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Chapter Text

Alhena had always known she was different.

She had understood it early on, watching with dreamy eyes her peers playing across the street, laughing loudly, tumbling to the ground and tearing their trousers, separated from her by a thin pane of glass and a spell that kept her hidden from their sight: she would look at them attentively, her wide gray eyes shining with childish energy, wondering – deep down – why she and her brothers couldn't play with them.

She had understood it at King's Cross, on the day of her departure for Hogwarts – her first year – when she had seen the parents of her future classmates hugging their children, reassuring them, kissing them on the head: she had turned to her mother, her brow furrowed with confusion but her eyes shining with hope, only to receive a final stern warning, a final icy look, two hands on her shoulders to reprimand her for her bad posture.

She had realised it when, during the Sorting, the eyes of the entire Great Hall were fixed on her small body, on her hands clasped tightly in her lap as the Sorting Hat – after minutes of tense reflection – placed her in “GRYFFINDOR!”: someone had laughed, a few – and Sirius was among them, thanks to Salazar – had applauded, but her eyes were desperately searching for Regulus's, who – on the other side of the Great Hall – was trying to smile at her as reassuringly as he could.

From that night on, Alhena Black knew precisely what she was: a contradiction dressed in scarlet and gold. Too Gryffindor for the Slytherins, too Slytherin for the Gryffindors. The curious stares, the whispered comments – she bore them all with her chin raised and her hands folded neatly in her lap: solitude became her quiet rebellion, and she wore it like silk.

For the first few months, she had rejected every external attempt to breach her armor, despising Sirius’ noisy crowd, distancing herself from Regulus's friends: it had always been the three of them, why should she look for anyone else?

It was Regulus’s friends who first crossed the line between their worlds: Evan Rosier, sharp-tongued and steady, and Barty Crouch Jr., whose laughter sounded like a challenge. They found her alone in one of the courtyards, hands trembling from another fight, her lip bloodied where her teeth had pressed too hard: they spoke to her – not gently, not pitying – but as though she were one of them. And she smiled: for the first time, she smiled.

And then came the Marauders.

They did not ask, they simply arrived – a hurricane of sound and colour and warmth – dragging her out of her corner in the Common Room and down to the Black Lake. Sirius had lifted her effortlessly, as he had when they were children, James had skipped a stone across the water and winked, Remus had smiled, quiet, with a kindness she couldn’t quite return, Peter offered her a honey sweet, which she held in her palm until it melted.

She did not laugh when they did, she stayed a step behind. But she stayed.

They were strange, reckless boys, hungry for the world – and somehow, impossibly, they made space for her in their chaotic constellation.

And as the years went by, Hogwarts began to feel less like exile and more like home, the kind of home built not from blood, but from the fragile mercy of being seen.

Chapter Text

The Common Room was immersed in an unreal quiet, as if wrapped in the welcoming warmth of the flames that – in the majestic marble fireplace – crackled gently, lulling the kids to sleep.

And yet, Alhena was still awake, curled up in the armchair closest to the fire, a notebook open on her knees and a pencil dangling between her index and middle fingers, her gray eyes – bright in the flames – fixed on the tapestry on the wall in front of her, as if seeking inspiration in those red-gold shapes: she had been unable to fall asleep that evening, trapped in a too noisy mind, already projected onto what would await her in a few weeks from now.

Then, suddenly, the peace was shattered by a sharp rap on the wall: the portrait of the Fat Lady flew open with an annoyed wail, and the Marauders rushed in in a wave of voices, laughter and the scent of the freezing night.

“Isn’t it a little late for a moonlit stroll?” her voice – slurred with longed-for sleep – immediately attracted their attention, and soon she was no longer alone in her armchair.

“You should be asleep,” Sirius muttered, his shirt wrinkled, his Gryffindor tie serving as an ineffective hair tie, which – as expected – fell over his aristocratic features; he grabbed the notebook from her hands, only for it to fly straight back to her with a quick Accio.

“I could say the same about you.” Alhena raised her eyebrows, eyeing the boys with an almost amused frown.

“Another brilliant idea from your brother.” Remus shrugged, huddling in his wool sweater, glaring at his best friend: they had spent the evening on the Astronomy Tower, gazing at the stars, at the night sky, but he couldn't help but feel judged from the great bright satellite that shone high in the sky, sealing his doom.

“Don’t make me blush, Moony,” Sirius chirped, patting him on the shoulder and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in a purposely vain manner.

“What were you doing, darling?” James sat on the armrest beside her, forcing her – reluctantly – to shift slightly. “Were you waiting for us?”

She giggled almost ironically, as if to underline the absurdity of those words:

“You are not that important,” she replied, amused, and James and Sirius collapsed dramatically to the floor, hands over their hearts and pained expressions on their faces.

“You want to kill us, Lena!” her brother muttered, lying on the floor at the foot of the chair, one arm raised towards her, as if seeking a last hold.

“I’m wounded!” James cried, dramatically. “You’re so cruel!”

“You are ridiculous," she muttered, slapping Sirius’s hand away, which fell to the floor with a thud.

“How do you even put up with them?” he added, turning to Remus – who shook his head disheartenedly – ​​and a visibly tired Peter.

“They’re cute when they sleep,” he chuckled, rubbing his watery eyes.

“As long as they don’t snore,” Remus pointed out, snorting loudly, and the first genuine laugh escaped Alhena’s lips when she saw the annoyed expressions of James and Sirius, suddenly resurrected.

“Bloody hell, is it ‘Pick on Potter and Black’ day, by any chance?” James muttered, feigning annoyance, ruffling his disheveled hair.

“Could be, I’d sign up,” Alhena nodded, returning without hesitation the middle finger she’d just received from the two interested parties. “What were you doing out there at this hour, anyway?”

“Stop by the Astronomy Tower,” Peter replied, sitting down on the sofa; he rested his head against the backrest, covering his face with his hands, and stretched his feet out on the coffee table in front of him: if he stayed like that for a couple of minutes, he would fall asleep, Alhena was sure of it.

“Salazar, you’re worse than loving couples,” she snorted, rolling her eyes as she attempted to wrap her voluminous curls around the pencil, suddenly feeling warm from the fire beside her.

“We’re not in love!” Sirius exclaimed indignantly, as if disgusted by the thought of it. “Only James is.”

He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and rolled his eyes in annoyance:

“I’m not in love with Evans, it’s just a stupid bet.”

“No one mentioned her, mate” Sirius commented mischievously, patting him on the shoulder; Alhena chuckled softly, finally shifting her position to carefully observe the reaction of the bespectacled boy in front of her.

“Oh, Lily! With your emerald eyes and fiery hair! How I long for your touch!” Remus teased, dramatically clasping his hands to his heart, dramatically flopping onto the sofa next to Peter.

James sighed deeply, sulking, seeking the latter's support, but, as expected, he had fallen into Morpheus' trap:

"I expected better from you, Moony.” he muttered, feigning annoyance.. “Not from these two,” he pointed at the Blacks, “sure, but you –  betrayal hurts.”

“Glad to know we’ve set the bar so high, Potter,” Alhena laughed, shaking her head: she was still wondering when those four rowdy boys would have managed to break through her lead armor, but after all – and she wouldn't have ever admitted – she was glad they did.

“I wonder when little Black will fall in love, rather,” James replied, giving her a little push on the shoulder that made her move towards the opposite armrest, where Sirius was sitting.

“Blacks don’t fall in love,” she snorted, rolling her eyes: she had come to terms with it by now, she knew well what her fate would be.

She had been a bridesmaid at her cousin Bellatrix's arranged wedding, she herself was the product of a loveless union, and the only Black who had married of her own free will, Andromeda, was no longer a Black.

“Godric, how tragic you are,” her brother muttered, ignoring the glare she gave him and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve spent too much time with that shrew of a mother of yours.”

“You know, she gave birth to us.”

Sirius waved the thought away, and Remus stood up, bracing himself on his knees.

“I don't intend to spend the night talking about Walburga Black,” he said, easily gaining the approval of everyone present. “We’ve got Slughorn first thing in the morning, we should go to bed.”

“Who’s waking Pete?” James chuckled, nodding toward their friend, who had fallen asleep in the same position he’d settled into a few minutes earlier.

“Can’t we just leave him here?” Sirius suggested, but the unfriendly looks from his friends suggested to him that wasn’t the right choice, and so he gave him a jolt that woke him up immediately. “Good morning, Princess.”

He stood up, muttering something very similar to “You could have just let me sleep, you assholes,” and walked off toward their dormitory, bidding everyone a feeble goodnight.

“I love when he’s half sleepwalking,” James chuckled, his gaze continuing to follow their friend’s swaying form as he slowly ascended the stairs.

Remus shook his head, motioning for everyone to head towards the boys' dormitory and imitate Peter:

“Night, Lena, try to get some rest.”

“Night, boys,” she replied, but made no move to get up from the armchair into which she had almost sunk: she returned to her initial position, and took the pencil from the jaunty bun in which she had gathered her hair, resuming drawing.

“Go to sleep,” Sirius ordered, taking her by the arm and lifting her easily to her feet.

“Leave me alone, enfiore (asshole).” Alhena muttered, freeing herself from her brother’s soft grip.

“Just try, all right?” he whispered to her, as if not to be heard by the others waiting for him on the stairs, almost as if they wanted to leave a moment of intimacy to the two brothers. “Please.”

He placed a kiss on her forehead, ruffling her dark curls and touching the tip of her nose, in that familiar gesture that dated back to their childhood, when Sirius tried everything to bring a smile back to his sister's face, streaked with tears as a result of yet another argument, yet another curse: Alhena smiled, wrinkled her nose, and walked past her brother to go towards her dormitory, without forgetting to pretend to be annoyed.

***

New massacre in Yorkshire, fear grows in the wizarding world

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named claims responsibility for the attack. The Ministry reassures: "There will be no compromise in the face of the threat."

----------------------------------------------------

An entire Muggle family has been found dead in their home near Yorkshire, in what appears to be yet another brutal attack blamed on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers.

At the crime scene, a gigantic Black Mark appeared, visible for miles, unmistakable confirmation of the attack's origin. This is the fifth similar massacre in the last quarter alone, adding to numerous other violent incidents recorded in London and various other areas of the country.

In a statement released in the early hours of the morning, Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins called for calm:

“The important thing is not to give in to panic. The Ministry remains vigilant, united, and determined to counter any attempt at destabilization. I urge every citizen to cooperate: if you've seen something, if you know something, step forward. Collective security depends on everyone's commitment.”

However, the first signs of tension are beginning to be felt within the Ministry itself: Jenkins's position is becoming increasingly delicate, with persistent rumors of a possible vote of no confidence due to her perceived weak and fragmented management of the emergency.

The magical community now looks with growing anxiety at what, for many, is already the dawn of a new war.

Lily Evans sighed, softly: it was obvious that a war was coming, they just had to accept it.

The morning of December 2, 1975, greeted Hogwarts with a heavy sense of bitterness, and the entire Great Hall seemed to be holding its breath, horrified by yet another article of a foretold war that loomed ever more dangerously over their lives.

Lily tucked a lock of red hair behind her ears, sighed deeply, closing her eyes in a desperate attempt to regain the calm that usually defined her; she clung to the contact of Marlene McKinnon, to the hand gently resting on hers, in a silent attempt to support her, to make her feel her presence, to distract her from the smug glances of the Slytherin table, who – satisfied – seemed to challenge with their gaze anyone who laid eyes on them.

But the eyes of the Great Hall were soon captured by the entrance of a girl who was merely a child with the eyes of an adult: Alhena Black had a calm, slightly drowsy expression, the shadow of an amused smirk on her face, her uniform perfect; she walked arm in arm with Evan Rosier, the same casual swagger, his sharp face lit by a smile that Alhena returned with an near-conspiratorial glint. They were speaking in hushed tones, exchanging quick glances and brief bursts of laughter that rang out stridently in the tense silence of the Great Hall, before he left her with her classmates, heading straight to class.

She sat down at her House table, muttering a sleepy "good morning," and at first didn't notice the hostile looks the entire table seemed to be giving her; but when she looked up, Lily Evans's emerald green eyes glared at her, staring at her with hatred and resentment. Alhena raised an eyebrow in confusion, shifting her gaze to Marlene McKinnon, only to be met with the same hostility.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, chuckling, still half-smiling at something Evan had said earlier about how unbearable Barty and Regulus were in the mornings.

“Well, normal people are not laughing at what’s happening outside, Black,” McKinnon attacked, her voice shrill, fueled by the sense of injustice she felt, the blind rage, the anxiety that – she wouldn’t ever admit it though – gripped her heart. “But maybe that doesn’t apply to you and your Death Eater friends.”

Alhena's smile tightened, sharp:

“Oh, and you’d be the spokesperson for the normal people, McKinnon? Sorry if I don’t share your funeral expression every morning. Tell me, what’s so tragic that you look even paler than usual? Your boyfriend cheated on you with an evil Death Eater?” it wasn’t just a retort, it was a deliberate strike, aimed straight at Marlene’s weak spot: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and she was still a Black.

“Go fuck yourself, Black, you and your fucking friends,” Marlene snapped, slamming her plate violently onto the table; Lily placed a hand on her arm, trying to calm her, to rouse her from that surge of anger that – she knew – was being directed at the wrong person.

“Evans, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or should I guess?” Alhena asked, finally turning to the redhead in front of her; she looked at her for a few seconds, silent, then spoke, trying to calm things down.

“Have you read The Daily Prophet, Black?” she asked, in an almost defeated murmur.

Alhena quickly picked it up and brought it under her gaze: her eyes began to move quickly, following the dark letters on the white paper, her lips twisted into a bitter smile, she shook her head and sighed.

“Of course, if my name is Black, I must want a war, torture Muggles, and collect heads in the living room.” she laughed, looking at the two girls in front of her in bewilderment: her last name would always be her calling card, it weighed like a millstone on her shoulders, looming over her life every day. “You think you’re better, but you have the same prejudices.”

“You walk in laughing with your little Slytherin friend just as an article comes out about a Muggle family being murdered by people like you, forgive us for thinking wrong,” Marlene blurted out, not seeming at all inclined to put an end to that discussion: they were afraid, they were terrified of what was happening outside, and even more of the fact that it could infect the castle at any moment.

"People like me?” Alhena laughed ironically, pushing away the paper and the disgusting image of the Dark Mark sprawled across the front page. “I imagine if Sirius had been in my place, you would have pulled the same stunt.”

As if called, the Marauders ran to the table, noisy, cheerful, carefree, and – as Alhena bitterly noted – no one said anything to them.

“Good morning, ladies!” Sirius exclaimed, beaming, but he quickly became aware of the tension gripping the table. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing, Sir, don’t worry, you just seem awfully happy this morning, excited they killed more Muggles, are you?” asked the little Black, with a sarcasm that almost bordered on hysteria: she hated being a Black, she hated having to bear the name of a family of murderers, she hated that this damned label followed her everywhere she went.

The Marauders looked at her blankly, frozen in the confused frown they had assumed upon hearing the sentence:

“Alhena, is everything okay?” Sirius asked again, cautiously, looking at his sister in bewilderment, his brow furrowed and his lips parted.

“It’s okay, we’ve sorted it out,” Lily interjected, trying to de-escalate, her eyes darting to Alhena in silent plea.

“I wasn’t asking you, Evans,” Sirius said, not taking his eyes off his sister.

“I’m fine,” Alhena replied, her lips pressed together and her impassive eyes capturing Marlene’s, which almost seemed to drown in them. “Fuck you and your prejudices.”

She stood up quickly, violently grabbing her shoulder bag full of books, and turned her back on everyone, going to sit among the Slytherins, next to Regulus and his friends. The boys followed her with their eyes for a few seconds, then turned in confusion to Lily and Marlene, still frowning and with their arms crossed.

“Would someone like to explain what that was about?” Sirius blurted out again: his little sister was everything to him, the last hold on a broken family, his last chance at redemption.

“Mind your own business, Black,” Marlene said, rolling her eyes.

“She’s my sister, McKinnon, it’s more than my business,” Sirius blurted out, rapping his knuckles on the table; James placed a hand on his shoulder, a timid attempt to calm him, to make him feel his presence.

“Let’s all sit and calm down, yeah?” Remus ordered, placing a hand on Sirius’s shoulder and forcing him to sit down. “I think both them and Lena are mature enough to resolve this without hexing each other, don’t you?”

No one answered, the tension gradually eased, and everyone seemed to calm down; the boys began to eat, filling their glasses with pumpkin juice and their plates with every delicacy left on the table.

“Did they really kill other Muggles?” Peter asked in a frightened whisper.

Marlene handed him the paper, and the boys gathered around it, quickly scanning the front page. They remained silent for a few seconds, almost speechless, terrified by the reality that was now futile to deny: war was coming, and they would have to be more than ready.

“Bloody bastards,” James muttered through gritted teeth.

“Were you arguing about this before?” Sirius asked instead, unable to take his eyes off that abhorrent image of the Dark Mark: he had often seen it, on his cousin's arm, praised and almost adored, kissed as if it were a source of pride.

“Yes, Black, happy now?” Lily snapped, her patience thinning: she hated to admit she was wrong, her pride would never allow her to apologize.

Sirius remained silent, again, and the girls were surprised to see a hint of fear in his eyes:

“What did she say?” he asked, easily masking the tremor in his voice: his sister couldn’t be like her cousins, like her parents, like her family, she would never accept it.

“She’s a bitch, Sirius, but she’s with us,” Marlene reassured him, her gaze softening for the first time since Alhena Black had entered the Great Hall.

The eldest Black smiled, hiding a relieved sigh, and took a slice of cake, eating it all in one go, ignoring the disgusted look Remus gave him.

“That’s right, she’s such a bitch,” he chuckled, without waiting to finish chewing.

“Sirius, for fuck’s sake, no one wants to see what’s in your mouth,” Remus muttered again, putting a hand over his eyes to avoid the highly objectionable sight. “Shut your mouth when you chew, you dog.”

“Hey, Moony, slow down!” Sirius exclaimed, putting a hand to his chest. “You know I’m sensitive.”

Remus snorted, more amused than annoyed, pouring tea into the cup he was clutching in his hands.

“Where are the others?” he asked the girls.

“Alice must be hiding somewhere with Frank,” Lily replied, giggling at Marlene’s feigned retching. “Mary and Emmeline are still in their rooms, they’ll be late as usual,” she concluded, then saw Severus arrive from the Slytherin table and stood up. “Bye, Marls, bye, Remus, see you in class.”

“Come to Hogsmeade with me instead of hanging out with Snivellus, Evans!” James exclaimed, being completely ignored by the desired redhead. “Why does she only ever say goodbye to you, Lupin?”

“Because I treat her like a human being, maybe?” he replied ironically. “And get off your ass, Potions start in five.”

Chapter Text

Regulus Black was tired: dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his pale face looked almost translucent under the morning light. His grey eyes flicked quickly across the thick print of the Daily Prophet front page, trying to absorb every word of the article – macabre, and yet, in its own way, so fascinating; beside him, Barty Crouch Jr. was talking. And talking. And talking – fully aware that his best friend wasn’t listening to a single word after yet another sleepless night.

“I have top marks in every subjects, but an Acceptable in a useless subject is an insult to the name of the great Bartemius Crouch, apparently, does that sound even remotely normal to you?” he blurted out, concluding a long argument with himself against his father and Professor Kettleburn. “Did you even hear two words?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” Regulus asked him, tucking his copy of the Gazette into the shoulder bag he used as a backpack.

“Fuck you, Black, I hate you,” Barty muttered, giving him the finger.

“Get in line,” Black muttered in response, resting his forehead on his arms, crossed on the table: his head felt like exploding, his eyes were burning, desperately asking for a little sleep.

The silence between the two, however, was short-lived, interrupted by a fury called Alhena Black, who violently dropped her bag full of books on the floor and slumped heavily on the bench next to her brother, huffing angrily.

“Good morning, little Black, always a delight.” Barty greeted her sweetly, as though he’d already forgotten about his father and his grade in Care of Magical Creatures.

“Morning my ass.” she snapped, furiously grabbing the jug of pumpkin juice and glaring at the poor guy who’d dared to look askance at her Gryffindor tie. “What the fuck are you looking at, you piece of shit?”

“Okay, little psycho, what happened?” Regulus asked her, placing a gentle hand on her arm, trying to calm her down.

“They are bloody bitches, that’s what happened. Fucking Gryffindors and their fucking prejudices!” Alhena nearly shouted, slamming her hand against the table. Her fury was bright and raw: she hated that her name spoke louder than her person.

“I’ve always said Gryffindors are the worst.” Barty put her hands up, trying somehow to make his best friend smile. “Some of them are really well-built, though, I’ll give them that.”

“Barty, please, for Merlin’s sake.” Regulus sighed, shooting him a sharp look. He turned to his sister, hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Breathe, calmly, and explain yourself as Salazar commands, please,” he said, his tone firm but his eyes understanding.

"It's about that article in the Prophet," she began, finally sounding at a decent tone for twenty to eight in the morning. Regulus swallowed bitterly, taking a deep breath. "I don't want war, even if everyone thinks otherwise."

She seemed like a child again, frightened by the screams in the house, curled up beneath the blankets: she didn't want that damned war; she had tried to understand it, to take sides, but it was useless, and despite everything her parents had tried to impress upon her, all those ideals simply didn't make any sense to her.

Regulus and Barty, who had moved to stand next to little Black, exchanged a look, wordless and uneasy: she was just a child, she didn't deserve such a heavy burden to carry on her shoulders.

“You shouldn't let the opinions of lesser people affect you, Nene,” Regulus began, never taking his eyes off his sister's, which were so similar to his own. “They don't understand what it means to bear our name, they're just jealous.”

Alhena chuckled, a harsh, joyless sound; she turned around, nearly knocking Barty off his seat.

“Yes, Regulus, they are jealous, you're right.” her voice was a bitter whisper, clearly unconvinced; he shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “But that's not the point. The point is that our name is both the worst and the best thing about us, there is no between.” His lips twisted into a grimace, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his anguish from showing.

She stayed silent for a few seconds, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, then she cut the matter short:

“Let’s drop this before it turns into a fight about Black moral values,” he said, patting his brother on the shoulder. He loved him more than anything, but he was slowly being dragged into an increasingly dark spiral from which it would be difficult to escape. “You look terrible. Are you okay?”

“The little prince hasn’t closed his eyes all night,” Barty cut in, clearly delighted by the change of subject: his father despised his friends, which only made him cherish them more. He’d long accepted that Bartemius Crouch Sr. would never be proud of him, and he was determined to be everything his father wasn’t,  but how far would he have gone?

He squeezed himself between the two Blacks, earning a death glare from Regulus, to which he replied with an innocent grin.

“Did you think of your beloved as your brother?” Alhena sneered, looking at her brother with an amused grin.

“Somehow, I doubt Sirius is capable of thinking about one girl for more than five minutes,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Sure, then you'll introduce me to the lucky one,” his sister teased him, winking. “I'm going to class, bonne journée!”

Barty caught her hand dramatically and pressed a mocking kiss to her knuckles. She rolled her eyes, laughing, then walked off toward Transfiguration, obviously never unnoticed: being a Black was almost like being a princess, and everyone in that family seemed to have inherited the gift of enchanting anyone who laid eyes on them.

“She’s growing up nicely,” Barty commented, reaching over to grab the last remaining slice of apple pie.

“One more compliment about my sister, Crouch, and you’re dead,” Regulus warned him, knocking the tart out of his hands with a slap.

“You animal!” he muttered, staring at the lost pastry like it was a fallen comrade. “Where is Evan when he has to defend me from your abuse?”

Regulus stood up, expression unreadable:

“Get moving, Ruf starts his monologue in five minutes.”

“Can’t we skip it today?” Barty begged, but yet another glare worthy of the perfect Black made him lose all hope, and the two hurried towards the History of Magic classroom.

Meanwhile, the eldest Black brother had already taken his place in the Potions classroom, side by side with James Potter, who had insisted with rather dramatic vehemence to sit behind Lily Evans and Severus Snape:

“Hey, Evans, you never answered me earlier!” James called, sprawling across the desk. “Come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday.”

“I told you, Potter, I wouldn’t go out with you even if I had to choose between you and the Giant Octopus,” the girl replied as if reciting the same boring poem. “Now sod off.”

At that moment, Slughorn swept into the room, saving at least one of the boys from responding:

“Good morning, my dears, how are we all?” he exclaimed, beaming, but continued speaking before allowing his students to respond. “Today we’ll be brewing the Peace Potion, which, frankly, could be quite useful in this class.”

He chuckled, but none of the students seemed to find the joke particularly funny.

“But enough chit-chat, the ingredients are on the board, you'll be working with your seat partner. You have two hours, off you go!” he waved his arm dramatically. “The pair who brew the best Peace Potion will earn twenty points for their House and, since I'm feeling particularly generous, an extra mark on the next written test. Good luck!”

Naturally, everyone rushed to the ingredient cupboard, eager for points, praise, or both; the Potter–Black duo, however, seemed far more interested in finding new and creative ways to irritate the pair in front of them: Lily – whom James kept his eyes on, enchanted – had her hair pulled back with a pencil in a loose, messy bun, Severus Snape – Snivellus – had his hooked nose buried in his books, jotting down who knows what, his greasy hair falling onto the pages.

“Hey, Snivellus!” Sirius called, but he didn't seem to hear him:

“Maybe he’s gone deaf,” said James,  crumpling a parchment ball and tossing it at him. It bounced off Snape’s shoulder and landed at his feet. “Come on, Snivellus, it’s rude to ignore people.”

“Only disgusting people are ignored,” he spat, turning slightly in profile to give them a glare of contempt.

“So we should all ignore you then?” James shot back, Sirius smirking beside him.

“You disgust me, Potter,” said Snape, coldly. “And take a look at the stray sitting next to you before you call me disgusting.”

Sirius’s smile vanished as if doused in ice water, his bright eyes sharpening in an instant.

“Watch your mouth, Snivellus, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed.

“Will you guys stop?” Evans asked angrily, turning sharply to her two housemates. “Sev, come on, don’t listen to these two idiots.”

“There you go, Snivellus, listen to Evans,” Sirius mimicked, his brows still furrowed and his fists clenched: no one could dare to talk about his family, not without knowing what was behind it.

A few desks away, Remus watched silently, knuckles whitening around his book: disapproval was evident in his eyes, but loyalty to his friendship prevented him from acting; Peter scratched the back of his neck, laughing too loudly compared to everyone else, almost uneasy, more from participating than from genuine amusement.

“Tell me we have a Dungbomb left,” Sirius blurted out, once the two had turned around: never talk about his family, Mocciosus had asked for it, he deserved to be punished for his words, he was superior to him.

“Of course, brother,” James replied, immediately grabbing it from the briefcase, which had been absentmindedly left under the chair since they’d sat down. “What are you planning?”

Sirius didn’t bother answering. He snatched the Dungbomb and lobbed it onto the desk in front of them: a sharp hiss pierced the silence of the classroom, then – before anyone could do anything – the potion exploded, and a silvery liquid covered its owners and most of the class, which remained stunned in a deafening silence, broken only by the uncontrolled laughter of James and Sirius, who almost laid on their desks at the sight of the two victims' dazed faces.

“BLACK! POTTER!” shouted Slughorn, his face purple and his shirt partially affected by the potion. “What in Merlin’s name were you thinking, you little wrigglers?”

With a wave of his wand, he removed every trace of silver slime from himself and his favorite students, then went back to ranting against the two responsible, but neither the shouting of his classmates – including a furious Remus – nor the possible punishments seemed to faze them in the slightest.

“Enough, class dismissed! Potter, Black, my office, now!” the professor thundered, finding himself unable to continue the lesson. “Miss Evans and Mr. Snape, go to the hospital wing, just in case.”

Slughorn practically dragged James and Sirius out. Inside his office, he rounded on them again as they stared studiously at the floor, trying not to burst into fresh laughter.

“What were you thinking?!” he began, his face ruddy and his brow furrowed. “You could have injured your peers with an explosion like that. The consequences could have been very serious!”

“He insulted Sirius,” James whispered after a few seconds of silence. “His family, too.”

“That is not a justification for detonating a Dungbomb in a potion, Mr. Potter!” the professor scolded, though his tone had noticeably softened. “Twenty points from Gryffindor and a week of detention, which I’ll deal with later, and now go, you little delinquents.”

James and Sirius left the professor's office with their heads down but a grin betraying their repentance: just a few steps later, in fact, the two burst out laughing as soon as the Potter's hazel irises met the Black's grey ones, with whom he shared the same mischievous spark.

“What an actor you are, Prongs!” Sirius exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “‘They insulted Sirius and his family,’ Merlin, I almost lost it!”

“Did you see Snivellus’s face?” asked James, his eyes shining with laughter.

“Red as Evans’ hair.”

“Legendary, mate. And we got off easy, Minnie would’ve vaporised us”

Back in the Potions classroom, the Gryffindors – the only ones still in class – welcomed them as heroes, and within minutes James and Sirius found themselves shaking hands with more than twenty boys – and especially girls – who were applauding them in admiration; but standing out from the crowd of idolizing boys, Remus watched them, shaking his head, his arms crossed and his back leaning against the bricks behind him:

“You’re jackasses,” he stated, pulling them away from the flattery of their Housemates.

“Oh, admit it, you enjoyed Snivellus’s face,” James grinned, and Remus rolled his eyes: the smirk he tried to hide said enough.

“But you hit Lily too!” he exclaimed instead, crossing his arms over his chest, quickly regaining his frown of disappointment.

“She shouldn’t have been sitting with Snivellus,” Sirius replied, shrugging, winking at a Gryffindor praising him for his, he said, brilliant idea.

“And then you wonder why he doesn’t speak to you,” Lupin muttered, shaking his head disconsolately, but James didn’t seem to hear him.

“We have a free hour, what do we do?” asked Peter instead, still excited by his friends’ prank.

Sirius’s grin widened slowly.

“Oh no,” Remus sighed. “You’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”

“And what an idea…”

“Keep it to yourself then,” he muttered, hurrying to follow his idiots friends, who – mischievous grins on their faces – had rushed out of the classroom.

Downstairs, the Transfiguration classroom seemed to be in chaos: the students – Ravenclaws and Gryffindors – were shouting in panic, desperately trying to figure out what the test was supposed to be about, though no one seemed to know anything.

“Interrogation?” someone exclaimed. “Interrogation about what?”

“When did she say that?” asked another, who – raising his head from his arms – seemed to have just woken up.

“What exactly was she supposed to be questioning about?” asked Alhena, sitting calmly on her desk, her legs swinging and her head tilted nearly to her shoulder. She was smart, Alhena, she knew how to improvise, and – even though she had absolutely no idea what McGonagall was supposedly about to test – she was perfectly aware that she could handle any situation without any problem.

“On the introductory chapter about Animagus,” replied the blonde who only moments before had sparked panic with the simple phrase, ‘was McGonagall supposed to question us today?’

“And how many pages was that?” asked Elizabeth Shafiq, Alhena’s friend, a pure-blood Ravenclaw from the family – as the Blacks called it – Blood Traitors.

“A couple, I don’t think many,” the girl replied, and at those words the whole class seemed to breathe in collective relief; Elizabeth jumped from her chair, grabbed the book from her bag, and began reading aloud:

“An Animagus is a wizard or witch who can transform into a specific animal without the aid of blah blah blah.” she began, reading hastily. “Unlike what happens with the Metamorphmagus, this ability is not hereditary. – here she paused for a moment, raising her eyes to her mates – We all know that, don't we?”

“I certainly hope so,” said a stern voice behind them: Elizabeth slowly raised her head from the book and found herself staring right into Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes, fixed on her behind square spectacles.

“Sit down,” the professor ordered, sitting behind the desk. “Miss Shafiq, you seemed prepared. Would you like to volunteer?”

Elizabeth swallowed hard and shook her head: her best grade in Transfiguration had been a pathetic Acceptable – on an essay mostly copied from Alhena –  which hadn’t been nearly enough to raise her average, which was still peppered with “Trolls” and “Dreadfuls.”

Alhena observed Elizabeth's terrified expression for a few seconds – almost amused – as she almost seemed to be begging the professor with her eyes; then – as if seized by an immense act of generosity and compassion, as well as a certain self-confidence – she raised her hand:

“I’d like to volunteer, professor,” she announced, not bothering to hide the pleased little smile she gave to the rest of the class, who looked at her with genuine gratitude.

“Very well,” said the professor, and Alhena rose, standing – straight and composed, as any proper Black would – next to the chair. “Tell me about Animagi, Miss Black.”

“An Animagus is a witch or wizard capable of transforming into a single animal, determined by their personality and innate traits, without the aid of a wand,” he began, speaking fluently and confidently. “Each Animagus, when they assume animal form, bears an ‘identification mark’ resulting from a characteristic of their human body; this may be a physical peculiarity, such as dental structure, or an acquired trait, such as glasses.”

Professor McGonagall nodded, hiding the beginning of a proud smile.

“Can you briefly explain the process of becoming an Animagus?”

“Of course.” Alhena winked, placing her hands composedly behind her back: a proper lady didn't gesture, her mother had repeated this several times. "To become an Animagus, the witch or wizard in question must hold a mandrake leaf in their mouth for a whole month, specifically from full moon to full moon," she began confidently, clearly pleased at having attracted the entire class's attention. "On the next visible full moon, the aspiring Animagus must expel the leaf into a vial bathed in moonlight, to which they must add one of their own hairs, a silver teaspoon of dew left in a place that has not seen sunlight or been trodden by human feet for seven days, and the chrysalis of a death's-head hawkmoth. The mixture–"

“Okay, Black, I know you know,” the professor interrupted, jotting something down on a piece of parchment. “Last question: what is the only spell that can force an Animagus back into human form?”

“The Homosemblant Charm,” the girl replied promptly, confident in her answer: the days at Grimmauld Place were long, and the house library had always been the safest refuge.

“Perfect, Miss Black, ten points to Gryffindor,” he said, and the ghost of a smile softened her stern face for the first time. “Now, everyone, turn to page fifty.”

When Alhena sat back down, Dane Macmillan – an old friend – immediately raised his hand for a high five, almost in admiration:

“Congratulations on your courage,” he said with a grin; he was a pureblood boy – sorted into Ravenclaw three years earlier – whom Alhena had known since childhood, before the Black family decided to cut off all ties when the boy's family sided with the Muggles.

“And who exactly do you think you’re talking to?” she replied proudly, giggling and patting his shoulder.

“Hey, Lena!” a voice called from behind, sparing Dane the need to answer; when Alhena turned, she found herself face to face with Elizabeth’s round, sweet face, practically glowing for relief. “Thanks, darling, you saved my life.”

“You owe me a butterbeer, Shafiq,” Alhena replied with a wink, then turned her attention back to the lesson. For the next hour, silence reigned, broken only by Professor McGonagall’s firm, authoritative voice as she introduced the Deletrius spell.

Chapter Text

Silence seemed to reign in the class of History of Magic. The fourth-year students, utterly disinterested, didn’t even pretend to listen to Professor Binns, who was droning on about Ignatia Wildsmith and her invention of Floo Powder: most of the class sat slumped over their desks, eyelids drooping, mouths stretched into annoyed yawns. Many, however, chatted undisturbed, as if the professor wasn’t actually present in the room: among them, Regulus Black, Evan Rosier, and Barty Crouch Jr., sitting at the back of the room, seemed to have decided to tune out of the lesson entirely, their folders closed on their desks and their feet propped on the chairs:

“Any plans for Christmas?” Barty asked, huffing and resting his thin ankles on the empty desk next to him.

“My parents are arranging a ball for all the Pureblood families, maybe you could come too,” Regulus replied with a shrug, giving his best friend’s discomposure a glare of disappointment.

“My dad’s dragging us to France to visit his sister,” Evan muttered, his crystalline eyes fixed on the pages of the book in his hand. “Pandora hasn’t talked about anything else for weeks,” he added, rolling his eyes.

“Her sister is my aunt,” Regulus objected after a few seconds, earning an immediate glare from Evan.

“Can you not remind me that we're related?” he muttered. “And we're not going to Druella, anyway, this one's called… Manon, I guess.”

Regulus sighed, disappointed, and turned almost hopefully toward Barty.

“Don't look at me, Black, my beloved father will put me under house arrest,” he replied, his gaze on the quill spinning between his fingers: he didn't want to go home, didn't want to be that terrified child again, desperately seeking an approval that would never come.

Regulus snorted loudly, rolling his eyes, allowing himself – for once – to slump back in his chair: another torture, another holiday spent performing the role of perfect son, displayed like some prized collector’s item.

“It was worth a shot, mate,” Evan commented, his voice trailing off as he patted on his shoulder. “If you want, we can trade places. My father worships you and my sister adores you.”

Regulus glanced at him sideways, as if genuinely considering the absurd proposal for a moment:

“Don’t tempt me, Rosier,” he muttered, and both his friends chuckled softly.

“Lena definitely appreciates me more than you do,” Evan went on, running a hand through his blond hair and winking at his friend.

“Are you implying something, Rosier?” Regulus raised a threatening finger at him, which only made both boys burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, a laugh loud enough to catch even Professor Binns’ attention:

“Why are you three laughing in the back?” the professor asked, almost offended. “I doubt that the death of Ignatia Wildsmith is a particularly humorous subject.”

Regulus, a murderous expression on his face and still his finger pointed firmly at Evan's chest, tried to speak – and most likely resolve the situation – but Barty beat him to it:

"No big deal, professor," he began, dead serious, slapping Evan on the back of the head, who – next to him – kept chuckling. "Evan's just secretly in love with Regulus's sister, who's technically his cousin, too, I think..." he paused for a moment to think, then waved the thought away. "It doesn't matter, their families are used to incest anyway."

“I am certain, however, that the death of poor Wildsmith was a tragic event that has profoundly affected our community,” he added, theatrically bringing his right hand to his heart, feigning grief.

Binns stared at them, dazed, lingering on Evan’s and Regulus’s furious expressions as they glared murderously at Barty, who sat entirely at ease.

“I don’t want to catch you three chatting again,” the professor decided to end it, resuming the conversation he had previously left hanging.

“Crouch, I swear I’ll kill you,” Evan growled, yanking at the already loosened tie of the boy he insisted on calling ‘his best friend’.

“Your intentions seem different, Rosie.” Barty winked, a mischievous grin on his face, nodding toward their close proximity.: Evan released him immediately, pushing him away with a shove, reserving him only a single look of contempt.

“That’s disgusting, Crouch,” he muttered impulsively, as if those words would erase the strange feeling that was growing into his chest. The mere thought of that insinuation disgusted him: his father had always told him that those things were against nature, he had made sure that he would always remember it; and – oh – after that day Evan would have never forgotten it.

"Je n’insinuais rien, de toute façon. (I wasn't implying anything, though.)" he continued, turning to Regulus, after a few seconds of silence; he didn’t quite know why he had chosen French, his native language, an unconscious barrier between him and Barty.

Regulus stared at him for a moment, somewhere between surprise and doubt, but then answered:

"J’espère pour toi. (I hope so for you)”

“You’re cute when you’re a jealous brother, you know?” Evan laughed again, patting him on the arm. “And trust me, having Walburga as a mother-in-law is at the very bottom of my bucket list.”

“Wise man,” Regulus commented, giving him a final warning glance.

“Thanks for letting me in, assholes,” Barty muttered, arms crossed, annoyance too deeply rooted in his expression to be entirely false: that's disgusting, Crouch. He agreed with those words, didn't he? He knew that was the way to think, but…

“You’ll survive,” Regulus sighed, turning his head toward the wall and completely tuning out both the lesson and the chatter of his friends.

The last hour of Binns' class ended without further interruptions, punctuated only by the professor lazily leafing through the pages in search of some anecdote he thought interesting to continue the discussion no one seemed to be listening to: Evan spent every remaining minute doodling in the margins of the book, exchanging sarcastic quips and out-of-place comments with Barty, while Regulus seemed almost asleep, his head in his arms and his eyes half-closed.

“I want a two-foot essay on Ignatia Wildsmith and the invention of Floo Powder by next week,” the professor concluded, exiting the classroom directly through the wall behind him.

“Two feet?” Barty exclaimed indignantly, dramatically raising his hands to his face. “Has he gone bloody mad?”

“Just write down what he said in class. If you had paid attention, you’d know.” Regulus said airily, striding out of the classroom with a regal bearing.

“Don’t lecture me, Black, you’ve been asleep for an hour straight,” she replied, pointing her index finger at him; Regulus nudged him, rolling his eyes, then walked past him, coming up beside Evan:

“Pourquoi, prier, nous l’avons choisi comme ami?” (Why, pray tell, did we choose him as a friend?)” he asked, sighing deeply, feigning annoyance: Barty was everything to him, the brother he was losing in Sirius, the best friend he could ever have asked for, he could never really be angry with him.

Evan shrugged:

"Miséricorde.” he replied, and Regulus chuckled. “Come on, the Divination tower is way too far away.”

“Divination?” Barty asked, looking at his friends in confusion. “Did we really choose Divination?”

“No, not at all, we’ve only been attending it for three months,” Evan replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Speak for yourselves, I don't think I even crossed the hall of that tower by mistake,” Barty muttered again, undaunted, receiving in response only annoyed sighs and glares that promised little good.

***

That afternoon, the Gryffindor table seemed noisier than usual, fueled by the Marauders' tales about the potion that had exploded on Severus Snape; no one – except Remus, whose annoyed expression had remained unchanged since that morning – seemed to care that their own housemate had been a victim of the attack as well.

Alhena slid into the seat next to her brother, and he – so absorbed in describing the hilarious look on Mocciosus’s face – almost didn't notice her arrival, silent, almost imperceptible: she didn't want to be there, among dozens of people who seemed to be watching her as if they were waiting for her to make a false step, to prove herself worthy of his surname. That morning’s argument still burned on her skin, looping endlessly in her mind, inflaming a soul that was – she hated to admit it, but it was in her blood – irritable and touchy to the core.

“Hey, Lena, how are you?” Remus asked her gently, the only one who seemed to have noticed her quiet appearance.

“Sister!” Sirius exclaimed, cutting her off, suddenly completely uninterested in recounting the details of the explosion. “Since when have you been so quiet?”

“For as long as I can remember, Sirius,” she replied calmly. She wanted to leave; the place seemed to be suffocating her. “Why do you seem more stupid than usual?”

“We pulled off an epic prank, Lena, I have to tell you!” ames burst out, as gleeful as a child, only to pause, reconsidering her words.“Hey, we're not stupid!”

Alhena shook her head, chuckling:

“What the hell have you done this time?” she asked, amused.

“It was a series of unfortunate events that cost forty points and earned six detentions for the four of us,” Peter summed up, shrugging, absorbed as he was in the still-full plate beneath him.

“You left out the whole fun part, Wormtail,” James muttered, snorting.

“You should have seen Snivellus’s face when the potion exploded in him.”

“And Filch’s when we hung Mrs. Norris from a chandelier,” Sirius added, chuckling and high-fiving James: those two complemented each other perfectly, like the last missing pieces of a puzzle.

“You guys are so immature,” Alhena commented, rolling her eyes. “We’ll think of some real pranks at home. I already have a few ideas,” she added, her lips twisting into a grin so similar to her brother’s.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m coming home this holidays,” he chuckled, and Alhena stared at him for a few seconds, puzzled, as if searching for the best words to respond to such news: Sirius had always been home during the holidays, at least a few days, and the thought of having to spend three weeks in the nightmare house without her brother made her gasp.

“Are you kidding?” she asked him, in a terrified whisper: bad things always happened when Sirius wasn't there, and she – alone – had been through a year of hell.

“No, and if you’d wake up, you wouldn’t go either, no one's forcing you,” he replied indifferently, shrugging and pouring himself some pumpkin juice, ignoring the warning his friends’ glances: no one would ever change his mind, escaping the prison that was his family was possible, all he had to do was want it.

“It's not that easy, Sirius, you know,” Alhena murmured, shaking his shoulder: she was female, the only female, they would have come to fetch her directly from her dormitory, drag her home by force, everything was different for her.

“Well, actually it is, just don’t show up like I’m going to.” Sirius looked annoyed, sick of feeling obligated to spend Christmas with people who weren’t his family, who worked tirelessly to make him feel wrong.

“You can come to my place, Lena, my parents can’t wait to meet you,” James suggested, and Sirius spread his arms, raising his eyebrows, as if to show her the truth of his words.

“I can’t, James,” she snapped, but quickly regained composure, turning back to her brother. “You can’t leave me alone, Sir.”

“Ugh, don't be such a cry-baby,” he snapped, rolling his eyes. “You have every opportunity to not go, you just have to take advantage of it.”

“They forced me, Sirius, they threw a bloody ball,” she snapped back, standing up and violently clashing the storm in their eyes.

“Wow!” Sirius exclaimed, faking a laugh. “They haven’t put on a stupid show like that since we were kids.”

“Exactly, Sirius, it's an occasion to celebrate my birthday for the first time, there’ll be a lot of people, if I don't go they'll kill me." she replied, gesticulating frantically: since she was a child she didn't remember ever hearing the word 'happy birthday' come out of her parents' lips, too busy reminding her of her duties as a perfect daughter, and how these would only increase as the years went by.

“And I’d never leave Reg alone in there, anyway,” she added, her tone lower, her words calibrated to hit where he was most vulnerable: Sirius hesitated for a second, in fact, but then rolled his eyes, recovering quickly.

“That sounds really fun,” he commented sarcastically, sipping his pumpkin juice. “You can tell our dear mother not to bother tolerating my presence.”

“You’re unbearable,” Alhena muttered, mucking around with the slice of roast chicken that had been sitting untouched on her plate for a few minutes.

“You have no idea how much you are, little sister.” he winked at her, giving her a playful punch on the shoulder: he wasn't angry with her, he doubted he ever could be, he just wanted to save her from her family, show her the right path.

Alhena tried to reply, annoyed, still irritated at the thought of a Christmas without Sirius, but – as soon as Lily Evans and her unbearable clique took a seat next to them – the words seemed to die in her mouth, her gaze darkened, she raised her chin, straightening her back, assuming what everyone would have called Black's stance; the boys seemed to notice the sudden change, the almost nervous looks of the newly arrived girls, and Remus quickly tried to solve the situation, welcoming them with a warm smile:

“Hi, girls, how are you?”

“Spare us, Rem, these two idiots you call friends are truly ill-mannered!” Lily exclaimed, almost hysterically: the silver reflections of the potion could still be seen in her hair, and in her eyes the murderous instinct towards the two responsible seemed to shine like a flame.

“You’re boring, Evans, have a laugh,” James chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Silver suits you, it makes your eyes pop.”

“All right,” Emmeline Vance cut in, saving him from a hex that seemed only seconds away. “What were you talking about?”

“Family dances,” Sirius replied, shrugging, ignoring the fact that his fellow Muggle-borns didn’t even know what a ‘Black-style family dance’ actually was.

“Dances?” Mary asked, fascinated: she had always watched, fascinated, the scenes in movies where the princess and the prince were entwined, dancing in a crowded room with cheering people, their expensive dresses twirling to the sounds of classical music. She had always dreamed of becoming that princess, one day. “You mean real dances?”

“No, we call them dances but they’re actually big Dueling Clubs, whoever kills the most Muggles wins.” Alhena replied harshly, her words a cutting blade of sarcasm.

Sirius chuckled, but it was the only sound in the chilly silence that had fallen over the group.

“What a bore you are, Black,” Marlene snorted, finally deciding to intervene: she knew she had made a mistake, that she had directed her anger at a girl who had very little to do with it, but little Black’s behavior made it impossible for her to have a civil conversation, let alone apologize. “We made a mistake this morning, are you happy?”

Alhena stared at her, silent for several seconds, then her lips curled into a sneer. She picked up her bag, rose to her feet, and walked away – straight toward the Slytherin table – without a word.

“What a bitch,” Marlene snapped. “I even apologized.”

“Leave her alone, Lene,” Sirius reassured her, unfazed by his sister’s outburst. “That’s just how she is.”

“She’s impossible,” Lily muttered, watching her joking with her Slytherin friends.

“Oh, Evans, you have no idea how much,” Black replied, chuckling.

“And you definitely don’t want to meet her first thing in the morning,” James sneered, biting into a piece of sausage with particular vehemence.

“Or when she argues with Sirius,” Peter added, backing up his friends.

Sirius almost growled:

“We never argue,” he said. “Ours are pleasant fraternal discussions.”

Remus looked at him in silence for a few seconds, unconvinced, his fork still in mid-air:

“Like that time she burned your shirt?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, but Sirius waved the subject away, and the conversation moved on.

“Black.” Mary called after a while, still observing little Black, sitting – completely at ease, or at least so she appeared – among some Slytherins that she – but she had the support of many – considered utterly repulsive.

“Mh?” he replied, without looking up from his plate.

“Doesn't it bother you that she always goes to the Slytherins?” Sirius finally looked up, his gaze met hers, pinning her in place despite herself; his lips curled into an amused smirk, he turned to look at his sister, who was currently joking with Regulus and his friends as if their argument had never happened, and – simply – said:

“Of course, but those are – how do you say it? – just thick as thieves.”

At the Slytherin table, however, the atmosphere felt slightly tense: Regulus and Evan sat composed, glaring at Barty as they ate their meal, worthy of the finest heirs of their respective Houses. Barty, unfazed, kept eating as if he were having the best day of his life. Beside him, a confused Dorcas Meadowes watched the scene with a frown that was both questioning and amused, occasionally lifting her gaze from her plate to make sure the two weren't actually cursing their friend.

“If you keep staring at him like that, you’ll wear him out,” Alhena chuckled, amused, sitting down to her brother’s right.

“They’ve been like this for half an hour.” Dorcas shrugged, clearly resigned by now, brutally spearing the piece of meat left on her plate.

“You tell them, Lena,” Barty exclaimed, nodding, pointing his fork at her in agreement. “It would be a tragic loss to the wizarding world, and beyond.”

“Crouch, I swear, you’re this close to joining the Bloody Baron,” Evan sighed, glaring at him.

“You should be happy that your favorite just arrived, shouldn’t you?” he teased, winking at him.

“Flattered, Rose,” Alhena laughed, giving a half-bow, to which he responded with a well-placed middle finger, first at her and then at Barty.

"Can you, please, stop making comments about my sister?” Regulus snapped, throwing his arms out dramatically.

“Let me enjoy my moment of glory, you killjoy,” she muttered ironically, still unable to understand – and not entirely sure she wanted to – where exactly this whole discussion had even started.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my best friend, the wet dream of all Hogwarts!” Barty exclaimed, standing up and pointing with his cake knife at the girl in front of him, before being dragged into a seat by Dorcas.

“Ignore-le, Lena. (Just ignore him, Lena)” Evan muttered, shaking his head, a defeated expression on his face, while Regulus snorted loudly next to him.

Alhena leaned toward him,  her smile too close to a smirk to mean anything good:

“Alors je suis ta préférée, Rose? (Am I your favorite, then, Rose?)” she asked him, winking, laughing loudly at Regulus’s curse.

“Crouch et toi êtes faits l’un pour l’autre. (You and Crouch are made for each other)” Evan sighed, shooting another glare at Barty, who suddenly perked up:

“I heard my name!” he exclaimed. “You can't talk about me, in front of me, in another language, it’s not fair.”

“I can tell you in English that you’re an idiot, don’t worry,” Regulus glared, and both Alhena and Evan laughed at Barty’s annoyed expression.

“Include me when you insult Barty in other languages,” Dorcas snorted, earning the best pout in the Crouch repertoire.

“What classes do you have now?” Regulus then asked his sister, rolling his eyes, desperately trying to change the subject.

“One hour of Arithmancy and three of Defense,” she replied, rolling her eyes: she hated Arithmancy, she still wondered why she had chosen it as an elective, and she hated Defense Against the Dark Arts even more, so easy for her, and her teacher that year, who – she was sure – hated her.

“Did you fall into Vector's trap too?” Dorcas, fresh from a year of Arithmancy, asked her, feigning terror. “That woman’s a nightmare.”

“I hate her.” Alhena agreed, nodding. “What do you have?”

“Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination,” Dorcas sighed, collapsing dramatically onto the table. “I won’t survive!”

“You’ll be fine, Cas, we believe in you.” Evan patted her arm supportively, then added:

“We have three hours of Herbology with Hufflepuffs and Ancient Runes.”

“I have Ancient Runes too, we finally have a lesson together!” a light, slightly dreamy voice interrupted chimed in: Pandora Rosier seemed to appear almost out of thin air, an ethereal smile on her face and clear, faraway eyes that seemed to reflect something the others couldn't see.

“Dora, light of my eyes!” Barty's eyes seemed to light up, and a radiant smile curved his lips: he adored Pandora, her lightness, her being completely normal in the most abnormal way possible. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, Barty, the stars are brighter than usual today, that’s a good omen!” she exclaimed, taking a seat next to Alhena.

“We’re lucky the stars are watching us, then,” Evan chuckled, looking at his sister with an amused smile. “Reg, do you feel the positive energy?”

“The only thing I feel is the urge to murder my best friend,” he muttered, taking a sip of pumpkin juice as if it were the strongest alcohol; Barty smiled at him.

“Honored by such a title,” he said, toasting himself.

Alhena rolled her eyes, amused:

“That flower is beautiful, Dora, it really makes your eyes pop,” she commented, touching the lush blossom nestled in her friend’s very blonde hair.

“Thank you so much, Lena!” he exclaimed, his smile seeming to widen even further. “I cast a charm on it to keep it beautiful.”

“You have to teach me, then, I kill every plant I touch,” Dorcas muttered, and Pandora answered her with an enthusiastic smile:

“Of course!” he replied jovially.

She went quiet for a moment, then turned to her brother, and added:

“Evan, do you still have that book about Mars and its influence on emotions?”

He gave her an amused look, immediately reaching for his shoulder bag:

“I’ll give it back to you tonight, I swear, I just left it in the dorm.”

“Okay. Mars enters opposition tonight, and I wanted to make some notes,” Pandora replied, dead serious. “I’m heading out.”

“I'm coming with you, I have things to tell you…” Dorcas stood up, following her, giving her a knowing wink: despite being in different Houses and years, Dorcas and Pandora had bonded immediately, so different from each other, yet complementary in all the right ways. “Bye, guys, see you tonight.”

“See you later!” Pandora greeted.

She smiled at everyone, Barty – instantly elbowed by Evan – blew her a flying kiss, and walked away as gracefully as she had arrived.

“Why do you have a book on the influence of emotions, Rosie?” Barty chuckled, patting him on the arm.

“You know I can't say no to her,” he snorted, rolling his eyes, almost embarrassed. “It’s surprisingly interesting, though.” 

“I can't wait to read it, then!” Barty exclaimed again. “I might finally understand what emotions led to my parents' wedding.”

“Money and a marriage contract, Barty, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Regulus said, standing up, inadvertently making everyone laugh.

“Okay, mister ‘my parents are cousins’, that was absolutely unnecessary,” Barty muttered, but Regulus didn’t seem to listen to him:

“Come on, class starts in ten minutes, move your ass,” he said, greeting his sister with a pat on the cheek.

“Language, Black!”, but he hurried after him.

“Bye, little beast, see you later!” he called, however, turning to Alhena.

“See you around, baby Black,” Evan saluted her with a mock military gesture; Alhena returned it and headed briskly toward the Arithmancy classroom on the sixth floor.

Chapter Text

The DADA classroom was buzzing with the usual murmurs of waiting: the students – Gryffindor and Slytherin – were chatting animatedly, some sitting at their desks, some still standing, waiting for Professor Whitaker to enter.

Alhena sat in the back row, a bored expression on her face and her head lazily resting on her right hand, while with her left she was finishing some Arithmancy exercises assigned the hour before: she was left-handed, Alhena, and despite Walburga's effective attempts to make her lose that horrible habit, she had never stopped using her left hand, far from home, even though she now knew how to perfectly use her right hand as well.

“Hey, Alhena!” one of her classmates – whose name she certainly couldn’t remember – took a seat next to her, moving her bag, which she had put there on purpose to avoid that specific situation: Alhena had never gotten along with her classmates.

The girl – who only later she recognised as Maisie Thomson – waited for a few seconds for an answer, her blue eyes wide open and a jovial smile on her face, but soon realised that she would have to settle for the withering glare given her by her interlocutor; before starting to speak again – without losing the smile on her face – she turned towards her friends, arranged almost in a line not far from them, as if providing moral support from a distance. 

“How… how are you?” she tried again, then her eyes fell on her Arithmancy homework, and – enthusiastically – she added:

“Arithmancy?! I’ve always wanted to study it, but my sister advised me against it. She says it’s quite complex… I might try to enroll next year, but Slughorn says–”

“Can I help you in any way?” Alhena interrupted abruptly, slamming her notebook shut and turning to face the one who was brutally interrupting her peace.

Maisie went silent for a few seconds, taken aback, but the expression on the face of the girl in front of her – anything but friendly – ​​quickly brought her back down to earth:

“Oh, yes, of course…” she began, uncertainly, starting to torture her hands, folded in her lap: pathetic, Alhena thought, rolling her eyes. “I was wondering – we were wondering, me and the girls – if…”

The last words left her lips as a confused, agitated whisper; Alhena looked at her perplexed, her eyebrows raised and a mocking expression on her face: she absolutely loved to have that effect on people.

She glanced at the three girls listening to the conversation – shitty friends, she thought – then brought it back to the girl in front of her, who had taken on an unnatural reddish hue.

“Could you please speak as Godric commands?” she asked her, not bothering to hide her annoyed tone: clearly she didn't want to be disturbed, they weren't friends – not even acquaintances, to be honest – and her anxious aura was definitely irritating her.

“Yes, sorry…” she sighed, once again seeking support from her friends, who now seemed much more interested in their shoes. “Are you dating Evan Rosier?”

Before she could stop it, a laugh escaped her lips, but she quickly – still decidedly amused – recomposed her mask of superiority:

“Why this question?” she asked, returning to the best skeptical tone in her repertoire: no confirmation, no denial, and those girls would be talking about them until the end of the year.

She couldn't wait to tell Evan about it.

“Um– curiosity,” she replied uncertainly, evidently taken aback by the question: the tips of her ears had turned bright red, and she had completely lost her smile.

“Curiosity.” Alhena repeated, nodding to herself and regaining her composure. “Do you like him or is it one of your friends?”

Maisie blushed, and – Alhena didn't think it was possible – her ears turned an even brighter shade of red: it was too easy.

“N-no, we don't-” she began, but she cut her off with a wave of her hand:

“I don’t care,” he dismissed her condescendingly. “Can you step away from my desk now?”

She jumped up, almost running away, and – after a quick chat with her friends – sat down in her place, just as the professor – finally – entered class:

“Good afternoon, guys. Sorry for the delay,” he greeted. He was a young man, William Whitaker, with a gaunt face and high cheekbones, but the pallor of his skin – almost blemished by the deep dark circles that marked his face – made his beauty seem wasted.

There followed a confused murmur of greetings, of chairs scraping on the floor, of books being freed from backpacks.

“No, no, put those books away today! This afternoon we'll have a practical lesson,” the professor exclaimed cheerfully, flashing a wide-eyed smile at his class. Alhena rolled her eyes, already tired from the three hours – now almost two and a half, thanks to their professor's tardiness – that lay ahead.

“Everyone stand, please.”

The students complied, moving noisily towards the teacher's desk, muttering and trying to predict what they would have to deal with for three hours, and all the desks were brought to the side of the room with a single wave of the professor's wand:

“All right, now everyone in the centre; come on, come on, don't be shy!” Whitaker exclaimed, inviting the kids with broad gestures of his arms.

“Who can tell me what a Boggart is?” he asked, looking at all his students gathered around him. His gaze, however, stopped on Alhena, her shoulder leaning against the wall, her right hand playing with the necklace around her neck. “For example, Black, what is a Boggart?”

“A Boggart is a magical creature that can take the form of whatever frightens the most the wizard who approaches it,” she began, pushing away from the wall and folding her arms under her breasts, her tone challenging and her eyes fixed on the professor's. “It is a non-mortal being, and no one knows what a Boggart looks like when it is alone.”

“And what’s the only way to defeat a Boggart, Black?” the professor continued, almost answering Alhena’s harsh words in kind.

“Boggarts fear laughter, as they feed on their victims' fears; for this reason the most effective weapon against them is the spell Riddickulus, which turns the squishy into something funny,” she replied, keeping her storm-gray eyes fixed on Whitaker’s hazel ones, her lips twisted in a sneer.

“Correct, Miss Black, two points to Gryffindor,” the professor concluded, turning his back to her; Alhena clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, displeased with the low points awarded, but she avoided commenting: she hated him, and the feeling was more than mutual.

“Well, in the closet you see there is a real Boggart, today you will face it and conquer your fears with the spell Riddickulus.”

The students looked at him skeptically, frowning and eyebrows raised; they hesitantly lined up in a disorganized line, and – at the professor's signal – the cupboard opened for the first time, revealing a snake that – after Elisa Olsen's spell, trembling wand, and terrified voice – twisted and began to jerk uncomfortably to the floor. The line advanced slowly, the boys gradually confronting their most childish fears, until – last of all – it was little Black's turn: the eyes of the entire class seemed captivated by her petite figure, undaunted by the prospect of facing a fear she didn't know she had, but which they all wanted to uncover.

Alhena slowly advanced, positioning herself in front of the Boggart, who still had the appearance of a clown tying balloons in a questionable way; it took a few seconds before taking the shape of a piano: on the black enamel stood out the writing Toujours Pur, emerald green, and on each key a small B it was engraved with maniacal precision.

She had seen that piano too many times.

“It’s unacceptable that you can’t play!”

Alhena approached slowly, her legs shaking and her fingers tight around her wand, careful to keep her armor steady.

“You won’t eat until you learn to play.”

She touched a key, closed her eyes, savoring every second of the delicate note that filled the room; for a second, even the whispers of her classmates seemed to fade.

“As true as the name you bear, Alhena Black, if you don’t learn to play this stupid piano quickly I may not be held accountable for my actions!”

“Black, this is not a music lesson, you have to prove to me that you can perform a Riddickulus correctly,” the professor commented sarcastically, making some of the pupils behind her sneer.

Alhena smirked, looking up at him, then whispered – her tone still confident – ​​barely audible:

"Ridiculus."

The piano began to strum loudly, and – when it began to create too much of a commotion in the classroom – the professor decided to send the Boggart back into the cupboard:

“Great, guys, five points each, you're free to go,” he concluded, putting his wand and some books back in his bag. “Get ready on the Boggarts, because I plan on quizzing you next time. Have a good evening.”

Alhena listened little, quickly leaving the classroom, her mother's screams in her head, the taste of the tears that – rigorously silent – ​​were streaming down her cheeks, the image of that cursed piano that, finally, she knew how to play.

It wasn't long before her walk – headed she wasn't sure exactly where – was stopped by Pandora's calm, cheerful voice:

“Hey, Lena, why are you running?”

She reached her quickly, almost skipping, followed by Dorcas who – her hands in the pockets of her cloak and her brows knitted – was looking at her with a worried frown:

“Is everything okay, Lena?”

Alhena offered them her best smile, leaning against the wall behind her and running a hand through her dark curls, trying to brighten them up:

“Everything’s great,” she replied, without losing her smile, which – and she knew that the two girls in front of her had noticed – didn’t reach her eyes. “ What about you?”

“Oh, I just went to pick up Dorcas from Divination class. Babbling made us leave early!” she told her, resting her head on her shoulder. Pandora was slightly shorter than her. “Did you argue with anyone? I sense a lot of negative energy.”

“Just some of your brother’s jealous classmates,” she chuckled, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand.

“In the name of Salazar, don’t tell him, his ego is big enough already!” Dorcas exclaimed, running a hand over her face.

Pandora raised her head, staring at her for a few moments, her eyes wide as if she were trying to read her from the inside:

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging and returning to her previous position. “But that’s not why you’re upset.”

Alhena rolled her eyes, but didn't contradict her: there was no point in arguing with Pandora in those cases.

“I have so much to study for!” Dorcas exclaimed after a few minutes of silence, dramatically sliding down against the wall. “‘You guys have O.W.L.s this year!’ and blah blah blah,” she mimicked the teachers.

“Salazar, Cas, it’s only December,” Alhena sighed, and she theatrically opened her arms, as if to demonstrate to an imaginary interlocutor that Alhena also agreed with her:

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “I pointed it out to McGonagall today, I wish I hadn’t!”

“Can we go to the library together, okay?” Pandora suggested, grabbing Alhena’s arm forcefully. “I have some research to do, but then I can help you study.”

“You know I adore you, Panda!” Dorcas exclaimed, jumping up and embracing the two girls in front of her. Alhena smiled – though she didn’t hesitate to show her annoyance at the unwanted contact – and in that moment the image of the piano didn’t seem so frightening anymore.

“I can’t breathe!” she protested, struggling to break free from Dorcas’s grip, while Pandora laughed softly, pulling her even closer. “I can’t help you if you’re suffocating me.”

Laughing, Dorcas let go, and together the three of them walked to the library, listening in silence the entire way as Pandora told them about her last dream that night.

***

“Rose, I have to tell you something!” followed by Dorcas – Pandora had joined her Housemates for dinner – Alhena took a seat next to Evan, strangely in a good mood: the afternoon in the library with the girls had helped her incredibly, and thoughts of the Boggart had soon been replaced by Dorcas's gossip and Pandora's sweetness.

“Oh, right, now you’re completely ignoring us,” Barty commented dramatically, sitting across from her, feigning a pained expression on his face.

“Jealous, Crouch?” Dorcas winked at him, patting him on the arm.

“Of Evan? Of course.”

“Shut up, Barty.” Evan rolled his eyes, turning his full attention to the little Black girl. “What do you have to tell me?”

“I'm here too, you know, your brother, the one who raised you,” Regulus muttered, preceding the beginning of her story, and she gave him sweet eyes:

“Forgive me, little brother, do you need attention?” she asked, in a sugary tone, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Anyway,” Alhena continued, turning back to the blond beside her. “During Defense Against the Dark Arts, some girls asked about you.”

"Who?"

“Were they hot?”

Barty and Evan spoke at the same time, Barty’s tone noticeably sharper than usual; the others exchanged amused looks.

“If they are all like Thomson – it is she who bothered me – they can’t even form a coherent sentence.” Alhena rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue loudly against the roof of her mouth. “They’re watching us, by the way.”

With a nod, she indicated the four girls sitting at the Gryffindor table, who – giggling among themselves – were trying to crane their necks in their direction as unobtrusively as possible, an attempted indiscretion that was failing miserably.

“They're all half-bloods,” Regulus commented, trying to hide his scornful tone, receiving a well-aimed blow from Dorcas, who hit his arm with a completely deliberate force:

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she asked him sternly, raising an eyebrow: her father was a Muggle, and she was damn proud of it.

“Nothing, nothing, for goodness sake.” he raised his arms in surrender, trying to massage the affected area. “Just a thought.”

“Why did they come to you?” Evan quickly changed the subject, more to avoid appearing to totally agree with Regulus's point of view than to prevent a discussion, which he was more than in favor of: all of them were superior to Half-Bloods and Mudbloods, it was the basic logic of nature, and if Dorcas had grown up like them she would have proved them right.

“They asked me if we're together,” Alhena replied, giggling, and soon her friends joined in the laughter – except for Regulus, of course, whose exasperated expression made his thoughts on the matter clear.

“In his dreams!” Barty crackled, patting a now decidedly embarrassed Evan on the shoulder.

“Oh, I missed that detail.” Dorcas leaned forward, an amused but genuinely curious expression on her face, resting her chin on her hand, listening. “Tell us more, Barty.”

“There's nothing to say, don't listen to him,” Evan dismissed them, rolling his eyes, careful to avoid the fiery gaze of Regulus, in the guise of protective big brother.

“They’re cousins, Barty, Salazar!” Regulus exclaimed, his hands in his hair and an irritated expression on his face.

“Your parents too, and yet…” Barty commented, but the glares of the two Black brothers quickly dropped the subject.

“Are you going to do something, Rosier?” Dorcas asked him, her eyebrow raised but her eyes fixed on the Gryffindor table behind her. “They are still staring.”

“Rose made an impression,” Alhena commented, giggling, patting him on the arm.

Evan took one last look at his admirers, then he regained his composure, and – in a sudden and studied gesture – he put an arm around her waist, bringing her closer and brushing her temple with his lips: at the Gryffindor table, the group immediately stopped laughing, their wide eyes still fixed on them.

Dorcas and Barty – in front of them – whistled, but Regulus seemed to have become even paler than usual, his eyes sharp and his jaw clenched:

“You have three seconds to remove that hand, Rosier, or I’ll cut it off,” he hissed.

Alhena laughed heartily, moving away slightly:

“Now I'll be hated by my own Housemates, thank you very much.”

“They hate you anyway, don't worry,” he replied, but all his attention was now focused on the food on his plate. “Reg, relax, we're just putting on a bit of a show."

Before he could answer, however, Slughorn arrived out of nowhere to interrupt their dinner:

“Good evening, guys!” he exclaimed, smiling nervously. “I’m glad Slytherin and Gryffindor are finally getting along, I really am, but I’m afraid Miss Black must return to her House table.”

“But we’re having a family reunion, Professor!” protested Barty, who – at Slughorn’s unconvinced expression – thought it appropriate to add:

"Extended family.”

“I’m sorry, guys, really.” The professor shook his head, clearly displeased. “I don’t agree with these school policies, of course, but I can’t help it.”

Alhena huffed, but reluctantly stood up, grabbing her bag and heading towards her Housemates.

“Remember our appointment next week!” Slughorn stopped them, jovially, opening his arms.

She rolled her eyes, without stopping to turn, hearing behind her the pandering answers of her friends.

“Hey, Lena, we saved your seat!” at the Gryffindor table, James – surrounded, of course, by his trusted gang – began waving his arms, pointing at the empty seat next to him; Alhena sat down next to him, unable to resist a challenging smirk at Maisie Thompson and her friends, whose glares were having no effect on her.

“You’ve finally deserted Slythershit?” Sirius commented as soon as his sister took her seat, directly in front of him.

“Hello to you too, Sirius,” she huffed, rolling her eyes and resting her head limply on her hand, completely ignoring the food in front of her.

“I really don’t understand what you see in them,” he continued, undaunted, ignoring the warning glares from his friends, and the elbow Remus landed on him in the ribs.

“There are so many things you don’t understand, Sirius, I don’t feel like explaining them all to you.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Remus interrupted, anticipating Sirius’s response. “How was your day, Lena?”

She shrugged, glad to have the change of subject: she hated that her brothers had been separated by one stupid hat, that her life had been reduced to a dangerous limbo that – sooner or later – would force her to choose.

“My classmates probably hate me,” she said, downing the glass of pumpkin juice in front of her in one gulp.

“Why would they?” Peter asked, genuinely curious.

“They think I stole their future husband.” She rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue loudly on the roof of her mouth. “As if they thought they had any chance.”

“Ugh, you’re cruel,” James chuckled. “If they want a date with one of us, they just have to ask,” he added vainly, running a hand through his hair; Sirius laughed, but Alhena just gave him a dirty look.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” she said dryly, looking for the perfect tone to put them back in their place.

It was Remus and Peter's turn to laugh at James and Sirius’s confused faces – James's lips had parted in surprise.

“They’re clearly blind,” the latter muttered, glancing across the Gryffindor table for someone a girl might prefer to him: there weren’t any, obviously. “Who would that be?”

“Evan,” she replied indifferently, not even bothering to look him in the eye.

"They are clearly blind,” he repeated, turning without any qualms towards the blond, who – sitting at the Slytherin table – was joking with his brother. “What the hell do they see in that piece of shit?”

“Could you please at least wait until I’m gone before you speak badly of my friends?” Alhena sighed, choosing not to even get angry: it was useless now, and she didn’t think she had the strength anymore.

“But actually, going with the Slytherins when you have all this quality in the house…” James – naturally – supported his best friend, continuing to insistently observe Evan's group with an exaggeratedly disgusted expression. “And Rosier is decidedly a piece of shit.”

“Aren't you eating anything, Lena?” once again, Remus cut the conversation short, preventing the conversation from starting the usual discussion about the rivalries between Houses, which – he knew well – would have no winner.

Alhena started almost imperceptibly, crossed her arms over her chest, almost as if she wanted to create a barrier between herself and the outside world:

“I ate earlier, with the boys,” he replied, easily masking the tremor in his words.

Beautiful girls don't weigh more than eighty-eight pounds, Alhena, control yourself.

Her mother's words overwhelmed her like a storm every time she sat down to table, and her appetite always disappeared.

“Are you sure, Lena?” Peter asked her again, clearly genuinely worried. “I didn't see you before.”

“I said yes,” she replied harshly, perhaps more than she intended, and the boy next to her jumped. “I’m tired, I think I’ll go rest.”

“Lena, are you sure you're okay?” Sirius stood with her, the storm in their irises colliding.

“I’m fine,” she replied, still adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “You can continue insulting Regulus and my friends now.”

He didn't answer, his lips parted, his expression confused; Alhena walked away quickly, suddenly suffocated by all those voices, all those lights, all those glances: someone was definitely staring at her.

She looked up, and – just like when she had just arrived – the eyes of Maisie Thompson and her friends were fixed on her, and Alhena knew well that she would be – and who knows how long she had been already – the favourite topic of the gossip of that evening.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” she blurted out, rushing towards them: she felt her head throbbing, anger under her fingers, a weight on her chest; what the hell was wrong with her?

“We weren’t– ” the blonde of the group began, clearly caught red-handed.

“Yeah, yeah, cut the bullshit,” she interrupted abruptly, ignoring the curious glances she’d inevitably drawn their way. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Everything’s okay, Black, you're acting crazy.” another girl – the brave one, good – stood up in turn, facing her, a few inches from her face.

Crazy.

Crazy.

Crazy.

‘You’re all your cousin, Alhena.’

Crazy.

“Oh, am I crazy?” Alhena raised an eyebrow, trying truly – and in vain – to calm down, to regain her composure. “Do you want me to show you what it’s really like to be crazy?”

“Are you threatening me, Black?” the girl in front of her hardened her gaze, and Alhena saw her searching for her wand in her cloak pocket.

But before she could do anything, she felt someone forcefully pushing her away, and a cascade of red hair appeared before her eyes:

“What’s going on here?” Lily Evan blurted out, stepping between them, her judgmental gaze resting on her, her tone stern; Alhena rolled her eyes, snorting: just what we needed.

“This crazy bitch is threatening us,” the other girl explained, ignoring the – intelligent –suggestions of some friends to leave it alone.

“I don't even know your name, darling, you know what the fuck I care about threatening you,” she snapped, jerking herself away from the grasp of someone she hadn’t even heard coming. “Everything’s fine, Evans, you can go back to eating.”

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” she said, glaring at her, and – as the redhead continued to blabbering something – Alhena left:

“Yes, yes, whatever.”

Her birthday was coming up.