separate dormitories. The castle felt quieter now. Safer.

But my heart, still carried its weight….

Chapter Text

Back in my room, I quickly pulled the curtains shut around my bed and climbed into my trunk. Star was already inside, pacing restlessly and purring at me in an unmistakably grumpy tone.

“I know, I know,” I whispered, scooping her up and giving her an apologetic scratch behind the ears.

Carrying her, I made my way into the dark empty room—now home to one very large and very cramped basilisk.

“Mistress,” she hissed as soon as she saw me, her great eyes closing respectfully.

The room was vast, but still not quite enough. Her enormous body curled tightly, clearly uncomfortable.

“It must be miserable down here,” I said softly, stroking her nose as I checked the scar from the wound I had healed.”

“It does not hurt anymore. You healed me well,” she replied. “But yes… this space is too tight. I can barely move.”

“Just one more week,” I said, more to comfort both of us. “We’ll be leaving Hogwarts soon. There’s a hidden basement at Black Villa—my home. It’s underground, warded, and completely private. I plan to move you there. The house-elves will take care of you.”

“That sounds… comfortable. Are you certain no one will find me here till then?”

“No one knows these rooms exists except me and Starlet here,” I said, glancing at my familiar. “And apparently, she’s immune to your gaze.”

“Purr,” Star offered smugly in reply.

I chuckled and turned back to the serpent. “Still, I’ll lock the trunk—just to be sure.”

The basilisk gave a soft, relieved hiss. “Yessss.”

There were so many things I wanted to ask her about my father… but not today….. my body felt heavy, my heart even heavier. I didn’t have the strength for more revelations tonight… Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when we were comfatable, back in home….

“Goodnight,” I whispered. “Sleep well. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

“Good night, Mistress.”

I secured the door and stepped into the potions room, where a single envelope still sat untouched.

My mother’s letter......

I glanced at it, but my fingers reached for the sleeping draught instead. “Let’s save that letter for my thirteenth birthday… just like you wanted, Grandfather.”

With a sigh, I changed into my sleepwear and curled up in the cozy bedroom inside the trunk. Star nestled beside me, a warm and comforting weight against the chill in my chest.

I woke up much later than usual, groggy and disoriented. With a start, I scrambled out of the trunk and glanced around.

The room was empty….

I knew there were no classes today, so, had assumed the girls would still be still asleep… or at least in the beds.. I chose to ignore the reason for their absence and made my way to the washroom for a much-needed, long, refreshing shower.

“Harry was right,” I babbled, watching the water swirl dark at my feet. “I really should’ve taken a shower last night…”

The water was nearly brown by the time it cleared. I winced. “Jingle would’ve been horrified….

Oh well… never mind.”

Once I was finally clean, I dried off with my favorite blue towel and changed into fresh Gryffindor robes. A few spritzes of my favourite perfume, and I was ready….

With a deep breath, I stepped out of the dormitory, ready to find my friends.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with chatter. Nearly all the Gryffindors were gathered, surrounding two very familiar boys—my best friends. I spotted all my classmates. The Weasleys were there too, except for Ginny. Inside the circle, Harry stood quiet and brooding, while Ron enthusiastically retold the events of last night like a performer on stage.

So that’s where the girls went…..

“You look well-rested,” said a voice beside me. I turned to find George Weasley grinning down at me.

“I do,” I smiled. “Not interested in the story?” I nodded toward Ron.

“Believe me, I’ve heard it five times since last night. At this point, I could be Ron.”

I laughed. “I believe you.  How’s Ginny?”

George’s smile faded. “Dumbledore thought it best to send her home. Physically, she’s alright. But emotionally…” He shook his head. “It’ll take time.”

“She’s strong,  And she’s got the best family anyone could ask for. She’ll be okay.”

George nodded, appreciative but quiet...  Just then, a familiar green-eyed boy joined us.

“You look much better than last night,” Harry said gently.

“I do,” I replied, smiling. “You were right. A shower was very necessary.”

“And I stand by the importance of sleep, too.”

I laughed. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

“I did, actually. Surprisingly well. I mean… it wasn’t exactly our first run-in with the Dark Lord. And you didn’t even let me face the basilisk this time,” he teased.

“I had my reasons,” I said with a mock-serious nod.

“Ron’s really outdone himself,” Fred said, appearing next to George. “I’ve heard the story three times and I still want to hear how it ends.”

“Maybe you’ve got short-term memory loss, Freddy,” George added.

“Oh, shut up,” Fred snapped, rolling his eyes, while the rest of us laughed.

“We can’t go visit Hermione today,” Harry said, lowering his voice slightly as he leaned closer.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Professor McGonagall came by a few hours ago. She said students are prohibited from visiting the hospital wing until further notice. But… I think we’ll see her tonight at the end-of-year feast.”

I nodded, a mix of relief and impatience swirling in me.

“Oh—and Lockhart’s been sent to the hospital too,” Harry added. “Apparently… he’s lost all of his memories.”

“Good,” I muttered, still fuming over his stunt in the chamber.

Harry gave me a knowing look and reached for my hand. “Come with me,” he said softly.

He pulled me out of the common room, leaving behind the chaos of Fred and George's banter and Ron’s dramatic retelling. For the first time from yesterday, the weight on my chest felt just a little lighter.

“Harry,” I called softly, but he didn’t respond until we reached an old, unused classroom.

“I just needed a bit of calm,” he admitted as we took seats on the dusty chairs. “So… will you tell me about the basilisk? What happened to her?”

I gave a faint smile. “How did you even hold off asking that since last night?”

“I wanted to,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you looked like you were one breath away from collapsing. I didn’t want to push you.”

I nodded. “ I didn’t kill her.”

“I figured as much.”

“But I am taking her out of Hogwarts. It’s too dangerous for her to stay here. Back home, I have a place prepared—it’s hidden and safe. She’ll be secure there, and so will everyone else.”

“You can talk to her?”

“Of course I can.”

“Can I?”

“I’m sure you could… I just don’t know if you could look. Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to make you immune to her eyes, and then I’ll introduce you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said with a soft grin.

We heard footsteps echoing down the corridor—Gryffindors heading toward the Great Hall.

“Ron’s storytelling session must finally be over,” Harry murmured, resting his head on my shoulder. “I really don’t want to go back to the Dursleys, Essy. I hate that place.”

“Harry…”

It’s all because of Voldemort….. father. If only he had not killed his parents Harry would have had a loving childhood too….

“What about you? Are you ready to go back to an empty house?” 

“The elves will be there… but yes, it’ll feel empty. Hogwarts helped me keep my thoughts off him, but once I’m back—every corner, every moment will remind me of him.”

“Write to me.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be alright there?” I asked.

“I mean… I spent almost twelve years in that house. I guess I can manage a few more.”

He finally lifted his head from my shoulder. “Come on. The others are probably already in the Great Hall. Ron must be worrying.”

“Well, if food’s been served, I’m sure we’ve been happily forgotten,” I joked, but took his hand as we started walking together.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter and bright smiles when we entered. Excitement had returned to the students, and even the professors looked relaxed—laughing and joking with one another after what felt like a long, tense year. The Hall was decorated beautifully, just like it had been the previous year, with floating candles and banners in every house color.

Harry and I quickly made our way to the Gryffindor table, taking our seats across from Ron and Neville.

“Where were you two?” Ron asked as we sat down.

“Wandering the corridors,” Harry answered casually for both of us.

“Hermione!” I practically shouted as soon as I spotted her entering the Hall. I jumped up and rushed over to hug her tightly. “How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Right now, I’m absolutely ecstatic,” I said, smiling into the warm embrace. She pulled back just enough to move on and hug the boys.

“Great to have you back,” Harry said with a grin as he hugged her too.

Hermione took the seat beside me while Ron immediately launched into retelling the entire ordeal she’d missed. Her eyes widened in disbelief and curiosity, and I could already tell she’d have about a hundred follow-up questions later.

Then, Dumbledore stood up, signaling for quiet as he began his final speech of the year. He had two pieces of good news for us. First—exams were cancelled, much to Hermione’s obvious dismay. And second—Hagrid had returned from Azkaban. The Hall erupted in cheers as the familiar half-giant entered, wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase. The applause was even louder this time.

And finally, the cherry on top—Gryffindor had won the House Cup.

Last week passed in a blur. It was a calm, quiet time for all four of us—almost as if, without speaking about it, we'd agreed to give each other space. I was genuinely grateful for that..

It was something I really needed......

I didn’t even know if I should—if I could—still be their friend. Would they hate me when they learned the whole truth? The thought made my chest ache. I didn’t want to lose them. With time I had made a special bond with each of them in its own unique ways, and the idea of being separated from them felt…..  unimaginable. But could I really hold onto them after everything?

I'm really too young for all this fuss...

“If you frown any harder, you’re going to get a permanent wrinkle between your eyebrows,” Ron joked beside me.

We were all seated in the Hogwarts Express, heading back home.

“You’re right... I need chocolate. Anyone got some?” I asked, looking hopefully at the three blank faces around me.

Harry sighed and pulled out a packet of chocolate cookies. “Here.”

“Thank you,” I said, flashing him a big smile as I grabbed it.

“You alright?” Hermione asked beside me, her voice soft.

“I’m fine... I think, I just need to go to the washroom. Excuse me—”

Before I could slip away, Hermione reached out and grabbed my hand.

“I could use a break too. Let’s go together,” she said warmly.

Stepping out of the washroom, I found Hermione still waiting for me.

“You waited?” I said, not surprised though…

“Essy, you do know I’m nosy, right?” she teased lightly. “But I also know you’ll only open up when you’re ready…”

“Mione…” I started, but she cut me off gently.

“No, wait, let me finish.” She moved forward, taking my hand, her eyes locking with mine, steady and full of warmth. “I know you have been keeping secrets—like how sometimes you’re not in bed at night but are always there by morning, even though I can guarantee that you have not walked through the door. Like how your face changed when you saw the diary.

Like how I’m sure we both saw the basilisk, but somehow, you were completely fine afterward….. ”

She squeezed my hand lightly.

“I know you’re carrying doubts. I know that look—you get it when you’re stuck on a tricky potions problem too,” she added with a soft smile. “I’m your study mate, after all. I’ve seen you put on a confident face all year... but this past week, it’s like you’ve disappeared into your own world. You’ve stopped smiling, you barely listen sometimes, and you’ve been pulling away from us.”

Her voice grew even softer.

“I don’t know what it is you’re facing, but I hope... maybe once you’re home, you’ll find some peace. And even if you don’t, I’m here, Esther. I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t help it. I threw myself at her, hugging her so hard it must have hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into her shoulder. “I thought... I just thought no one would notice.”

She laughed softly. “I’m sure Ron hasn’t—not yet. He’s too worried about Ginny. And you know how Harry gets when its time to return home—his mind’s a million miles away. But if you keep this up next year, even they’ll certainly figure it out.”

I pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes.

“There... there is something I found out recently,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “But... I’m not ready to tell you, Hermione. Not yet.”

“That’s alright,” she said immediately, squeezing my hand again. “Take your time. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

What if you aren’t? I wanted to scream it. What if, when you find out who my father is, you all leave me? I can't lose you...

But the words caught in my throat. Coward that I was, I changed the topic instead.

“Next year... I promise I’ll show you where I disappear at night,” I said, managing a small smile. “You’re right—I don't leave the dormitory. There is a secret hide out in our room”

“Enough, Esther!” Hermione mock-glared. “Don’t tease me with more suspense if I have to wait two whole months!”

I laughed, the tension between us easing, and for the first time in days, it felt... a little lighter.

“Thank you,” I whispered before we made our way back to our compartment—now crowded with our first-year Gryffindor classmates.

“You two took long enough,” Ron complained as we walked in.

“Girl talk,” I said quickly, sliding into the seat between Harry and Neville.

“So, what’s the gossip?” I asked just as Hermione asked, “What are you all doing here?”

“We were bored and thought we’d make this a fun return trip,” Seamus said from the opposite bench, holding up a deck of Muggle Uno cards.

“We lost too many good days this year to fear and worry,” Lavender added. “We deserve one memorable train ride.”

For the next few hours, Seamus taught us how to play. He won the first round, but soon Dean, Ron, and even Hermione—who showed an unexpected competitive streak—started winning rounds. The compartment buzzed with laughter, teasing, and playful arguments.

We picked up juicy gossip too—like how Lucius Malfoy had been sacked from the Board of Governors, news we all agreed was cause for celebration. And how the Gryffindor Head Boy was dating Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw prefect. We cheered for the new couple... though Ron looked ready to bolt for the nearest washroom at the news.

I caught Hermione’s eye and we both stifled our giggles.

For a while, I was happy.

All too soon, the train slowed to a halt, and we stood to gather our things, exchanging hugs and promises to write over the summer.

“Ah, there’s Tonks!” I said, spotting my pink-haired cousin waving enthusiastically at me. I waved back before turning to Harry.

“How are you getting home?”

“Uncle Vernon’s picking me up,” Harry said with a small grimace. “Don’t worry—I’ll survive. It’s just two months.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “See you in September, then.”

“See you,” he said, then paused. “And Esther... I hope next time I see you, I can really see your bright smiles—not those fake ones you’ve been forcing the past few days.”

I blinked, caught off guard, but he didn’t elaborate…... He just gave me a quiet nod and turned away.

Hermione was wrong, I thought as I walked toward Tonks.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed I was falling apart.....

Chapter Text

Dear Grandfather,

It’s been a month since I came back home.

The days have crawled by, thick and heavy as fog, each one carving the shape of your absence into the bones of this old Black villa. I’m learning, slowly—agonizingly—how to exist in the void your passing left behind.

The elves have been my silent sentinels, ever-present yet never intrusive. They linger just outside my door, waiting for the faintest whisper of my need.

Jingle checks on me every quarter hour, her touch gentle as a whisper, her eyes watchful and filled with a devotion that threatens to shatter me. Wingle, meanwhile, keeps sending wave after wave of my favorite dishes, as though he’s determined to coax life back into me with the taste of childhood comforts.

At first, I couldn’t bear to touch the food. The very idea of eating felt like a betrayal of grief, like moving on too quickly from the hollow ache of your absence in the villa. But Wingle’s crumpled, worried face finally broke through the walls I’d built around myself.

So now I eat. And every time, he watches me until I take the last bite, rewarding me with a soft, radiant smile. Strangely, I’ve come to crave that smile—a flicker of warmth in days that feel endlessly cold.

The other elves keep the villa spotless, as they always have.

I used to question why you insisted on inspecting their work every fortnight. It seemed redundant then—the place was always immaculate. But now I understand. It wasn’t about dust or cobwebs. It was about connection—about reminding us that even the grandest halls are only alive because of the people who tend them.

I missed the first inspection this time. I was drowning in grief… and other things.

But when the next fortnight arrived, Jingle gently reminded me. And so I went.

I’ll admit it—I was ashamed to discover we have eight elves. I’d always thought there were six. Jingle reintroduced me to each one, and I was stunned at how seamlessly they’ve kept the entire estate running while Jingle and Wingle focused on caring for me.

That night, they led me through every corridor and chamber, the lamplight throwing dancing shadows on ancient walls. I thought the inspection would be pointless. I knew the villa would be pristine.

But when I saw their eager faces, lit with hope and pride, I couldn’t bring myself to skip it. Room after room gleamed like polished jewels. And when I praised their work, eight radiant smiles bloomed in unison, lighting up the darkness in a way that felt almost holy. I swear I’m not exaggerating, Grandfather. It was as though joy itself had come to dwell in these walls again. And for the first time in weeks, I felt something close to happiness.

We ended the night in the kitchen. They showed me the food stores and the ledgers of what needed restocking. Woody manages the inventory—quiet, efficient, always in the background. I thanked him properly. I should have done so long ago.

They keep this house alive. They uphold the Black name in the wizarding world. And above all, they’ve cared for me—without complaint, without conditions.

That same night, I cooked dinner for all of us—dumplings and spaghetti. Wingle didn’t stop me, perhaps sensing I needed this small act of normalcy. Rosy and Linga filled the kitchen with laughter as they decorated the table with candles, their voices a bright counterpoint to the silence that had reigned here for too long. Jingle stood near me, watching with eyes brimming with a pride that felt almost maternal.

And for the first time in ages, Grandfather, I felt like I belonged in that happiness.

Also… there’s something else.

We have a guest in our house—though I’m not certain guest is the right word.

Let’s just say… I brought home a new pet.

I can almost picture your face if you were still alive. I know you wouldn’t approve. Not at first. I still remember the sheer shock in Jingle’s eyes when she first saw her—the only time I’ve ever seen her eyes go that impossibly wide.

I can’t help laughing every time I remember that moment.

She’s a basilisk, Grandfather. Salazar Slytherin’s basilisk.

Yes, I know how it sounds. Dangerous. Lethal. You’d probably think I’d lost my mind. And perhaps you’d be right. But when I met her in the Chamber, she wasn’t a monster. She was just a terrified creature, cornered and alone, desperate to survive.

I know Dumbledore would have insisted on killing her. She was a threat to Hogwarts, after all.

So I brought her here—to the only place I knew she could be kept safely: the Black Tunnel.

The elves cleared it out for her. Lingya has taken it upon herself to look after her, and even Star seems oddly protective. They’ve grown close, in their own quiet way.

Every night, I visit her. She seems calmer here—happier, even. Far more so than she ever was in the dark confines of Hogwarts.

I’ve placed the strongest wards I know around the tunnel. No one can enter without permission, and she cannot leave on her own.

Every three days, Lingya apparates her into the forest to hunt and breathe fresh air, always watching to make sure no one is harmed.

So far, everything is under control. And I pray it stays that way.

A gentle flutter at the window tugged me from my thoughts.

Luna—our family owl—had returned, her wings catching the light as she landed gracefully on the sill. She looked tired, dusted with travel, but dignified as always. I smiled softly, offering her a few treats and brushing my fingers through her feathers with a tenderness that surprised me. She cooed once, and then, just like that, she was gone—vanishing into the sky, leaving only a faint echo of wings behind.

I stood there for a while, staring after her, wondering how everyone was doing.

Ron was off in Egypt, exploring tombs and temples with his family. I hoped he was having the time of his life, though I could only imagine the chaos the twins must be unleashing at every stop. I smiled faintly at the thought.

Hermione was in France, spending the summer with her parents. We wrote to each other at least once a week—long letters, filled with stories, worries, reassurances. Her words felt like lifelines.

Even Draco had written me. Twice. His letters were saturated with descriptions of luxury and sunshine, clearly meant to impress—or provoke. Italy, he claimed, suited him. I could almost hear the smugness between the lines. I knew what he was doing. Trying to make me question my choices, to regret not staying with the Malfoys this summer. But it was all so… Draco. Childish and transparent.

And then—Neville.

Sweet, shy Neville. He’d surprised me with a letter this year, filled with stories of his newfound passion for Herbology and how he’d built a little greenhouse with his gran’s help. His rambling was… endearing. Pure. It warmed something quiet inside me. I was genuinely happy for him.

But Harry…

Harry was the silence in all of this. The unanswered question that pressed heavier on my heart with every passing day.

He was the only one I hadn’t heard from. Not even a line. Not a word.

I told myself that maybe the distance was good. That some space would help me think more clearly—help me figure out how to let go of him, if I ever needed to.

But all it did was make me miss him more.

Ron, bless his impulsive courage, had managed to call him once. Just once. He said they’d talked, really talked—and then the Dursleys cut everything off. No letters. No contact. Just silence.

I hate them.

Every day, I wonder if he’s okay. If he’s safe. If he’s being locked away or punished, starved of love in that house full of walls and whispers and cruelty. I pray that he isn’t. But deep down, I know—my prayers may be too late.

The only light in all this is his birthday.

For once, nothing—no one—is going to stop me from reaching him. Not this year.

Ron, Hermione, and I have made plans—gifts, letters, everything. We’re going to flood him with warmth, even if from afar. I even brought Dumbledore into it. I practically cornered him in his office and made him promise to see it through. He looked at me, listened quietly, and finally gave a solemn nod.

It’s a small thing. But it made me feel… hopeful.

I’ve already bought him a sturdy wand holder—practical, but personal. My letter’s half-written, filled with thoughts I haven’t dared say aloud. And on the day itself, I plan to bake him a walnut cake.

I want to see him again. I want to see all of them.

But for now, we’re scattered across the continent, little sparks of a fire waiting to be rekindled. We’ve promised to meet the last week before term begins.

Still… before then, there’s one day looming closer.

One day I’ve never feared before.

But this year, I dread it with every breath in my body.

My birthday......

Chapter Text

Inside Dumbledore’s headquarters, tension crackled like electricity in the air. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, and the faint scent of old parchment and burning candle wax hung heavy around us.

Come, dear. Stand beside the Pensieve,” Dumbledore instructed. His voice was gentle, but carrying a weight of unspoken gravity.

With slow, trembling steps, I obeyed, moving closer until the swirling silver depths of the Pensieve shimmered before me like liquid starlight. I clutched the glass vial in my left hand so tightly that my knuckles turned bone white, as though my entire existence hinged on the fragile thing I held.

A firm hand settled on my shoulder—a steady, warm weight  anchoring me, if only for a fleeting moment.

“Empty the vial into the Pensieve and lean your head into the liquid. You’ll be able to see through your mother’s memories. I’ll be at my desk. When you’re done, come find me. I’ll have some hot tea waiting.”

He must have noticed the stunned, frozen look on my face, because he offered a small, almost mischievous smile. “I agree—I’m a very curious wizard, Esther. But even I won’t pry into a mother’s memories preserved for her daughter.”

He rested his hand briefly against my hair. “Be strong, my girl.”

And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the cavernous silence of the room.

I stared after him, momentarily stunned by his sudden absence. I won’t pretend I’d expected him to actually give me privacy. His sudden absence startled me, but also, in some small, inexplicable way, it also comforted me. Now it was only me, the swirling glow of the Pensieve, and the ghosts of a past waiting to be unleashed.

Standing there alone felt like awaiting a verdict—a suspended moment on the knife’s edge between salvation and doom. The silence pressed in on me, thick and suffocating, as fear coiled tighter and tighter around my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

I swallowed hard, pulse thundering in my ears. I knew that if I hesitated even a second longer, my courage might shatter. So, before doubt could sink its claws into me, I uncorked the vial and poured its shimmering contents into the Pensieve. The silver liquid spilled out in a luminous stream, swirling and churning as light rippled across its surface like restless moonlight dancing on storm-tossed water.

My fingers trembled. My heart stuttered.

And then, drawing in a ragged breath, I thrust my face into the silvery depths—before the shadows of fear could drag me back.

Calm…

A deep, blissful silence wrapped around my mind. For a fleeting moment, everything inside me went blissfully blank.

A voice rose out of the stillness—faint as a whisper at first, then growing sharper, pulling me forward like a thread tugged through my soul.

When my vision cleared, I found myself standing in the Black ancestral hall. Shadows clung to every corner, and the gleam of silver sconces flickered across portraits whose painted eyes seemed to watch me with knowing judgment.

At a tea table draped in rich black velvet, two girls sat. One trembled violently, her face buried in trembling hands as sobs racked her slight frame. The other leaned closer, her expression caught between concern and exasperation, sharp as cut glass.

I couldn’t yet see the crying girl’s face—but the other was unmistakable: Aunt Walburga. My mother’s sister.

“Come on, Ellie. Buck up,” Aunt Walburga said briskly, her voice slicing through the hush like a blade. “You knew this was going to happen sooner or later. At least now you’ll have time to get to know Cyrille Lestrange properly once you start Hogwarts. And besides… he’s only three years older than you.”

“I know, Walburga—but it’s so unfair," the other girl choked out, her voice fracturing under the weight of her grief. “They always said we Blacks are powerful. That we bow to no one. That we forge our own paths. And now Grandfather wants to chain my future to someone I’ve only met once—someone who was nothing but an arrogant, impertinent fool!”

“Elladora.”

That single word fell like a stone into the silence, and my breath caught in my throat........   Mother….

“You’re lucky, Walburga,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling like a delicate thread. “Orion is a good boy. He’s sweet… faithful… empathetic.”

“So… would you have been happy if Grandfather had chosen Orion for you?” Walburga shot back, her words edged with a sharp note of jealousy.

At the sound of that bitterness, my mother finally lifted her face from her hands. Tears shimmered on her pale cheeks like dew under moonlight, but in her eyes burned a quiet, defiant fire as she met Aunt Walburga's stare.

“Sister… no,” she said softly, her voice weighted with fragile honesty. “I love Orion as a brother. I respect him deeply. But I don’t feel… that way about him. Yes, Orion would make a pretty good husband. But those aren’t the traits I’m searching for in a husband.”

She paused, her chest rising and falling as though she were battling an invisible tide inside her. Then she let out a trembling, almost bitter laugh, tears still trembling on her lashes.

“I mean—I… I want… I don’t even know what I want! Merlin, why is everything so confusing?”

Hearing my mother's ramble, Aunt Walburga finally cracked a wry smile which broke through her stern mask.

"Well, in four months, you’ll be starting Hogwarts. There’ll be plenty of people to meet, and plenty of time to figure out what you want. And this marriage isn’t happening for another seven years. If you truly wish to change your future, you can.

After all, you’re right. We Blacks forge our own paths.”

A moment of silence stretched between the two sisters—and then, almost imperceptibly, both of them smiled.

Suddenly, there was a swirl of cold air around me, as if a veil were being ripped away. The colors of the room blurred, shadows melting into new shapes. The memory shifted, pulling me into the next chapter of the past…

The first thing that crashed into my senses was the piercing shriek of a train whistle.

Then vision returned: crimson wallpaper, polished wooden doors, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks.

I was inside the Hogwarts Express, hurtling through the night. The corridor stretched empty around me, shadows trembling with each jolt of the train. I stood frozen, heart hammering.

Should I walk? Or stay rooted here, trapped in indecision?

Before fear could tighten its grip further, footsteps echoed on the corridor floorboards—firm, familiar...

Alphard Black strode toward me, his presence filling the narrow space as though the train itself bent around him.

He looked so impossibly young that the sight stole the air from my lungs. His dark hair gleamed under the flickering lantern light, his face unmarked by the lines that time would one day carve into it. There was a rougher edge to him, a spark of untamed youth—but even then, quiet confidence radiated off him like heat from a forge.

And for the first time, I saw him in Hogwarts robes: just another student, yet somehow still unmistakably, unforgettably… Alphard Black.

Grandfather.....

Without hesitation, I followed him as he opened a compartment door and led me inside.

The sight within made me stop short.

All the Black siblings were gathered there, as though a portrait come alive.

“You took your sweet time, cousin,” Orion Black called, leaning lazily against the seat by the door, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Stop teasing my brother, cousin,” came another voice—sharper, a touch more commanding. The speaker was the only other boy in the compartment, and the resemblance in the cut of his features confirmed it for me: my uncle, Cygnus Black. One day, he’d be grandfather to Tonks and Draco—though neither had inherited his chiseled elegance.

Three girls were seated inside as well: Mother, Aunt Walburga, and Aunt Lucretia. All bore the same unmistakable Black traits—sleek black hair, aristocratic noses, skin pale as porcelain. Each carried herself with a regal poise that seemed to say the world itself bent to their will.

From a distance, they looked like a fortress of people—untouchable, powerful, terrifyingly sure of themselves.

My mother was the youngest among them, barely a year younger than Cygnus. Her hair fell nearly to her waist, dark as spilled ink, held back by a simple hairband. She was heartbreakingly beautiful.

“So, did you see him? He’s probably sitting with Avery and Rosier,” Cygnus said, his eyes glinting as he looked at Alphard.

Who?

“Who?” my mother echoed, her question perfectly mirroring my own confusion. A smirk crept across my face at the sight.

“Ah yes,” Aunt Lucretia said, leaning forward, voice dipping low with secret delight. “It’s your first time at Hogwarts, cousin. You see, our brothers here are practically obsessed with one particular student… Tom Riddle. He’s a third-year Slytherin.”

“Oh please, cousin, don’t make it sound like it’s only the boys,” Aunt Walburga cut in, eyes sparkling dangerously. “I’d say plenty of us girls are rather… intrigued as well.”

She turned toward my mother, mischief dancing in her expression. “You see, Elli—our dear cousin here has a crush on Tom, too.”

“Can you blame me?” Lucretia interjected, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest. “He’s far too handsome not to haunt a girl’s dreams.”

“Aaah, I’ll vomit,” Alphard groaned, clutching his forehead as though in mortal agony. “Sisters, please keep your silly crushes out of my ears.”

But the name was enough to slam into my thoughts like a physical blow—and it seemed to strike my mother just as forcefully.

“Tom Riddle?” she breathed, voice trembling slightly. “This is the first time I’ve heard that name.”

“Yes. He’s a Muggle-born,” Walburga said, her voice cool and dismissive.

“Walburga…” Cygnus snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, come on,” Walburga shot back.

“We don’t know that for certain yet. Even Tom himself is still searching for his true heritage,” Alphard explained, sounding oddly protective.

So Father… or others… haven’t discovered his true lineage yet, I realized, a chill creeping down my spine.

“Well, until he does, he’s still a Muggle-born,” Walburga declared stubbornly, crossing her arms with a pout that could have felled a giant.

“Walburga,” Orion said firmly, cutting across her words. “You know he’s no ordinary wizard.”

“Oh, Merlin,” my mother exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. “Tom Riddle must truly be extraordinary if the four of you are this fiercely protective—especially given how uncertain his heritage is. And for heaven’s sake, stop ganging up on my sister!”

“He’s brilliant, Ellie. And powerful,” Lucretia breathed, her eyes going distant, as though picturing him. “You know how rare it is for a Muggle-born to be sorted into Slytherin. And… he’s a Parselmouth.”

“A Parselmouth…” my mother whispered, her eyes wide as moons. “That’s… that’s so rare. Once in a century, if that. Oh cousin… he truly must be blessed.”

“He is,” Cygnus said quietly, a note of reverence in his voice.

The conversation began to taper off, shifting under Orion’s guidance to other topics. But I could see my mother sitting there, her eyes distant and thoughtful, absorbing every word she’d just heard about the boy named Tom Riddle.

Then a pale mist began creeping into the compartment, curling around the seats and my feet, veiling the faces of the people before me.

And with a sudden, swirling rush, the memory dissolved—pulling me onward into the next hidden piece of the past.

It was the Great Hall.

I blinked, disoriented, taking in the vast, vaulted ceiling arched high above me, bewitched to mirror the night sky—a canopy of stars flickering in stillness. Rows of young witches and wizards lined the four house tables, their faces turned with eager curiosity toward the Sorting

And there—walking slowly, deliberately toward the dais—was my mother.

She climbed the few steps and lowered herself onto the stool as Professor Dippet placed the Sorting Hat upon her head. For a moment, the hall held its breath.

Then, the hat roared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table didn’t erupt into wild cheers. No, their celebration was quieter—sharper. Proud, approving nods, smirks of satisfaction, and the kind of applause that wasn’t for show, but legacy. She was one of them, and they already knew it.

But the Blacks… they were another story entirely. They were radiant. Faces lit up with triumphant grins, hands clapping fervently, some standing to greet their newest heir like royalty arriving home. The weight of generations pressed down on that moment—this was the future of their name, carved in green and silver.

And there, in the midst of the green and silver, I saw him for the first time.

A thirteen-year-old Voldemort—Father.

He looked… normal.

Not evil. Not monstrous. Not the dark specter I’d imagined, not the haunting figure from my nightmares. No crimson eyes, no cruel smile. Just a boy—clean, polished, unsettlingly perfect. Hands folded neatly on the table. His features elegant and sharp, like something chiseled from marble.

And his eyes… they were still.

Too still.

I’d met the fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle before—already carrying an air of cold calculation, shadows coiling around his every word and gesture. But the boy sitting at the Slytherin table now was different.

Harmless……

What changed? Or had the change already begun? Was this merely a facade?

I tore my gaze away from him, looking toward my mother.

Even seated now among her new housemates, she couldn’t stop looking at him.

Her gaze was sharp, focused, curious. Not with the eyes of a girl who saw a handsome boy—but with the eyes of a strategist watching a new player enter the game.

And though he didn’t return her glance in this memory, something in me whispered that he had noticed her. That he always noticed everyone.

They shared no words in this memory. No sparks of conversation, no lingering glances.

And then, like a veil drawing closed, the familiar silver smoke began swirling around me, pulling me away as the scene dissolved into shadows—sweeping me onward toward the next memory.

The next memory unfolded in the Slytherin common room.

Emerald light rippled across the stone walls, casting shifting shadows that gave the place a dark, aquatic glow. The fire crackled low in the hearth, illuminating clusters of students sprawled across couches and armchairs.

All the Blacks were there, gathered together, along with the Notts—and Tom Riddle.

Even amid the chatter, it was clear that Tom remained an outcast to most of his housemates. They kept their distance, curiosity and suspicion lingering in their glances. Only the small group around him seemed willing to let him in.

They were in for a shock, I thought grimly. One day, they’d learn his true heritage—and their world would never be the same.

Across the room, I saw my mother turn on her couch, exasperation in her voice.

“Come on, Cygnus—you promised you’d help me with my Charms homework.”

“Sorry, Ellie,” Cygnus groaned, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got Quidditch practice in ten minutes. How about I come back afterward and help you finish?”

“Not possible, we’d be late tonight!” Avery chimed in as he strode down the stairs in full Quidditch gear, broom in hand. “First-years won’t be allowed to stay up that long.”

“You’d better get changed, Cygnus, or we’ll both be late,” Avery added firmly.

“Aye, aye.” Cygnus rolled his eyes, giving my mother one last apologetic look before getting to his feet and disappearing upstairs.

I couldn’t help noticing how different the Slytherins were here, within the safety of their own common room. Gone were the masks and stiff formalities of the Great Hall. In this dim sanctuary, they were freer, warmer, letting glimpses of true emotions slip through.

“I can help you.”

The quiet voice cut through the low hum of conversation.

I turned to see Tom Riddle looking at my mother from the opposite couch.

My mother froze, blinking at him as if he’d suddenly spoken in Parseltongue. Her expression was somewhere between a startled kitten and cautious curiosity. But after a moment’s hesitation, she smiled, accepting his offer.

They both looked nervous at first—two clever minds circling each other, wary yet intrigued. But slowly, I watched the tension drain away as they settled into the rhythm of studying. Tom sat beside her patiently, answering her questions, his voice low and calm.

For a fleeting moment, he almost seemed… gentle.

And I thought, with a pang of something like sorrow:

Dumbledore was wrong.

My father would have made a great teacher. And maybe—just maybe—the future might have been different.

But before I could dwell on that thought, silver mist rose around me once again, swirling like a living creature as the memory dissolved and pulled me onward into the next fragment of the past.

The next memory surged forward—a year later.

They were alone on the long bridge at Hogwarts.

Twilight draped the castle in hues of indigo and silver, the wind whipping around them, carrying snatches of their voices into the vast emptiness.

Both were dressed neatly in their school robes, but the polished masks they wore for the world were gone.

Tom Riddle looked furious.

And my mother… she looked desperate. Torn between anger and aching concern, as if she were clinging to a thin thread of hope that she could reach him.

“You know the Greengrasses are classist!” she nearly shouted, her voice trembling with emotion. “You know they’re just jealous of your calibre, Tom!”

But he didn’t look at her.

He stood rigid, staring out over the Black Lake, his profile carved in moonlight. His face was calm—too calm. But behind those cool eyes, I glimpsed the storm raging inside him.

And then his voice cracked the air like a whip.

“Really, Elladora? Only the Greengrasses?”

He turned to her fully now, dark eyes blazing.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” His words were quiet, but lethal. “You may choose to ignore it—but I see it. I see the way those purebloods look at me. Abbott. Avery. Bulstrode. Carrow. Burke. Fawley. Flint. Malfoy. Macmillan. Selwyn…”

He took a step closer, voice dropping to an icy whisper.

“Even the Blacks.”

At the sound of her family name, my mother flinched. But Tom pressed on, relentless.

“Don’t act innocent, Elladora. I’ve seen the way Walburga looks at me—like I’m some parasite. As if it’s a cosmic mistake that I’m a Parselmouth, when it should have been one of you instead.”

He hesitated for the briefest instant. His eyes flickered with something raw.

“And even you…”

His voice softened, almost breaking.

“I’ve seen the way you looked at me in the beginning. Judging. Critical.”

“No, Tom. No.” My mother’s voice cracked, almost pleading. “You’ve got it wrong. Yes—I was wary at first. But not because of your heritage.”

She swallowed, her breath shaking.

“It was because of my brothers. The Blacks… we…..we’re a close-knit family. We don’t easily admire or let in people outside our blood. But my brothers… my cousins… they respected you. They thought so highly of you. So…...so I was… curious.”

Tom stared at her, eyes glittering like shards of black glass.

“You were curious why they respected me—a poor, parentless ‘muggleborn’—so much, weren’t you?”

“Tom—”

He cut her off, voice low and bitter.

“It’s alright, Elladora. I understand. You’re just like the rest of them. How could you ever understand what it’s like? You were born into power. Into certainty. Into a name that shields you from scorn.”

Tears welled in my mother’s eyes.

“But you’re special too, Tom,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re the smartest in your year. Your magic… it’s powerful. You have brains. Why let what others think make you feel small?”

Tom gave a hollow, humorless laugh, though there was no joy in his eyes.

“It’s easy for you to say, standing at the top of the pedestal. But when you’re on the outside… when you see those judging faces day after day… they haunt you. Even in your dreams.”

His voice deepened, trembling with a dangerous conviction.

“So one day, I’ll be powerful. One day, I’ll be the one on top. I’ll gain the strength to banish all these stupid bloodlines and classifications. One day, wizards will be judged only by their power and their brilliance. That’s how the wizarding world should be. And the truly capable… will rule.”

Silence fell, heavy and electric.

Then my mother stepped forward, her eyes shining through her tears. She reached out and clutched the sleeve of Tom Riddle’s robe, her fingers trembling against the dark fabric.

“Then I will be proud to live in such a world,” she said softly.

And for the first time in any memory, I saw a fleeting smile touch my father’s eyes—a ghost of warmth flickering across the face that would one day become the Dark Lord.

The next memory exploded into focus—another year had passed.

Mother was beginning her third year. Father, his fifth.

And once again, they were aboard the Hogwarts Express.

Inside a softly rattling compartment, the flickering glow of the gas lamp cast long shadows over anxious young faces. Steam hissed outside the windows, the clack of wheels rumbling beneath them like a distant thunder.

Tom Riddle sat by the window, posture rigid and perfect, as though carved from marble.

But his eyes…

His eyes betrayed him.

There was a rawness in them, a glimmer of something broken and bleeding just beneath the smooth surface—a vulnerability so stark it was almost painful to witness.

Mother was there—her brow furrowed in quiet worry—flanked by the Black boys: Orion, stoic as ever; Alphard, visibly tense; and Cygnus, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Nott sat closest to Tom, his usually sharp eyes softened with concern.

“Speak, Tom,” Mother said, her voice low but urgent—like a blade carefully pressing against armor, desperate to pierce through the shell he wore too tightly. “Please.”

Tom didn’t even flinch. He just stared out the window, unmoving. The soft golden light from the train’s lanterns glinted off his cheekbones, catching in his eyes—eyes that seemed glassy, distant, and haunted. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles trembled. The mask was still on, yes—but it was buckling. I could see it. Cracks were forming, thin and spidering, threatening to collapse the perfect image he wore like a second skin.

Nott leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid too much sound might shatter what little composure Tom had left.

“We’re your friends, Tom,” he said gently. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Just talk to us. Let go.”

The words hung in the air like smoke—fragile and aching.

And then… nothing.

Only silence.

Not the kind that felt peaceful or calm, but the kind that weighed on the chest like stone. Heavy. Suffocating. As if the whole train had gone still, holding its breath, waiting to see whether the boy by the window would finally break.

All four of them waited, eyes fixed on Tom, the air thick with tension, until finally—after several moments that felt like an eternity—Tom spoke.

His voice was hoarse.

“It’s… terrifying.”

He paused, swallowing hard, as though each word cost him blood.

“Those madmen… they just keep bombing. Every day. I don’t even know how I survived. People burning. Dying. Screams everywhere.”

He drew in a ragged breath, chest rising and falling as though each inhale hurt. His eyes seemed to look right through the train walls, fixed on horrors only he could see.

“Hiding under the station every day… surviving on nothing but a single piece of bread… never knowing if I’d live to see another sunrise. Or whether I’d ever make it back to Hogwarts. Or whether I’d ever discover who my parents really were.”

His voice wavered, trembling at the edges—then rose, sharp and anguished:

“It’s maddening… having my wand right there beside me—feeling all that power in my grasp—and not being able to use it. Not even when rubble is crashing down barely a meter away.”

The air in the compartment grew taut, as though the walls themselves were straining to absorb his pain. Every face was turned to him, eyes dark with shared dread and compassion.

Orion moved first, his motions uncharacteristically swift. He reached forward and pulled Tom into a fierce hug—a silent promise of solidarity. Tom stiffened at the contact, eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment his shoulders shook as if he might shatter.

But he wasn’t finished.

“And the worst part…” His voice dropped into a low, venomous growl. “Those people up there, perched in their lofty towers… they watch it all from above. Safe. Comfortable. They stare down at the chaos, counting galleons, unmoved by the lives they’re destroying. And they won’t even admit the blood on their hands.”

A bitter, broken laugh escaped him—a sound halfway between a sob and a curse.

“You know, when I was trapped in that filthy orphanage… I thought that was the worst life could be. I thought being an unwanted child was the deepest hell. But even then… I knew I was destined for more. I felt it in my blood—that I was different. Special. Strong. Powerful.”

He slammed his fists onto his knees, knuckles whitening as he clenched them tight.

“But the other children—they thought I was a freak. A monster. And all because the matron—an old, hateful woman—decided I was evil, and forced everyone else to believe it. She made me into the villain.”

A flicker of pure anguish crossed his face, so raw and human that it struck me like a physical blow.

“When Dumbledore came for me, I thought at last—at last—my world would change. That I’d finally belong somewhere. But even at Hogwarts, I’m still a target. Still judged. Insulted. Maligned for the sins of parents I’ve never even known—parents who did nothing except bring me into this cruel world.”

He paused, struggling to steady his voice, but it kept breaking like waves against jagged rocks.

“All those arrogant fools sitting on their pedestals… they only hold power because they were born into the right families.”

For a heartbeat, he stared down at the floor, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper:

“Yes, I’ve learned I’m not a freak. I’ve seen how beautiful magic can be. But apart from that… nothing has changed. The people at the top stay frozen in their precious traditions. And those lower in the chain… we’re the ones who bleed for it. We’re the ones condemned to suffer.”

Then he lifted his head, and his eyes—shining, fierce, and glistening with unshed tears—blazed like twin stars.

“I want to tear it all down. I want to show those pure-blood dynasties they’re wrong. It’s easy to make laws and judgments from gilded thrones, clinging to dusty traditions. But times have changed. All magical people—all born of magic—are children of Mother Magic. They deserve respect. They deserve protection, so no Muggle ever dares harm them again.”

He leaned forward, voice trembling but charged with unstoppable determination.

“I will rise. It might take years. Decades. They may dismiss me as a powerless Muggle-born. But I know I’m special. I know I’m deserving. And one day—I will rise higher.”

For a moment, the compartment was utterly still, as though even the train itself dared not move.

Then Orion’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but unwavering:

“Then we’ll stand beside you, Tom. We’ll help you build that world.”

Nott gave a single, resolute nod. “Yes. It’s time those old rules were shattered. Let true power decide who stands at the top.”

Mother said nothing, but her eyes were bright and glistening—and in them, I could see that she’d have followed Tom into fire itself.

It was Uncle Alphard who finally spoke, his words heavy as iron:

“I agree that every magical child deserves love and protection. But Tom… the stain of blood bias runs deep. It’s not just Slytherin—it’s buried in the bones of this entire world. Gryffindor. Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff. They all pretend to be righteous. But deep down, they savor the privilege of calling themselves ‘pure.’”

A dangerous gleam ignited in Tom’s eyes as he replied, voice low and cold:

“Then we’ll play their game. We’ll wear the same masks. We’ll swear to the same pure-blood creeds. We’ll become them—until we have enough power to break them from within. Because if there’s one thing we’re best at—it’s acting.”

As I watched the scene, only one thought pounded in my chest, louder than the rattling of the train wheels:

What Changed?

The people in this compartment… these students… they looked so righteous. So certain. So determined to fight for justice and carve out a better world.

So how did it all fall apart?

How did the boy who dreamed of saving the magical world… become the man who nearly destroyed it?

I stared at the young Tom Riddle, who now wore a soft, genuine smile as he gazed at his friends, and felt the weight of the question press down on my soul.

Then, as if drawn by some unseen hand, the familiar swirling smoke rose again, wrapping around me, dragging me forward into the next memory.

                                                                                  (To be continued....)

Chapter Text

Elladora Black stood alone in the corridor..... her silhouette carved in silver by the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the tall, arched windows. The corridor was completely silent except for the faint rustle of her robes brushing against the ancient stone floor. She didn’t hear him at first—didn’t hear the near-silent footsteps—until the warmth of his presence bloomed behind her…..

Tom—Father—came in smiling. But it wasn’t a gentle smile. It was sharp, electric....  as though lightning pulsed beneath his skin. His eyes glittered with an almost feverish brilliance—a wild gleam of triumph, like a man who’d finally pried open the door to a long-buried secret.

“I found out, Elladora,” he breathed, his voice taut with breathless exhilaration. “I found out about my parents.”

He stepped closer, barely able to contain himself, the words spilling out too fast, too bright. “All these years I believed it was my father—my father who had magic in his blood. And you know that, don’t you? You know that’s what I thought.”

Mother turned to face him slowly. Her expression unreadable at first—then suddenly, she looked utterly stunned…..waiting.... holding her breath, for the storm behind his brilliant smile to break, for him to put words to the wild, electric triumph blazing in his eyes.

And truthfully, I don’t blame her.

Because even I—who knew him, feared him—was left speechless.

The boy who would become the Dark Lord… was trembling with excitement. Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like a child who had just unearthed some glittering treasure. For once, there was no mask, no cold calculation. Just unfiltered, youthful thrill.

It was terrifying and beautiful.

“Yes… and when you couldn’t find anything about him, you assumed he was Muggle-born… Oh my God.” Her voice trembled—torn between fear and hope, between wanting to comfort and dreading the truth. “Did you find out? Is he… is he a wizard?”

Tom shook his head slowly, and the shimmer of excitement in his eyes shifted—hardened—into something colder. Sharper.

“No,” he said, voice flat with finality. “He’s not a wizard. Not even Muggle-born...................  He’s a Muggle”

"Oh...." Mother faltered, visibly reeling. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. When she finally managed words, they felt brittle—thin, fragile things.
“I mean… that’s…” She forced a faint smile, her voice light, false. “As we’ve always said, it doesn’t matter, right?”

She was trying to soothe him, trying to make him feel better. But I already knew—what she would know in the next few seconds.

It did matter. It always had and it always will to Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Tom's expression darkened.

“No, Ellie,” he said quietly—his voice dropping, low and steady, vibrating with the kind of intensity that demanded attention. That swallowed silence.

“It does matter.”

He stepped closer, so close she had no choice but to meet his eyes—and what she saw there was fire. Cold, brilliant fire.

“My father is a Muggle,” he said, the words like poison on his tongue. “But my mother—my mother was a witch. A pure-blood witch.”

Mother’s eyes widened, shock and wonder warring in her expression. She stared at him as if trying to reconcile the boy in front of her with the enormity of what he was saying, while ‘the boy’ pressed on, the words tumbling out of him in a torrent, as though he’d held them in too long to stop now.

“My middle name—Marvolo—it’s from my grandfather. My mother’s father….. The Gaunts. And if you trace the Gaunt line back far enough, it leads straight to Salazar Slytherin himself.”

A dangerous, exultant light flared in his eyes.

“I am his heir, Ellie. That’s why I can speak Parseltongue. It’s in my blood. It’s who I am.”

“Tom…” Mother gasped, pressing a trembling hand to her chest, breathless. “That’s… that’s a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Tom said, and a brittle laugh escaped him—sharp and strained. “I’m still reeling myself. It’s like the last piece of the puzzle finally slid into place.”

Mother’s brow furrowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Have you told anyone else? Tom… if this comes out, the whole school—it’ll explode.”

Tom’s expression darkened instantly, as if storm clouds had passed over his soul. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was bitter, sharp enough to cut.

“And Dumbledore…” he spat the name like a curse, “will hate me more than he already does.”

For a moment, his face was a mask of fury. But then, slowly, something shifted. The fire dimmed—not extinguished, but refined. His posture straightened, his gaze sharpened. The anger cooled into calculation.

“No,” he said at last, almost too calmly. “I haven’t told anyone yet. I will—eventually. But not now. Not while the blood still pounds in my ears.”

He stepped back, just slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

“I’ll tell my people when the time is right. When I can speak of it with control. Let the rest of the school find out when they need to, not a second before.”

Then he looked at her—truly looked at her—with something close to affection, though it was hard and strange, the way firelight can feel warm and dangerous all at once.

“This secret… it’s ours for now, Elladora.”

Mother didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, her eyes locked on him like she was watching the edge of a cliff crumble beneath her feet.

And I felt it too.

The air around them thrummed with an invisible tension—alive, electric—as if the entire world was shifting around this single moment—a boy who had just discovered who he truly was… and who he might yet become.

The next one flickered to life in the heart of the Slytherin common room once more..... That familiar cavernous space lay draped in shadow, steeped in the same eerie, pulsating green glow. Emerald lamps lined the walls, their light flickering against the damp, timeworn stone, casting shimmering reflections that slithered across the ceiling—serpents in a silent, endless dance.

Everyone was there. The Blacks—proud and poised—as well as Nott, Avery, and Rosier, gathered in tight clusters, voices hushed and heavy with secrets. It felt less like a student lounge and more like the inner chambers of some old, pure-blood court, humming with schemes and silent judgments.

On one of the velvet-lined couches near the hearth, the three Black girls were curled together like coiled cats, their glossy black hair gleaming like polished obsidian in the lamplight. The air around them practically buzzed with gossip.

“So,” Aunt Walburga began, her voice sharp and laced with amusement. “How’s it going with Lestrange?”

Her eyes glittered as they locked onto my mother, assessing, calculating, already guessing the answer but wanting to hear it aloud.

Mother exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. “Ugh… he’s not applicable,” she said flatly, her tone like a curse wrapped in silk.

“He’s insufferably dull—utterly self-absorbed and lost in that pompous little world of his. It’s always about his needs, his family, his bloody grades.” Her lip curled in distaste. “There’s nothing there. No spark. No fire. Nothing that stirs me in the slightest.”

“Well… he is handsome,” Aunt Lucretia offered tentatively, but Mother just rolled her eyes

She snapped her gaze toward her sister. “Is he? Then, perhaps that’s his one redeeming quality—but it’s nowhere near enough.”

Walburga studied her sister intently, her voice dropping into a dark whisper. “Then I suppose we’ll have to start cajoling Father to call off the engagement. Though you know as well as I do—it won’t be simple.”

“It won’t,” Mother admitted, her expression growing resolute. “But I believe Father would agree if I managed to find someone better—someone far more powerful and influential than a Lestrange.” A fierce determination flashed across her eyes, mingled with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher, as her gaze shifted across the room—to where the Slytherin heir had just stepped into the common room.

Tom Riddle strode in, the flames throwing stark highlights across his sharp features. He moved like a predator—graceful, precise, exuding quiet command. Conversations faltered around the room. Eyes followed him, wary and fascinated.

“Merlin save us,” Walburga breathed beside her, her voice trembling as she saw exactly where her sister’s attention lay.

“Where were you” Grandfather asked the instant, he saw his friend appear in the doorway.

“Down in the dungeons,” Father replied, his voice clipped, eyes shadowed. “Just had some… issues to take care of. Please excuse me. I need a bath.”

He brushed past them, moving toward his dormitory. He looked a wreck—clothes rumpled, hair damp and clinging to his forehead—a stark contrast to his usual composed self. A faint, almost metallic scent seemed to linger in his wake.

And I knew—deep in my gut, with icy certainty—that he’d just returned from opening the Chamber of Secrets.

The mist parted slowly to reveal  Elladora Black and Tom Riddle…….they were alone again—this time inside an empty classroom swallowed in twilight. Dust motes hung in the air, suspended like tiny ghosts in the stillness. The silence between them was tense—too quiet, too heavy, almost reverent. My mother looked agitated, her fingers twitching in her lap, while my father stood with his arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought, as though turning something over in his mind again and again.

For a few long seconds, neither spoke. Silence pressing against the walls like a rising tide. Then finally, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, Mother broke the silence.

“I don’t know what I want to be…. I mean my future it looks so blank”

Her voice cracked a little—not with weakness, but with frustration.

“Since childhood, they’ve told us the Black family is different—that we choose our destinies. That we decide who we are.” She let out a bitter laugh. “But they were just words, weren’t they? Pretty lies. Wrapped in silk and tradition…..”

Her voice shook, but she didn’t stop.

“We were raised in luxury—yes. The best clothes, the best manners, the best education. But even that came with chains. The boys—my brothers—they were trained to lead. Orion and Alphard, they were groomed like princes. Their futures written in stone: one to inherit, the other to protect the heir. Even Cygnus, the youngest, had options. He could choose his path.”

She turned sharply.

“But we—us girls—we were never given that luxury.”  

Her fists clenched at her sides.

“We were taught manners. How to serve tea. How to be graceful. How to honour our husbands we did not choose and raise sons who would carry the name. I’m the youngest of us, but even Lucretia and Walburga—the eldest daughters—weren’t spared. We all learned together. Not what we could be... but what we were allowed to be.”

Tom’s voice came quiet, probing. “Are the girls angry about it?”

“No,” she said after a pause, almost to her own surprise. “No. Because we always knew, Tom. We understood, deep down, that our futures were already decided the moment we were born. Walburga… she’s content. Happy, even—proud that she’s to marry Orion, the future heir. That gives her the second most powerful position in the family.”

She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap.

“It’s just… I wish we’d been given the choice. Because I promise you, Tom—every single one of us loves the Black name. Fiercely. We were born into it, raised to honour it, bled for it in our own quiet ways. And I swear, we would’ve done our part—gladly—regardless of the roles… I just wish we had been allowed to choose them for ourselves.”

Tom’s eyes never left her face. “And what role would you have chosen, Ellie?”

He waited patiently—genuinely, intently—as though offering her space not only to answer him but to discover herself in the process.

She took a breath.

“I… I would’ve liked to be the aide.”

Her voice trembled slightly, but her gaze lifted—sure, now.

“I don’t want to be the heir, Tom. I never have. I like the shadows better. But not behind a stranger. Not behind a husband chosen for me. I would’ve liked to help my brothers—the ones I grew up with. The ones I love more than anything in this world.”

Her voice steadied with conviction.

“I would’ve liked to use my wits, my strength… to support them.”

She looked up, straight into Tom’s eyes.

“I would’ve liked to help my brothers, Tom.”

For a beat, he said nothing. Then, in a low voice, he stepped closer.

“Then help me.”

She blinked. “Tom—”

“Help me, Ellie, as I rise and face the world. Be my aide. Use your strength and your mind for me—and I promise you, I’ll protect you. Your brothers. Your family. Always.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Tom… that’s…”

He took her hand.

“Think about it,” he said, voice soft and dangerous all at once. “With me, you can be whoever you want. Do whatever you want. And if you change your mind… you can change your path. Your fate is yours with me.”

Her eyes—once stormy and calculating—slowly shifted. Softened. A quiet wonder began to bloom there, like dawn rising over dark water. She smiled.

“…Yes.”

Tom didn’t seem to hear her at first—he kept speaking, his voice intense, still locked in his own vision.

She squeezed his hand. Firmer now.

“Yes, Tom.”

He stopped. Met her gaze.

“Yes, Tom,” she repeated, eyes glowing. “I’d love to be your aide.”

For a single, surreal second, they both smiled....... and  embraced—almost on instinct. It was brief. Awkward. Surprising to them both.

When they pulled away, they were still smiling. Still caught in the illusion of shared dreams. As though, in that moment, they truly believed in the future they imagined.

And then… the mist rose again, curling around me like a curtain closing on a play.

And I was gone.

This one unfolded a year later, bathed in candlelight and laced with music. A celebration was in full swing—undeniably a Yule Ball, judging by the glittering gowns and elegant robes spinning across the gleaming floor. The sea of pale blond heads gave the hosts away—almost certainly the Malfoys—though the house was unfamiliar. Not the infamous Malfoy Manor, but still steeped in the kind of grandeur that made you forget how to breathe.

Enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily from the vaulted ceiling, catching in coiffed hair and diamond-studded tiaras. The air shimmered with magic and perfume, the soft clink of crystal and the echo of laughter bouncing off polished marble and gilded walls. Witches in gowns of silk and velvet glided through the crowd like swans, their movements graceful, rehearsed.

Under other circumstances, I might’ve stopped to marvel at it all—the spectacle, the elegance, the illusion of perfection.

But my mind was too loud.

My chest too tight.

This time, it was Father who drew my eye first.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom, half-shadowed beneath a crystal chandelier....... Still. Silent. Impeccable. A portrait of Slytherin composure—posture perfect, robes immaculate. But his eyes… his eyes were cold as shards of glass, seething with something dangerous as they fixed on a single spot across the dance floor.

Following his stare, I found Mother, spinning lightly in the arms of Cycille Lestrange. Her pale green gown fanning like smoke as she moved. Her smile was delicate, practiced… but hollow. Her gaze far away, anchored somewhere beyond the glittering ballroom.

The music changed—quicker now, brighter.

And just like that, Mother abandoned the dance.

She slipped from Lestrange’s arms mid-turn, so smoothly it looked choreographed. No apology. No explanation. Just a flick of her gown and a graceful retreat. She moved straight back to her siblings, who stood like sentinels near the edge of the room—an impenetrable wall of Black defiance. Their expressions were carved from marble, and every boy who dared approach their sisters was met with looks that could freeze fire.

“I need a drink,” Mother muttered under her breath.

“You’re fourteen,” Cygnus interjected, raising an eyebrow.

“Almost fifteen,” Mother shot back, lifting her chin defiantly. “And I’m a witch. So stop being so stuck up, brother.”

She cast a glance over the dance floor. “Why aren’t you lot dancing?”

“I think Orion and Walburga are doing that for all of us,” Alphard said dryly. They turned to watch as Orion and Walburga spinning in perfect harmony, moving with the kind of effortless grace that drew every eye in the ballroom.

Through the glow of the chandeliers and the sweep of silks and velvets, I saw Tom approach.

He moved like a shadow cutting through the light—silent, poised, carrying an aura of barely leashed power. When he reached Mother, he paused, dipping into a courtly bow.

“May I?” His voice was low and smooth, edged with intensity.

Mother didn’t hesitate. A real smile bloomed on her face as she placed her hand in his. “I would like nothing more.”

And as they stepped onto the floor together, I slipped closer, desperate to hear what words passed between them.

They began to dance slowly, moving with a poised elegance that made it look effortless. Father’s hand rested firmly at her waist, the other enclosing hers as he led her across the floor.

“You two looked rather cozy up there,” he murmured, his voice deceptively calm.

Mother blinked at him. “What?”

“Don’t act coy, dear.” His tone sharpened, though his expression stayed cool.

He spun her gracefully, their robes billowing like dark silk clouds around them as they followed the rhythm.

“Tom, you know perfectly well Lestrange is my betrothed,” Mother snapped, trying to keep her voice low as couples danced all around them. “And there’s not a single cell in my body that’s attracted to him.”

“Yes, well,” Tom replied tightly, leaning closer, “it didn’t look that way when you were twirling in his arms. Tell me, Elladora—do you even truly want this engagement cancelled?”

“Yes, I do!” Mother hissed, glaring up at him. “Why are you being such a prick, Tom? You know exactly who’s in my heart.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered across Tom’s face—a storm of emotions, wild and dark, crashing behind his eyes.

Then, just as swiftly, his expression dulled, the storm retreating into icy calm. He twirled Mother one final time, his movements sharp and precise, before abruptly letting go of her hand.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he muttered, his voice low and strained.

And then he turned and strode away, pushing through the crowd and disappearing into the shadows beyond the ballroom.

Mother stood frozen for a moment, her breath coming fast, before she lifted her skirts and hurried after him.

And  I followed them...

We—Mother—found him tucked away in a quiet room, a glass of deep red wine clutched in his hand. He stood by the tall window, the moonlight glinting off the glass as he stared down at the glow of the party below, his face half-hidden in shifting shadows.

“Tom,” Mother said softly, stepping closer, her voice trembling slightly in the hush of the room.

He didn’t turn. He just spoke, his voice low and flat, as though reciting some bitter truth he’d repeated to himself a thousand times.

“I don’t believe in emotions, or love, Elladora. My parents abandoned me in an orphanage as a baby, and I’ve never seen much love in my teenage years, either. So forgive me… if I don’t believe such things exist.”

“Tom?”

At last he turned to her, his eyes dark and burning, the mask gone from his face.

“You’re important to me.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.

The future Dark Lord surprising me again……

“You’re the only one who makes me feel anything......” He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with every word. “I feel protective of you. Possessive. It makes me furious when I see other boys even glance your way. All these years, I only pictured myself alone at the top. But now… now I see the same dream—with you beside me. No one else matters to me, Elladora. No one.”

“Tom…” Mother whispered again, her breath catching.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out and framed her face in his hands, his touch trembling ever so slightly. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers—a kiss filled with all the fierce, desperate emotion he claimed he didn’t believe in.

But before anything more could unfold, the familiar silver mist surged around me, swirling faster and faster until it swallowed the scene whole, propelling me into the next memory.

The next memory shimmered into view like a dream—one of the happiest I had seen till now…….  It unfolded not within the castle walls of Hogwarts, but outside—on the warmly lit streets of London, glowing with the quiet magic of celebration. Lanterns floated like stars overhead, balloons bobbed gently on strings, and the glow of golden fairy lights wrapped every lamppost and storefront in a festive embrace.

And then I felt it—the jolt of recognition.

It was New Year’s Eve.

The entire Black family was there: my mother, her brothers, and… Tom. They strolled together down the street, dressed in elegant black winter robes, their faces softened with gentle smiles as they took in the festive lights.

The streets, curiously, were quiet. Too quiet. I realized with a chill that some kind of spell had been cast—an enchantment to mute the world around them. Perhaps to preserve this night in its perfection, untouched by chaos.

But it didn’t last.

They turned a corner—and reality surged back like a tide. Crowds of Muggles spilled across the pavement, shoulder to shoulder, loud and vibrant and oblivious. The spell had worn off. Or perhaps they had chosen to step back into the noise of the real world.

Still, my family passed through them like shadows, untouched, unseen. And then, as if drawn to another kind of performance, they disappeared into an opulent opera house that rose like a palace of light from the darkened street.

Inside, everything was gold and velvet. They were escorted to a private box—elevated, extravagant—where plush crimson armchairs awaited them. Glasses of sparkling wine shimmered beside silver trays of sugared confections. The stage below glittered like a portal to another world.

I hovered near the edge of the memory, quiet and invisible, soaking in the moment.

My parents sat side by side—laughing softly, their faces bathed in warm candlelight. My uncles and aunts were radiant, their usual sharp edges softened in this rare moment of peace. 

Grandfather….. Alphard Black too looked at peace…… content. A man for once unburdened by the weight of his duty.

But it was my mother who held my gaze. She wasn’t just smiling—she was glowing. Her eyes sparkled with something I hadn’t seen in any of the other memories. A kind of joy that came not from ambition or victory, but from something quieter. Something real.

She was happy. Completely, devastatingly happy.

I stood there frozen, mesmerized, smiling faintly at the sight of a moment so pure, so untouched by darkness—knowing even then how fleeting this moment would be.

And then, as always the silver mist returned.
Creeping like fog across the floor of the opera box.
Curling around my ankles.
Tugging at the edges of my vision.

And just like that—
The warmth, the laughter, the light—
It was gone.

And I was being pulled, once more, into the next memory.

(To be continued....)

Chapter Text

The next memory unfurled like a dark tapestry, and at once, I knew something was different.

This wasn’t any room I recognized—somewhere in Hogwarts, but unlike any space I’d ever seen before. It was a vast, cavernous chamber, carved of stone and shadow, lit only by the flicker of enchanted candlelight suspended midair like restless fireflies. Heavy black tapestries hung from the walls, devouring what little light dared to exist. The air itself felt charged—thick with secrets, with power, with……dark magic

At the center stood a massive round table, and around it, a gathering of students draped in full Slytherin regalia. Faces emerged from the gloom—Blacks, Avery, Nott, Mulciber, Rosier, Malfoy… and even, to my surprise, Lestrange.

But only one woman stood among them. My mother. Elladora Black. Positioned just to the left of the Heir of Slytherin himself.

I felt my breath catch......This was it. The beginning. The first flicker of the inferno history would one day call the Death Eaters. Though at the time… they were whispered as something else.

The Knights of Walpurgis.

Another year had passed since the Yule Ball, and time had not softened Tom.

If anything, it had carved something new into him—something colder. The eyes I once thought mirrored my own had faded to a pale, icy brown—almost colorless. A winter storm where once had burned a fire. He still carried himself with impeccable poise, but his aura—his very presence—radiated a darker, more dangerous power. It wasn’t just confidence anymore. It was command.

And yet none of them—none of them—seemed to notice.

Not even Mother.

“Mulciber,” Tom said, his voice like glass—smooth, polished, and lethally cold. “I told you to handle the matter discreetly. Did I not make myself clear?”

Mulciber stiffened, his voice trembling. “I—I’m sorry, Lord Voldemort. I didn’t know the Longbottom girl was trailing me—”

“And now you’ve compromised everything.”

The tone was soft. Dangerously soft. The kind of softness that precedes a scream.

“Come forward.”

Mulciber obeyed, hesitant. Regret clouded his features.

“My friends,” Tom said, turning his gaze to the others. “The rules have changed. They will now be… stricter. Our mission is greater than any of you. And from this point on, no mistake—no matter how small—will go unpunished.”

A hush fell. The flickering candlelight seemed to shiver.

“Dear…” Mother’s voice cut through the silence like silk through armor. Soft. Pleading. “Is it necessary?”

Tom did not answer.

He didn’t need to.

“Crucio.”

The spell hit Mulciber like a thunderclap. He collapsed, screaming, his body arching off the cold stone floor in agony. The room echoed with the raw, unfiltered sound of suffering.

And Tom—
He didn’t blink.

Two full minutes passed before he lifted his wand.

“Let that be remembered,” he said flatly. “There will be no second chances.”

“Leave.”