The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express echoed faintly in Gilda Harrow's ears as she sat in her corner of the Slytherin compartment. Her pale green eyes, framed by her glasses, fixed on the window. She wasn't watching the countryside blur past, not really. Her mind was elsewhere, far from the train, far from Hogwarts.
It had been weeks since she'd left home, yet her mother's voice lingered in her thoughts like an incantation. She could still hear the careful, measured tone her mother used when explaining the intricate details of a particularly advanced curse. The patience her mother had shown—it was so uncharacteristic that it had left Gilda off balance. The affection, the attention, all of it had come flooding in the aftermath of the tournament, almost overwhelming in its intensity.
She wasn't naive. She knew the guilt fueling it. Her mother would never say it out loud, but it was obvious. Gilda had felt the weight of it in every moment of her mother's hurried care, in the way her hands trembled when she brushed Gilda's hair back, in the way she whispered reassurances that Gilda had done what was necessary. It didn't take a Legilimens to see that guilt.
It didn't matter. Guilt or not, her mother's affection was something Gilda had craved her entire life. That desperate hunger for approval was an ache so familiar she barely noticed it anymore. But in those fleeting weeks at home, that ache had dulled, replaced by a strange warmth. She hated that she missed it now, sitting here with nothing but her own thoughts for company.
She frowned, trying to recall the details of a particularly complex curse her mother had drilled into her mind before her departure. It was a truth-extraction curse, as precise as Veritaserum but far more difficult to master. The incantation hovered at the edge of her memory, tantalizingly close, but refused to snap into place.
Gilda's fingers curled in her lap, her nails digging into the fabric of her robe. She could hear her mother's voice scolding her for such carelessness, for letting a spell slip from her mind so easily.
She muttered under her breath, trying to coax the words back, but they eluded her. Her jaw tightened. She hated the feeling of failure, the sharp edge of inadequacy that clawed at her chest. She should have remembered this.
"You all right there, Harrow?" Blaise Zabini's voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and casual, though his dark eyes were sharp with curiosity.
Gilda's head snapped up, her expression smoothing instantly. "I'm fine," she said curtly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Blaise raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You don't look fine."
"She looks annoyed," Pansy Parkinson chimed in, leaning forward slightly. "What's got you so worked up, Gilda? Forget to pack your superiority complex?"
"She's thinking, just leave her be," Eleanor interjected, her tone light but protective. She gave Pansy a pointed look, but she only raised an eyebrow.
Gilda finally turned her head, her eyes locking onto Pansy's with an intensity that made her shift slightly. "If you must know," she said evenly, "I'm thinking about home."
"Home?" Pansy asked, tilting her head. "Didn't think you were the sentimental type."
Gilda leaned back, crossing her arms. "I'm not. But some things are worth missing."
Her fingers itched for the small book tucked safely in her trunk overhead. It was a piece of that summer, a piece of her mother's pride, and she wanted to see it again.
Without a word, Gilda stood and reached for the overhead compartment. The others watched curiously as she pulled down her trunk and opened it with a practiced flick of her wand. From inside, she withdrew a slim, leather-bound book, its cover worn and marked, embossed letters glowing faintly in the dim light.
"What's that?" Theodore asked, leaning forward.
Gilda didn't answer immediately. She sat back down, placing the book carefully on her lap. "An heirloom," she said finally, running her fingers over the embossed title..
Blaise let out a low whistle. "That sounds... ominous."
"It's not for just anyone," Gilda replied coolly. "My parents gave it to me this summer. Said I earned it."
"Earned it how?" Draco asked, his tone sharp with curiosity.
Gilda's smirk returned, but she didn't answer. Instead, she flipped the book open. The air in the compartment seemed to shift as the pages fell open, glowing faintly with shifting runes and glyphs that moved like liquid. The others leaned in, their eyes narrowing as they tried to make sense of the strange, living text.
"What the bloody hell is that?" Pansy muttered, her voice tinged with unease.
"It's a cipher," Gilda said, her tone calm and faintly amused. "Only a Harrow can read it."
"You can actually read that?" Theodore asked, his voice skeptical.
"Of course," Gilda replied, scanning the text with ease. The incantation she'd been struggling to recall earlier came back to her in perfect clarity, along with the intricate wand movements her mother had demonstrated. "It's all here."
"What kind of spells are in there?" Blaise asked, his voice dropping slightly. "Hexes? Jinxes?"
"Curses," Gilda said, her tone sharp.
The compartment fell silent, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. Then Blaise broke the tension.
"Teach us," he said, leaning forward.
Gilda arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Teach us," Blaise repeated, his tone more insistent. "If the book's full of curses we can't learn at Hogwarts, then I'm interested."
Pansy nodded eagerly. "Me too."
Eleanor's expression tightened. "You don't even know what you're asking for."
"Don't we?" Blaise shot back. "We're asking for an advantage. For knowledge."
Gilda closed the book with a deliberate snap, her pale green eyes sweeping across the eager faces in front of her. "You think this is just knowledge? These aren't spells you can use to impress your friends. They're weapons. And once you learn them, you can't unlearn them."
"We're Slytherins," Draco said confidently. "We can handle it."
Gilda's smirk faded into something colder. "Can you? Because I'm not convinced."
Eleanor touched her arm gently. "Gilda, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," Gilda said, cutting her off. She glanced at Eleanor, her expression softening slightly, before turning back to the others. "But let me be clear: I'm not here to hand out power to people who can't handle the responsibility. You want my help? Earn it."
"How?" Blaise asked, his voice steady.
Gilda leaned back, crossing her arms. "Respect. Loyalty. Keep everyone off my back. You know as well as I do that half this school would rather see me dead than back at Hogwarts. If you can give me a reason to trust you, then maybe I'll consider it."
The compartment was silent for a moment, the others exchanging uneasy glances. Then Blaise nodded. "Fair enough."
Draco leaned forward, his silver eyes gleaming. "You'll see, Harrow. We're not just talk."
Gilda didn't reply. She opened the book again, her eyes scanning the text as Caliban murmured softly in her ear. The others watched her, their curiosity and unease palpable, but Gilda ignored them.
Eleanor shifted beside her, her hand brushing against Gilda's arm. "You okay?" she asked quietly.
Gilda glanced at her, her expression unreadable. "I'm fine," she said simply. But as her eyes flicked back to the glowing runes, a small smirk tugged at her lips.
The Slytherin compartment of the Hogwarts Express was heavy with tension, the air thick enough to cut. Gilda Harrow sat by the window, her pale green eyes fixed on the leather-bound book in her lap. Around her, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson waited with thinly veiled curiosity, while Eleanor Selwyn sat quietly at Gilda's side, her unease growing with every passing second.
"You've been sitting with that book like it holds the secrets to immortality," Pansy said, leaning forward with her usual smirk. "What's in it, Gilda? Why not share with the class?"
"I've already made myself clear." She exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to snap. "The book is mine," she said simply. "For now, that's all you need to know."
"Oh, come on," Blaise said smoothly, his dark eyes glittering with interest. "You wouldn't have pulled it out if you didn't want us to ask."
Eleanor glanced at Gilda, her expression concerned. "You don't have to explain yourself," she murmured softly.
"I wasn't planning to," Gilda replied, her tone clipped. But as her gaze flicked back to the glowing runes shifting on the page, she felt the need to say something. She wouldn't be cornered by their curiosity. "I was trying to remember a curse."
"A curse?" Theodore asked, leaning forward.
"A truth curse," Gilda clarified, her voice cold and precise. "It forces absolute honesty. Like Veritaserum."
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. Then Pansy snorted, breaking the tension.
"Please," she said with a laugh. "You don't know something like that. Even Snape uses Veritaserum when he needs the truth. If he doesn't bother with a curse, why would you?"
Gilda's lips curled into a sharp smile. "I know Snape better than you do, Parkinson."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked, his silver eyes narrowing.
"It means I'm tired of explaining myself to people who wouldn't understand," Gilda replied, her voice icy. "Believe what you want."
Pansy smirked, leaning back in her seat. "You're dodging because you're bluffing. Admit it—you don't actually know the curse."
"Pansy," Eleanor said, her tone pleading. "Just leave it alone."
But Gilda had had enough. Her fingers tightened around the book, and she stood abruptly, sliding her wand from her robes. Caliban stirred on her shoulder, his red eyes glinting with interest as he let out a low, guttural murmur.
"You want proof?" Gilda said, her voice low and dangerous. "Fine."
"Gilda, don't," Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking. "She's just—"
But Gilda wasn't listening. Her wand moved with deliberate precision as she spoke the incantation. The curse hit Pansy square on the forehead, and her smirk vanished instantly. Her face went slack, then twisted in fear as the spell took hold.
Her skin turned ghostly pale, her wide eyes locked onto Gilda, silently pleading for mercy.
"Let's start simple," Gilda said, her voice cold and clinical. "Who do you think is the weakest person in this compartment?"
Pansy tried to keep her mouth shut, but the curse forced the words out of her. "Draco."
Draco's face twisted in indignation. "What?"
Pansy's voice trembled as she continued. "You act like you're better than everyone, but you're not. You're a coward. You hide behind your father's name because you don't have anything of your own."
The room fell deathly silent. Even Blaise looked uncomfortable.
"That's interesting," Gilda said, tilting her head. "Now, what's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"
Pansy's lips quivered, her face flushing bright red. "I—I wet myself during a duel in second year," she choked out. Her voice cracked, but the curse didn't relent. "I blamed it on a leaky roof so no one would know."
Theodore snorted, but his laughter faltered as Pansy's breathing grew heavier, her hands gripping the edges of her seat.
"Let's continue, shall we?" Gilda said, her voice soft but merciless. "What do you think of your parents?"
Pansy's tears welled as the words spilled uncontrollably. "They don't love me. They only care about appearances. They think I'm stupid. And... and sometimes, I think they're right."
The sob that escaped her lips was raw, unfiltered. Eleanor moved to reach for her, but Gilda ignored it, her pale green eyes fixed on her trembling subject.
"One more question," Gilda said, leaning forward. "Who do you hate the most in this room?"
Pansy tried to fight it, her jaw trembling as she resisted, but the answer came anyway. "Gilda," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Because you're everything they want me to be. And you terrify me."
The words cut through the room like a knife. Gilda blinked, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the compartment was silent except for Pansy's ragged breathing.
Finally, Gilda flicked her wand, releasing the curse. Pansy slumped forward, sobs wracking her body as she buried her face in her hands. Eleanor rushed to her side, placing a comforting hand on her back.
"That was too far," Eleanor said sharply, glaring at Gilda. "She's crying, Gilda. She's—she's shaking."
Gilda slid her wand back into her robes, her expression cold and unyielding. "She asked for proof. She got it."
"That wasn't proof," Eleanor snapped. "That was cruelty."
"She humiliated herself," Gilda said, her voice calm and detached. "I just gave her the opportunity."
Blaise exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. "Well," he said, his voice quiet, "you've certainly made your point."
Draco crossed his arms, his silver eyes narrowing. "You're dangerous, Harrow. Maybe too dangerous."
"Maybe," Gilda said, opening the book again.
Caliban murmured softly, his guttural whispers almost approving as he nestled closer to Gilda's neck. She reached up to stroke his feathers, her eyes fixed on the glowing runes as if nothing else mattered.
Eleanor shot her one last glare before turning her attention back to Pansy. "It's okay," she murmured softly, though Pansy's sobs continued to shake her. "You're fine. It's over."
The compartment remained thick with tension as Gilda stood, her pale green eyes fixed on Eleanor and Pansy. Eleanor was still consoling the sobbing girl, her hand lightly rubbing Pansy's back. Caliban shifted on Gilda's shoulder, letting out a low, guttural murmur that almost sounded like approval.
The train rattled on, but even as the minutes passed, Pansy remained inconsolable, and the sight of Eleanor comforting her became unbearable.
"Enough," Gilda said sharply, her tone cutting through the quiet. Eleanor froze mid-motion, glancing up at her, her expression torn between frustration and concern.
"She needs—" Eleanor began, but Gilda raised a hand to silence her.
"I said enough," Gilda repeated, her voice low and commanding. She stepped forward and gripped Pansy's arm firmly, pulling her upright. Pansy stumbled, her face streaked with tears, but she didn't resist.
"Where are you taking her?" Blaise asked, his tone more curious than alarmed.
Gilda didn't answer, her focus entirely on Pansy. The others watched in stunned silence as she guided the trembling girl out of the compartment and into the corridor.
The train rattled beneath their feet as Gilda led Pansy to the far end of the car, away from prying eyes and curious ears. She stopped near the door leading to the next carriage, where the noise of the train drowned out the faint murmurs of students in the distance.
Gilda turned to face Pansy, her grip on the other girl's arm loosening slightly. Pansy's breath was still shaky, her tear-streaked face pale as she avoided Gilda's gaze.
"Did you learn your lesson?" Gilda asked, her voice calm but edged with steel.
Pansy hesitated, swallowing hard before nodding. "Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm... I'm sorry."
Gilda tilted her head, studying Pansy with a calculating gaze. She knew the girl's pride had been shattered, but that made her malleable—a weakness Gilda could turn to her advantage.
"Good," Gilda said softly. "Because I want to make something clear. You weren't the only one who could have been humiliated back there. Any one of them could have been dragged through the dirt just like you were. I could have done worse. Do you understand that?"
Pansy nodded quickly, her wide eyes flicking up to meet Gilda's before darting away again.
"I'm willing to overlook your... instigative tendencies," Gilda continued, her tone softening just enough to feel like a lifeline. "But only if you keep your promise. You said you'd watch my back. I expect you to mean it."
"I will," Pansy said quickly, her voice trembling. "I swear, I will."
Gilda's expression shifted slightly, her calculating edge giving way to something almost genuine. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "If you do, I'll make it worth your while. I'll even help you win your parents' approval."
Pansy froze, her tearful eyes locking onto Gilda's in surprise.
"I know what it's like," Gilda continued, her voice steady. "To feel like nothing you do is good enough. To be made to feel small and insignificant in your own home. You don't have to deal with that alone. I can help."
The flicker of gratitude in Pansy's eyes was enough to confirm Gilda's success. The girl nodded again, her trembling easing slightly as she seemed to steady herself.
"Thank you," Pansy whispered.
Gilda smiled faintly, the expression as much a mask as it was a reassurance. "Let's go back. No need to make this more dramatic than it already is."
She turned and led Pansy back toward the compartment, her grip on the girl's arm firm but no longer forceful. When they reentered, the conversation in the room fell silent, all eyes turning to the pair.
Blaise arched an eyebrow. "Well, that was... quick. What did you say to her?"
Gilda ignored the question, guiding Pansy back to her seat. Eleanor watched the interaction closely, her lips pressing into a thin line as she glanced between the two girls.
Pansy sat down quietly, her head bowed, but there was a subtle shift in her demeanor—no longer fearful, but subdued. She avoided meeting anyone's eyes but Gilda's, her expression one of wary gratitude.
Draco leaned forward, his silver eyes narrowing. "What did you do?"
Gilda smirked faintly as she sat back in her seat, opening her book again as though nothing had happened. "Nothing you'd understand."
The others exchanged glances, their earlier unease now mixed with something else—respect, perhaps even admiration. Gilda had not only diffused the situation but turned it to her advantage in a way none of them had anticipated.
Blaise shook his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You really are something else, Harrow."
Gilda didn't reply, her attention already back on the shifting runes in her book. But Caliban let out a soft, guttural murmur, his red eyes gleaming as he nestled closer to her neck.
Eleanor, still watching Gilda closely, sighed and turned her attention back to Pansy, murmuring quiet reassurances. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something deeper had shifted—something none of them fully understood yet.