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Chapter Text

Waylan Key

1st of September, 1892-

London drifts slowly beneath us. Distant, fogged by post-rain mist, my life fading the higher we scaled the sky. From this height, the city looks almost peaceful—roofs and chimneys and winding streets arranged like a carefully sculpted miniature. The Thames glimmers in the pale sunlight, a long ribbon of silver threading through the world I’m already mourning.

I lean closer to the carriage window, the glass cool thunking softly against my temple. My reflection appears faintly in the pane, hovering over the city like a ghost. I look young. Younger than fifteen. Too young to be starting again somewhere so far from Devon, from everything I’ve ever known.

Eyes too blue, too steady for the fear behind them, set in a face white with nerves. Pale skin, the sort that freckles only in summer and burns far too easily. Curly, auburn-brown hair—untidy no matter how I tried to tame it this morning, God knows. Gods, saints, deities—whatever divine influences these people swear by. That was an entirely different crisis of identity, one I had no intention of pondering nearly 50 meters in the air.

Professor Fig sits beside me, hands folded neatly, gaze thoughtful and outward. He’s been kind from the first moment we met, thank goodness. Not indulgent by any means, either—simply patient. He must have worked with children for a long time. My parents had been irritatingly hesitant to allow me to enroll in Hogwarts—which, what a name for a school—but Fig's presence had been the perfect catalyst. Had it not been for him, I likely wouldn't be on my way to my new home away from home right now. I'd likely be... Well, it was nearing the hour of two in the afternoon. I would be on my way home from my first day at Elderly Academy about now. Probably on my way to help mother in her garden with all the damned weeds.

Across from us on the other bench seat, the other man who’d joined our ride, George Osric, grips a canvas-wrapped package in both hands. Twine binds it tightly, the corners worn from being checked again and again. He watches me notice it, then offers a polite smile.

“Nothing alarming, Mr. Key,” he tuts, an excited lilt in his voice. One I recall having used myself with my younger brother when handling something his underdeveloped mind simply couldn’t understand. “An artifact for your Professor to examine once we land at Hogwarts.”

His tone is light, but his fingers tighten slightly at the edges of the wrapping. Whatever lies beneath it, I cannot see. Perhaps that's for the best.

Even so, the air around it feels oddly…attune. Like hearing a hummingbird in only one ear, tickling the inside as it flutters in the distance. It nearly makes me physically shake the feeling away. Was that the updraft outside? It wasn’t as though I’d ever ridden in a flying carriage before. I look away from the package before Osric mistakes my curiosity for suspicion. Or rudeness.

“Are you well, Waylan?” Fig asks gently. “It’s quite a sight, one’s first time flying into Hogwarts.”

I wonder if he meant flying in general. “Yes, sir,” I answer. My voice sounds steady enough. “Only thinking.”

Thinking about how on God’s earth I’m going to explain this flying contraption to Thomas. My brother had always believed dragons were real; he’ll be ecstatic to learn wizards don’t even need them to travel by air. Though, I dare not share in Thomas’s exhilaration. If I have my way, my feet will never leave the ground again.

The professor nods, accepting that without prying. I’m grateful, because I certainly wouldn’t have known how to explain myself if he’d pressed. How does one say I hope I belong at a school for wizarding children without sounding foolish? Or that I hope this time I won’t disappoint anyone? Or how I hope I am not as far behind as I fear?

The carriage tilts slightly as we descend. The wind grows louder in my ears, just beyond the doors. My pulse beats in time with the gale thrashing on the carriage’s wooden walls. We’ll arrive soon. The thought settles like weights in my chest—not unpleasant, only undeniable. Hogwarts lay ahead, vast and unknown, deep within the Scottish Highlands. A place full of students who have been learning magic since they were eleven. A place where I must somehow prove I can stand among them.

I rest my fingertips lightly against the window, tracing the faint outline of my reflection as the clouds drift closer. I do not know what waits for me in this new world, but I intend to meet it with courage.

Even if that courage feels as small as London falling away behind us.

1st of September-

The Sorting Hat is heavier than it looks, which takes me by surprise entirely. It doesn’t even look like it would survive the blow of a sneeze.

The worn fabric settles over my curls with an almost ceremonial finality, slipping low enough that the candlelit Great Hall becomes nothing but darkness and warmth. For a brief moment, I can hear nothing but my own heartbeat—steady, too loud, entirely unhelpful.

Then, the voice comes.

Ahh. Waylan Key.

I flinch. Internally. Hopefully. Good Lord, is that real?

Muggleborn, eh? the Hat hums, sounding mildly amused at my slip in “mugglelism” as Professor Fig had called it. No need to tense. You’re older than most who sit upon this stool. You’re wondering if that changes anything. It doesn’t.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m meant to be doing,” I think back—because that’s how this madness must work, right? “Everyone keeps saying the Sorting Hat will know where I belong, but I don’t even know what that means.”

That, the Hat replies warmly, is precisely why I must take the time to explain. You are not eleven. It is unfair to expect you to play along with childish mystery.

It’s…considerate. More considerate than anything I’ve encountered since this strange new world swept me up.

There are four Houses, it continues, each shaped by a different way of moving through the world. They are called: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. None are better than another, and none lesser. Only…fueled with different purposes.

Such odd names for Houses. I don't linger on it. “And you decide which ‘purpose’ is mine?”

In consolidation with you, it says. Sorting is never a conscription. I am looking for the place where you’ll grow, not the place that echoes who you already are.

That thought stills within my brain. Grinds the gears to a stop.

“Then why is it taking so long?” I ask before I can stop myself, my heart beating a tad faster.

The Hat gives what can only be described as a long-suffering sigh. Because you, Waylan Key, are a thoroughly complicated young man. And you are standing at a crossroads larger than you realize.

My throat tightens. “In what way?”

Two Houses pull at you with equal force, the Hat muses. Both are valid in thought. Both would shape your path. You could thrive in either.

My palms begin to sweat.

One is the House of cunning. You possess ambition you refuse to name. You want control over the parts of your life that have never obeyed you. You make plans three steps ahead. When you care about something, you guard it with a ferocity that would surprise even you. You have the mind of someone who could carve out a new path entirely.

I swallow thickly. “And the other?”

The Hat’s tone shifts—still warm, but more deliberate in thought. The other is the House of daring hearts—those who leap, defend, challenge, and fight for more than themselves. Courage isn’t loud for you; it’s the kind that burns under the ribs. You act even when you’re terrified. You protect others without hesitation. You carry guilt like armor and still get back up again.

The already quiet Great Hall flutters with whispering. Three minutes must feel like an eternity out there.

“I don’t know which I’m supposed to choose,” I admit. It comes out small, even in my own head. “I only know I don’t want to be…misplaced.”

Ah, the Hat says gently, but misplaced is not something I allow.

A pause. A thoughtful one.

The question, Mr. Key, is not “what are you capable of?” You are capable of both. The question is “what do you need?”

The answer comes easier than I expect. “I want a place where I don’t have to prove myself every second just to keep up,” I think determinedly. “Somewhere I can…breathe. Somewhere safe.”

Safe, the Hat echoes, satisfaction blooming in its tone. Somewhere you can steady your feet before you start running.

I close my eyes. “Yes,” I think. “Please.”

The Hat doesn’t hesitate another second. Then, it must be…

The yell explodes around me as the Hat shouts its decision to the Great Hall:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

My breath leaves me in one great exhale, relief hitting so suddenly I nearly laugh. Three minutes of listening to a hat dissect my soul, finished at last.

The Hat lifts from my head, and a roar of sound follows, but it all blurs together. Clapping, shouting, whooping, voices bouncing from wall to wall—it all washes over me like a raging tide. I catch sippets of drifting murmurs.

“Hatstall—blimey!”

“Three minutes?”

“Is that the new fifth-year?”

“Poor bloke looks like he’s going to faint.”

Fair assessment.

Then came a sudden, yet gentle rush of wind, a change in the very air around me. I look down.

Where my plain black robes had once been was a sleeker ensemble, now adorned with red and gold embroidery. A patch with a lion on the crest shines with pride on my chest. I lift my hand to feel the scratchy material, running my thumb over the top. A breathless chuckle leaves me before I can quell it.

A woman with greying, copper hair tied into a tight bun—a professor, no doubt—gestures toward the Gryffindor table with a warm, encouraging nod. I make my way slowly down the aisle, surrounded by a sea of eyes that have absolutely no business watching me with such scrutiny.

Amongst the crowd of professors behind me, all clapping politely, I catch the gaze of Professor Fig. Not sitting—standing. A twinkle in his elder eyes, and a toothy smile etched into his worn face. I offer him a lift of my hand as a wave, descending the steps to the Great Hall’s floor.

The Gryffindors break into applause before I’m even halfway there. It’s not wild cheering—just bright, earnest clapping, like they’ve decided on the spot, without knowing a thing about me, that I’m already one of theirs. Surprisingly, the feeling brings warmth to my cheeks and a smile to my lips. Nothing huge, just an involuntary quirk of my lip, impossible to stop.

Perhaps…perhaps I could stand a few years of this.

1st of September-

The procession of Gryffindors files out of the Great Hall in a cheerful clump of red and black, chatting easily, drifting like a school of fish with no fear of predators.

I linger behind. Not for lack of invitation—several of them glance over their shoulders to make sure I’m coming—but my steps stay slow. I tell myself I’ll catch up in a moment. Once my head stops buzzing. Besides, there’s something else tugging at me.

The whole bloody castle.

Every portrait I pass shifts, leans forward, whispers as if I’m worth noticing. There’s too much to look at. The corridors are alive. Paintings shift restlessly in their frames, figures climbing out of backgrounds, adjusting furniture, or chatting across canvases like nosy neighbours leaning from their windows. One portrait of a knight greets me with a booming hello so sudden I stumble back a step.

“Er—good evening,” I reply automatically, because apparently this has become my life. Talking to enchanted artwork. I’ll have to write a dictionary’s worth of explanations for Thomas.

Another painting—a woman in an ivy crown—gives me a gentle nod as I pass. I nod back. Hogwarts feels alive in a way nothing should be allowed to be. It’s mesmerizing.

And deadly distracting, because by the time I notice it’s gone silent around me, the Gryffindors have vanished around several corners. Not a scarf or shoe in sight. A flicker of nerves crawl up my spine. Right. Brilliant. Wandering the corridors of a living castle alone on my first night. I ought to pick up pace before I end up sleeping in a broom cupboard. I hurry forward, rounding the next corner—

And collide with someone.

The jolt is soft, not enough to knock either of us over, but more than enough to startle me. I go to say, “Sorry, I—”

The apology never leaves my mouth. No warning. No breath. No thought. A crack of red like scalding lightning scorches across my vision. I swear I hear it, too.

My neck snaps back involuntarily. My muscles seize. My eyes roll. My throat locks.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Somewhere far away is the sound of feet on stone, a voice startled and distorted: “Hello? Are you—”

But the pull tightens. My knees buckle. Stone rushes up to greet me, cold and unyielding as I slam to the floor.

The last thing I hear before consciousness slips, thin as silk tearing, is a voice—soft, alarmed, unfamiliar—very close beside me: “Merlin—Help! Here! Someone fetch a professor!”

And then…nothing.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

1st of September-

I surface slowly. Like someone’s lifting me out of murky water by the collar of my shirt.

Lights. Sheets. A ceiling I definitely don’t recognize. Teal curtains hemming me in on all sides.

My lungs hitch, like I’ve forgotten how to inhale properly.

“Easy now,” a woman murmurs from somewhere to my left—firm, practiced, and absolutely not my mother.

I blink hard until shapes and colours stop melting together. There’s a woman in her healer’s robes—dark-green, silver trim.

Nurse Blainey, my brain supplies a beat later, dragging the name out of the fog. Professor Fig had mentioned her on the carriage ride here, how I would need to meet with her in my first week to discuss…

I shake my head, my gaze drifting to my right.

Copper hair. A woman. The same I’d seen at the feast. She’s smiling softly down at me. And standing just beside her—

“Professor Fig,” I rasp. My voice comes out like gravel underfoot, or perhaps a handful of dust bunnies scraping my throat. Either way—mortifying.

He gives a gentle, relieved nod. “Good. You’re awake.”

I try to sit up. Dreadful idea. My skull beats like a war drum.

“Don’t,” Blainey warns, pressing a hand to my shoulder. “You collapsed outside the Great Hall. A student brought you straight here.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Did—uh—did anyone else see?”

Fig shakes his head. The copper-haired professor—still nameless for me—folds her arms and says, “No one else saw. And your Housemates haven’t been told anything yet.”

I nod faintly. At least I’m only humiliated in front of three adults and some poor, ill-informed student as opposed to the entire school. Small mercies, I suppose.

My breathing evens out. The room stops tilting. Infirmary beds line the walls. Candles float overhead. Everything smells like antiseptic. And perhaps chamomile. Tea sounds relaxing now, but I haven’t the will to ask for something so trivial after the scene I’d made.

“Now that you’re oriented,” Blainey says, and she gives me that look. The one healers reserve to say, Please don’t lie, because I will know. “Professor Fig has given me a letter from your parents regarding your—”

“It’s not a problem,” I rush out. My voice comes out steadier than even I thought capable. Enough so, it stills both of us to silence.

“Well,” Blainey starts firmly, tilting her head pointedly, “I might have taken your word for it had you not collapsed unconscious and seizing merely twenty minutes ago.”

My stomach sinks through the mattress. “I…” I rub my palms on the blanket. “It’s not—”

“I need you to be honest with me, My. Key.” Her tone stays calm. Professional. Zero judgment, which honestly makes it worse. “We’ll call them episodes.”

I blow out a breath through my nose and nod resignedly.

“Have you had one of these episodes before?”

I force myself to meet her eyes, but I can’t keep contact and look away again. “A few. Since I was eleven.”

Professor Fig shoots me a cursory glance, like the true number means more to him than he lets on.

My lips thin in reluctance, but I can't bring myself to be untruthful. "Eight," I murmur. "It's happened eight times."

Blainey softens just enough to be scary in a different way. “Waylan…”

Her use of my first name makes my heart skip a beat.

“Do you know what epilepsy is?”

I almost sigh. I manage not to, but just barely.

My parents have been throwing that word around since the first time it happened. I’d been out in the yard playing with Thomas—who had only been three at the time. Before I’d even known what had happened, I’d hit the ground, that same flash of red stretching across my vision until it was the only thing I could see. And then—black. I awoke hours later on the couch, a cloth to my head and not a clue in the world what had happened to me.

But my parents were never able to get me in with a specialist. Most we tried to see wanted nothing more than coin and fee, so we were turned away each time when we couldn’t pay. “Epilepsy" had always been a guess. An expensive one. One my family couldn’t afford.

And my mother had nearly used it as an excuse to keep me from coming here. To Hogwarts. I don’t really know if I would’ve have complained either way, because so far this was shaping up to be one of the worst—

“Mr. Key?”

I blink dumbly. My gaze drifts upward.

The copper-haired woman was at my side, pulling out a chair to sit beside my head. She folds her hands in her lap, smiling softly at me. “My name is Professor Weasley. I am the assistant Headmistress here at Hogwarts. We met very briefly at the feast.”

I follow with my eyes how her hands twist once in her lap. “Professor,” I say by way of greeting.

Professor Weasley’s expression gentles, though her posture remains precise and dignified. “Waylan,” she begins softly, “I know this is unpleasant to discuss, but could you describe what you feel during these episodes? Only what you’re comfortable sharing. I understand that, to you, we are strangers.”

My fingers tighten slightly around the blanket. I’ve never liked speaking of this. It makes everything feel too real. Like the pain has no place to hide. But they’re waiting, and I owe them something. They have done well with making sure I am cared for, after all.

So, I try. “It usually comes on quickly,” I admit. “Sometimes there’s a pull in my chest, or a strange sensation behind my eyes. Not quite dizziness. More like…the world shifts to the side for a moment.” I attempt a thin smile. “It’s difficult to explain.”

Nurse Blainey nods, her expression encouraging. “That does not surprise me.”

“And then,” I keep on, “my body locks. I can’t move or speak. It feels as if something clamps down over me. After that… There’s nothing. Just black.”

Weasley exchanges a measured glance with Blainey before asking, “Anything else? Maybe some way for you to know before you lose motor ability? We need to keep you from hitting the floor to protect your head should this happen again.”

My stomach tightens. I very nearly shake my head. It would be easier. Simpler. Normal.

But the truth presses insistently at my ribs. “There’s…something,” I admit. I stare down at my hands. “A flash of light.”

Professor Weasley leans forward slightly, attentive but not intrusive. “Light?”

“It’s red.” I draw in a small breath. “It streaks across my vision. Thin, like branches. Or—no. More like lightning. Looks bright enough to be.” The memory crawls unpleasantly up my spine. “It happens once, always once, and then everything goes dark.”

Silence folds over the space around my bed.

I hurry to fill it before they can mistake me for something peculiar. “I’ve read enough to know that seizures can cause odd sensations. The mind…misfires. People see things. Hear things. I assumed it was simply that.”

Another brief glance passes between Weasley and Blainey—too quick for most, but not for someone like me who’s spent years trying to read the smallest cues in adults who never told me quite enough.

They are concerned. And they are not saying why.

“Of course,” I hear myself say, “I’ve only read medicinal texts on research found by… Uh—by…” I wrack my brain for the word, until it finally hits me. “Muggles.”

Professor Weasley stands from her seat. Her voice is warm when she replies, “Thank you for telling us, Mr. Key.” Her hand very briefly finds my arm, giving a gentle, motherly squeeze before pulling away. “What you’ve shared is very helpful.”

Helpful. Not typical.

But I pretend not to notice the distinction. Because if it isn’t epilepsy… If something else is happening inside my head…

I quietly nod once to banish the thought from my brain. “Of course, Professor.”

Blainey pulls her wand from her pocket, shooing both professors back. “Right, then. Hold still. This will only take a tick.”

She lights the tip of her wand and checks my pupils, asks me to follow her finger, listens to my breathing, and has me squeeze her hands. She asks the same questions twice—my name, where I am, what month it is—to make sure the answers match. It’s oddly comforting, even if my cheeks burn the whole time. My mother has learned to ask these same questions after my…episodes. Should I close my eyes, I could easily imagine Nurse Blainey to be her.

When she’s satisfied, she tucks the blanket tighter around me, businesslike but not unkind. “You will have a headache for the next several hours. Drink everything I give you. Rest.” She narrows her eyes at me, as if to test whether I’m the arguing type. I most certainly am not. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

She sweeps around the teal curtains, muttering about going to fetch a tonic. Professor Weasley excuses herself soon after—something about going to notify the Headmaster. Their footsteps fade. The candles settle. The beds creak as the room exhales.

Only Professor Fig remains. He stands at the foot of my bed for a moment, hands folded behind his back. Not staring—just…assessing. He has that thoughtful frown again, the one that looks like he’s preparing to ask a question he won’t actually ask.

“Sir?” I murmur.

Fig blinks, as though returning from somewhere far away. The frown softens. He pulls a chair beside the bed and lowers himself into it with a sigh older than his bones. “You gave us quite a fright,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he replies gently. “You never do.”

Heat creeps up my neck. I’ve caused nothing but trouble since the Sorting Ceremony. “I meant what I said. It’s not a problem. I haven’t had one in months.”

Fig huffs a quiet laugh. “Waylan, I’ve watched you learn five years worth of basic charms within the span of a month. Seeing you try to master the Lumos Maxima charm without throwing your wand once…” His lip ticks higher up into a true smirk. “If you were prone to dramatics, I think I’d have seen it by now.”

Despite myself, I smile.

He smiles back, warm and worn-in. “May I ask—are you frightened?”

I hesitate. Lying to Blainey was easy. Lying to Fig feels like kicking a loyal dog. “A little,” I admit.

Fig nods like he expected that. “To put too fine a point on it, fear means you’re paying attention. It only becomes dangerous when you let it decide who you are.”

I pick at the blanket. The red lightning flickers behind my eyes, a memory that refuses to die. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You aren’t.” His voice is firm, the way a hand is firm on your shoulder when it’s steadying you instead of holding you down. “You’re a student. Students stumble. Students struggle. My job is to keep you standing, not to judge your footing.”

Something loosens in my chest. A knot I didn’t realize I’d tied.

Fig rises, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve. “Rest now. I’ll check on you in the morning. And Waylan?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m glad you’re here.” A beat. “And not only because you collapsed on the threshold.”

Warmth flickers in my ribs. “Me too,” I say.

Fig gives a small bow of his head—respectful, almost paternal—before slipping out through the curtains. The lamplight dims. The ward falls silent. For the first time since collapsing, I let my eyes close.

And somewhere in the dark behind them…red branches crackle again. But sleep drags me under before I can wonder what they mean.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

2nd of September-

I haven’t even been awake a full hour and I’m already breaking a rule.

“Do not rush anywhere today,” Nurse Blainey had said, hands on her hips like she could physically keep me from doing so.

Technically, I’m not rushing. I’m…moving briskly. Whilst chewing toast.

Crumbs spill down the front of my robes as I follow a staircase that wasn’t here a moment ago. It shudders underfoot, pivots sharply, and deposits me in a corridor I do not recognize in the slightest. Brilliant. My first morning, and Hogwarts has decided to shuffle itself like a bloody deck of cards.

Another bite of toast. My stomach is still knotted with nerves, but Blainey’s voice echoes through the back of my skull like she’s somehow hiding in my left ear. “You must eat breakfast. It stabilizes the body after neurological strain. And if you skip it, Mr. Key, I will know.”

She had stared at me for a full five seconds after saying that. I’m still not certain how seriously she meant it, but I wasn’t about to test a healer’s threat. So here I am: one hand on the banister, the other clutching toast like a lifeline, hoping desperately that Charms is somewhere ahead and not three floors below me.

“If you feel dizzy, sit immediately.”
“If you see flashes of light, call for the nearest professor.”
“If you sense another episode coming on, stop whatever you are doing—even mid-spell.”
“No strenuous magic today. Absolutely none.”

I chew slowly, almost guiltily, because even my own wild heartbeat feels strenuous at the moment.

Students drift around me in chattering clusters, laughing, yawning, swapping schedules and comparing House pride. I try to blend in, but most of them look like they’ve been born in robes. Meanwhile, my left sleeve is slightly uneven, and I’m fairly certain my crimson tie is attempting to strangle me.

Charms. I’m looking for Charms. Nurse Blainey had pointed it out on a map last night before leaving me to sleep, but the map only helps if the castle stays still long enough to match the corridors. Which it hasn’t.

I round a corner and immediately second-guess it. Did I pass this suit of armor already? Or is this a different suit of armor pretending to be the same one? It tilts its helmet down at me, unimpressed. I roll my eyes at it. Can you technically be rude to a sentient suit of metal? At this point in my morning, I wish I cared.

At least I’m upright. At least I’ve eaten. At least I’m not in the infirmary while everyone else starts their lives here. I wipe my hands on my robes, swallow the last bite of toast, square my shoulders, and keep walking.

Charms is somewhere in this castle. And if I keep moving—briskly, not rushing, because God forbid—I may actually find it before another staircase decides it’s bored—

“Hello? Do you need help?”

I freeze mid-step.

A girl stands a few feet ahead, books in her hands, a satchel slung neatly at her hip, braids pulled back from her face. A Gryffindor crest, crimson and gold, flashes on her chest, thank God. Someone from my House. Her accent is soft and lilting—Ugandan, if I were to take a guess, though I’m not sure. Her eyes—kind, eagle-like, far too perceptive for my comfort—flick briefly to the toast crumbs scattered across my front before returning to my face with a polite smile that pretends she didn’t notice.

“Oh—uh—no. I mean, yes. Probably.” Brilliant start, Way.

Her smile softens. “You look a little lost.”

“I am,” I admit without resistance. “Hopelessly, actually.”

She gives a small, good-natured laugh. “You must be new to Hogwarts.”

I blink. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” she remarks kindly. “But do not worry. Everyone gets lost on their first day. You would not imagine how many times I found myself lost in this castle during my first month.” She shifts her books to one arm and holds out the other. “Natsai Onai. Or Natty, as some call me.”

I shake her hand awkwardly, hoping my palm isn’t still slightly toast-crumb sticky. “Waylan Key.”

“Ahh. You’re the fifth-year transfer, yes?” She brightens at my nod. “You were at the feast. I remember you. I am a fifth-year as well.”

"Pleasure." I wish I could say I remember her, but the room had been spinning so violently at that point that I’m lucky I remember my own name. “I’m trying to find Charms. With Professor Ronen,” I confess. “But the castle keeps—” I gesture vaguely at the shifting corridor behind me. “Pestering me with whatever that is.”

Natty nods with practiced sympathy. “The staircases do enjoy making life difficult sometimes. But I can take you there. I’m headed in that direction anyway.”

Relief floods me so fast I nearly sag. “That would be—truly—a lifesaver.”

“Come,” she says, motioning for me to walk with her. “I’m always willing to help a fellow student.” She glances at my crimson uniform. “A Gryffindor, even more so.”

I chuckle as I fall into step beside her, my heart finally unclenching. Natty keeps a steady pace, not too fast, not impatient, matching me without making it obvious. It’s…kind. More than she knows. We round a corner, and—miracle of miracles—the corridor ahead looks familiar. A banner marked with the Charms insignia hangs over a double door near the end.

“You really did save my life,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

She beams. “Nonsense. You were close. You would have found it eventually.”

“Eventually,” I concede, “as in…next week.”

Natty’s laugh rings ahead of us as she leads me to the door.

Charms, as it turns out, is held in a sunlit room perched high enough to make my stomach dip if I look out the windows too long. Desks arranged in neat crescents. Floating candles. A chalkboard already scribbled with looping handwriting. And in the centre of it all, animatedly addressing the early arrivals—

Professor Ronen. He looks delighted simply to exist. Truly, that is the best way I can phrase it.

“Ah! New face!” he declares as Natty and I step inside. “Mr. Key, yes? Professor Fig told me you would join us. Welcome, welcome!”

His enthusiasm is disarming. I offer a stiff smile and take a seat beside Natty. My wand—a hand-me-down of Fig’s, polished walnut wood but undeniably aged—rests in my palm with all the grace of a borrowed pair of shoes. Functional enough, but not mine.

“Today,” Ronen begins, “we are refreshing the foundations! Accio, Lumos, and the most overlooked charm of all—basic object levitation.” He waves his wand and a textbook hops onto the desk in front of me.

Accio and Lumos. Summoning and light. I can do both of those; Fig had me perfect them over the summer holiday. Levitation? Well…first time to try something new.

The lesson unfolds quickly. Students recite wand movements. Charms swirl through the air like fireflies. Natty performs each with crisp precision, her quill dancing neatly across her parchment. Accio and Lumos come easily, my lip twitching into an easy smile. Each time I see a small beam of light or summon one of Ronen’s textbooks, Natty laughs brightly in encouragement, and I feel the small pit of doubt in my chest dither away.

Then comes my turn for levitation.

“Mr. Key,” Ronen says warmly, “why don’t you give us a bit of Wingardium Leviosa? Nothing dramatic—just levitate that feather.”

I inhale. My wand hand doesn’t shake, but it feels like it wants to. I flick exactly as he showed us. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The feather doesn’t so much as twitch.

Ronen’s smile doesn’t dim. “Again. But with confidence! Magic listens best when you sound like you expect it to obey.”

I try again. My feather wobbles, hops, and—once—shoots upward so fast it hits the ceiling and drifts down like a defeated bird.

Someone behind me snickers. The glare Natty shoots them could burn through stone.

Ronen claps once. “Excellent! Movement and response. When you have your own wand, Mr. Key, that charm will fly to your hand with ease. Borrowed wands rarely cooperate at full strength, and the fact that you already have Accio and Lumos perfected is incredibly impressive!”

Natty leans toward me, whispering, “My mother always said the same. The wand must choose you, not be borrowed forever.”

Her spirit hums in my chest like warmth spreading through cold fingers.

By the end of class, my magic is far from spectacular, but…not hopeless. When the bell rings, students file out. I gather my things, expecting disappointment to settle in—but instead I find something steadier blooming. Determination, perhaps. Or simply relief that I didn’t accidentally set anything on fire.

Natty falls into step with me again. “You did very well,” she says sincerely.

“I flung a feather into the ceiling,” I remind her.

She huffs a small laugh. “Yes, but on purpose or not, it moved. Vigorously, at that. That is more than many can claim on their first day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I dismiss in a low mutter, but I can’t help my smile.

As we reach the corridor, she stops and gestures decisively down the hall. “Defense Against the Dark Arts is on the north side of the castle. Follow this corridor until you reach a staircase that shifts. Do not take the moving staircase. Instead, look for a narrow passage on your right—it leads to a balcony walkway. Follow that, turn left at the statue of the sleeping knight, and you will be just outside the classroom.”

“That sounds…easy enough,” I lie.

Natty doesn’t call me on it, but amusement flickers in her eyes. “If you get turned around, simply ask someone. Most students are friendly. And if you cannot find your way at all, I will come to collect you before Transfiguration.”

“Thank you,” I say, more earnest than intended.

She gives a small bow of her head, graceful as ever. “Of course, Waylan. I hope the rest of your first day is fulfilling.” She heads off toward her own next class. Divination, she’d said.

I look down at Fig’s wand in my hand. Though it doesn’t resist me outright, I feel it’s wariness of me. Not a lack of trust, just a…pinch of caution. Honestly, I had assumed it was natural for a wand to feel that way. Perhaps my own wand truly would make a difference.

I square my shoulders and set off for Defense Against the Dark Arts, making a point to avoid the moving staircase.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

2nd of September-

If I’d known the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was stationed quite literally on the other side of the castle, I wouldn’t have stopped to gawk at every moving portrait on the way there. Though, to be fair, Natty had said it was on the “north side,” so I suppose it truly was my own fault I nearly showed up late.

By the time I reach the corridor, I'm already out of breath, fussing with the strap of my satchel, trying not to look like a fish out of water. The torches lining the stone walls crackle softly, filling the air with the familiar scent of pruning pitch—old, warm, and comforting in the way only truly ancient school buildings ever manage.

Students filter toward the Defense classroom in loose clusters, their chatter echoing down the hall. I slip in after them, finding a random, unoccupied seat somewhere in the middle row. My preferred locations for the beginning of all things: not too near the front to be noticed, not too far back to seem like I was avoiding the work.

Light from the high, paned windows spills across the classroom in warm strips, dust drifting lazily in the air. Everything smells of varnished desks, old parchment, and the faint ghost of whatever magic had been cast last in this room. Or maybe it was a smell embedded into the very grain in the hardwood floors over years of Defensive spell-casting.

I'm still setting out my quill and parchment when the classroom door opens with a bang.

Professor Hecat sweeps inside like a thundercloud in robes. Every student sits up straighter.

“Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she announces. “This will be one of the most important subjects you ever study. Dark creatures, dangerous hexes, curses—your ignorance will not protect you.”

Lovely. Very encouraging. And she takes no time to launch into the basics of fifth-year Defense class.

I try to focus, I really do. Hecat’s voice is brisk, clipped, and carries the weight of someone who’d probably hexed a criminal or two into submission before breakfast. But from the moment she begins speaking, I feel it:

Someone is staring at me.

Not the casual sort of glance curious students had been giving me since I arrived—those I’d learned to ignore. This is different. I can feel it in the back of my neck, like a drop of cold water sliding slowly down my spine.

I look up. Mistake.

Across the aisle sits a boy about my age, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, with a deeply freckled face. He's in a set of Slytherin robes, sage-green checkered uniform and matching tie. I heard Hecat call him “Sallow” during roll. That's all I know of him.

And he's looking at me. Not blinking. Not even disguising it. Just blatantly staring.

I immediately pretend to study the grain on my desk.

Perhaps he’s looking at someone else. I glance over my shoulder. Nope. No one behind me. Just the wall. And several portraits of former professors who are far too busy muttering to themselves to be interesting enough to stare at.

I face forward again. He's still staring. I can bloody well feel it.

My skin prickles all over. Even I, a person whose greatest skill is avoiding trouble by simply not participating in it, feel an annoyed “Can I help you?” bubbling in my chest. Which is absolutely mad, because I have never said that to anyone in my life.

Before I can gather the courage, a movement catches my eye. The boy beside Sallow—also in Slytherin-green, pale hair, lily-white skin, posture straighter than a curtain rod—lays his wand neatly across his desk. And now that dark-coloured wand, dully pulsating with a small, red light, is subtly angled…toward me.

As if to carve out my form. To shape the curve of my lashes, the set of my jaw. Hell, to follow the pace of my breathing.

My brows knit. The angle was so precise it bordered on uncanny. What on Earth was he doing? Why would a complete stranger aim his wand at me? And why was it blinking red?

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and try to focus on the lecture. Shield Charms by October. Counter-hexes before the winter holiday. An emphasis on quick thinking and safety—though the Gryffindors in the back row snicker at that last part, which doesn't bode well.

I chance another glance at Sallow. He’d shifted slightly in his chair, his expression dawned with something very nearly like recognition—though that made absolutely no sense. We’ve never met.

I grip my quill a little tighter, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of looking over at him again. What in the bloody hell is his problem?

Professor Hecat dismisses us at last, and the room erupts into movement. Students gather their things, chairs scrape, boots shuffle, and I take that as my cue to dart out of my seat. I pack up faster than anyone should reasonably be able to pack parchment and flee into the corridor with all the poise of a startled cat.

Behind me, I catch a few words drifting out of the classroom—Sallow’s low voice, though I can't make out a word he’d said.

It's then followed by the cool, controlled tone of his pale-haired friend: “Please tell me you’ve no intention of bothering that boy.”

I don't hear Sallow’s response.

I continue on my way, hoping to duck around a corner before either one of them can see me again. Thank God I’d managed to go a whole hour without anyone—

“Oi! Key!”

Never mind that. I flinch like I’ve been caught pilfering biscuits.

A boy with wild copper curls and a toothy smile skids to a halt in front of me. His face is as freckled as a night sky, and he stood entirely too tall for how young he looked, all gangly limbs and boyish grins. Like a giant red sunflower. The red in his robes doesn't help, either. Another Gryffindor, I realize, eyeing the lion crest on his chest and his crimson tie.

I blink dumbly, forcing my eyes back to his face. I think he'd sat a few rows in front of me during Defense class. “Yes?” I manage. “I—so sorry. Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he says cheerfully. “Garreth Weasley. Fellow fifth-year.”

I catch the last name, considering how singular it is. “Are you the Professor’s son?” I ask tentatively.

He chuckles good-naturedly. “Merlin, no. She’s my aunt.” He thrusts out a hand, which I shake only because there’s no graceful escape route. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re Waylan Key, yeah?”

I blink again. “How do you…know my name?”

“Oh!” He rocks back on his heels. “Right—funny story. So, the Gryffindor fifth-year dorms are packed tighter than a doxy nest. No space left for a new lad. But my aunt said we’ve got one two-person dorm open—tiny thing, practically a broom cupboard with a window. And I, being the good Samaritan I am, said I’d take it.”

It takes me a full three seconds to realize what he'd meant. “You volunteered to be my roommate?”

Garreth gave a theatrical nod. “Fig gave me your name. Said you’re decent.”

I peer at him—bright, earnest, utterly unbothered by the world—and, inexplicably, I feel something unclench in my chest. He  radiates friendliness like a bouncing sun. Quite loudly, at that, but I don't mind, actually.

“Well,” I finally muster out, “thank you. I…appreciate it.”

“Lucky for you,” Garreth starts, dropping his voice as if sharing a scandal, “I’m excellent company. Terrible in the mornings, but excellent company.”

A laugh—small, startled—escapes me. And honestly? It feels good.

Garreth nudges me lightly with his elbow. “There it is! Thought you lot from the countryside were supposed to be cheerful.”

“I am cheerful,” I protest weakly, my slow grin growing wider.

“Mm. We’ll see. I’m on the fence about that.” He folds his arms. “You looked like a frightened squirrel the entire DADA lesson.”

DADA? Defense Against the… Right. Heat crawls up my ears. “I—I wasn’t—” I stop myself before more gibberish can escape, settling on an exasperated sigh. “It was just—someone kept staring at me.”

“Oh.” Garreth's grin tilts further upward. “Those two." He gestures subtly back toward the DADA room where the dark-haired boy—Sallow—and his pale-haired companion were just stepping out.

I blow out a breath through my nose. “Yes. Those two.” I look back to Garreth. “Who are they?” I asked quietly.

Garreth raises a singular brow, his eyes still on the other two boys. “Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt.”

Sebastian and Ominis.

Garreth leans closer, lowering his voice. “Before you ask—yes. That Gaunt family. And before you ask the other thing—no, he’s supposedly not like the rest of them.”

I’m slightly flabbergasted, because I have…no idea what he’s on about. I only settle for a slow nod.

“Oh,” Garreth starts suddenly, his voice sobering up for the first time since we’ve met. “Don’t say anything about his wand. He’s… Well, he’s blind. He uses his wand to navigate his surroundings.”

Oh. Oh.

My stomach drops to my knees. “I thought—He pointed it at me—God, I thought he was—”

“Hexing you?” Garreth barks a laugh. “Gaunt hexing a stranger in the middle of a lesson? Please. He follows rules like they’re a religion. All that wand business is just how he sees.”

I physically deflate on the spot. “Brilliant. I was sitting there thinking I’d offended him somehow.”

“Trust me,” Garreth teases. “If you’d offended Ominis Gaunt, you’d know.”

I bob my head, but I'm still not quite satisfied. “And Sallow?” I asked. “What reason would he have to stare at me? We've never even met.”

Garreth shrugs with one arm. “No idea. Sallow’s an alright chap, but he’s….” He clears his throat, a twitch in his brow just barely catching my attention before it’s gone. “He’s pretty direct with most people.”

“I can tell,” I grumble scathingly.

He shoots me a grin. “If you think he’s got a problem with you, just ask. If you want, we can go survey some of the Crossed Wands matches going on later tonight. Sallow will be there.”

My brows furrow. “Crossed Wands?”

Gareth’s entire expression lights like a spark to kindling. “Oh Hells, that’s right. You don’t know.” He clasps his hands together. “Just trust me. You’ll enjoy it. Ever seen fencing?”

I nod, wary. “Yeah. I enjoy watching. Not doing.”

“Excellent. You’ll love this, then.” He claps a hand to my shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll show you the way back toward the Great Hall for lunch. And later, I’ll take you up to our room before we go catch a match.”

I nod in acceptance, another thought sparking in my brain. A small smirk of my own creeps onto my face. “You don’t snore, do you?” I ask haughtily.

Garreth guides me down the corridor. “No but I do tend to talk sometimes. The other chaps say it's not a problem,” he indulges. “You?”

I absolutely do. “No.” I can’t stop my smirk as it grows.

Garreth catches it. “You’re a ruddy liar.”

A snicker passes my lips, the sound carrying through the halls as we parade to lunch together, Garreth’s gangly arm slung over the back of my neck.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

2nd of September-

My first day’s classes end with the usual rustle of parchment and the relieved chorus of students deciding they are, in fact, near starving. I slip out with the crowd, letting the tide carry me toward the entrance of the classroom corridor—until a familiar voice calls my name.

“Waylan. There you are.”

I turn to see Professor Fig hurrying down the hall, his expression a mixture of concern and the sort of fondness one typically reserves for people who apologise too often.

“Sir,” I say loudly over the throngs of students, pushing through the crowd to stand at his side.

He gestures for me to step aside from the bustle of the hall into a smaller alcove. “How are you feeling today? Truly?”

I wait a thoughtful second, ultimately deciding to give a genuine answer. “Honestly? Better than I expected. I'm a little tired. But nothing alarming.”

His eyes search my face with the gentle scrutiny of someone who has already imagined eighty-seven possible medical catastrophes. “No dizziness? Blurred vision? Any…aftereffects?”

I shake my head. “None. I actually feel quite good.” Which is true. Surprisingly true. I hadn’t thought I’d survive the morning, much less enjoy the entire day.

The obvious tension loosens from Fig’s shoulders. “I’m very glad to hear it. And your classes? How did they go?”

“Not terribly,” I answer. “Defense was…interesting. And I met some fine people.”

“Interesting,” he repeats, smiling as if he knows there’s an entire unspoken essay hiding behind that word. “You will settle in quickly, I think.”

“I hope so,” I say, and I mean it.

Before he can say more, a voice drifts from behind me: “Way! There you are—Merlin’s beard, you walk fast.”

Garreth Weasley skids to a halt at my side, a little breathless, innocently smiling like he didn’t almost plow into some poor Ravenclaw first-year. He gives Professor Fig a hasty bob of his head. “Evening, Professor. Don’t mind me—just collecting this one before he gets spirited away by a moving staircase.”

Professor Fig chuckles softly. “I shall leave you boys to it. Waylan, come by my classroom before supper if you feel any change.”

“I will, sir,” I promise.

He nods once, satisfied, and heads down the corridor.

Garreth elbows me lightly. “I’m thinking I’ll show you around our dorm, we’ll grab a spot of nosh, then head off to Crossed Wands.”

I fall into step beside him as we begin the ascent toward the upper floors. The castle hums around us: portraits whispering secrets, windows rattling faintly in the evening wind, the distant laughter of students already recounting their first-day triumphs.

Garreth walks with a bounce in his step, as I’ve come to realize is per the norm. “So,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, “your first day was survivable?”

“Surprisingly,” I admit.

“Good. Would’ve been awkward to be assigned a roommate who expired within twenty-four hours.”

I snort. “That would be terribly inconvenient for both of us.”

“Precisely.” His grin slips ever-so-slightly, just enough for me to catch it. “Actually, I meant to ask you.”

My brows furrow just a tad. “Ask what?”

“Where did you stay last night? You never showed up to Gryffindor Tower.”

Ah. Shit.

“Well, with the packed dorms,” I start slowly, with no notion of what I’m saying until it’s too late, “I was provided a place to sleep. Just for the night while we figured out the whole ‘rooming’ situation.” I massage the back of my neck. “I had no idea they’d been in contact with you. S’why you surprised me with the news earlier today.”

Garreth’s mouth forms a perfect circle. “Okay. Where’d they keep you?”

Panic flares in my chest. I sputter out the first reasonable thing I can think of: “Just in a random room in the Faculty Tower.”

Buy it. Buy it.

Garreth hums, like he hadn’t previously thought of that. “Wicked.”

It goes silent between us. He isn’t talking, which I’ve already deduced as odd for him, and he isn’t looking at me, either. I can’t help but notice, however, the subtle angle in the way he walks, hands in his pockets, a thoughtful downturn on his mouth, a crease forming in his brows.

For the first time since we’ve met, I take this boy seriously, and I realize there’s a very real chance he didn’t quite swallow my lie whole.

He doesn’t challenge me, though, instead swinging a leg around to walk backwards beside me. “Don’t be mad,” he begins with a lilt in his voice.

I cock my head to one side, trying to banish my worry from my chest. “What?”

“When we get inside Gryffindor Tower, you’ve got to let me introduce you properly. Don’t worry,” he adds quickly, raising his hands, “I’ll keep it small. A few people. Friendly sorts. Not the whole House. No one deserves that on their first day. Just thought you’d like to meet the other lads in Gryffindor.” His eyes drift upward. “Maybe Nat, too. You’d like her. She transferred here last year.”

“Natsai Onai?” I clarify.

“You’ve met already?” he asks, spinning around to walk forward again.

I nod as we begin to scale a set of spiral stairs. “She helped me find my first class this morning.”

“Ah, perfect,” Garreth chirps. “And also unsurprising. That’s Nat for you.” His head turns around to face me as we ascend, his hand gripping the banister. “That’ll make this loads easier. I’ll let her tell you about her first year over dinner. We usually eat together.”

I nod once again, content with the idea of being surrounded by at least a few familiar faces. And perhaps some new ones wouldn’t be so bad. I’d already avoided meeting a slew of my Housemates for one day. Might as well get on with it since it’ll happen eventually.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I find myself saying, genuinely meaning it.

“Cheers,” Garreth says as we reach the final landing, where a massive portrait of a noblewoman in voluminous pink silk lounges with the air of someone long accustomed to being admired. Or at least, someone who believes she’s being admired. The upturn of her nose spoke as much.

She eyes us both with mild skepticism, but specifically the copper-haired boy beside me. “Password, Mr. Weasley?”

Garreth plants his hands behind his back. “Evening, my lady. Have you met our new fifth-year?”

She flicks her eyes to me once, then back to Garreth, boredom in her tone as she again drones, “Password?”

I try not to snicker as Garreth bristles beside me. “Caput Draconis.” His voice then lowers as he scathingly mutters, “You old bat.”

“I heard that,” she sighs, her portrait swinging open on what I now realize are hinges.

It’s a bloody door. Warmth spills out immediately—lantern glow, the crackle of a fire, the hum of dozens of voices overlapping in comfortable chaos. I take a hesitant step inside, my mouth instantly falling open.

The Gryffindor common room looks exactly like the sort of place I had imagine a group of daring, occasionally reckless teenagers would inhabit: deep crimson drapes, carved wooden furniture polished by generations of hands, a hearth big enough to roast several pumpkins, and enough clutter to make any governess faint. Two animated chess matches glare at one another from silent corners, elder students knit by the fire, younger boys sit in a semi-circle by the window, spreading out hoards and piles of what I can only assume are different types of wizarding candies.

It should be overwhelming. And yet…it isn’t. It feels homey in a way no other area of the castle has. It feels like how the inside of a treacle tart tastes, and my shoulders instantly ease.

“Welcome in,” Garreth quips, slapping a genial hand to my back. “C’mon. Our room’s up there.” He points over my shoulder to another, smaller set of stairs.

I take no time to grip my satchel and set off for them, excitement bubbling in my chest for the first time since I’d arrived at Hogwarts. It suddenly dawns on me how much I actually feel my age—fifteen, not fifty. A boy, not some wraith of worry walking on eggshells, drifting from corridor to corridor.

The thought brings a flicker of life into my eyes, a glint I throw back at Garreth as I bound up the stairs two at a time. “If you lead me to a broom cupboard and swear it's our dorm, I’ll lock you in there and turn right around.”

Garreth barks a laugh, quick on my heels. “It’s up there. To the left. Do not go right. That’s the ladies’ quarters. The damn stairs turn into a slide.”

My brows pull together in bemusement, gaze latching onto the ladies’ staircase in question. “A slide?”

“Not a fun one. Keep going. In the opposite direction, if you would.”

A chuckle escapes me as we clear the landing, with Garreth taking the lead to take me the rest of the way. Eventually, he stops on the third floor up the boys’ staircase, jabbing a thumb toward a door on the right. “That’s the other fifth-years’ dorm.”

Then he pivots, points across the narrow hall with a flourish. “And that one’s ours.”

A small thrill skitters through me as he pushes open the door.

It’s…perfect.

Not grand, not impressive—just perfect. Two beds, two desks, a washstand tucked neatly into a corner behind a curtain, and a sliver of floor leading to a window framed by deep red curtains. By that window sits a monstrous, overstuffed armchair that instantly calls my name. I can already picture myself curled up in it, book in hand, pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Both of our trunks are here already, parked beside our beds. Garreth’s half of the room is an organized catastrophe—scattered parchment, half-empty vials, and what looks to be potion textbooks strewn all across his desk—and yet, everything seems to know where it belongs.

“Oh,” Garreth pipes pleasantly, stepping around a chest at the foot of his bed. “Mind the owl.”

I turn and find myself staring into the amber eyes of a snowy owl perched proudly on the sill beside the open window. She clicks her beak as though greeting me.

“Evening, Joy,” Garreth greets, stroking a finger over the top of her head. “She’s a sweetheart.”

I take another step inside. “Garreth, this is—”

“—perfect?” he finishes, grinning. “Best rooming situation I’ve ever had, lemme tell you.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, surprised at how easily the word slips out.

Then, I notice something on my bed. Something tiny. Something orange. Something furry.

My heartbeat stutters.

Nestled into a crescent of my blanket is a kitten—barely bigger than both my hands combined, its coat a soft marmalade swirl. Its white paws like mittens are tucked under its chin, but it lifts its round head when I approach, blinks its green eyes once, and then mews as though it’s been waiting for me all day.

I swear my soul leaves my body. “Is that—?” I choke.

Garreth raises both brows. “A cat?” Then, delighted: “Merlin’s tits, it is a cat. Wasn’t here when I left this morning.”

There’s a small envelope propped against my pillow. My name in Professor Fig’s handwriting. I pick it up, still half-reeling, half-floating, the kitten letting out a soft squeak as it stretches. I sit gently on the bed so I don’t disturb it.

I thought you might prefer not to be alone on your first night in a new home. She’s recently weaned, gentle, and in need of a friend. Consider her your familiar, if you wish. I hope she brings you comfort, since so little of this transition was your choice at all.
—Professor Fig

My throat tightens, my lungs expanding in one sweeping exhale.

Garreth lets out a low whistle. “Well? Go on, then. Say hello.”

I waste no time, because how could I not? I click my tongue until the kitten stands unsteadily, toddles toward me, and climbs right into my hands. I scoop up the tiny creature—warm, purring instantly. “I almost don’t want to leave now.”

Garreth takes off his robes and snickers. “Sorry to say that you’ll have to, but you’ll have to.” He slips off his crimson tie in one swift pull. “Besides, you have some folk to meet.”

I reluctantly set the kitten on my pillow. She trills at me—an indignant little sound—and immediately kneads the blanket as though settling into a throne. I grab the folded pile of regular clothes from inside my trunk: a crisp, cream button-down, a black watch waistcoat, and navy trousers. Garreth’s already half-changed—white shirt sleeves rolled and donning well-worn, brown trousers.

He faces the mirror. “So,” he begins, brushing his long hair back with his fingers, “what are you calling her?”

I pause mid-button at my cuff. “Calling her?”

He meets my gaze in the mirror. “Well, she’s won’t respond to ‘Hey, you.’”

I glance back at the kitten. She’s now attempting to murder a stray thread on my blanket with ferocious enthusiasm despite being roughly the size of my hand. A thoughtful hum leaves me. “She seems…sweet.”

Garreth turns fully to face me, a brow arched. “Are you well?”

“What?” I laugh.

“Sweet? That creature?” he blanches, gesturing wildly to her.

“She is,” I protest, though the kitten’s currently attacking my discarded uniform like it cursed her bloodline in another life.

“Look at her,” Garreth insists, tugging his suspenders into place. “Fiendish little thing. You should call her Clawdius.”

I sneer like he’s just spoken German to me. “That’s…horrible.”

“Alright, fine. Pumpkin?”

“She has far too much dignity for a name like Pumpkin."

“Dignity?” Garreth repeats, incredulous. “She’s eating your sleeve.”

The kitten looks up at me with wide, innocent eyes, thread hanging from her mouth like she’s never committed a sin.

I grin—an honest one. “Angel.”

Garreth freezes in the middle of tugging on his last boot. “Angel?”

“She looks like an Angel.” I lift her, letting her tiny paws rest on my palm. “Granted, one who may destroy every belonging I own, but still. It suits her.”

Garreth stares a moment longer, then softens, a grin blooming. “Angel it is.”

Angel mews approvingly, curling against my chest as if she’s known her name all along and was simply waiting for me to guess it.

Garreth slings an arm around my shoulders. “C’mon. I told the lads to wait on us before heading to dinner.”

I stroke Angel’s head once more, then set her gently onto the plush armchair where she curls immediately. We both sent her one last look—mine soft and adored, Garreth’s mildly amused—before setting off for the door.

I step out—one foot, then the other, following behind Garreth—only for something in my chest to cinch tight. It’s ridiculous, truly. I’ve survived a new school, a new country, a poorly timed seizure, and an entire day’s worth of classes.

Yet…the thought of walking into a room filled with boys my own age sends a prickle up my spine. I hadn’t allowed myself to actually think about it until now. Attention. I’ve had more than enough of it for several lifetimes.

Garreth pauses mid-stride, stopping at the top of the stairs. He glances at me—not the flighty, cheerful look he normally carries, but something pensive. More discerning. His brow dips, just slightly. “You alright?”

I straighten instinctively. “Of course.”

He doesn’t move. “Waylan.”

Blast. He says my name like he’s known me longer than a single day.

I clear my throat. “We’re keeping them, aren’t we?”

Garreth studies me for a long heartbeat—far more serious than I ever expected him to be capable of. Then, softly, “If you’d rather wait until tomorrow, I can send them off.”

The offer hits me square in the ribs. Genuine. No teasing. No pity, either. It startles me enough to answer honestly. “No. I want to meet them.”

His mouth pulls into a slow, proud sort of grin, and not the mischievous one I’ve come accustomed to. “Good man.” And just like that, the light comes back into his expression. He throws his hand forward to smack lightly against my shoulder. “Besides, if we don’t go now, dinner will be cold, and I refuse to let you begin your Hogwarts education with cold beef stew.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. My nerves are still buzzing, but…dimmer now. Manageable. And with that, we descend the stairs, my mouth slowly pulling back into a low grin.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

2nd of September-

Garreth leads me down the final spirals of the boys’ staircase, and we emerge into the common room together. I tug at my collar, trying not to appear as if I’m already regretting being here. The room has settled into a gentle din of evening chatter: students draped over sofas, some slumped half asleep, others jabbering like survivors of war rather than merely the strain of a Monday at school.

“There they are,” Garreth murmurs, half to me, half to himself.

A cluster of five young blokes lounges near the hearth, each in various states of collapse after their first day. Quills, parchments, and discarded robes lie slung across chairs and tables, some twiddling their wands.

Garreth brings a finger to his lips and murmurs, “Brace yourself,” but his tone is soft, not necessarily full of real warning.

The first to spot us is another red-headed boy who sits as tall as if he were dining with the Minister of Magic. He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. “Evening,” he calls.

“Prewett,” Garreth declares, clasping his hands together with flourish. “Gentlemen, behave.”

“That’s optimistic of you.” A broad-shouldered boy with dark hair and a thick Scottish accent answers, lips curled into a grin that looks like trouble and sunlight wrapped together. He spots me, his chin lifting in greeting. “New fifth-year," he announces to the others. "Name's Emrys Kinnaird.” His tone rolls easy like thunder on calm seas.

Garreth’s voice lowers substantially to where only I can hear. “A walking powder keg.”

Leander gets to his feet first, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight. “Leander Prewett. Welcome to Gryffindor.” He says it like he founded it.

I offer a courteous smile, though I sense him surveying me strangely. Almost sizing me up. I brush past it, hoping I’m not accidentally looking at him the same way.

Before I can return Leander’s greeting, the sandy-haired boy snaps his quill clean in half.

“Merlin’s mother—ah shit,” he gasps, brown eyes wide behind his spectacles.

“Language,” Leander scolds with a sigh. “That one’s Cedric.”

The boy—Cedric—scrambles for a spare quill, knocking over a stack of parchment in the process. “Bainbridge,” he mumbles, tidying his mess, throwing a sheepish smile my way. “Cedric Bainbridge.”

Poor boy looks as nervous as I feel. “Pleasure,” I say, trying for a wider smile.

Two other boys share the low coffee table with him—one with olive-skin and black curls tied back with twine, and the other, dark-skinned and gentle-eyed, calmly rescuing ink bottles from Cedric’s flailing.

The calmer one speaks first. “Why do you grip your quills so tightly? That’s why they keep snapping.”

The curly-haired boy hums in agreement, though he looks about three-quarters dead from exhaustion. “Also, why are you writing that essay now? It’s due in a fortnight,” he says without looking up from his book.

“I prefer to be prepared, Sol,” Cedric huffs.

The curly-haired one—Sol—finally looks up, gaze latching onto Cedric's paper. “You forgot a title for that.”

Cedric pales, his already porcelain skin turning a shade whiter. “Mother of—”

Garreth leans close to me, pointing to Sol. “Solomon Khoury.”

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Solomon greets, briefly meeting my eyes with a smile before going back to his book.

Then, Garreth points to the calmer one. “And Callum Osei.”

Callum glances up—brown eyes warm, observant. He takes me in quietly, then offers a small, genuine nod. “Nice to meet you.”

I instantly like them both. “Waylan Key,” I say, ensuring my voice doesn’t come out too quiet.

Emrys kicks out a chair for me with his boot. “Where’re you from?”

I take the offered seat. “Devon,” I say. “Small town, south side of it.”

“Oh, you’re from the coast?” Cedric asks, already reaching for new parchment. “Lovely area—my family holidays near there sometimes.”

“Is it foggy as often as people say?” Solomon asks, his book falling lax in his grip.

Callum tilts his head. “Lots of magical wildlife down that way. Did you ever see any sea sprites?”

I swallow the memory of rivers and low suns back home. “Never,” I say. “But the sea there is always uncertain. Could be some there.”

Leander leans forward, suddenly curious. “Wait, Devon? Isn’t that—did you ever hear about the wizard duels down there? My uncle seems to think—”

“Pay him no mind,” Emrys cuts in, scoffing. “More importantly—can you swim? Garreth sinks like a stone in a cauldron.”

“I do not,” Garreth argues, offended. “How have I been drug into—”

“You do,” Cedric adds, amused. “You nearly drowned at the summer social, mate.”

“I slipped!” Garreth insists. “Couldn’t get my ruddy footing—No, wait, how is that relevant?”

The table erupts into bickering—good-natured, rowdy, and strangely welcoming. I find myself barking out laughter as I answer questions, volley back their teasing, and gradually fall into the rhythm of their chaos.  Leander’s brusque confidence is softened by genuine interest. Callum asks smart questions without prying. Solomon brings up obscure Devon folklore with alarming accuracy. Cedric relaxes enough to chat instead of panic-writing. Emrys tries to ask if I’ve ever thought about swimming in the Black Lake before Garreth smacks his knuckles with a spoon. And between all of that, I realize how easy this feels. How natural. How unforced.

Although, I can’t imagine having to share a room with all of them. That sounds like chaos in a bottle. And with that in mind, I am suddenly eternally grateful for my one and only roommate.

Garreth claps my back. “See? Not so bad, yeah?”

I shake my head, my lips pursed. “Not bad at all.”

Garreth opens his mouth to respond, but another voice—softer, feminine—beats him to it.

“Good. I was hoping they wouldn’t dare to overwhelm you on your first day.”

Garreth and I both turn our heads just as Natty steps down from the dormitory staircase, her long plaits swinging. “Good evening, all.”

“Natsai,” Leander says with a little bow of his head. Solomon, Callum, and Emrys offer her similar short, amiable sentiments, their hands raised greeting.

But Cedric’s face blooms with warmth as he perks up his seat. “Hey, Natty,” he says, his voice giving a severe, high-pitched crack.

When Natty’s dark eyes land on him, her smile spreads across her face. “Did you have a nice holiday, Ced? You look much taller.”

I try not to smirk as Cedric’s ears go crimson. “Yeah, hah.”

Garreth and I trade a look, at which he rolls his eyes so as to say: “later.” He abruptly pulls me up off the couch, swings us around—with me still tucked under his arm—and faces Natty. “Nat! Thought you’d gone ahead.”

“I decided to wait and go with all of you.” She turns to me, smiling warm and wide. “Waylan. It is so good to see you again. How was your first day?”

Her presence untangles something tight inside my chest. “Better than expected,” I admit. “I managed to get to the rest of my lessons without getting hopelessly turned about again.”

Emrys snorts, standing from the couch and stretching. “Give it time.”

Natty waves a hand. “Ignore him. The castle confuses everyone at first.”

Garreth’s voice rises to address the group. “Shall we go away to supper before Cedric faints?”

Cedric’s brows furrow. “Faints?”

“We all watched you skip on lunch,” Solomon deadpans, finally bookmarking his novel.

Cedric’s face, once again, darkens a shade of scarlet. “I…just didn’t care for the mutton today.”

We gather our things—collars straightened, wands hastily stuffed into pockets—and funnel toward the common room exit.

Natty falls into step on my right. “I am glad your day went well. And you look more at ease than you did this morning.”

“I feel it." My eyes suddenly widen as I remember: “Oh! You won’t believe this. Professor Fig… He—Well, he left a gift for me in my dorm.”

Garreth perks up beside me. “A brilliant one.”

Natty's brows raise in intrigue. “A gift?”

“A kitten,” I say giddily, warmth creeping up my face. “A little orange one.”

“A kitten? That is so charming,” Natty cooes, eyes softening with adoration. “What did you name it?”

“Her name’s Angel,” I say, proud as ever, throwing Garreth a pointed look.

He rolls his eyes theatrically. “Yeah, yeah. He’s a proud papa.”

We slip out through the portrait hole—all of us in a loose, noisy stream—the corridor sconces bathing the stone in honeyed light. The chatter of the boys swells ahead: Leander debating with Callum about Crossed Wands, Solomon regretting leaving his book behind, Emrys daring a grimacing Cedric to eat three full treacle tarts in under a minute.

Natty laughs when Callum thumps Leander upside the back of his head. Garreth nudges my shoulder with his elbow, encouraging me to look out over the grounds nearly 30 meters below us.

And somewhere between their voices and the warm glow of the corridor, my stomach gives a loud, traitorous growl. God, I’m absolutely famished.

The clatter of forks and low hum of the Great Hall swells the moment I sit down between Natty and Garreth. The latter hardly lets me settle before he demands I at last show everyone my wand. I lay it across my palms like a relic, explaining that it’s only on loan from Professor Fig until I can visit Ollivander’s this upcoming weekend. The others lean in, faces aglow with interest. Natty asks me what wood I hope for, and I admit I hadn’t the faintest idea. Truthfully, the thought of a wand choosing me sends a queer flutter through my chest.

The moment I tuck Fig's wand away, Garreth launches into the grand account of his latest potion enterprise. He speaks with such conviction one might think he’d invented the practice itself. Callum listens with narrowed eyes; Solomon offers nothing more than the occasional dubious grunt; Emrys and Leander exchange looks that suggest they’re already bracing for a disaster at best, an explosion at worst. When Garreth describes how the potion is meant to “ignite the senses,” Natty gently reminds him that the last “experimental mixture” he brewed ignited only his hair. And his brows. Garreth insists that’s precisely why this one will succeed. I genuinely cannot tell whether he truly believes this, or if he merely hopes we will.

When our plates eventually empty and the younger years begin drifting out of the hall, Leander rises and declares it time to catch a Crossed Wands practice. At once, my heart kicks like a startled hare.

Garreth, catching my elated expression, explains that the first night of the term means that anyone can spar in the Clock Tower to prepare for next month’s tryouts. A spark of unbridled excitement leaps through my chest so intensely I nearly forget my manners; I’m on my feet within seconds. The whole table rises not far behind me in a cheerful shuffle, and as we make for the doors, I can hardly keep from quickening my pace.

Only…

My footsteps start to slow. My eyelids begin to sag. My hand subconsciously raises to my head when I feel it…almost buzzing. And it hits me.

Surely not again. It’s barely been... What—twenty-four hours?

Is this happening again?

My heart drops to the space between my ribs. My eyes dart around. I need a loo, or an abandoned classroom. Or—

“Alright, mate?”

Garreth’s voice makes me blink. I realize then, I’m staring straight at the ground. My gaze rises.

Everyone else has walked past me. When did that happen? They’re walking around the corner, laughing amongst themselves, falling out of sight.

All except Garreth. His brows furrow, but his smile stays wide. “I told them we’d catch up.”

I can’t respond.

Garreth’s expression falls. “Waylan.”

My feet start moving. Not forward, not toward Garreth, but to the right. I throw open a random door, and the smell of dust and chalk slams into my nose. I stumble inside, my breathing quickening, my chest rising and falling too fast. Too fast.

I’m in an abandoned classroom. My body carries me to the closest desk. My hands plant on the hardwood to keep me upright, my arms shaking. Why is it coming on so strongly? And with so much warning in advance? Usually I just drop—

“Waylan?” Garreth’s right behind me, alarm in his voice. The door falls shut with a thud and a click behind him.“Waylan, what’s going on? You alright?”

I shake my head fervently. Mistake. Makes my vision rattle. Makes the whole room tilt until the windows slant entirely horizontal. A low groan escapes me as I squeeze my eyes shut until black is all I can see. Pathetic, really.

Garreth’s hand latches onto my forearm. “Mate—”

“I’m…” I manage to rasp.

For the first time ever while actively having a seizure, I’m…scared.

So the words slip free. “I’m sorry. I lied to you.”

His hand freezes on my skin. “What do you—”

“I was in the infirmary last night,” I say quickly, before he can interject. “Not…the Faculty Tower. I had a s-seizure after…after the ceremony. Sorting.”

I hear Garreth's breath hitch above me.

My words start to slur. “I’m—Seizure—Ground. Get me on—”

“On the ground, okay.” He takes my weight and pulls my hands off the table.

I buckle instantly.

“Easy!” Garreth barks, helping to lay my head down. “Merlin’s fucking—I can’t leave you, can I? We need help. We—Hey!” His head swivels to the closed door. “Hey! We need—”

“No!” I push the word out as hard as I can, but it barely comes out as more than a breath. “Don’t…want—”

Garreth blinks down at me. “Mate, you need help—”

“Don’t want…people knowing.” I manage a weak chuckle, my voice barely reaching above a whisper. “Sorry you ended up with...with a roommate that has..." I pause, swallowing before finishing: "…bloody s-seizures.”

“I’d take your snoring any day,” Garreth jests, but his face is entirely serious, set in hard lines. He seems to accept that I don't want help. “What do you need me to do?”

I grasp his forearm, looking straight into his eyes. Green, I realize for the first time. Like twin emeralds. “Keep me…on…my side,” I beg him. “I’ll asphyxiate…if you don’t.”

“I-I don’t know what that means but okay.”

“D-Drown…on m’own spit,” I attempt to explain, but I don’t know why I’m bothering. And that explanation isn’t…entirely right, but it gets the severity of my point across, because Garreth’s expression dawns to one of grim horror. “Saliva…in…lungs…”

My jaw starts to lock. The words don’t come anymore. My eyelids flutter shut.

“Just hold on,” Garreth says firmly. “You still with me? Way—”

Crack. A lash of red splits the void behind my eyes. Once.

I wait for the black. I wait for nothing.

But then…

Twice. It strikes.

Again. And again. And again.

“Waylan!”

A voice. Not Garreth’s. Not anyone I know. A woman’s. She’s crying. She’s sobbing. She’s in pain—

Black.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

2nd of September-

Light burns behind my eyelids long before I manage to pry them open. Too bright. It needles straight through my skull as though someone lit off a raging bonfire directly beneath my brow.

The sheets beneath me feel…hauntingly familiar. The same ones I slept under last night. The infirmary’s. They rasp beneath my fingertips each time my hand trembles. There’s a voice somewhere near me. Two? No—three. All of them muddled, as though I’m underwater or dreaming or both.

That woman. That screaming woman—

“—hear me, Waylan? Way? C’mon, mate.”

Garreth. That’s Garreth. His voice cuts through the fog like a rope tossed into dark water. I latch onto it, dragging myself toward it.

“She was crying,” I mumble before my eyes even open. My tongue feels seared to the roof of my mouth like it's smothered in toffee. “She was…screaming. I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

A soft intake of breath snaps the air beside me. Not Garreth. Feminine. Alert at the sound of my ragged voice. “Mr. Key, try to stay still, dear. You’re confused.” That must be Nurse Blainey.

“Two seizures less than twenty-four hours apart?” says a voice, male, pompous, and biting. One I don’t recognize and instantly don’t care to hear. "Why was the boy not monitored more closely?"

He says "the boy" like I'm some broken toy on a ledger. Some line item to be calculated. An expense.

“I am monitoring him,” Blainey retorts. “If you’d kindly stop hovering, sir—”

“He needs rest,” says a woman’s voice. Professor Weasley’s, I think. “Not an interrogation.”

Then comes a voice I immediately register. Professor Fig’s. “I take full responsibility—"

“Yes, that much is clear, Fig,” the pompous voice deadpans, making my grip on the sheets tighten.

“Can we perhaps have this discussion somewhere that isn’t over the boy’s skull?” grumbles the smooth-toned voice of another man, someone else I don’t recognize.

Too many new voices, so I force my eyes to flutter open. At once I’m assaulted by gold lamplight, teal curtains, and a swarm of moving shapes. Garreth leans over me, his freckles stark in the glow, worry pinching his brow. Behind him I can make out silhouettes—copper hair, dark suits, stern faces—some familiar, some not. They blur whenever I try to look too directly.

“His pulse is thready,” Nurse Blainey mumbles, thumb pressed at the side of my throat. “And his pupils are uneven. Mr. Key, follow my finger, please—”

I try. The room tilts. My stomach lurches. I shut my eyes again with a groan.

“Everyone give him space,” orders the smooth-toned man.

The pompous voice snaps in response, “No, what we require is answers. How does a student manage to suffer two of such dramatic fits in a single day? And why, pray tell, was he not properly supervised after the first?”

Something in me ices over. I turn my head slowly.

I find myself staring up at a tall, angular-faced man with black hair streaked silver at the temples, expressions carved from stone. Cold eyes. Cold voice.

“Mr. Key,” he says, tone clipped and obviously annoyed, “I am Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black.”

Instantly, my skin crawls. Perhaps it’s the way he looks at me like I’m something he’s caught under his boot. Or perhaps because every word spilling from his mouth is as warm as a January frost.

Professor Weasley bristles beside him. “Headmaster, the boy has only just regained consciousness.”

“And is perfectly capable of hearing, I’m sure,” Black retorts. “Which is precisely why clarity is required. If this…episode—”

He spits it like a slur.

“—is habitual, we must consider whether Hogwarts is an appropriate environment for this.”

Garreth’s gaze lifts to the Headmaster in the most blank stare I’ve seen from him. One that makes the frothing vexation behind his eyes unmistakable. “Forgive me, sir,” he begins, his voice unnervingly steady, “but he may not feel inclined to answer questions as he has… Just. Awoken.”

Nurse Blainey slaps a hand to his shoulder in reprimand, though she doesn’t look like she necessarily disagrees. “Mr. Weasley, mind—”

“He barely knows where he is,” Garreth grumbles. “Leave him be.”

“Garreth…” I whisper, though it barely comes out. My head throbs. Their voices ricochet like iron bells inside my skull.

Professor Fig’s face finally comes into my view, guilt radiating from him like heat off a hearth. “If I may—Waylan’s condition requires understanding. Not reprimand.”

“Condition?” Black repeats, like the word is blasphemous.

“There is no need to pry,” Blainey barks, shoving a quill behind her ear with unnecessary force. “Headmaster, back away from the bedside, if you would please.”

“Now, Noreen, I have questions for the boy—”

A loud and echoing thunk interrupts the raising voices—a cane striking the floor.

I blink toward the sound and see a young man leaning against it, black-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in academic robes—the other man whose voice I didn't know. His gaze is narrowed but not unkind, weathered by years and keen to a tee. “Forgive the intrusion,” he says softly, "but the boy mentioned screaming. Mr. Key—this voice—where did it come from?”

I hear his unsaid question. Did it come from down a hall? A floor below me, perhaps?

Or in my head?

My pulse thrums in my ears, my jaw hanging open, because I…don’t know the answer.

Before I can try, Blainey blocks him like a guard dog. “No probing questions,” she snaps. “Not until he’s lucid.”

The young professor raises his hand in surrender, unoffended, and steps back.

But Black, of course, does not. “This entire display,” he huffs, “is precisely why I asked if the boy belongs here—”

“Oh, do forgive me,” Professor Weasley cuts in icily. “I was unaware Hogwarts had become a place where children are sent away for being ill.”

Black sputters. “Weasley, you dare to insinuate—”

“I do when here you stand—loudly—implying it.”

I’d laugh at the old codger if my breathing didn’t feel like being stabbed with each breath I drug in. I shut my eyes. The light hurts. Their arguing hurts. Everything hurts.

“Please…” The word escapes me barely above a whisper. “Please…stop.”

Garreth hears me instantly, and like he’s been waiting for an excuse, his chair scrapes violently as he stands.

“All of you. Out.”

It falls so quiet a pin drop would frighten me.

Every professor whirls their head to look at this fifteen-year-old boy, his posture almost claiming even all of them in height and presence.

The Headmaster’s face darkens a shade. “Mr. Weasley,” he starts derisively, low and brisk, “you will not address staff in such a—”

A basser version of Garreth’s voice thunders over him: “Get. Out.”

Silence. And then—

“Two weeks of detention, Weasley,” Black hisses.

My eyes open wide. “Sir,” I try to argue, but my voice hardly rasps. “Sir, he—”

“End of discussion,” Black interjects. “Or I’ll add you, too, Key.”

“You will not,” Garreth hisses.

“Garreth,” Professor Weasley whispers harshly.

“A month, boy.” Black’s lip curls into a sneer. “Care to make it two?”

Garreth doesn’t even flinch. His jaw’s locked so tight I can hear the grind of it. Someone hisses his name again—Professor Fig, maybe—but the Headmaster cuts it off with a raised hand.

A worm of guilt infests my gut, and I force myself up onto my elbows. “Sir, please. He—”

But my head thrashes with a pounding so violent my voice tapers off into nothing. My eyes pinch shut, my breath hitches, I hiss through my teeth.

Nurse Blainey is immediately at my side, lowering me back on the bed. “Every one of you get out of my damned infirmary now.”

I slouch back against the pillow without a fight, pulse still fluttering like a trapped bird.

And, of course, Black is the only one who tries to protest. “Blainey, I have no intention of—”

Weasley grabs his sleeve. “Headmaster, I would like to discuss my nephew’s punishment. Outside.”

Garreth’s posture deflates, his eyes softening only just slightly into begging. “Aunt Matilda, please—”

“Outside,” she repeats, throwing her nephew a pointed look.

The man with the cane hobbles a single step toward Garreth. Even in my blurry vision, he stands straighter than anyone else here—like the cane is an accessory, not a crutch. There’s something in the way he carries himself, like he’s used to having soldiers at his back and a war at his front. The scar on his face only cements my thinking that has to be true.

“You too, Mr. Weasley,” he demands, and his tone lands like an order given on a battlefield.

Unlike his surliness with the Headmaster, Garreth doesn’t seem as though he wants to argue against this man. The plea leaves him anyway, though his voice is considerably smaller. “Professor Sharp…”

“After you,” the man—Sharp—says cool and slow, though not without the authority of a commanding officer.
  
No one argues. Not Garreth, and not even the Headmaster.

They all exchange tight looks and begin filing toward the door. And as the man with the cane clasps a steering hand on Garreth’s shoulder, I catch the smallest flicker in his face—something like approval—aimed at both him and me.

He hides it quickly, but both of us see it. Garreth's shoulders loosen by an inch, and my chest deflates ever-so-slightly.

Garreth throws me one last look over his shoulder. “You with me now?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

I swallow, the apple of my throat bobbing. “Trying.” I frown, the lines creasing my brow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t say it with even a smidgen of hesitation.

Before I can sputter out a reply, Garreth's lip quirks up, just slightly. “You’re alright, mate,” he assures, though whether it's for me or for him—I’m uncertain.

I nod slowly. “Thank you.”

Professor Sharp gives me a gentle, searching look before turning away, a guiding hand at Garreth’s shoulder. He’s swept out like a broom being dragged.

The quiet rings louder than the shouting ever did.

Blainey moves somewhere beside me, her robes brushing, quills clicking, breath steady in and out like she’s forcing herself to stay calm. I don’t look at her. I just stare at the ceiling—all white arches and lamplight halos—like it might kindly crack open and drop me a single sensible thought.

Garreth Weasley. He’d met me this morning. This morning. 

That was… What—twelve hours ago? Barely that? A few walks, a dinner, and a handful of conversations? And he’d stood there—in front of professors, in front of the Headmaster—and demanded for them all to get out.

My chest tightens, not in the horrible way from before, but in a way that feels…foreign.

I’m no stranger to the goodwill of others. A few neighbours back home were kind. A healer or two. A boy I sat beside once who shared his lunch when I forgot mine. But those were passing kindnesses. Favourable breezes.

Aside from my own familiar—my mother and father—no one had ever bristled like that on my behalf. No one had squared their shoulders as though they’d sooner wrestle a troll than let someone loom over me. No one had been furious for me.

And I lied to him.

I can still hear myself telling him I’d slept in some random dusty room in the Faculty Tower—like a buffoon—instead of simply telling the truth: I’d spent last night in this very bed, recovering from a seizure like the one he just held me through and watched me wake from.

Why did I lie? And why do I feel so guilty about it? We barely know each other.

And that may be true, but he’d just fought for me like we’ve known one another for years even though we “barely know each other." Besides, I already know the true answer as to why I lied.

Because telling the truth meant admitting there was something wrong with me. Because it meant watching how the way he looked at me would change. Into pity. Like I’m something frail.

Instead, I’ve only managed to look like a fool and give him one more thing to worry about. One more thing I didn’t want anyone worrying over.

Blainey checks my pulse again, her fingers gentle but firm. Her mouth sits tight in a thin line; I can feel her annoyance vibrating off her like heat from a stove. But she doesn’t speak, and neither do I.

I just lie there, staring upward, feeling the pounding in my skull steady itself bit by bit. My throat works around a swallow. I’m suddenly, stupidly grateful for the dimmed lamps and Blainey’s silence. For the fact that no one is here to watch my face scrunch and twist into this messy slew of emotions I don't intend on untangling at present.

No one except Blainey, who catches my expression and exhales through her nose—a long-suffering, unguarded sigh. She gently tucks the blankets higher around me. Her voice comes soft, finally, barely above the lamplight’s hum. “Try to rest, Mr. Key.”

As if that’s the simplest thing in the world. Because underneath all the noise—the arguing, the throbbing in my skull, the shame twisting in my stomach—there’s still her.

That woman. Screaming.

The sound had carved itself into my very psyche. Not a dream-scream. Not imagination. It was too…real. Desperate. In so much pain, too. Like someone calling from the bottom of a well, trapped, powerless, throat breaking on every plea.

Who was she? Where was she? Why did I hear her like she was right beside me?

The thought coils so tight in my gut that it makes my breath tremble. I stare harder at the ceiling, as if the answer might be hidden in the wood grain.

My voice slips out before I can talk myself out of it. “I…wasn’t lying.”

Blainey's hands still. She turns, blinking at me like she’s not sure she heard right. “Pardon?”

I swallow, my throat thick. “What I told you all. Last night. About…the last time.” My fingers curl weakly in the sheets. “The last time I had a seizure before Hogwarts was in March. I promise I wasn’t lying.”

A beat passes.

Her stern expression softens—but only a touch, like she’s peeling off one plate of armor, not the whole suit. She steps closer, setting her parchment aside, folding her hands at the foot of the bed. “Oh, Waylan” she murmurs, not scolding this time. “No one is calling you a liar.”

I don’t correct her, but someone had, actually. The Headmaster, with every breath he took near me, but I don’t feel as though it’s worth the effort to even speak his name.

She studies me for a moment, then says gently, “Have you ever had seizures this close together before?”

I hesitate. It’s stupid, really—like answering wrong might make this whole mess ten times worse. But my head still throbs, and the memory of the screaming woman is a claw hooked behind my ribs.

“No.” The word leaves me small, thin. “Never.”

Nurse Blainey nods slowly, her lips pressed into a line that’s more worried than stern. For once, she doesn’t have a lecture or a list of orders. Just silence. And thought. And a crease forming between her brows—the kind that means even she doesn’t have an answer.

Instead, she taps her finger on the foot of my bed. “Rest, please,” she says again. “I’ll be back with a Tonic for the pain. It’ll be by your bedside. Drink it when you need it, okay?”

I nod, too knackered to tell her that the blood-curdling screaming of a woman I don’t know has burrowed itself into the furthest corners of my mind and I’m afraid I’ll hear her again the moment sleep catches me.

But the fog is pulling me under, warm and irresistibly heavy. My fingers loosen on the sheets. My breath evens, slow and stumbling. The world fades to a dim, muted hum as my eyelids drift shut.

I'm bloody well exhausted.

And as the last bit of consciousness slips away, one stray thought drifts through the haze:

If she screams again...will anyone else hear her?

Then, everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

Waylan Key

4th of September-

I’m fairly certain the infirmary mattress now has a permanent impression of my spine. Forty-eight hours of steaming tea, bitter tonics, and Nurse Blainey circling me with all the vigilance of a mother hawk. I cannot wait for the day I get to sleep in my own bed. In my own dorm. Which I have not touched once.

At least I’m allowed to roam freely now. Within the infirmary. Nowhere else. My arms fold as I lean against the frame of a towering arched window. The stained glass throws colour everywhere, making the setting sun look phenomenal. If nothing else, the view of the Scottish Highlands from up here puts any sunset I’ve seen elsewhere to shame.

It’s not the worst situation I’ve ever been in. Garreth comes by during meals to eat with me, and just before dinner-time, mostly because his late evenings are eaten up by detentions with Professor Sharp—which he has so graciously avoided bringing up. Probably doesn’t want me feeling bad about them. He’s also taken it upon himself to inform our Housemates that I’m merely “under the weather” and being kept in the infirmary for fear of contagion—some manner of seasonal ague.

Garreth's company helps—truly, it does. And yet there are things I can’t bring myself to speak life to. Things that would likely frighten him more than I already have.

Things like the echoing screams of that woman who still won’t get out of my head. I rub my temple before the memory can spool up again and force out a slow breath.

Something bumps my calf. I look down.

A marmalade blob of a kitten rubs against my leg, Angel’s orange tail curling high. She blinks up at me with a plaintive meow. My lip quirks upward; I can’t resist scooping her up and curling her against my chest.

Garreth brought her to me on my first morning here. Or, technically, my second. He claimed she’d “meowed the entire ruddy night” and he “couldn’t stand to listen to it again,” but honestly? I think he just thought I’d want the company. Which I did, even though Nurse Blainey nearly had an aneurysm on the spot. She promised to ban Angel from the infirmary if “that creature sheds within an inch of its life,” because this is apparently a “sanitary place with hygienic standards.”

On cue, Angel sheds in my arms. Orange fuzz floats to the ground like snow and clings to my loose tunic. I stifle a snicker, but the smirk is winning.

Nurse Blainey insists my incessant episodes were due to all the stress of being somewhere new. Changes in environment, sudden pressure, a magic in the very air my body and mind have never once experienced. It certainly makes sense, I suppose. But…

The longer I sit with it, the harder it is to pretend any of this is ordinary even by wizarding standards. Professor Fig’s words return to me; during our carriage ride to the castle, he explained that Hogwarts is built upon a stronghold of an ancient form of magic. Magic older than any record, older than wand-work, older than civilization itself. Magic as raw and abiding as the earth’s own foundation.

One of the safest and most wondrous places in the world, he said. And I might’ve found that comforting had my body not decided to betray me before I even made it to my bed that first night.

Could all that ancient power have something to do with this? Prodding at whatever weakness already lies beneath my skin? Making my seizures more active? Although, “active” hardly seems the proper word. Seizures aren’t meant to…evolve as mine have. Or behave as though they heed summons I can’t hear. As though they have a mind of their own.

And seizures most certainly do not cause one to hear screaming, crying voices in their head.

A gentle trill interrupts my grim musings. Angel nudges her head beneath my chin—quite forcibly, for a creature so small, like she senses my desolate mind—and demands attention with all the entitlement of royalty. My posture loosens despite myself. I stroke the soft fur between her ears, and she purrs contentedly, a steady, soothing vibration that quiets the worst of my thoughts.

My mind drifts back to yesterday—Garreth leaning beside my bed, trying and failing to pretend he wasn’t worried.

I apologized to him properly for lying about my seizures.

He waved it off at once. “Mate, we met yesterday,” he deadpanned. “I’m not gonna bite your head off for wanting to be private.”

He attempted to lighten the mood after that, nudging my leg and suggesting we observe a Crossed Wands practice once I was “steady enough not to be felled by the first gust of wind.” He teased that the excitement alone might send me into another episode, though his eyes softened as he said it.

Though one might not find it appropriate to make light of such things, I found it unbelievably refreshing. A laugh was exactly what I needed.

Angel shifts in my arms, kneading my collarbone with dainty, determined paws. I exhale slowly, some invisible knot in me easing. For a moment—just one—the turmoil quiets. Just warm sunlight through stained glass, the soft rumble of a content kitten, and the faint hope that perhaps I will one day soon understand what in the bloody hell is happening to me.

The infirmary door creaks open in the distance.

I don’t bother looking at first, waiting for Garreth’s noisy entrance before it even comes. I turn and shift Angel in my arms, already bracing for some cheerful quip about cat hair. “I was thinking about Crossed Wands earlier,” I start, meandering around the foot of my bed to pull the teal curtain aside. “You think we could—”

The words die on my tongue. It’s not Garreth.

A girl steps inside, probably my age, though carrying herself with the quiet poise of someone who seldom found the need to raise her voice. Ravenclaw robes, neat and pressed, a royal-blue tie poking out from just beneath. Hair the color of toffee pulled back loosely, a few wisps escaping around a thoughtful face. Hazel eyes—soft, warm, assessing without being invasive.

“Hi,” she says softly, pursing her lips, her expression twisting to be apologetic. “You’re Waylan Key, right?”

All I can manage is a confused nod.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asks, her eyes flicking around the otherwise empty infirmary.

I shake my head. “No, you’re just…not—”

“Not Garreth?” she quips, warmth in her voice, a thoughtful smile finding purchase.

I blink, brows furrowing. “How did—”

“I’m a close friend of his.”

And just like that, my heart plummets.

Garreth told someone. He promised he wouldn't—

Lee’s eyes widen like she can hear my every single spiraling thought. “Oh—no, no, no. He didn’t tell me anything,” she says quickly, hands lifting like she’s surrendering. “He has not said a word about you.” Her eyes drift up to the ceiling, and she starts backtracking. “Well… Well, no, he has. But nothing more than saying you’re a decent bloke. But as for your being here—” she gestures vaguely to the infirmary “—he’s said nothing.”

I stop, reigning in my internal panic before it can spiral further. But if he’s truly not told her about my seizures… “Then why are you here?” I ask tentatively, but not unkindly.

That earns the faintest nervous chuckle from her. “That…” She steps closer, folding her arms. “Is a bit of a story.” She gestures to the small chair at my bedside. “May I?”

I can’t find a solid reason to refuse. “Yeah, sure,” I mumble, sinking down onto my bed and leaning back against the headboard.

“My name is Lyra Sallow,” she explains, sitting down, folding a knee over herself beneath her navy skirt. “Most call me Lee.”

Sallow.

My mind immediately summons the memory of a brown-eyed boy staring at me in DADA as though cataloging each sin in my soul.

My stomach sinks. “Sallow,” I echo. “Are you…related to—?”

“Sebastian’s my cousin, yes,” she says simply. 

Cousin. Wonderful.

Her eyes drift to the furball still coiled against my chest, her lips pulling back to beam at Angel. “Well, she hardly seems a menace.”

I can’t help but bristle. “Is that what Garreth said about her?”

Lee arches a brow, chuckling good-naturedly. “Don’t take it too personally. He’s never had a cat. I’ve been trying to persuade him they’re better than dogs for as long as I’ve had Heather.” She meets my gaze again. “Heather’s my cat. She’s a Russian Blue. Beautiful thing.” She leans back in her seat. “Oh, and you can tell him I snitched on him. Serves him right.”

“Trust me, I will,” I joke, a smile tugging at my lips for the first time. “He’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Good. He deserves a bit of torment now and then.”

The quiet settles again. She doesn’t fill it with pointless chatter—she just sits there, hands resting in her lap, taking me in with this insightful look that makes me feel strangely…seen. Not in the “Sebastian Sallow staring through my skull” way. More like she’s checking whether I’m actually alright, and she’s not sure she likes the answer.

Angel shifts, trying to burrow underneath my chin again. I rub her head absently. “So,” I begin cautiously, “if you’re not here for Garreth…” I pause, cocking my head. “How did you know I was here? In the infirmary. You said it's a bit of a story.”

Lee’s mouth opens, then closes, her lips thinning. “I suppose I should explain, shouldn't I?” Her lip tilts up again. “Before you imagine Garreth parading your business about to strangers.”

I feel heat crawl up my neck. “I…admittedly already was,” I chuckle sheepishly.

Lyra’s smile softens. “Garreth Weasley wouldn’t betray a secret if you paid him. I know that for certain.”

I nod, satisfied with that answer. “So…?” I encourage.

“Right, yes.” Lee’s expression becomes more tentative, like dipping a toe into testy waters. “You ran into a student your first night here, correct?” she probes, knowing we both already know the answer.

I just have no idea how she knows that. “I—Y-Yes,” I murmur, abashed. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

Lee shakes her head in silent reply. “You don’t…remember who it was?”

“No, I…” My words slow to a stop.

Yes, I do know. The pieces fall into place. That’s why the sod was looking at me strangely in DADA. Because he knew.

My posture straightens. “Sebastian, right? Was it him?” I assume. “He told you about that?”

Lee shakes her head. “It wasn’t Seb, either.”

So, my logical thinking goes to the other of the pair. “Gaunt, then.”

And at that, Lee gives a reluctant nod. “Yes. You ran into Ominis that night.”

Ah. Of course.

My shoulders go stiff. Angel feels my change in posture, and she jumps from my lap, slinking away under the teal curtains.

Lee watches her pad off before meeting my gaze again. She takes in a steadying breath, hazel eyes meeting mine directly. “Ominis has a remarkable sense for people, y’know,” she begins. “He can tell when someone is unwell long before most notice. Something in his sensing charm that…amplifies the feel of magic around him, how it can affect one's health and wellness. For example: he knew my cousin was ill before we even told him about it.”

Lee pauses, clears her throat, and then continues, “After the feast, Ominis was headed back to the Slytherin common room with Sebastian, but he felt this strange...disturbance nearby. He couldn't explain it, so he excused himself to the loo. Told Sebastian he would catch up in the common room. He wandered for a bit, trying to find the source of this strange disturbance, and then, lo and behold—you collide with him in the corridor. Ominis said he went to apologize, but then you—”

“Collapsed, yeah.” I don’t even remember his face. Was that how abruptly it happened? I didn’t even recognize him in DADA the next morning. “So, he’s the one who brought me here.”

Lee nods. “And he told no one. Just Seb—his roommate.”

“And you,” I add thoughtfully, but Lee shakes her head.

“Not at first, actually.” She wrings her hands together. “Ominis was… He noticed that you haven’t come to class since day one. He’d never admit it—not even to Seb and I—but he was concerned. Kept asking around, wondering if anyone had seen you in any other classes. Or just anywhere about the castle, really.”

“Huh,” I hum in contemplation. “I gathered he wasn’t the talkative sort.”

“Not usually, no,” she agrees softly. “But he cares. More than he lets on.” Her fingers trace the seam of her skirt before she continues, “And then I noticed something off about Garreth.”

I try not to grimace.

She sighs through her nose. “Garreth has been oddly…introspective these past few days. Which, you may not know him well enough yet to recognize, but trust me—when that boy goes quiet, something is wrong.”

I can picture it clearly. Garreth, trying and failing to hide the fact he’s worried out of his mind. Pressing his lips together. Fidgeting more. Laughing a little too loudly to compensate. My gut twists into a guilty knot.

It must show on my face, too, because Lee’s voice gentles. “I brought it up to Ominis and Sebastian just…” She shrugged, gesturing vaguely. “I said it in passing—thought nothing of it. I was simply fretting aloud, worried something had happened over Garreth’s summer to rattle him into silence.”

I look down at the empty space Angel left in my arms. “I asked him not to tell anyone.”

“And he didn’t.” Lee leans forward slightly, earnest. “Not even to me. Trust me—I tried. I asked him casually, then not-so-casually, then—well, I may have…cornered him by the fireplaces in the library.” She grimaces in embarrassment. “He didn’t budge. Dodged every question with the subtlety of a Hippogriff tromping through a greenhouse, but he never told me a thing. He never has been very good at lying to me.”

“So,” Lee goes on, “when I brought it up to the boys, Ominis asked if you and Garreth were roommates, and I said yes." Her lips pulled down into a frown. "So, you were missing from class, and Garreth was behaving strangely. Ominis put it together that you likely had another seizure. He told me about bumping into you—about the first one you had in the Entrance Hall. Both he and Sebastian grew concerned, and for good reason, because...” She gives my untamed dark curls, wrinkled tunic, and loose pajama trousers a non-judgmental once-over. “Well, you look like you’ve been through it.”

“I’m flattered,” I deadpan weakly.

Lee smiles, warm and rueful. “I meant it kindly.”

I nod with a quick, pensive brow, unable to argue with her. I’m unsure whether to thank her or crawl under the blanket. “So, you know, then."

"About your seizure?" She nods, offering me a remorseful smile. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Well," I start, figuring there was no sense in continuing to be stingy. "Ominis was right. I did have a seizure two nights ago. With Garreth."

Lee's shoulders sag, her lips thinning. "I was afraid of that."

"He did good," I comment. "Handled it well under pressure."

She nods vigorously. "Thank Merlin for that."

I bob my head in agreement. "So, you’re here because of Ominis and Sebastian?"

Lee lets out a noise of hesitation. "I suppose—technically—yes. But I was also concerned for you, too. We all were. The boys would've tagged along, but—" Lee chuckles darkly, interrupting herself. “Well, Sebastian’s not one for subtlety, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

At that, I can’t help but bark out a wry laugh, my eyes crinkling with my smirk. “Indeed.”

She mimics my expression, though her nose scrunches with remorse. “He sends his apologies for that, by the way,” she adds.

I shake my head in dismissal. “To be fair, I had a seizure the night before and then just—” I wave my hand “—went to class the next day. I’d be baffled by that, too, I suppose.”

“Anyway,” Lee continues, laughter in her voice, “he thought you might want a proper explanation for his behavior before making a surprise visit.”

“Well,” I begin, thoughtful, “I’ll actually be released from here tonight. Nurse Blainey thinks I should be fine to return to classes tomorrow, so long as I go easy.” My expression smoothes into a truer smile at the thought of being let out. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

Lee nods slowly, but her eyes flick to my hands. She hesitates, weighing her words like they might bite, shifting in her seat. “Can I ask you something a little personal?” she inquires, voice low. “And you can tell me to shove off.”

My stomach tightens, but I nod anyway. “Okay.”

“It’s just…” Her brow furrows, worried but not prying. “Ominis said you collapsed that first night. And you had another two days ago. Are they… Are you dealing with these often?” Her voice dips even quieter. “And having two this close together… Is that normal for you? Are they…bad?”

I stare at the blanket, fingers curling. My throat works uselessly for a moment. Part of me screams to keep quiet, shut the door, bolt it, pretend I’m fine. But I’m tired. And she’s looking at me like she actually cares what the truth is.

So, the words come with much less resistance than I thought they would. “They’re…not bad,” I answer finally. “I never regain consciousness immediately after it happens. I’m usually out for maybe…thirty minutes. At most an hour. And I have a splitting headache for a good while.” I force a shaky exhale. “But since I came to Hogwarts, they’ve been…worse than usual. I couldn’t even hardly stand for a day after that seizure I had with Garreth. And my head—It’s only just stopped hurting this morning. Though, I suppose that could be because I’m not used to… Y’know.”

“Having two back-to-back?” she fills in, her voice a near whisper.

“Mhm,” I hum. “The last one I had before I came to Hogwarts was in March.”

“Gods above,” she swears lowly, brows furrowed, head shaking fervently. “That’s dreadful luck, Waylan. I’m sorry.”

"Dreadful" is a good word, but even it feels inadequate. “S’okay.”

“Well,” she starts more vigorously, a bright smile spreading across her face again. “I’m glad to see you’re on your feet now, and to hear you’ll be in class tomorrow. I think we’ll have Potions together.”

I nod, looking forward to it. “Potions is all Garreth ever talks about.”

Lee looks out the stained glass window behind me, her cheeks glowing warm in the sunlight. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s quite good with Potions. Had to tutor me in year two when I—”

The infirmary door drags open with a familiar groan, slicing her sentence clean in half. I lean to the side to peer around the opening of the teal curtain.

A mop of copper curls and a bright grin meanders inside with heavy footfalls, heading to my cot space. Garreth's chin lifts in greeting. “Mate! You’re looking chipper.”

“I had some company,” I say simply, my eyes darting to Lee, whose smile widens at the sound of Garreth’s voice.

Garreth’s smile doesn’t dim, but his brows draw downward in confusion. “Really?” He stops dead when he peeks around the curtain, spotting Lee resting on the chair at my side. His smile drops, but not into a frown; it smoothes into a gentle beam. “Lee?”

And—oh. Good lord, this is almost comical.

I have to stop my eyes from widening. Garreth’s voice is so much softer than I’ve ever heard it. All that Gryffindor, Weasley bravado—melted in less than a millisecond. Like he’s afraid she might evaporate if he speaks too loud.

Lee’s whole face lights up. “Hey, Gare.”

It’s instant. Like flipping a bloody switch. He gives her this stupidly boyish grin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Lee tries and fails to stifle a sigh, taking a peek at her wrist watch. Her lips twist into a remorseful frown when she notes time. “Well, I unfortunately need to go now,” she laments.

Garreth scoffs, playful but still gentle, rolling his eyes dramatically. “You just gonna run the moment I walk into the room? I’m choosing to take that personally.”

Lee smoothes down her skirt as she stands, leveling him with an arched brow. “Please. This was meant to be a pop in to see Waylan. If it were personal, I’d have bolted the moment I heard your clunky footsteps,” she jests, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, her back to me.

He laughs under his breath. It’s ridiculous how soft it is. He ducks his head down to her, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “How was your day?”

“Not awful,” she mumbles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’ll be better Friday when we have our annual ‘we survived our first week of school’ dinner.” Her eyes crinkle when she smiles at him. “I’m thinking we avoid the Three Broomsticks this year. You remember last year how crowded it was?”

Garreth’s face does a micro-collapse. One wouldn’t notice it unless they were staring. I’m staring.

“Could we…maybe make it Saturday?” he asks sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve got detention Friday.”

Lee snorts. “How is it we’re three days into the school year and you already have detention?”

He groans. “It’s not my fault Black’s a bloody prick. Someone needed to tell him to shove it.”

She lets out a knowing giggle. “Yes, yes, you’re a hero amongst the student body,” she mocks. But then, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Although, I’d be lying if I said I’ve never wanted to snap back at the fatuous nincompoop."

Garreth shrugs, and I can tell he is pointedly avoiding my gaze. “To be honest? It felt really good.”

“Oh, I’m sure it did,” she teases, then sighs theatrically. “I suppose Saturday’s fine.”

His nose scrunches. “You’re not mad?”

Lee lays a gentle hand on his forearm. It’s nothing…yet somehow it’s everything, judging by the way Garreth visibly forgets how to breathe.

“No, you ninny,” Lee counters. “Just try not to get another detention before then, okay?”

Garreth smiles—relieved, grateful, disgustingly smitten. “Deal.”

Lee answers that smile with one of her own before she glances back at me, suddenly remembering she came here for an actual reason. Her hand quickly retreats from Garreth's arm. “I really do have to go, though. I’ve got this one Ravenclaw third-year student begging me to tutor her in Astronomy.” She gives me a quick, apologetic wave. “I’ll see you both later. It was nice to meet you, Waylan.”

“Likewise,” I say genially, my eyes darting to watch how Garreth’s gaze never once deviates from her. “See you in Potions.” 

“Goodnight,” Garreth calls behind her, and—good grief—he sounds like someone’s doting husband instead of a fifteen-year-old boy with a trouble-making streak.

Lee beams at him one more time before slipping past the teal curtains and drawing them shut. The sound of her light footfalls fades further away until the infirmary door opens, and then closes behind her with a soft click.

Silence settles. A clock ticks somewhere in the distance. I hear Angel padding around on parchment. Probably raiding Nurse Blainey’s desk again.

I don’t look at Garreth immediately. That would be far too easy. Instead, I adjust my blanket, fussing with the edge like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. There’s a fray on the threadbare edges, ready to rip at the first errant breeze. Someone ought to fix that.

“So,” I begin mildly.

It’s all I can even get out before Garreth cuts me off: “Don’t start.”

“Didn’t say anything,” I reply, lifting my brows innocently. “But y’know, it's so strange. Your voice rose about three octaves when she said hello.”

His cheeks redden beneath thousands of freckles. “It did not.”

“Mhm.”

“Waylan,” he groans.

“Still didn’t say anything,” I hum.

But then, Garreth’s posture shifts—shoulders tightening, grin fading. He stands straighter, eyes flicking back to mine with sudden seriousness. “Wait,” he says slowly. “How…how did she even know you were here? Did you…did you tell her? Or—”

He stops, and then it hits him. His eyes go wide. Almost panicked. “Waylan, I swear—I didn’t tell her about your—about what happened the other night. I promised I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.”

“Garreth,” I cut in gently, “I know.”

He freezes, mouth half-open.

I offer a small, tired smile. “She didn’t hear it from you.”

A beat. He blinks. “Then…from who? I’ve not told anyone.” His confusion is so earnest it almost makes me laugh.

I lean back against the pillows, crossing my arms loosely. “Oh,” I tell him, a smirk curling at the corner of my mouth, “you’ll actually think this is quite funny.”