The platform at King's Cross Station was a sea of noise and chaos. Steam from the Hogwarts Express billowed across the crowd, mingling with the shrill cries of owls and the chatter of excited students. Families lingered in tight embraces, exchanging last-minute advice and goodbyes, while students darted through the chaos with trunks and pets in tow.

Among the hustle and bustle, Gilda Harrow stood like a sentinel, her tall frame and piercing green eyes drawing attention, but not for the usual reasons. Her robes were immaculate, but the scar across the bridge of her nose, jagged and unmistakable, gave her an air of danger that dared people to look too long.

On her shoulder, Caliban sat like a watchful gargoyle, his red eyes scanning the crowd. Her faithful pet let out a guttural hiss when a young student pointed in Gilda's direction, and the child quickly ducked behind their parent. Caliban's wyvern-like tail flicked against Gilda's neck, as if he could sense the unease in the air. Gilda reached up, brushing her fingers lightly over his head, and he settled with a low croon. She didn't need him to react to every stare—they both knew there would be plenty.

"They're all looking at you," Eleanor Selwyn murmured at her side, keeping close. She was fidgeting with her sleeves, her pale face even paler in the golden light filtering through the station's high windows. Her voice trembled slightly as she added, "I think… I think they're afraid."

"Good," Gilda replied without looking at her. She adjusted her glasses with a deliberate calm, even though one lens still carried a faint crack from where they'd been shattered during the Harbinger Tournament. "Fear is better than pity."

Eleanor cast her a sidelong glance, clearly uneasy. "Gilda, this isn't fear. It's—it's something worse. They hate you."

Gilda's lips pressed into a thin line. "They've been waiting months to see me, Nell. Let them look. Let them hate. It doesn't matter."

But it did matter. It mattered more than she would ever admit, even to Eleanor. The weight of the stares pressed against her shoulders, but she forced herself to stand taller. Her parents wouldn't accept anything less. Straightening her back, she gripped the handle of her trunk tightly and began making her way toward the train, her head held high.

The aisle of the Hogwarts Express was narrow and crowded, bustling with students eager to find their compartments and reconnect with friends. Gilda moved through it like a blade cutting through water, her tall figure forcing others to step aside. Eleanor followed close behind, her presence small and quiet, while Caliban's eyes darted toward every face they passed. The train rocked slightly as they moved, the motion almost soothing in its familiarity.

They were halfway down the aisle when Hermione Granger appeared, balancing a precarious stack of books in her arms. Her wild brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, but it did little to mask the dark circles under her eyes. She muttered to herself as she walked, her lips forming words like Arithmancy and Magical Theory as if rehearsing the titles. Her focus was so intent on the books that she didn't notice Gilda until it was too late.

Caliban let out a piercing screech.

Hermione startled violently, the top book slipping from her grasp. She stumbled, clutching at the stack as the rest teetered dangerously. Gilda reached out, a single finger pressing against the wobbling pile to steady it.

"Careful, Granger," Gilda said, her voice smooth and deliberate. "It'd be a tragedy to scatter all this precious knowledge."

Hermione's wide brown eyes locked onto Gilda's, and for a moment, she froze. Then her expression hardened, her cheeks flushing as she pulled the books closer to her chest. "I don't need your help," she snapped, her voice taut with irritation. "I'm perfectly capable."

"I never doubted it," Gilda replied, her tone light but cutting. She adjusted her glasses and smirked. "Though I do wonder how many of those you'll actually read."

"I'll read every single one," Hermione shot back, her grip tightening on the books. "Unlike some people, I value education."

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably behind Gilda, but Gilda didn't flinch. "And here I thought you'd have a sense of humor after a summer off. Guess I was wrong."

"I don't have time for your games," Hermione snapped, her voice louder now. "Just stay out of my way, Harrow."

"Gladly," Gilda said with a slight bow, stepping aside with mock grace. Caliban hissed again, the sound eerily like laughter, and Hermione's face darkened further.

The Gryffindor prefect marched past them, her books clutched tightly and her robes billowing with the force of her steps. Gilda watched her go, her smirk fading into something unreadable.

"Did you have to do that?" Eleanor asked softly, her voice a mix of reproach and curiosity.

"She makes it too easy," Gilda replied, though her tone was less amused than before. She adjusted her grip on her trunk and started down the aisle again. "Let's find somewhere quiet."

The compartment they found near the back of the train was already occupied. Draco Malfoy leaned lazily against the window, one hand dangling his wand while the other gestured as he spoke. Blaise Zabini was sprawled across his seat with the kind of effortless elegance that only he could manage, while Pansy Parkinson sat beside him, laughing at whatever Theodore Nott was saying. The conversation quieted as Gilda and Eleanor entered.

"Well, well," Blaise drawled, sitting up slightly. "The champion herself graces us with her presence. Should we bow, or will applause suffice?"

"Neither," Gilda replied smoothly, sliding into a seat beside Eleanor. "I'm just here for the company."

Draco smirked, his pale eyes flicking to the scar across her nose. "That's quite the souvenir you brought back, Harrow. Makes you look... distinguished."

"Or dangerous," Theodore added, his grin sharp. "I hear the Gryffindors are still crying about it."

"Let them," Pansy said with a wave of her hand. "They've always been too soft. They could use a little reality check."

The group laughed, and for the first time that morning, Gilda allowed herself to relax. The weight of the stares and whispers on the platform felt distant now, their cruel edges dulled by the easy camaraderie in the compartment.

But the questions came quickly. What had it been like to face Winnick? Was it true she didn't hesitate? Did the Prophet get the details right? Gilda answered each one with the same polite vagueness, her voice calm and detached. The Slytherins leaned in, their curiosity sharpening with each word she didn't say.

"It's a shame they didn't let us watch," Blaise said, leaning back. "I'd have paid to see you take her down."

"Careful, Zabini," Gilda said lightly. "You're starting to sound like a fan."

"Hard not to be," he replied, his smirk widening. "You're all anyone's been talking about."

Pansy leaned forward, her eyes glittering with excitement. "They're saying you didn't even blink, Gilda. That you just—"

The door to the compartment slid open with a bang, cutting her off mid-sentence. Rhys Dawlish stood in the doorway, his face twisted with fury. His Gryffindor tie was askew, and his hands trembled at his sides as he glared at Gilda.

"You!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You think you can just walk back in here like nothing happened?"

The room went still. Gilda rose slowly, her expression turning icy. "Dawlish," she said coolly. "You're making a scene."

"You don't belong here!" Rhys yelled, stepping closer. "You killed her! You killed Winnick, and now you're sitting here laughing like it doesn't matter!"

Before anyone could react, Rhys lunged, grabbing Gilda by the arm and yanking her into the aisle. The train rocked slightly as they stumbled, the commotion drawing curious faces from nearby compartments.

Caliban screeched, his wings flaring as he launched himself at Rhys. His talons raked across the Gryffindor's arm, drawing blood, and his sharp beak snapped inches from Rhys's face. Rhys cried out, reaching for his wand, but Gilda was faster.

"Accio!" she snapped, and Rhys's wand flew into her hand.

"Give it back!" Rhys shouted, clutching his bleeding arm.

"No," Gilda said flatly, her pale green eyes boring into him. Caliban perched back on her shoulder, taking the wand in his clutches, tucked neatly under his wing like a trophy.

"Gilda, please," Eleanor said softly, stepping forward. "Just give it back."

"He should think before he acts next time," Gilda replied, her voice low and cold. She turned her gaze back to Rhys, her tone sharp enough to cut. "Touch me again, Dawlish, and you'll regret it."

Rhys's face crumpled, his fury giving way to desperation. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I need my wand."

Gilda didn't flinch. "Learn some self-control," she said, turning back toward the compartment.

The Slytherins jeered as Rhys was pulled away by a group of older Gryffindors, his protests fading into the clamor of the train. Caliban let out a sharp caw, almost mocking, as he settled lower on Gilda's shoulder. The wand remained tucked securely under his wing, as though it had belonged to him all along. Gilda straightened her robes with a deliberate, almost dismissive motion, then turned and re-entered the compartment without a backward glance.

Inside, the Slytherins were in fits of laughter. Draco leaned back in his seat, smirking. "Well, that was… spirited. I didn't think Dawlish had it in him."

"Idiotic is more like it," Blaise said with a chuckle. "Imagine thinking you could take her on. In the middle of the train, no less."

"Poor boy," Pansy added, not sounding sympathetic in the least. "That was embarrassing."

Theodore leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You're setting quite the tone for the year, Gilda. I didn't think you'd make such an impression before we even reached Hogwarts."

Gilda took her seat beside Eleanor, her expression calm but unreadable. She reached up and stroked Caliban's head, her fingers gliding over the soft feathers. The creature's guttural purr rumbled softly, his piercing red eyes still locked on the doorway.

"I didn't set the tone," Gilda said after a moment, her voice low and measured. "He did. I simply ensured he wouldn't forget it."

"You certainly did," Blaise said, raising an eyebrow. "You've got half the train buzzing already. Not that they weren't already obsessed with you."

"Obsession is a strong word," Gilda replied, leaning back slightly.

"It's accurate," Draco cut in. "You've got Gryffindors rallying for justice, Hufflepuffs clutching their pearls, and Ravenclaws writing essays on your moral ambiguity. Meanwhile, Slytherin's lucky to have you."

The compartment burst into laughter, but Eleanor remained quiet, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She glanced at Gilda, watching the way her friend's smirk flickered into something darker for the briefest of moments. Eleanor understood why Gilda was acting this way—she had to protect herself, to wear this mask of control—but it didn't make the pit in her stomach feel any less heavy.

The tension in the compartment eased further when the trolley came by. Gilda purchased an assortment of treats, filling the small table with Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Cauldron Cakes, and Pumpkin Pasties. The Slytherins dug in enthusiastically, their earlier conversation dissolving into jokes and lighthearted banter. Even Eleanor managed a faint smile as Gilda handed her a Licorice Wand.

For a while, the compartment felt almost normal. But Eleanor couldn't shake the memory of Rhys's face, twisted with grief and anger, or the way Gilda's voice had turned icy as she held his wand.

As the train rattled onward, the chatter continued, the sweets dwindled, and Gilda leaned her head back against the seat, her eyes closing briefly. Caliban perched above her, his head tilted as though watching over her. Eleanor studied her friend in the dim light, wondering what thoughts swirled behind those striking green eyes.

Whatever Gilda was thinking, she didn't share it. And Eleanor didn't ask.

The compartment settled into an uneasy calm after the incident with Rhys Dawlish, though the atmosphere still buzzed with residual energy. Caliban hopped on the back of Gilda's seat. His sharp red eyes scanned the room, locking onto each of the Slytherins in turn. As he moved, his beak opened, and a guttural, rasping whisper came forth, low and unintelligible to anyone but Gilda.

Blaise was the first to comment, leaning forward with an amused expression. "What's he saying, Gilda? Or is that some creepy private language the two of you share?"

"Maybe he's hexing us," Pansy said with a mock shiver. "It'd explain why he's glaring at me like that."

Theodore tilted his head, studying the owl-like creature with open curiosity. "It's like he's… judging us. You can feel it. He's definitely saying something, and I'm not sure I want to know what."

Draco, who had been leaning lazily against the window, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, he's judging us, all right. Look at him. He's practically sneering." His gaze flicked to Gilda. "Are you going to translate, or do we have to guess?"

Gilda leaned back in her seat, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Caliban tilted his head at her, his guttural whispers continuing as he fixed his gaze on Blaise. After a long moment, Gilda finally spoke.

"You want to know what he thinks of you?" she asked, her voice light but edged with mischief.

"Yes," Blaise said immediately, though his grin faltered slightly. "Lay it on me."

Gilda gestured toward Caliban, who gave one final rasp before going silent. She turned her eyes to Blaise. "He thinks you're insufferably vain. Says you probably spend more time on your hair than any witch or wizard alive."

The compartment erupted into laughter. Blaise feigned offense, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Unbelievable. Coming from a bird who doesn't even have proper feathers."

"Oh, don't worry," Gilda continued, her tone utterly casual. "He's not a fan of any of you. Pansy? He's pretty sure your laugh could shatter glass. Theodore? He thinks you'd sell him for a bag of sweets if you thought you could get away with it."

Theodore laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged."

"And Draco?" Gilda paused, her smirk widening. "He doesn't know what to make of you. Says you're all bark and no bite."

Draco scowled, though his lips twitched with amusement. "He's lucky he's your pet."

"Oh, I know," Gilda said, her tone light but teasing. "I'll work on his attitude. Promise."

Caliban let out a low hiss, clearly not impressed with the room's reaction. He shifted on the back of the seat and pulled Rhys's wand from under his wing with his slender clawed fingers. The Slytherins watched with renewed interest as the strange creature began chewing on it, his sharp teeth leaving deep gouges along the polished wood. Eleanor's eyes widened in alarm.

"Gilda, shouldn't you—"

"No," Gilda interrupted with a wave of her hand, her tone amused. "Let him have his fun. Dawlish can consider it a lesson in consequences."

Eleanor hesitated but didn't push further. She watched nervously as Caliban continued gnawing on the wand, his beak snapping down with audible cracks. Then, unexpectedly, he held the wand out in front of him, gripping it awkwardly as though he were trying to cast.

The room burst into laughter.

"Is he trying to duel us?" Theodore asked between chuckles.

"Go on, Caliban," Pansy said mockingly. "Let's see your best Expelliarmus."

Nothing happened at first. Caliban tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing as he made a jerky, awkward flourish with the wand.

Then, with a deafening CRACK, one of the windows exploded outward, shards of glass flying into the whipping air. The compartment fell silent, save for the howling wind rushing through the open frame.

"Merlin's beard!" Blaise shouted, throwing up an arm to shield himself from the cold wind. "What the bloody hell was that?"

"Did he just—" Pansy began, but her words were drowned out by Theodore's laughter.

Caliban dropped the wand, looking almost pleased with himself as he hopped back onto Gilda's shoulder. Blaise quickly drew his wand and attempted to repair the damage. "Reparo!" he shouted, and the scattered shards of glass rattled together, forming a patchwork pane with jagged edges and numerous missing pieces.

"That's… a look," Pansy said, stifling a laugh.

"You can't Reparo something when half the pieces are a mile away," Gilda said, chuckling as she pulled out her wand. With a quick flick, she muttered an incantation under her breath, and a smooth new pane of glass formed in the empty frame. It fit perfectly, as though it had always been there.

Blaise gave her an appraising look. "You're frighteningly good at that," he said with a sly grin. "It's attractive, really."

Caliban hissed sharply, baring his teeth at Blaise, who immediately leaned back in mock surrender. "All right, all right. I get it. You're the alpha here."

Eleanor, however, wasn't laughing. She reached for the wand Caliban had dropped, her fingers brushing the deep marks where he'd chewed. "We need to give this back," she said quietly, her voice firm but tinged with unease.

Gilda raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her seat. "Why? He can come ask for it properly if he wants it."

"Gilda, if we don't give it back before we get to Hogwarts, this could turn into a much bigger problem," Eleanor said, her tone insistent. "You know how McGonagall feels about… things like this."

Gilda waved a hand dismissively. "Fine, I'll give it back. It's not like he'll learn anything, but—"

"No," Eleanor interrupted, standing up. "I'll do it. If you go, you'll just end up starting another fight."

Gilda tilted her head, intrigued. "And why do you want to do it so badly?"

Eleanor flushed, gripping the wand tighter. "Do you think this is something I want to do? Honestly?"

Gilda stared at her for a moment before breaking into a rare smile. "Fair enough, Nell. It's all yours."

She handed the wand over, and Eleanor left the compartment, leaving Gilda and the others laughing in her wake. Caliban crooned softly, settling back onto Gilda's shoulder as the train rattled onward.

The atmosphere in the compartment had shifted. The earlier laughter and jeers had given way to a tense quiet, filled only by the rhythmic hum of the train's wheels against the tracks and the occasional rustle of candy wrappers. Caliban, as if sensing the change, tilted his head and let out a low, rasping murmur. He moved with deliberate care, stepping from the back of Gilda's seat onto her shoulder. Without hesitation, he reached out one clawed wing, hooked the edge of her hood, and pulled it over her head. He nestled himself behind her neck, the warmth of his small body strangely grounding as his tail curled protectively around her shoulder.

"That's... unsettling," Theodore Nott remarked, his eyebrows lifting as he watched Caliban tuck himself against Gilda's neck. "He acts more like a familiar than an owl. Where in Merlin's name did you get him? He's like nothing I've ever seen."

"My parents got him for me," Gilda replied, her tone even, though she didn't look up. "After the tournament. He was bred specifically for me."

Draco Malfoy leaned back in his seat, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Bred? He's not just some exotic pet, then?"

"No," Gilda said, reaching up to lightly brush Caliban's feathers. Her touch was careful, almost reverent. "He's part wyvern. Look at his tail." She gestured toward the smooth, reptilian appendage swishing rhythmically against her shoulder.

The Slytherins leaned in with unabashed fascination. Blaise Zabini tilted his head for a better look, his expression shifting from amusement to genuine interest. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "That's... terrifyingly brilliant."

"He's still young," Gilda continued, her voice calm but tinged with a trace of pride. She parted the feathers on Caliban's head to reveal two small nubs just beginning to protrude from his skull. "These are his horns. They'll grow in fully when he matures. Eventually, they'll be quite intimidating."

Pansy Parkinson wrinkled her nose but didn't look away. "He already looks like something out of a horror story. How much worse is he going to get?"

Gilda smirked faintly. "Depends on your perspective. He's loyal, protective, and intelligent. But he's still new to the world. To all of this." She gestured vaguely to the train around her. "He doesn't like the way everyone keeps looking at me."

Theodore let out a dry chuckle. "He's got a point. Half the train's either terrified of you or plotting some kind of righteous crusade."

"That's rich," Pansy said with a laugh. "As if any of them could take her. Did you see Dawlish? He didn't even last two seconds."

The group laughed, but Blaise's expression turned more serious. "How does it feel?" he asked suddenly.

Gilda glanced at him. "How does what feel?"

"All of it," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The stares, the whispers, the infamy. You killed Winnick Goldstein in front of half the wizarding world. What's that like?"

The compartment grew quiet again, all eyes turning to Gilda. Even Eleanor, who had been sitting stiffly beside her, seemed to hold her breath.

Gilda's jaw tightened, but she kept her tone measured. "It's... expected," she said finally. "Winnick was a Gryffindor darling. She wasn't going to go quietly. And for the record, I didn't kill her on purpose. She kept fighting until the very end. I just did what I had to do."

Draco, who had been lounging against the window, let out a low chuckle. "That's not what I heard."

Gilda turned her sharp gaze on him, her eyes narrowing. "What exactly did you hear, Malfoy?"

Draco's smirk widened, his pale eyes glinting with mischief. "My father told me you were overwhelmed. That Winnick broke your nose—" he gestured lazily to the scar across her face "—and you snapped. Kept bouncing her off the floor even when she couldn't fight back."

Caliban stirred under Gilda's hood, his claws flexing against her shoulder. She didn't move, her expression cold and unreadable.

"Draco," Eleanor said softly, her voice hesitant. "Maybe—"

"Let him finish," Gilda interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Draco held up his hands, feigning innocence. "I'm just repeating what I was told. That an official had to stop you, that you sat there crying while your mother held your hand. And that Winnick's family stormed the floor, screaming for justice." His smirk grew sharper. "Oh, and apparently, you puked."

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Merlin's beard. Is that true?"

Theodore's voice was quieter, more thoughtful. "What really happened, Gilda?"

Eleanor reached out, placing a hand on Gilda's arm. "You don't have to explain anything. You—"

"Don't," Gilda snapped, jerking her arm away. Her voice was low, trembling with suppressed fury. "You, of all people, should be defending me right now."

Eleanor flinched, her hand falling to her lap. Her cheeks flushed, but she said nothing. The silence in the compartment was suffocating as all eyes turned back to Gilda. She took a slow, shuddering breath, her fingers curling into fists.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice cold and clipped. "Most of it's true. Yes, I was overwhelmed. Yes, I was shaken. Yes, I was sick after killing another student—someone I've been acquainted with for years—while her family screamed at me from the stands."

She straightened in her seat, her pale green eyes flashing. "But what none of you understand is the pressure. The expectations. My family put a burden on me that none of you could handle. I'm the eldest. The Harrow legacy rests on my shoulders, and failure isn't an option."

Her voice softened, but the edge remained. "I didn't mean to kill Winnick. But she didn't show me any mercy, and I wasn't about to show her mercy in return."

The room was still, the only sound the low hum of the train beneath them. Then Gilda's voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and dangerous. "And if I had to do it again? I would."

No one spoke. Even Caliban seemed to sense the weight of her words, his guttural murmurs falling silent. The Slytherins exchanged uneasy glances, none of them daring to meet her gaze.

Eleanor, who had been staring at her lap, finally looked up. Her voice was barely audible. "Gilda…"

But Gilda didn't respond. She leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and stared out the newly repaired window. The conversation was over. And so was any illusion of camaraderie.

Gilda didn't speak as she abruptly stood and left the compartment, the door sliding shut behind her with a sharp hiss. Caliban nestled deeper into her hood, sensing her agitation. The corridor outside was bustling with students, their conversations muffled behind the steady clatter of the train's wheels. Gilda didn't acknowledge any of them, though she could feel their eyes lingering as she stormed past. The weight of their stares only fueled the heat rising in her chest.

Back in the compartment, Eleanor turned sharply to Draco, her pale face flushed with anger. "Did you have to say all that?" she hissed. "You know what she's been through. We're supposed to be on the same side."

Draco raised his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk had faded. "I was just stating facts. She's the one who admitted they were true."

"Because you pushed her," Eleanor snapped. "You don't know what it's like to carry that kind of pressure. None of you do." Her voice softened, but the reproach remained. "You can't just... throw things like that at her. You saw how she reacted."

Blaise looked uncomfortable, glancing at the door. "I think we all saw it. Maybe you're right, Selwyn."

Draco shifted in his seat but said nothing, his gaze falling to the floor.

Gilda moved quickly down the narrow aisle, her hands clenched into fists. The whispers followed her, low and insidious, cutting through her composure with every step. She kept her chin high, though her breath came in short bursts, her heart pounding in her chest.

As she neared the washroom, a younger girl reached for the door handle, but Gilda's voice cut through the din like a whip. "Get out of the way."

The girl froze, her wide eyes darting to Gilda's scar and the dark shape of Caliban lurking in her hood. Without a word, she stepped back, her face pale, and hurried down the hall. Gilda shoved the door open, slamming it shut behind her.

She leaned against the door, her chest heaving as she fought back the tears welling in her eyes. "Damn it," she muttered, pulling her hood down and taking off her glasses. The tears came in a sudden, uncontrollable rush. She covered her face with one hand, but Caliban shifted, his talons lightly brushing her shoulder.

His beak nudged her cheek, and then, to her surprise, he began licking the tears away with deliberate care. His warm tongue was rough but oddly soothing, his red eyes glinting with concern. Gilda let out a shaky laugh despite herself, lowering her hand.

"You're ridiculous," she muttered, stroking his feathers. "But... thanks."

Caliban tilted his head, crooning softly, and nestled closer to her neck. The simple gesture grounded her, his unwavering presence cutting through the chaos in her mind. He was fierce and strange and utterly loyal—everything she hadn't expected, and everything she needed.

But then Malfoy's words crept back into her thoughts, dragging her back to that moment in the arena. She could see Winnick's broken body, the blood pooling on the cold stone floor, the sickening angle of her neck. Her stomach turned violently, and before she could stop herself, she was hunched over the sink, retching.

The acid burned her throat, and she gagged again, gripping the edges of the porcelain for support. When it was over, she turned on the tap, rinsing her mouth and splashing cold water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes rimmed red, her scar prominent and unforgiving.

She used to love the way people looked at her—admiring, intrigued, sometimes even intimidated. Now, almost everyone looked at her with disgust. The thought made her chest tighten, her hands gripping the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.

Her breathing slowed as her thoughts shifted, unbidden, to her mother. For years, she had craved her mother's attention, only to receive cold indifference and endless expectations. But after the tournament, something had changed. Her mother had sensed the toll Winnick's death had taken on her and, for the first time, offered comfort instead of critique.

That comfort had come at a price, Gilda knew. Winnick's death had solidified her parents' approval in a way nothing else could have. She had secured their love, their respect, their pride—and with it, the sense of belonging she had always yearned for. A home. A place where she wasn't just tolerated but valued.

She straightened, wiping her face with the sleeve of her robes. "Maybe it was worth it," she whispered to herself, her voice steady now.

Caliban crooned again, his talons tightening slightly on her shoulder. She glanced at him in the mirror, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Let's go back," she said quietly. "I'm fine now."

When Gilda returned to the compartment, the chatter inside died instantly. The Slytherins avoided her gaze, their earlier bravado replaced by an awkward silence. Draco stared out the window, his expression unreadable, while Blaise leaned back in his seat, studying his hands.

Eleanor glanced at Gilda as she entered, her face a mix of concern and relief. As Gilda sat down, Eleanor reached over, giving her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. Her smile was small but sincere, and Gilda felt a flicker of gratitude.

Eleanor had clearly said something in her absence. The silence wasn't hostile—it was guilty.

Gilda leaned back in her seat, Caliban shifting to his perch above her. The tension in the room was still thick, but she no longer felt it pressing against her chest. For now, that was enough.