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Chapter 13
Remus Lupin's fingers ran across the pages of a Ministry report, his brow creasing as he read the words in disbelief. No trial. Not a single witness questioned, no examination of Sirius's wand, not even a preliminary hearing. Sirius had been taken directly to Azkaban on the word of a few witnesses and the chaos of that terrible day, stripped of any defense. Lupin's hand trembled slightly, a ripple of anger he rarely allowed himself to feel. The sense of betrayal by the Ministry, by his own oversight, weighed heavily on him.
Across from him, Tonks—who had insisted on being called "Nym" now, just for him—was lost in her own notes, her hair a pale lavender shade that softened the sharpness of her usually bold expressions. Remus stole a glance, taking in her quiet determination, the way she leaned close to the documents, lips pursed in concentration. She looked up, catching his gaze, and their eyes held for a brief second longer than either intended. She offered a faint smile, her hand brushing his briefly as she pointed to a line in the report.
"They didn't even question him," she murmured, her voice carrying disbelief and an undercurrent of disgust. "It's as if they wanted someone to blame so badly, they didn't care who it was."
Remus exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I… I didn't check. I assumed—like everyone else—that Sirius was guilty. I lost myself in that grief, Nym," he said, his tone lined with bitterness, the weight of years evident in every word. "I believed one of my best friends had killed the others… never questioned it, never even thought to."
Tonks placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her thumb tracing a gentle, grounding pattern there. "Sirius has forgiven you, Remus. He understood. And Harry, too. He forgave you without a second thought." Her voice was soft, steady. "Maybe it's time you forgave yourself."
Remus looked away, his jaw tight. The words hung between them, challenging yet somehow comforting. He let her hand stay on his shoulder, savoring the warmth, the calm she seemed to bring. Then, in a moment of impulse he didn't fully understand, he let his hand rest atop hers, meeting her eyes.
"Thank you, Nym," he whispered. The closeness felt uncharted, almost forbidden, but he didn't pull back. For a heartbeat, he let himself be there, just there, in that moment.
They moved, almost instinctively, closer. Her face was so close to his, her lips parted slightly, her breath mingling with his own. He could feel the tension, the pull toward her, and he saw the same in her eyes, a quiet yearning she didn't try to hide.
But then, with a reluctant inhale, Remus pulled back, dropping his hand from hers. "I'm sorry," he murmured, voice barely audible. His gaze fell to the table, the tenderness of the moment lingering heavily.
"Don't apologize," she replied, her tone light but warm. "It's all right, Remus. We've got time."
With a faint, appreciative smile, he nodded. They returned to the documents, but the air between them felt different now—charged, softened. And somewhere deep within, Remus felt a small part of that self-imposed burden begin to loosen, as if her words had reached places even he had buried too deep to see.
…
Amelia Bones stepped into the Ministry of Magic with a sense of vigilance that had become second nature. Things had changed in her department—Dawlish's betrayal had rattled her, though she would never show it. The man had been in Fudge and Umbridge's pocket all along, his loyalties bending whichever way his superiors dictated. It wasn't just Dawlish; the Ministry itself had begun to rot from within under Fudge's influence, something she was determined to repair.
Today, though, she noticed the difference immediately. She passed through the atrium, a well-practiced eye catching the subtle changes in movement and demeanor. The air was thicker with tension and caution, but it also carried a new edge of resolve. Aurors stood stationed at key checkpoints, their wands at the ready, eyes sharp and alert. The entrance to her department was now fortified with Thief's Downfall, the enchanted waterfall glinting with an unnatural, shimmering light. It had taken a fair amount of persuasion from Dumbledore and trust-building with the goblins, but the security it afforded was unmatched.
As Amelia approached, the guards stationed beside it nodded to her, and she moved forward, feeling the cool, relentless rush of water cascade over her. The spell checked for any lingering enchantments, any trace of deceit, washing it all away. When she stepped through, she felt oddly refreshed—a symbolic cleansing, perhaps, of the corruption that had lurked here only weeks ago.
She made her way down the corridor, her steps echoing off the walls as she moved toward the holding cells. The heavy stone walls and dim torches seemed a world away from the bustling activity above, an intentional isolation that reminded her of the Ministry's darker purposes. Only a handful of Aurors had clearance to be here, each bound by an Unbreakable Vow to remain silent about Sirius Black's presence until the trial. She felt a pang of discomfort knowing that secrets still thrived here, but this secrecy felt different—it was protective, not corrupt.
As she reached the final set of iron-barred doors, Amelia composed herself, adjusting her robes and running a hand briefly over the silver clasp of her cloak. She knocked twice, and the enchanted bars slid open.
Inside the cell, Sirius Black sat on the edge of the narrow cot, looking up as she entered. He rose to his feet, brushing the wrinkles from his worn robes with a wry smile. The pallor of Azkaban was fading from him, though a haunted look still clung to his eyes. Over the past week, Amelia had grown accustomed to his dry humor and guarded nature; beneath it, she sensed a quiet hope, fragile but real.
She met his eyes and nodded, her face softening just slightly. "I have news, Black."
His posture stiffened, his hands resting on the edge of the cot as he waited, expression unreadable. Amelia took a breath, choosing her words carefully.
"Your trial has been scheduled for the day before Halloween," she began, her voice steady. "So far, there has been no evidence against you. Nothing concrete, anyway. They didn't even check your wand that night."
Sirius exhaled slowly, processing her words. "A trial… an actual trial." He ran a hand through his hair, a faint look of disbelief crossing his face. "After all these years… I suppose I should be grateful."
Amelia nodded, folding her arms. "I know it's long overdue. I want you to know that I'll be there to see that it's fair. The Wizengamot is different from the one that put you here. The Ministry may still be fractured, but this trial will have transparency. It's the least you deserve."
Sirius chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "And yet I feel like a fool for holding on to hope. You're telling me not one piece of evidence, not a single check of my wand?"
"Not a thing," she replied, her tone laced with quiet anger. "And for that, I'll see to it that the truth is heard." She paused, her gaze softening. "It's what we can do now, Sirius. Justice is our duty, but compassion—well, I'm afraid that's long overdue as well."
He looked up, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Amelia. For all of this."
Amelia shrugged, almost brushing off his thanks. "I'm just here to do my job. And I only ask that, if things go your way, you stay out of trouble."
Sirius smirked, the familiar mischief slipping into his expression. "I can't make any promises, Madam Bones. Trouble tends to find me."
She allowed herself a small smile at that, watching him with something close to amusement. "Just remember, we've reinforced the Ministry quite a bit since the old days. I'll expect you to respect that."
They shared a moment of comfortable silence before Amelia turned to leave, her steps purposeful. She was no stranger to injustice, nor to the weight of responsibility that now sat on her shoulders. But for the first time in a long time, she felt that her department was moving forward with integrity, and perhaps—just perhaps—a sliver of hope for redemption.
As she left, Sirius watched her go, feeling the walls around him slightly less oppressive, the prospect of freedom no longer as distant as it had once seemed.
…
The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year dawned bright and cold, a thin veil of mist hanging over the castle grounds. Harry adjusted his cloak, his mind racing with reasons to stay behind, safe within Hogwarts' walls. It was too perfect an opportunity for Malfoy, too tempting of a chance for any scheme the Slytherins might have cooked up.
But as he looked at the eager faces around him—Hermione, already adjusting her scarf, and Neville, discussing Honeydukes with the girls of the Gryffindor Quidditch team—he felt his resolve waver. Remus had promised to come along as added protection, and Tonks would be meeting them with Fleur just outside the castle gates. It was hard to argue with a plan involving three skilled adults joining them, all prepared to step in if necessary.
"All right," he said with a reluctant sigh. "Let's go."
They made their way down the cobbled path toward the castle gates, laughter bubbling up from the group. Even with the nervous tension running under his skin, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth in their company. Just beyond the gates, he caught sight of two familiar figures waiting—Tonks, with her ever-changing hair a bright teal today, and Fleur, her silver-blonde hair catching the autumn sunlight.
As soon as he stepped past the gate, Fleur broke into a smile and moved forward to greet him. She threw her arms around Harry, her embrace surprisingly tight, and kissed him on both cheeks, her lips brushing the corner of his own. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she pulled back, giving him a playful wink.
"'Arry," she said softly. "It 'as been too long."
Harry grinned, brushing off the slight blush creeping up his cheeks. "It's only been a few weeks, Fleur." She laughed lightly and moved on to greet the others, each one receiving a warm kiss on both cheeks. Neville went bright red, eyes wide as she leaned in and her natural Veela allure practically overwhelmed him. When she pulled back, he gave a shy, stammered, "Th-thanks," to the group's collective amusement.
With their group complete, they set off into Hogsmeade, wandering in and out of shops. Hermione and Ginny browsed the shelves at Tomes and Scrolls, their voices excited as they discussed titles. Harry lingered at the back of the group, Cho's hand in his, his senses dulled from that morning's potion but still on high alert. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched, though every time he turned to look, the crowded streets seemed harmless enough. It was nearly time for his next dose of calming potion, and he was thankful for that.
Remus and Tonks stayed close, their eyes trained on the bustling town around them, while Fleur wandered just ahead, stopping here and there to point out something charming to Ginny or Hermione. She also pointed out a few "naughty" articles of clothing to Cho in the clothing shop, making the beautiful Ravenclaw go as red as Neville had earlier. After a few hours of exploring, the group finally settled on a visit to the Three Broomsticks to warm up before going back to the castle, where they managed to find a large table in a secluded corner.
Harry chose the seat with his back to the wall, Moody's voice echoing in his mind:Constant vigilance.Remus and Tonks took the seats beside him on his left, while Cho and Hermione sat beside him on his right. The adults ordered firewhiskey while the others had butterbeer, the twins trying—and failing—to convince Angelina and Alicia to have a mug with them as well, seeing as all four were of age. Harry added his calming potion to his own butterbeer and felt himself relax immediately, though not completely. The threat of Draco lingered in his mind like an unwanted shadow.
The group laughed and shared stories, their voices filling the cozy pub. Harry caught Fleur's eye from across the table, and she offered him a comforting smile, as if sensing his lingering unease. He relaxed a bit, sipping his butterbeer, but kept his attention on the entrance. While the others chatted, he remained on alert, every clink of a mug or door creak heightening his anticipation.
Remus leaned over to him, his voice low. "Enjoy the day, Harry. Tonks and I are keeping watch. You're safe."
Harry gave a slight nod, managing a half-smile. "Can't help it, Moony," he replied, his voice steady. "Feels too much like something's going to happen."
Tonks caught their exchange, offering him a reassuring grin. "We'll be ready if it does. Besides, with this lot around, I think we'd scare off anything short of a dragon."
The cozy warmth of the Three Broomsticks took on a subtle chill as Marietta and her date approached the table. Cho's face lit up as she waved them over, inviting them to join the group. Marietta's date, a Ravenclaw boy a year older, greeted the group with a smug expression, his gaze sweeping over them with faint disdain.
He barely took his seat before he started in, his voice dripping with a condescending tone. "Strange company you're keeping, don't you think?" he sneered, his eyes narrowing on Hermione and Remus. "I'd think respectable wizards would know better than to lower themselves by associating with mudbloods, half-humans, and dark creatures."
The words hit like an ice-cold draft. Marietta flushed, eyes darting around, and she tugged on his sleeve with urgency. "What is wrong with you?" she whispered fiercely. "This isn't like you, and that's not funny!"
He shrugged off her hand, his gaze hardening as he directed his venom toward Harry and Remus. "It's laughable, really. You have the nerve to bring yourselves here, forcing your presence on decent wizards…"
Before he could finish, Fred leaned forward, his voice low and filled with contempt. "How about you piss off, mate? Seems like yours is the only unwanted presence here."
George crossed his arms, nodding. "Not a single person at this table wants you around, believe me."
Tonks and Remus exchanged a wary glance, their eyes returning to the boy. There was something unnatural about his gaze—a blankness, an emptiness that sent a ripple of unease through the group. Tonks's expression tightened. "Remus, look at his eyes. Imperius, maybe?"
Remus gave a subtle nod, focusing entirely on the boy. But before either could move, the boy's expression twisted, and he suddenly pulled out his wand, his hand trembling. His voice dropped low, his tone dark and laced with malice. "Blood traitor and mongrel whore," he spat, pointing his wand at Cho. "Crucio."
It happened in a flash. Harry's body moved before his mind fully processed, his hand reaching out, half-transformed, intercepting the curse mid-air. The moment it struck, white-hot pain coursed through him, searing and relentless. The agony roared through him, yet he felt distanced from it, as if he were observing the sensation rather than experiencing it. Somewhere in his mind, he heard a deep, guttural growl—a sound both familiar and foreign—and then a fierce snarl snapped him back to control.
In the same instant, Remus and Tonks drew their wands, two spells flying across the table to disarm and stun the boy before he could launch another attack. He slumped forward, his wand clattering to the floor.
Madam Rosmerta appeared from behind the bar, her face a mixture of shock and horror as her eyes landed on Harry. She opened her mouth to scream, but Tonks moved swiftly, stunning her before she could cause more alarm. Pulling out her Auror badge, Tonks raised her voice above the rising murmurs and gasps from the surrounding tables.
"Everyone, remain calm!" Tonks commanded, her tone strong and unwavering. She turned to Fred and Angelina. "You two—floo for backup. Now."
Fred and Angelina nodded, moving swiftly to the fireplace. Tonks turned back to the room, holding up her badge for all to see. "This is an Auror matter. Stay seated, and do not leave until instructed. We'll sort this out."
The room fell into a tense silence, all eyes fixed on the stunned Ravenclaw slumped over the table and the scene unfolding around him. Harry sat back, breathing hard, the lingering pain ebbing but still there, mingling with an odd sensation—a fierce, simmering strength under his skin. He glanced around, his gaze landing on Cho, who was watching him with wide, fearful eyes.
"It's all right," he murmured, his voice rough and distant. "It's over."
Remus reached out, placing a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder. "Take it easy. You did well."
Harry nodded, letting the calm settle over him as his body slowly returned to its normal state.
Cho grasped his hand, her face etched with fear and sorrow. "Harry, are you okay?" she asked, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry—that curse was meant for me." Her words dissolved into quiet sobs as she clutched his shirt, pulling herself closer.
Hermione and Fleur leaned in, rubbing comforting circles into her back, while Harry murmured softly, reassuring her that he was indeed fine. He held her close, feeling her tremble as the weight of the encounter settled into each of them, leaving the echoes of fear and resilience in its wake.
…
The Ravenclaw boy—who Harry now knew as Ethan Harper—had been questioned thoroughly by the Aurors and released, proven beyond doubt to have been under the Imperius curse. Harry, however, had his suspicions. After the boy was released, he met with Dumbledore, Amelia Bones, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, explaining his belief that Draco Malfoy was behind the attack. To Harry, it seemed obvious—Malfoy would never risk his own hands in the act, instead using someone like Ethan as a pawn.
Dumbledore listened with his usual calm, considering Harry's words carefully. Though he promised to look into the matter, he was ever the advocate for redemption, urging caution and a commitment to fairness. "Young Mr. Malfoy," he said thoughtfully, "is at a crossroads. Perhaps he'll surprise us."
Amelia Bones, however, was less inclined to patience. She fixed Dumbledore with a look that left little room for compromise. "Albus, if Malfoy is involved, I expect a thorough investigation. No favoritism."
Kingsley, equally serious, added, "I'll keep an eye on him myself, Harry. If there's any truth to your suspicions, we'll know soon enough."
It had been four days since the attack, but the school still buzzed with rumors. Hushed whispers followed Harry and Cho through the halls, students eyeing them with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Ethan, who had come to Dumbledore's office to apologize, looked pale and guilt-stricken as he recounted his story under Veritaserum. He had no memory of the attack, only recalling his time in Honeydukes with Marietta. They'd been sampling sugar quills when his memory went blank; the next thing he remembered, he was in Auror custody.
Harry had forgiven him quickly, recognizing Ethan as a victim of the same dark forces they were all fighting against. But Cho had struggled. Since the attack, her nights were filled with nightmares, and she often woke in a cold sweat, unable to shake the fear. The sight of Ethan—even knowing he'd been controlled—only seemed to deepen her anxiety. Only in Harry's presence did she find any comfort, a small respite from the unease that had taken root since that day.
One evening, after another long day of classes and a late Quidditch practice, Harry noticed the exhaustion etched on Cho's face. She had hardly been sleeping, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and worry. Deciding she needed rest more than anything else, he quietly summoned Dobby.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, his eyes wide and eager. "How can Dobby help?"
Harry lowered his voice, mindful of the students lingering in the common room. "Dobby, is there anywhere we could go—somewhere private and safe? Cho really needs a place to rest."
Dobby's ears perked up, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. "Yes, Harry Potter! The Room of Requirement, sir! A secret room that appears only when you need it. Dobby can show you, yes?"
With a grateful nod, Harry took Cho's hand, leading her through the quiet, winding corridors under Dobby's guidance. When they arrived, Dobby stopped in front of a blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor.
"Harry Potter must walk past three times, thinking of what he needs," Dobby whispered, watching eagerly.
Harry did as instructed, concentrating on a place of quiet and comfort where Cho could finally relax. On his third pass, a door appeared in the wall. He opened it to reveal a cozy room, dimly lit by gentle candlelight, with a comfortable couch and blankets piled high. The warmth and peace of the room felt like a balm, inviting them in.
He helped Cho settle onto the couch, her head resting against his shoulder as he wrapped a blanket around her. She relaxed almost instantly, her breathing slowing, the lines of worry easing from her face as she sank into the warmth of the room. Harry held her close, watching as her exhaustion took over, her eyes drifting closed.
For the first time in days, Cho finally slept peacefully. Harry stayed awake, holding her, content in the silence that surrounded them. His own mind drifted, a mix of relief and lingering unease about Malfoy's involvement. Yet for now, he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the sound of Cho's steady breathing and the warmth of her hand in his.
When she stirred briefly, shifting in her sleep, he tightened his hold, whispering softly, "It's all right. I've got you."
And as she settled again, he felt a quiet resolve build within him. For her—and for everyone he cared about—he would do whatever it took to keep them safe.
…
Cho woke feeling more rested than she had in days, a calm warmth filling her as she took in her surroundings. The soft light in the Room of Requirement cast a gentle glow around them, and she realized that the couch had somehow transformed into a bed during the night. Beside her, still asleep, was Harry, his arms wrapped protectively around her, his face peaceful in sleep.
She stayed still, savoring the comfort of his embrace and the sense of safety it brought. Breathing in his familiar scent, her thoughts wandered back over the journey they'd taken to reach this point. They'd been dating openly for some time now, and despite the ups and downs, she felt rooted in what they shared. Saying "I love you" had only strengthened their bond, making everything feel more real, more certain. She'd never anticipated the challenges that came with being close to Harry—the whispers, the attention, the dangers. But none of it could outweigh the importance of what he meant to her.
Yes, being with him brought risks. She knew she'd drawn the attention of people who wanted to hurt Harry and anyone close to him. Yet she knew the risks were part of the world they were in, and in a way, being with Harry only brought her closer to the truth of it all. He looked out for her without making her feel helpless. She could stand on her own, and she'd always been determined to face whatever came her way. But knowing he was there, willing to protect her even at his own cost, filled her with gratitude and love.
And then, there was this new part of Harry—the partial transformations. When she'd learned about his condition, it hadn't frightened her. She'd felt only a deep concern for what the world might do to him, the narrow judgments people might make, how they might treat him because of it. His partial transformations were intimidating to see, but they came with a fierce vitality and strength that she couldn't help but appreciate. With his heightened senses, speed, and power, he'd become an even stronger protector, more capable of keeping them safe. She found herself marveling at how he'd grown, embracing this new side of himself, channeling it in ways that only made her feel even closer to him.
The memory of him stepping in front of the Cruciatus curse just days before lingered in her mind. She hadn't asked him to shield her—hadn't needed him to, really—but he'd done it without a second thought. It was an act of love, one of many that showed her just how deeply he cared. She loved him for his bravery, his unguarded heart, and the way his presence alone brought her a sense of safety.
Harry stirred, pulling her a little closer as he shifted, his face softened in the peace of sleep. She watched him, this boy who'd become her partner in everything, someone who knew her fears and strengths, who loved her as she was, unconditionally.
Quietly, she whispered, "I love you, Harry."
And as she lay there in his arms, a calm certainty filled her. She knew they could face whatever came next together. She let herself drift back into a restful sleep, safe and warm in his embrace.
…
Harry and Cho entered the Great Hall together, looking relaxed and refreshed, still carrying the warmth of their day in the Room of Requirement. They found seats at the Gryffindor table, where Hermione was finishing a letter. She glanced up, smiling at them with a hint of nervous excitement in her eyes.
"Harry, Cho," Hermione began, glancing down at her letter as if double-checking the details. "I just heard from Viktor—he's planning to visit on the 16th of November."
Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Cho's face lit up with intrigue.
"Are you and Viktor a thing, Hermione?" Cho asked slyly, giving her friend a playful wink.
Hermione flushed but didn't look abashed. "We're pen pals, and friends. Just friends."
Harry chuckled, nudging her with a grin. "Whatever you say, Hermione."
Hermione, undeterred, continued as if neither of them had interrupted her, her voice dropping slightly. "He wanted to know if you—and maybe a few friends—might be interested in a friendly Quidditch game while he's here. Just something small and private."
Cho's face broke into a wide grin, barely containing her excitement. "Yes! Oh, that sounds amazing!" she whispered, practically bouncing in her seat.
Harry grinned too, just as eager. "That'd be brilliant, Hermione! I'm definitely in."
Hermione held up a hand, glancing around to keep their voices low. "Keep it down! Viktor doesn't want a big ordeal. Just a few people—no crowd, no fuss."
Across the table, Ron caught every word. He kept his face neutral, though his fingers tightened on his fork as he stared at his plate. A private game with Viktor, and once again, he wasn't included. He hadn't made the team this year, and now they were planning a game with one of the best Seekers in the world. His thoughts churned, a bitter feeling simmering beneath the surface.
Hermione continued, her voice carrying a hint of enthusiasm she rarely showed. "Actually, I was thinking… with Sirius's trial coming up, wouldn't this be the perfect celebration for him once he's acquitted? He was the one who sent you your Firebolt, after all, Harry."
Harry's face lit up, his smile growing wide. "He'd love that! It's perfect, Hermione!" he said, practically buzzing with excitement at the thought of sharing a real Quidditch match with Sirius, of finally having a reason to celebrate without worry. Cho squeezed his arm, her own grin just as broad.
No one noticed Ron's frown deepening or the way his gaze flickered toward Hermione, his frustration boiling over as he tuned out their conversation. But an idea started forming in his mind. A few well-placed comments, a hint dropped here or there, and the news of Viktor's visit would spread like wildfire. A visit from Viktor Krum would hardly stay private if it became common knowledge.
He kept his expression carefully neutral as he finished his meal, but his mind was already working on how to make sure everyone knew exactly who was coming to Hogwarts.
…
On the surface, Draco Malfoy was as composed and aloof as ever, the picture of haughty disdain. His every gesture and smirk suggested confidence, almost arrogance, as he moved through the corridors and took his place at the Slytherin table. But beneath the practiced calm, he was panicking. His plan had fallen apart spectacularly.
He'd spent weeks meticulously crafting the setup, using Ethan Harper, the half-blood Ravenclaw, to attack Cho Chang. It should have been foolproof. Yet here he was, watching Potter and Chang waltz into the Great Hall, hand in hand, looking carefree and happy. Draco's very life was hanging by a thread, all because of his failure.
His father had been furious. The letter from Lucius had been filled with biting, carefully chosen words, each line driving home his utter disappointment. Draco could almost hear the cool, disapproving tone in his father's voice as he read:This was not your mission. You were meant to be subtle, Draco, to provoke—not to use such unforgivables. Do you even understand the gravity of what you've done? Another failure will not be tolerated. Not by me, and certainly not by the Dark Lord.
The memory of the letter made Draco's stomach twist. He was terrified of what his father would do if he messed up again. Worse, he dreaded what would happen if the Dark Lord himself became displeased. He'd witnessed the Cruciatus Curse in brutal use over the summer, when the Dark Lord had come to their manor. The memory of his parents' screams as they'd been punished for his mistakes was seared into his mind, an ever-present reminder of what failure meant.
And Snape hadn't let him forget it, either. After their first class together since the failed attack, Snape had pulled him aside, his voice as cold and sharp as a blade. The slap had come first, swift and unexpected, sending Draco reeling. Then, in a low, cutting tone, Snape had warned him that Dumbledore and Shacklebolt were now watching him closely, and watching Snape as well. The Dark Lord, he'd said, was most displeased by Draco's stupidity. Every word had been laced with fury, a reminder that Draco was now skating on the thinnest of ice.
As he sat in the Great Hall, his eyes locked onto Potter, he felt his anger boil. Potter and Chang, smiling and happy, seemed to mock him with every look, every laugh. He needed another plan, something smarter, something that wouldn't backfire. He needed to push Potter into attacking, to make it look as thoughhewere the victim. He had to be as clever as his father, but how?
Lost in thought, Draco didn't notice the quiet observer seated nearby. Daphne Greengrass watched him closely, her eyes following each twitch of his hand, each flicker of anger that crossed his face. She had been afraid, at first, that he might sense her watching and turn his wrath toward her, but for now, she was in the clear. Draco seemed oblivious to the fact that anyone beyond his closest allies knew of his plans. But she was watching, her face carefully impassive as she noted his frustration, the way his gaze followed Potter with an intensity bordering on desperation.
Daphne hadn't approached Harry again yet, hadn't disclosed anything beyond her initial warning. But she was planning to—soon. She wanted to gather as much information as she could before taking the next step, to ensure that whatever Draco was plotting could be stopped. For now, she watched as Draco seethed, his arrogance masking the fear simmering just below.
Even Half-Moons Smile
Prologue
"Gather round, children, gather round," called the older woman, her voice a surprising melody of youth, contrasting with her wrinkled skin. Her eyes, alight with mirth, shimmered in the firelight, and her smile, youthful and wide, adorned her face. Moments before, the festival buzzed with activity, but now, a hush fell over the crowd as they encircled her. A sense of eager anticipation hung in the air, punctuated by hushed murmurs, as the audience settled down for her annual storytelling. A soothing summer breeze caressed the gathering, the night sky gradually deepening to a velvety darkness, stars beginning to twinkle like distant, flickering candles. The grass, cool and soft beneath their feet, invited many to slip off their shoes for comfort.
With a mischievous glint in her eye, she plucked a pinch of sparkling powder from a pouch at her waist, flinging it into the fire. The flames responded with a burst of billowing white smoke, mushrooming into a spectacular dome. A fragrance of pine and cinnamon wafted through the air, stirring a chorus of awed gasps and delighted shrieks from the children.
"Now that I have your attention," she announced, her tone brimming with cheer, "let's begin!" With a flourish, she sprinkled various powders into the smoke, which gradually morphed into a kaleidoscope of colors. They swirled and danced, unfolding into a mesmerizing tableau of magic.
Book One
Maikoh
In the early evening, before the light began to fade into dusk, snowflakes descended, covering the ancient Shaolin temple in a blanket of peace. It was a hush that resonated deeply with Maikoh, the young monk whose world had always been devoid of sound. A born savant in both mind and body. His eight years of life had been a journey in quietude, his deafness shaping a world that spoke in motions and expressions rather than words.
Maikoh's skin held a light tan from hours spent under the sun, practicing his forms and meditations. His short, wavy dark brown hair often moved with the wind, giving him a playful, almost mischievous look. But it was his eyes, deep and brown, that held stories untold, a wisdom that seemed to reach beyond his years. The temple, an ancient structure of stone and wood, stood resilient against the imposing mountains that cradled it. These mountains, clothed in eternal green, stretched upwards, their peaks tickling the heavens, often shrouded in a veil of clouds.
He was the youngest monk in the temple, his presence subtle in the corridors of discipline and tradition. Maikoh communicated with a graceful movement of hands, his fingers painting words in the air. His teacher, Hikaru, watched with a mute vigilance that spoke volumes of hushed pride. Their communication was a ballet of gestures, an implicit understanding flowing between them.
The snow-covered courtyard was where Maikoh practiced. His movements were fluid as he moved with the snowflakes that swirled around him. Each kick and punch sliced through the chilly air; his breath visible in small clouds that dissipated quickly.
Alvaro, a recent addition to the temple and two years Maikoh's senior, watched from a distance. His shy gaze often lingered on Maikoh with a mix of curiosity and something akin to envy. While Maikoh moved with a precision and grace that could match the most skilled monks, Alvaro's movements were typically slow, exaggerated, or inept. The monks told him he would master them in time and that patience was an essential part of learning, but he still felt ham-fisted whenever Maikoh was around.
As Maikoh paused, catching a snowflake on his palm, the world seemed to hold its breath. The snowflake, a delicate star, melted against his warm skin, its brief existence leaving a small, wet imprint. It was moments like these that Maikoh often pondered over the transient beauty of life.
Turning towards Hikaru, he had a profound contemplation reflected in his youthful gaze, seeming so out of place on a child's face, he signed, "Why do snowflakes melt so quickly?" Maikoh asked.
Hikaru smiled, his hands responding with equal grace, "Because their beauty lies in their fleetingness. Just like our moments, they are exquisite because they are temporary."
Maikoh's eyes revealed a depth of understanding that no eight-year-old should be capable of as he nodded, turning his gaze back to the lightly falling snow. His thoughts wandered, not in words, but in feelings and images, a rich internal dialogue that was his alone.
The air was crisp, the scent of pine and the temple's old wood mingled, creating a fragrance that was both comforting and invigorating. Maikoh's senses were alive, each one heightened in the absence of sound.
His next movements were more intense, a display of the discipline and strength that the temple had instilled in him. His fists cut through the air, his feet stamped patterns in the snow, his body radiated energy and focus.
Alvaro, gathering his courage, stepped forward. "Can I join you?" he asked, then quickly signed the words, his hands shaky and hesitant. Maikoh nodded, a smile touching his lips. As their practice came to an end, the sun began its final descent, casting the last golden hue over the landscape. The mountains glowed softly, their peaks like crowns touched by the fading light.
Hikaru signed, "Time for reflection." His eyes held a firm kindness.
Maikoh and Alvaro sat cross-legged, breathing deep, backs to each other. The world around them dimmed, the sounds of the temple and the forest fading into a hush for Alvaro, a sensation Maikoh felt rather than heard.
In this moment, Maikoh's mind wandered to the snowflakes, the mountains, and the wordless communication he shared with Hikaru. His heart brimmed with unspoken thoughts and feelings. As the wispy, pearly white clouds swayed with the wind across the sky, Maikoh looked up, his eyes reflecting the celestial motion above. In the immensity of the universe, he found a sense of belonging. Silence was not an absence but a presence, a presence that filled his world with beauty and meaning.