hey all my beautiful people.
It's that time of the week where I get to bring you all the next chapter! Slightly ahead of my usual weekend updates as well. (I am rather impressed with myself.)
This chapter, buckle up for some more growth from our girl, a supportive Dora and a determined Andromeda. The best mix right? Oh and dome playful interaction between the two youngest Delacour's. :) This one was an absolute pleasure to write. All 12700 words.
Your feedback, love and support give me life I swear.
I have given much thought into the question I put to you all last week and I have come to the decision that for now, I feel it is important that I continue to make this Fic my priority. Meaning that I will try my absolute best to stick to the weekly updates.
That being said, I might jump in and out of my other stories, beginning the editing process of what is already there. So for those asking for updates on those, please be reassured they will come. I just feel like for now, I am loving writing this story, I love the progress and the development of my writing here and I'd like to keep up the momentum I have going just now. I fear that if I was to start trying to post and update multiples like I was doing previously, I will lose that momentum. Does that make sense?
Also what would you all say to me setting up some type of social media page for updates, story discussion and sneak peaks into my writing process?
As always, please keep being your wonderful selves, I appreciate you all so much.
All my love - Nell xoxo
~Adharia's POV~
~Sunday 1st October 1995~
~Room of Requirement~
Adharia wheezed, sweat dripping down her forehead as she narrowly twisted out of the path of a curse aimed at her chest. The air crackled around her, charged with raw, unfiltered power. Beside her, Fleur and Gabrielle panted, their exhaustion evident, yet their eyes gleamed with exhilaration. Despite the strain in their limbs and the burn in their lungs, all three sisters wore identical expressions of fierce joy, revelling in the challenge. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony—ducking, rolling, countering—as they unleashed spells at Andromeda Lestrange with the same ruthless intensity the formidable witch sent at them.
It was intoxicating.
The sheer feeling of their magik entwining so thoroughly made Adharia's heart pound—not from exertion, but from the overwhelming sense of belonging. She could feel Fleur's pulse thrum through the air, steady and unyielding like the warrior she was. Gabrielle's magik rippled, bright and wild, unpredictable in the best way. And then there was her own—no longer locked away, no longer shackled by the lies she had been forced to live under. It was free, reaching out, wrapping around her sisters' energies like a protective shield, just as theirs enveloped her in return.
It had been three weeks since they began training together—twice a week, every week—under Andromeda's watchful, ruthless guidance. Their pseudo aunt's presence at Hogwarts as the secondary Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had provided the perfect opportunity, and Adharia had seized it with both hands. There was so much she hadn't known, so much the false life of 'Hermione Granger' had hidden from her.
Especially the truth of what set her apart from those who merely used magic.
She had heard the term 'Magik' spoken in passing before—whispered in hushed, arrogant tones by older pure-bloods who sneered at those they deemed lesser. At the time, she had dismissed it as nothing more than a pretentious affectation, a meaningless variation of the word 'magic.'
She had been so wrong.
Her mother had tried to explain it, but it wasn't until Adharia began training alongside her sisters that she truly understood.
Magic, as most knew it, was an external force, a tool. It was the act of spellcasting, an energy wielded with incantations and wand movements, independent of lineage or deeper connection. Wizards and witches who lacked understanding of their magical core merely borrowed its power, pointing their wands and reacting to the world around them.
Magik, however, was something far greater.
It was personal, woven into the very essence of one's being, shaped by ancestry, emotion, and instinct. It was a living force, tied not just to an individual but to their family, to the traditions and bonds that defined them. To wield magik was not just to cast spells—it was to command them, to shape the very air with one's will.
Family Magik was unique—undeniable, untouchable to outsiders, as distinct as a birthmark, a surname, or even one's DNA. Those in tune with it, those who could feel it—like Adharia could, thanks to the Veela blood singing in her veins—could identify a witch or wizard simply by sensing their magical core.
It had been stripped from her for fourteen years. Now, with every duel, every clash of energy, every moment spent alongside her sisters, she was reclaiming it. It's strength and vitality filling her, eradicating the wounds done on to her by those she should have been able to trust.
A sharp crack split the air as Andromeda sent a streak of violet fire hurtling toward them. Fleur met it midair with a wordless wave of her wand, her movements instinctive, effortless. The blast diverted against the far wall of the training space the Room of Requirement had so graciously granted them. Gabrielle, ever quick to seize an opening, flicked her fingers with practiced ease, sending their new professor stumbling backward with a powerful gust of wind.
Adharia smirked, tightening her grip on her wand. She seized their mentor's momentary surprise as the reprieve she so desperately needed to catch her breath, her weaker, less skilled body struggling to keep pace. Training with Fleur and Gabrielle had exposed a truth she had known but not truly allowed herself to think too deeply on before: while she was leagues ahead of her Hogwarts peers in skill and understanding, that skill looked juvenile compared to her sisters'. Both were stronger, quicker, and more agile than she was. They moved with the fluid grace of warriors trained from infancy, while she struggled to bridge the gap of a stolen childhood.
The clear difference that lay in their upbringing was startling.
Fleur and Gabrielle had been raised with the knowledge of their family magik, immersed in it from the moment they could hold a wand. Their power had been nurtured, guided, strengthened and celebrated as they grew. They had never doubted its existence, had never needed to prove they were worthy of wielding it, nor had they ever been denied the magik that had been so vital to their growth. But Adharia? Adharia had been robbed. Bound before she even knew what she had lost, forced into a world that was never meant to care for or teach a magical child, let alone a Veela one. A world that had been completely inept at providing for her in the most basic of ways.
It was this truth she clung to when insecurity crept in, whispering that she would never catch up. That she would never be enough. Self-doubt curling in her veins, sharp and uncomfortable.
Lost in her own thoughts, she missed the way Andromeda had recovered, regaining her equilibrium quickly, the older witch firing spell after spell at them in rapid succession. Fleur and Gabrielle reacted instantly, moving in sync to cover their baby sister.
"Adi!" Fleur panted, a hand landing on her shoulder, tender but firm. The touch grounded her, snapped her back to the present. Her eyes met her sister's for a brief moment—warmth, concern, understanding—and then she turned, rejoining the battle with a ferocity that matched her sisters. With a flick of her wrist, she threw up a shield charm just as Andromeda's tickling hex hurtled toward Gabrielle. The protective barrier shimmered as it absorbed the spell, the magic dispersing into harmless light inches from Gabby's torso, the middle Delacour sister's face a mixture of relief and horror at the proximity of the spell. Adharia laughed at her older sister, taking pride in her ability to protect her from the, harmless, spell that Andromeda had aimed at her.
"Nice, Adharia!" Andromeda called, approval threading through her tone. Adharia would be lying if she said the praise didn't make something in her swell. She beamed, the reaction instinctual, before turning to her sisters.
Her heart clenched at the sight of their proud expressions, their unwavering support written in the soft smiles they gave her. The defensive charm had always been a particular strength of hers, from the very first time she had accidentally cast it, wandlessly and wordlessly, on the train to Hogwarts in her first year.
Their moment of celebration over Adharia's defensive charm, however, cost them. In a flash, Andromeda struck, wordlessly summoning their wands from their hands. The duel was over. Andromeda standing victorious over the Delacour sisters.
Fleur groaned in frustration, while Gabrielle let out a loud, delighted laugh, amused at their eldest sister's inability to lose gracefully. Adharia, however, remained silent, her mind already replaying Andromeda's movements, analysing every flick, every subtle shift in stance. She was eager—desperate—to learn all she could from the formidable witch before her.
"Alright, girls, we'll call it a night there," Andromeda announced, stepping forward to return their wands, passing each to their owner with a soft smile. With a casual flick of her wrist, she righted their rumpled appearances, smoothing out tangled hair and straightening wrinkled robes, righting all three girls appearances into their previous immaculate condition. "On Wednesday, we'll meet here again. Until then, I want you all to practice non-verbal spellcasting."
"Merci, Andromeda." Fleur thanked, still a little breathless, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
"You did good, Ari." Gabrielle draped an arm around her shoulders, the casual affection melting away some of the tension in Adharia's chest. It was constant, the way her sisters touched her whenever they could—gentle brushes of fingers, reassuring squeezes of her hands, playful nudges. A silent reminder that they were there with her, that they would hold her close no matter what.
"Thank you, Gabby," Adharia murmured, warmth creeping up her cheeks. A lifetime of criticism making any sort of praise an uncomfortable experience that she hadn't quite adjusted too. Then, quieter, almost ashamed, she added, "I need to work harder. I'm still so far behind." Her expression falling a little in frustration. Fleur sighed, stepping closer, sadness flickering across her face as she looped an arm around Adharia's waist, pulling her into their now familiar huddle. They didn't need words to comfort her. Their silent, steady presence did more to alleviate her doubts than any verbal reassurance ever could.
"You do, Adharia." Andromeda's voice shattered the fragile moment of peace. Fleur and Gabrielle turned to her with matching frowns, their protective instincts flaring at the older woman's bluntness. The two almost growling in warning at the older witch as they sensed the way their baby sisters heart sunk even further at her words.
"I mean no offense, my girls." Andromeda continued, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "I say this because I want to help you, not insult you. You're behind through no fault of your own, and that is why I'd like to work with you one-on-one—to strengthen the skills you were never given the chance to develop." She explained gently, her expression softening as she realised just how much Adharia was struggling with the vast differences in skill between her and her older sisters.
Adharia blinked. She hadn't expected that. A part of her recoiled at the idea. Rebelling at the thought of being left alone with Andromeda Lestrange, the one woman she had once begun to trust – only to be let down so completely when she had been so very vulnerable.
She understood the logic in Andromeda's offer—knew it made sense and that individual training would help her catch up with her sisters skill sets faster, knew that her sisters wouldn't then have to slow down for her, protecting their group training for the growth of their magical bond, their ferocity as sisters. But knowing and accepting were two different things. The thought of facing Andromeda alone, of confronting the complicated tangle of emotions that lay between them, made her stomach twist unpleasantly. That knot of emotion she had done so well at ignoring lodging itself in her throat uncomfortably.
"Uhh…" she began, struggling to find an excuse, but nothing came fast enough. For once her quick mind failing to provide her with the words she needed to rebuke the older woman's offer without causing insult or further tension between them.
"It's a good idea, Ari," Gabrielle murmured quietly beside her, sympathy woven into her tone as she leaned her head against Adharia's shoulder.
"As much as it pains me to admit it Ari, Gabrielle is right." Fleur smirked playfully, her words aimed at easing the tension that had reappeared in Adharia's shoulders, before softening. "Andromeda working with you individually makes more sense petite soeur."
Adharia admittedly, didn't need their reassurance to know the truth. She knew Andromeda was right.
She needed this. If she wanted to stand beside her sisters, if she wanted to protect them from what was coming, she had to be better. Much better than she currently was. After all, they had no way of predicting just how Albus Dumbledore would react when the truth finally came out.
Still, the prospect unsettled her. Silently wishing there was another way for her to catch up without having to face this woman in particular, without the buffer that was her sisters.
"I know," she murmured at last, allowing the warmth of her sisters beside her to steel her resolve. She would do anything if it meant she would be able to keep them safe. Anything to ensure that when the time came, she would not be the weak link between them. The thought of her being the reason any of them were harmed, enough to have her silently resigning herself to the confrontation she was sure was coming when she and Andromeda were alone.
"When shall we meet?" she asked, schooling her voice into careful neutrality. Her expression not betraying even a hint of emotion. The way it always did when she felt particularly uncomfortable.
"Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock, meet me here." Andromeda replied simply, as if she hadn't just witnessed the silent battle Adharia had waged within herself.
Adharia nodded.
Tomorrow it was then.
~ Monday 2nd of October 1995 ~
~ Room of Requirement ~
~ Andromeda's POV ~
Andromeda had never felt so utterly at a loss.
She had faced war, death, and the unrelenting scrutiny of a pure-blood society that had scrutinised her families every action without a second thought. She had built a life for herself that she was proud of, fought many battles and risen from the ashes every time she didn't quite live up to expectations, she had raised a daughter in defiance of everything she had once been taught. And yet—yet—nothing had prepared her for being stared down by a blank-faced fourteen-year-old girl who regarded her with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.
Adharia Delacour.
The child she had once thought lost. The girl who, from the moment she had met her as muggle-born Hermione Granger, had felt like a second daughter to her in all but blood.
And now, Andromeda was acutely aware that Adharia wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.
The realization stung more than she cared to admit.
She had known the girl was irritated with her—furious, even. It was painfully obvious that Adharia had only reached out over the summer because she had no one else to turn to in her distress. Andromeda had been tolerated then, nothing more. Her presence had been begrudgingly accepted at her bedside in September only because of Nymphadora.
But she had not truly understood the depth of Adharia's resentment until now.
Five minutes.
They had been in the Room of Requirement for no more than five minutes, and Andromeda already wanted to throw her hands in the air in exasperation.
Adharia had been polite, at least in the most technical sense of the word. She had greeted her when she entered, her voice carefully neutral, her expression unreadable. But then… nothing.
No small talk. No curiosity. Not a single word offered beyond the initial greeting.
She simply stood there, arms at her sides, waiting.
Expectant.
Andromeda had intended to begin the lesson immediately—to focus on magic, on strategy, on anything that might distract from the gaping chasm that lay between them. But now, standing before the silent girl, she felt it—the tightly wound ball of anxiety that was rolling off Adharia in waves, her magic thrumming just beneath the surface.
No, this was not the moment to push forward with spell work.
Andromeda had spent enough years in the field to know the dangers of unstable, untrained magic. And Adharia… Adharia was not just a witch finding her footing after years of magical suppression. She was a Veela child on the cusp of awakening completely, her magic raw and untempered, fed by emotion she clearly could not—or would not—acknowledge.
Asking her to cast spells in this state would be reckless. Magic was emotion, after all.
Andromeda inhaled slowly, choosing her words with care before breaking the oppressive silence between them.
"I see you are still rather upset with me." She had never been one to dance around an issue, and she wasn't about to start now. Her statement was met with an immediate, visible reaction.
Adharia's eyes narrowed slightly—not quite a glare, but close. Then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her posture shifting into one of quiet defiance.
Andromeda resisted the urge to sigh. Teenagers.
"Would you prefer I pretend otherwise?" she pressed, arching a single brow.
Silence.
Adharia's fingers flexed against the fabric of her sleeves, her nails digging in, but she said nothing.
Andromeda had always considered herself a patient woman. It was a trait she had perfected over years of dealing with difficult patients at St. Mungo's, of enduring the delicate intricacies of both high society and war. Balancing social expectations, working in a hospital and motherhood, expertly.
But something about Adharia's unyielding silence made her want to shake the girl.
She had spent years worrying, second-guessing, watching from the sidelines as Adharia had become increasingly distant, more guarded and weary of people. Had done whatever she could think of to help her, to protect the girl that was so clearly drowning in her own heartbreak that it had made Andromeda feel painfully incompetent when she had been unable to help. The entire time she had been kept at a polite but deliberate distance, and while she understood—understood that she was not owed Adharia's trust or affection—she could not help but feel the sting of its absence.
And yet…
Looking at her now, Andromeda knew that whatever anger Adharia held onto, whatever resentment burned beneath the surface, it was not truly about her.
Adharia was grieving.
She had spent her entire life believing she was Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born, a girl with no family, no roots, no safety. She had been lied to, her magic bound, her very identity stolen and her childhood shaped and manipulated by a man who had posed himself as a mentor.
Of course she was angry.
Of course she didn't trust easily.
Andromeda exhaled through her nose, pushing down her own frustrations. If Adharia needed to be cold, if she needed to push her away to feel in control, then so be it. Andromeda would not fight her on it.
But she would not give up, either.
This girl—this child—was her family, whether Adharia acknowledged it or not. And Andromeda had never been the sort to abandon those she loved.
She would break through.
Even if it took time.
Even if it tested every ounce of patience she possessed, Andromeda was determined to prove herself.
She would show Adharia that she was someone she could rely on. Someone she could trust.
"Very well then, little one," Andromeda said at last, choosing not to push further. Instead, she offered an easy smile, a quiet olive branch amidst the tension that had settled between them. "Let's begin, shall we?"
It was a simple statement, yet it shifted the energy in the room.
To Andromeda's surprise, Adharia's shoulders lost some of their rigid tension. Though still guarded, she turned her gaze back toward the older witch, her warm brown eyes—no, her glamoured brown eyes—glinting with the faintest spark of curiosity.
Andromeda had, from the moment she had seen Adharia Unglamoured, decided that the Hermione Granger facade did not suit the girl.
It was a mask. A brittle, ill-fitting thing that no longer held purpose, except perhaps as a lingering shackle, a reminder that they all had need to proceed with caution. And she could see it—see the discomfort that clung to Adharia like a second skin whenever she wore the disguise.
But this moment, however fleeting, was Adharia.
Not the Muggle-born bookworm. Not the stolen child with a bound core. But a young witch standing at the precipice of something new.
Andromeda would meet her there.
"Firstly," she began, keeping her tone light, informative, "to truly understand the magic we wield, we must first understand that magic has many facets. Every spell falls into one of three categories, classified by both its intent and impact."
As she spoke, she began to pace the room, slow and deliberate. She didn't need to turn to know that Adharia was watching her intently, absorbing every word like a sponge.
"Light, Dark, and Grey magic," came Adharia's quiet voice.
Despite the softness of the statement, Andromeda heard her clearly.
"Exactly." With a casual flick of her wrist, she silently summoned two armchairs.
They materialized with ease beside a lit fireplace, the flickering glow immediately transforming the space from a training hall into something warmer, more intimate.
A choice.
Rather than instructing from a position of authority, she settled into the nearest chair, tucking her feet beneath her in a way that was almost casual, an unspoken invitation for Adharia to do the same.
Adharia hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—before moving toward the second chair and sitting down.
She was quiet about it, as though unwilling to acknowledge the subtle truce between them, but Andromeda didn't miss the way her posture still carried a defiant edge. Nor did she miss the way her eyes gleamed in that particular way they always did when she was learning.
It was progress.
"Light magic," Andromeda continued, "is what most would call 'pure.' These are spells designed solely to heal or enhance life. Medical spells, for example, fall under this category. The theory is that magic created with the sole purpose of mending and protecting can only be considered Light."
She allowed a brief pause, giving Adharia time to process before shifting gears.
"On the other hand, some spells are irrevocably Dark. While most magic exists in shades of grey, there are curses so inherently cruel that their very existence is condemned. The Unforgivable Curses, for example. No matter the reasoning, no matter the circumstance, they are considered an affront to magic itself." Adharia gave a small nod, indicating she was following, but she didn't interrupt.
"Then there is Grey Magic, which makes up the vast majority of the spells we use every day. These are spells that can be wielded for good, for harm, or even just for convenience. A Summoning Charm, for instance, could be used to retrieve a book or steal a wand—the magic itself is neither good nor evil. Intent is what defines it."
Andromeda watched as Adharia mulled over her words, her fingers unconsciously toying with the fabric of her sleeves.
"Grey magic," Adharia murmured, almost to herself.
She was thinking. Weighing the information, turning it over in her mind like a puzzle piece she had yet to place.
Good.
Andromeda wasn't just here to teach her spells—she was here to teach her how to wield the magik she was born with, to understand it.
"Following so far?" she prompted, tilting her head slightly.
Adharia met her gaze, and after a beat, she nodded.
Andromeda allowed a small, satisfied smile.
"Good," Andromeda murmured, watching as Adharia fought the urge to smile.
It was fleeting, barely a twitch of the lips, but Andromeda saw it.
She didn't comment, didn't push—she simply allowed the moment to exist.
"Now," she continued smoothly, shifting the conversation forward, "when it comes to Light, Dark, and Grey magic, most magical people have a natural affinity for one over the others. That being said, a truly skilled witch or wizard will be able to wield all three, utilizing magic to its full potential."
She paused just long enough to ensure Adharia was following before adding, "I am a Black by blood. My family, historically, has always leaned toward an affinity for Dark magic—your godmother, Bellatrix, for instance, has an extremely strong natural pull toward it."
Adharia nodded, clearly storing the information away in that sharp, analytical mind of hers.
"But I," Andromeda continued, studying the girl before her, "have always had an affinity for Light magic."
Adharia considered this, her fingers drumming absentmindedly against the armrest.
"The Dumbledore family," Andromeda went on, her voice casual but laced with meaning, "has always had an affinity for Dark or Grey magic. Though Albus Dumbledore presented himself as a beacon of Light, his natural magic—his true magic—has always leaned toward the shadows."
At that, Adharia's expression hardened—just slightly.
Good.
She was paying attention.
"But the Delacour's," Andromeda pressed on, "are unique."
Adharia's head tilted slightly in question, and Andromeda smiled.
"Because of your inherent Veela heritage, your family has a natural affinity for all three kinds of magic. While most witches and wizards are predisposed toward one, Veela blood allows you to balance all three with remarkable ease. That being said, some individuals—particularly those chosen to lead—often display a stronger connection to healing magic."
"Like Fleur?" Adharia asked immediately, curiosity lighting up her glamoured brown eyes.
"Yes," Andromeda affirmed, nodding. "Fleur and your Grandmama are both magically chosen clan leaders—healers by nature, warriors by necessity. Your Grandmama holds the position now, but one day, Fleur will take her place."
At that, Adharia relaxed further into her chair, her small hands settling lightly on the armrests, her head tipping back against the cushion as she absorbed it all.
It was, admittedly, a lot to take in, especially for one so young.
A lifetime of carefully woven lies unravelling before her, thread by thread, exposing a truth that felt both foreign and strangely familiar. She had spent years believing she was someone else, clinging to a false identity forced upon her, but here—here, in this moment—she could feel the weight of that deception slowly peeling away.
Andromeda saw it.
The way Adharia settled into this truth—not without caution, not without fear, but with the careful deliberation of a mind that had always craved understanding.
She wore it better than she had ever worn the lie of Hermione Granger.
And Andromeda knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that in time, Adharia would not just accept her truth—she would own it.
And when that day came?
It would be a day to celebrate.
"What do you mean by 'magically chosen'?" The question came abruptly, breaking the moment of silence between them.
Andromeda almost cooed at the sheer intensity in Adharia's voice, at the way curiosity radiated from her in waves. The girl was starving for knowledge, for truth, for an explanation that made sense of everything she had lost, everything she had gained.
She stopped herself, though.
She knew that any hint of affection, any indication that she saw Adharia as family, would only push the girl back into the rigid shell she had built around herself.
Instead, Andromeda allowed a pleased smile to slip over her face, thrilled that Adharia had caught onto her wording.
"Magically chosen," she confirmed, deliberately offering no further information.
As expected, frustration flickered in Adharia's eyes at the lack of elaboration. Andromeda smirked inwardly.
"Well?" Adharia prompted, shifting forward slightly in her chair.
Andromeda simply arched a brow, feigning nonchalance. "In your inheritance test, what did it say about Heirs?"
A flicker of understanding crossed Adharia's face.
She exhaled sharply, but answered immediately, as though the words had been burned into her memory. "I am Heir of Ravenclaw, Heir of Le Fay, and Secondary Heir to the Houses Delacour, Malfoy, and Black."
Andromeda hummed approvingly, summoning a tray of tea and biscuits with a lazy flick of her wrist. The tray appeared between them, steam curling from the porcelain teapot, the scent of chamomile and honey filling the air. She gestured for Adharia to help herself, noting with silent satisfaction when the girl did.
She was too skinny—she always had been. Her tiny frame still baring the evidence of years of neglect and malnourishment despite her three years at Hogwarts.
Another thing they would need to fix. They had to make sure she was eating enough.
"To be an Heir to a House is an honour," Andromeda began, watching as Adharia wrapped her hands around her teacup, the warmth seeping into her skin. "It is a title that can be granted in one of two ways—either through inheritance, passed from generation to generation, or through a magical selection that supersedes all bloodlines."
She paused, giving Adharia a moment to process.
"The Black Heirship, for example," she continued, "should have gone to my cousin Sirius. But when Sirius was disowned by his rather…"—she hesitated, searching for the right word, finding it difficult to come up with a polite enough term to describe her Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion—"…misguided parents, the title passed to his younger brother, Regulus."
At that, Adharia scoffed and Andromeda felt her lips twitching in a barely concealed smirk. Clearly, the younger witch disagreed with Andromeda's word choice. Presumably Sirius' doing. The childish man having caused a ruckus at the school the previous year.
Andromeda let it slide without comment.
"Regulus, however, disappeared in 1981, just before the end of the war. With no direct heir left, the title fell to Bellatrix."
At that, Adharia visibly tensed at the mention of her infamous godmother, fingers tightening around her teacup.
Andromeda pretended not to notice. Now was not the time to open up that dragons nest.
"Bellatrix has since named Gabrielle as her successor, with you as the secondary heir, should Gabrielle be unable—or unwilling—to take the role."
Adharia nodded slowly, processing, her hands cradling her tea as though it could steady her. Andromeda let her gaze linger for a moment, taking in the sight of her—her eyes alight with new knowledge, a few crumbs from the biscuit she had snacked on dusting her jumper, her small frame curled into the chair in a way that made her truly look like the fourteen-year-old girl she actually was.
Not a pawn.
Not a weapon.
Not a tool for a war she never asked to be part of.
Just a girl, immersed in something she was passionate about.
It was a blessed sight—one Andromeda quietly vowed to preserve, already making a mental note to extract the memory later for Narcissa and Apolline.
She knew her friends would cherish it just as much as she did. Because moments like this? Moments where Adharia wasn't drowning under the weight of the world?
They were rare.
They needed to be treasured.
"Why not Fleur?" There was an uncertainty in her tone, a hint of the girl who had endured so much, having to fight for a place to exist for far too many years.
The question was valid, though she sensed the hidden 'why me instead of fleur' in her question, it hurt Andromeda's heart to know that the girl struggled to see her worth. To know that she was just as irreplaceable as her sisters. She allowed warmth to seep into her expression. Silently hoping to ease some of the insecurity that linger around the girl in front of her.
"Well," she said, setting her tea aside, "this is where magical selection comes into play."
Adharia straightened slightly, giving Andromeda her full attention.
"This is something that no one—not even the most powerful witches and wizards—can control," Andromeda explained. "The Veela as a people have one leader to oversee them all. A mammoth task, as Veela exist all over the world. The current leader is Adharia Delacour."
"Grandmama" Adharia whispered, more to herself than to Andromeda. The older woman understanding that she was simply processing rather than asking a question.
"The title of Veela Leader is not inherited," Andromeda continued. "It is bestowed by Lady Magik herself. Fleur has already been chosen as the next leader, and because of the sheer magnitude of that role, the magic that has claimed her will not allow her to inherit another Heirship."
Adharia's lips parted slightly in understanding.
But Andromeda wasn't finished.
"You, however," she added carefully, "have been magically chosen as a secondary heir. That means that while Fleur's magic will never allow another Heirship to claim her, the same restriction does not apply to you. The hope, of course, is that you will never have to step into the role. But should the need arise…"
She let the implication settle.
Adharia swallowed, eyes flickering back to her tea.
A moment of silence stretched between them, thick with thought.
Then—
"How is an Heir magically chosen?" Adharia's voice was quiet but filled with an intense focus, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. "I don't quite understand."
Andromeda smiled.
Ah.
Now that was an excellent question. One that had perplexed even the greatest minds of magical history. Andromeda herself didn't have the exact answer—no one truly did.
"We don't know the specifics, young one," she admitted, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old mystery. "It is a question Lady Magic has never deigned to answer, no matter how often we ask. Our best understanding is that Heirs are chosen based on strength, skill, and worthiness. But how those qualities are measured, or what unseen forces guide the decision, we have never discovered. It remains, as so many things in magic do, an enigma."
Adharia frowned, the corners of her lips twitching downward in barely contained frustration. Andromeda recognized the expression well. She had worn it herself at Adharia's age—when the world of magic refused to yield its secrets no matter how determinedly she sought them.
"Is that why I am Heir to both Ravenclaw and Le Fay?" Adharia pressed, her voice laced with uncertainty.
Andromeda hesitated. The weight of the question was not lost on her.
"Truthfully, I am unsure," she said, choosing her words with care. "The only way to know for certain would be for you to formally claim your Heirships. In doing so, you would gain access to the histories, the expectations, and the magic tied to both lines. Until then, I can offer only educated guesses. And for that, I apologize."
The apology was genuine. She could see the hundred and one additional questions forming behind Adharia's sharp gaze, but she had no answers to offer—not yet. Andromeda wished she did.
"I do think, Adharia, that these are questions best discussed with your parents and grandparents. They may have a deeper understanding of the intricacies at play." She gave the girl a moment to absorb that before steering them back on track. "For now, let's refocus on our discussion of magical classifications."
Adharia gave a curt nod, though the slight narrowing of her eyes made it clear she wasn't entirely letting the topic go.
Andromeda hid her amusement as she adjusted her position in the armchair, crossing her legs with practiced ease. "It is important to understand that every spell, no matter its classification, has a counterspell—though the effectiveness of such counters depends on the nature of the magic in question."
She leaned forward slightly, her tone becoming more instructive.
"For example, Protego—the basic shielding charm you learned in your first year—is relatively simple. It requires little power or concentration to cast, yet, when wielded by a skilled mage, it can deflect most Light and Grey spells, and even some weaker Dark spells."
Adharia's expression remained focused, absorbing every word like ink soaking into parchment.
"However," Andromeda continued, "that same Protego would be nearly useless against the more powerful Dark spells. Spells such as the Cruciatus Curse or the Imperius Curse have counters, but due to their dark nature, they can only ever be properly countered by Dark magic itself."
At that, Adharia's brows knitted together in thought, her mind already working through the implications.
Andromeda watched her carefully, taking in the way the young witch's shoulders stiffened, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. She was brilliant—there was no denying that—but brilliance came with its own burdens.
The hours slipped away as their lesson continued. Adharia listened intently, questioning and considering every concept presented to her, her sharp mind working tirelessly to unravel the truths of magic. By the time the clock struck nine, exhaustion had begun to set in. The telltale signs were there—the slight droop of her shoulders, the way she blinked just a little slower, how her fingers toyed absently with the hem of her sleeve.
Taking pity on her student, Andromeda closed the lesson for the evening.
"You've done well today," she said, retrieving a worn yet well-kept tome from her bag and handing it over.
"This text covers everything we discussed. Read it at your leisure."
Adharia accepted the book with a quiet nod. But just as she turned to leave, something unexpected happened.
She smiled. Not the reserved, polite smiles she had learned to offer in public. Not the practiced smirks meant to conceal her emotions. This was something rare—unguarded, fleeting, but undeniably real.
Andromeda, surprised but pleased, squeezed the girl's hand gently as she passed.
She remained seated for a long moment after Adharia had gone, allowing herself to savour the small victory.
Progress.
Even in the smallest moments, it mattered. Progress was after all - Progress.
~ Adharia's POV ~
~ Great Hall~
~ Tuesday 17th October 1995~
The Nature of Magic
Magic is not merely power—it is a force woven into the very fabric of existence, an ever-present current that must be understood, respected, and wielded with wisdom. To those who seek mastery, it is essential to recognize that magic does not adhere to mortal notions of morality. It does not judge, does not favour, does not condemn. Instead, it exists in three distinct forms: Light, Grey, and Dark—each with its own methods of learning, means of access, and burdens of control. While it is true that many are born with a certain degree of natural talent in a particular field of magic, often passed down through family lines. All three, with enough knowledge and practice, are accessible to any that wish to wield them.
Light Magic is the art of restoration, protection, and harmony. It is the domain of healers, guardians, and those who seek to mend rather than destroy. Learning Light Magic demands more than just knowledge—it requires discipline, emotional stability, and an unwavering intent to aid others. This path is often taught in formal institutions, healer guilds, or through ancient rites passed down within families of caretakers. To access Light Magic, a practitioner must align their will with the forces of life itself, drawing upon compassion, selflessness, and the natural order. However, Light Magic is not without consequence. Overuse may deplete a caster's magical reserves, and in rare cases, the healer may even take on the wounds of another as the price for their intervention. Even purity of intent can become a danger—there is a fine line between benevolence and arrogance when one wields the power to save or let die.
Grey Magic is the foundation of everyday spells, enchantments, and elemental manipulations. It is the magic of scholars, artisans, and explorers—neither inherently benevolent nor malevolent, but shaped by the hands that wield it. Of all three forms, Grey Magic is the most accessible, often learned through study, mentorship, or personal experimentation. Unlike Light and Dark Magic, it does not demand purity of heart or darkness of soul—only knowledge, skill, and willpower. Yet, this accessibility comes with its own risks. A poorly woven enchantment may spiral into chaos, a single miscalculation in alchemy could lead to catastrophe, and even the simplest mind-influencing spell might cross the line from persuasion into manipulation. Grey Magic teaches that magic itself is neutral, a tool to be used—but like any tool, it is the user's intent that defines its morality.
Dark Magic is the most perilous and, perhaps, the most misunderstood. It is the magic of domination, destruction, and manipulation, forged from ambition, anger, and sacrifice. Unlike Light and Grey Magic, which can be practiced through mere knowledge and discipline, Dark Magic exacts a price. Some learn it through ancient bloodlines, others through forbidden texts, and some through pacts with forces beyond comprehension. Dark Magic is seductive, feeding on emotion, pain, and the desire for control. But to wield it is to walk a dangerous path—one that often consumes its practitioners. Overuse can corrode the soul, warp the mind, or summon entities that demand more than one is willing to give. The greatest deception Dark Magic whispers is that one can master it without cost.
Each path comes with its own burdens. Light Magic, though revered, may interfere with the natural order, prolong suffering, or foster dangerous dependencies. Grey Magic, while versatile, can lead to careless misuse or subtle corruption. Dark Magic, though feared, is not always wielded for evil—but its dangers cannot be ignored. Those who seek to learn must understand not only what magic can do, but what it demands in return. The question is not merely what power you seek, but what price you are willing to pay.
Adharia hummed under her breath as she read the passage for what must have been the twentieth time, her fingers absently tracing the worn edges of the page. Andromeda had given her this text weeks ago, and still, she found herself returning to it—mulling over the words, dissecting each phrase, searching for an advantage hidden between the lines.
The progress she and her sisters had made in their training was undeniable. No longer were they tentative, uncertain, struggling to align their magic. Now, they moved in perfect synchrony, their combined power flowing as naturally as breath. Even their family and Andromeda Lestrange had taken notice. The first time they had duelled together, they had barely lasted minutes before being bested. Now? Adharia could hold her own against Andromeda herself. She still lost—eventually—but each duel lasted longer, each exchange growing more even. The older witch had begun to push her harder, no longer holding back quite as much. That alone told Adharia everything she needed to know.
She was growing stronger.
With the increase in her magical ability had also come something else—a growing confidence that had begun to enhance the girl she was.
A change that had not gone unnoticed by all those around them.
She hadn't realized how much had shifted until one evening, standing before the ornate mirror in her chambers, she met her own gaze and no longer saw the frightened girl she had once been. There was still uncertainty, of course—there always would be. But there was also something new: certainty, purpose, a quiet, unshakable resolve.
That realization had been a strange one.
Adjusting to her new life had been no easy feat—juggling her family, the emotional weight of their reunion, the frequent letters exchanged between her and Dora, and, of course, maintaining the farce of Hermione Granger. She had to keep up appearances, had to play the part of the grieving, lost little girl, had to endure the presence of Harry Potter and his insufferable best friend. At first, it had felt overwhelming—each responsibility pressing in on her like a tightly wound Devil's Snare, suffocating, smothering, blocking out the light.
Surprisingly, it had been Dora's words—scribbled messily in one of her many letters—that had given her clarity.
**Oh, love, I can only imagine how overwhelming it all must feel. But if I've learned anything in my time as an Auror, it's that sometimes the most daunting tasks are the most rewarding. You are not alone, Ari. I need you to remember that. You have an army behind you now—one that will stand at your side as you take back what was stolen from you. But most importantly, this is your life. Your path to choose. And those who love you—truly love you—will never let you walk it alone.**
Something about that letter had unravelled the tight knot in her chest. The sincerity in Dora's words had broken through the tangle of doubt, grounding her, reminding her that she was no longer fighting alone.
From that moment, everything became clearer, easier.
Especially playing Dumbledore and his precious 'Boy Who Lived'.
Harry Potter was, in many ways, an enigma.
She had expected him to be insufferable—arrogant, reckless, blindly trusting of Dumbledore's every word. And at times, he was. He had a hero complex the size of Britain, a deeply ingrained need to shoulder burdens that were not his to bear, and an almost tragic willingness to throw himself into danger if he believed it would spare someone else pain.
But beneath all that—beneath the legend, the prophecy, the weight of his own tragic past—there was a boy.
A boy who had grown up unloved and unwanted, who had spent years starving for affection, desperate for a place to belong. It was in that quiet desperation that she saw the real Harry—not the Chosen One, not the Gryffindor Golden Boy, but a child who had been conditioned to believe that love was something he had to earn.
Dumbledore had moulded him perfectly.
It was painfully obvious how much the old man had shaped him, feeding him just enough kindness to keep him loyal, but never enough truth to set him free. Harry's entire worldview had been constructed around self-sacrifice, reinforced at every turn by people who praised his bravery while simultaneously ensuring he remained dependent on them. It was manipulative. Cruel. And yet, Harry remained blind to it, too caught up in his unwavering trust in Dumbledore to ever truly question it.
She had watched him closely since their so-called "reconciliation." Had studied the way he carried himself, the way he interacted with others, the way he instinctively downplayed his own suffering whenever someone else was in pain. He was selfless to the point of recklessness, conditioned to believe that his worth was measured in what he could endure.
And that was why he would never escape Dumbledore's grasp.
Because Harry Potter had been taught to see his own suffering as necessary.
Had things been different, in some other life, they might have been genuine friends—perhaps even siblings. She could see the potential for it, in the way he cared so deeply, in the way he always sought to protect rather than harm. But he was too entrenched in Dumbledore's games, too conditioned to believe that he was meant to be a martyr, to ever truly be free.
And that was the greatest tragedy of all.
Ronald Weasley, however, was another matter entirely.
If Harry was an enigma, Ron was a walking contradiction.
He was prideful yet insecure, loyal yet resentful, desperate for attention yet terrified of not being enough. He had grown up in the shadow of five older brothers, constantly vying for recognition, only to find himself eclipsed once more by Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the best friend who would always outshine him.
And it grated on him.
She had seen it in the way he flaunted his moments of victory, in the way he took pleasure in belittling others to make himself feel superior. It was an unfortunate pattern, one that made his resentments glaringly obvious. He had never handled competition well, nor had he ever learned how to process his own emotions in a way that wasn't externalized as anger.
His immediate reaction to her feigned grief had been hostility. Mocking. Dismissive. Cruel, even. While Harry had offered comfort and tentative concern, Ron had met her pain with thinly veiled derision, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to separate her from the girl he had spent years resenting.
Some things never changed.
He still viewed her as the insufferable know-it-all, the one who corrected him too often, bested him too easily, embarrassed him too publicly. The fact that she had supposedly suffered a great loss meant nothing—because in his mind, she was still Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born bookworm who made him feel small.
And yet, his friendship with Harry forced him into begrudging tolerance. He had stopped openly mocking her, but the resentment had not faded. It was there in every sideways glance, in the way he barely acknowledged her existence unless he needed homework help, in the way his frustration with her always teetered on the edge of something nastier.
He was bitter, but too much of a coward to say it outright.
Dumbledore, at least, seemed satisfied with her performance. The old man had finally stopped watching her quite as closely, pacified by the illusion that she had fallen back into step with his favoured Gryffindors. That suited her just fine.
Let him believe what he wanted.
It would only make his eventual fall all the sweeter.
But for now, she had other things to focus on.
The impending selection of the Triwizard Champions had set the entire school ablaze with excitement, and for once, Adharia welcomed the distraction. The tournament had become the sole fixation of nearly everyone at Hogwarts, from students to staff, and even the most astute professors had their attention elsewhere. It was, quite frankly, a blessing.
With so many eyes turned toward the upcoming event, she and her sisters had far more freedom to meet in secret. Their training sessions, once stolen moments of caution, had become more frequent, more natural, allowing them to hone their magic without fear of prying eyes. It was intoxicating—the feeling of belonging, of power finally flowing freely through her veins, of standing beside the sisters she had ached for without knowing why.
Fleur was everything Adharia had ever dreamed of being.
Elegant. Fearless. A force of nature wrapped in silk and steel. She carried herself with an innate regality, the kind that came from both breeding and sheer presence. And yet, despite her undeniable strength, she was kind—a protective, steadfast presence who had taken to Adharia with the ferocity of an older sister making up for lost time.
Then there was Gabrielle—a whirlwind of mischief, passion, and unshakable confidence. Where Fleur was poised, Gabrielle was wild, an untamed flame that dared the world to try and contain her. She had a habit of speaking her mind without hesitation, of laughing too loudly, embracing too freely, and loving without restraint. And for the first time in her life, Adharia found herself craving that warmth, drinking it in like a starved thing.
The bond between them had formed effortlessly, as though they had never been apart. And perhaps, in some way, they hadn't. Perhaps magic—true magic, the kind that existed beyond spells and wands and incantations—had always tethered them together, waiting for the day they would finally reunite.
And they weren't the only ones.
Cho and Luna had begun joining them in their stolen gatherings, their presence only solidifying what had already been building between them.
With Cho, it had been inevitable. Their friendship had been forged long before Adharia knew who she truly was, and through it all, Cho had never wavered. If anything, learning the truth had only strengthened her resolve to stand by Adharia's side.
Luna, however, had been a surprise.
Adharia had only learned of her unexpected connection to Gabrielle after watching the two interact—the easy familiarity, the laughter, the shared secrets passed between them in glances rather than words. It was clear that Luna had been a friend to Gabrielle long before she had been one to Adharia. And in hindsight, that should have told her all she needed to know.
Because Luna Lovegood was never truly surprised by anything.
Telling her had been... anticlimactic.
When they had finally revealed the truth, when Adharia had spoken the words that had shattered the foundation of her identity, Luna had simply blinked—as though she had been waiting for the rest of them to catch up.
"Oh, that makes perfect sense," she had said, voice as light as ever. "You always felt familiar. Like something half-remembered, just on the edge of a dream. I thought you'd figure it out eventually."
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As if discovering that she was not Hermione Granger but Adharia Apolline Delacour was some mundane revelation rather than the single most earth-shattering truth of her existence.
At the time, Adharia had been utterly thrown by Luna's lack of reaction.
Hadn't she understood? This wasn't some idle curiosity, some whimsical flight of fancy—this was her entire life, her stolen past, the very essence of who she was.
But now… now, she could see it for what it was.
Luna had always seen things others couldn't. She had never been bound by the rigid structures of reality the way others were, had never accepted the world at face value. And so, of course, she had known—or at the very least, had felt the truth long before Adharia had.
When asked why she had never said anything, her response had been as effortless as ever.
"It wasn't my story to tell," she had said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, the Hermione Granger I met in my first year would never have believed me. And that would've been terribly lonely, don't you think?"
And, damn her, she had been right.
The Hermione Granger that had walked through Hogwarts with her nose buried in books, desperate to prove her worth, desperate to be wanted—that girl would have scoffed at the very idea. That girl would have alienated herself further, would have rationalized and denied and shut out anyone who dared to suggest her world was not as it seemed.
And that, perhaps, was the greatest truth of all.
She was not that girl anymore.
She had grown, had shed the illusions that had once defined her, had found herself reborn in the arms of a family that had never stopped waiting for her return.
And in the quiet moments between stolen gatherings and whispered secrets, Adharia found herself daring to believe—not just in the path she had chosen, but in the people who walked it beside her.
She was not alone.
Not anymore.
"Hey, Hermione."
The very girl she had just been thinking about plopped herself down beside her at the Ravenclaw table, moving with the effortless ease of someone who belonged there—which, in Adharia's opinion, she absolutely did. Luna never asked for permission; she simply existed where she pleased. And before Adharia could even greet her, the blonde reached over and plucked a roast potato straight from her plate, popping it into her mouth with a cheeky glint in her dreamy, silver-blue eyes.
Adharia let out a laugh, light and genuine, a sound that had begun to draw notice from those around her. The change in her had not gone unnoticed. After all, until this year, Hermione Granger had barely smiled, let alone laughed.
"Hungry, are we?" she quipped, rolling her eyes but making no move to stop her friend from pilfering another bite. Instead, she closed her book with a decisive snap and tucked it away into her new leather book bag—one far superior to the fraying one she had once carried.
Dark, supple leather, charmed to be bottomless, and adorned with the Delacour house emblem. At least, that's what it truly was. Anyone else who saw it would simply register it as a Ravenclaw crest—a clever charm that ensured no questions would be asked. It had been a gift from her Maman, passed discreetly through Andromeda, who had justified it to Dumbledore as a professor recognizing an academic barrier for a student and seeking to rectify it.
An excuse that the self-proclaimed mastermind had accepted without question.
Adharia found it almost laughable, really—how a man who had spent years meticulously orchestrating the course of her life could be so blinded by his own arrogance that he never even considered the possibility that she and her family knew exactly what he had done. He had built his web carefully, ensuring that Hermione Granger—the loyal, eager-to-please Ravenclaw—would never question his wisdom.
But Adharia Delacour?
She was not his pawn.
She had never been his pawn.
A soft giggle pulled her from her thoughts.
Luna, as always, seemed entirely untouched by the weight of the world, her laughter light and carefree as she winked at Adharia before casting an amused glance toward Gabrielle—who sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Fleur and the rest of the Beauxbatons delegation.
The answering smirk from her older sister was enough for Adharia to piece it together.
Ah.
So this had been Gabrielle's idea.
Typical.
If her audacious, troublemaking older sister thought she could get away with setting Luna up to play food thief, then Adharia could certainly return the favour.
Without missing a beat, she subtly slipped her wand from beneath her robes, barely flicking it as she cast a silent Vanishing Spell on Gabrielle's plate.
It was almost immediate—the quiet little squeak of indignation from the other end of the table.
Luna, predictably, burst into outright laughter, and Adharia barely contained her own satisfied smirk as her sister's gaze snapped up to meet hers. Gabrielle's expression was a hilarious mix of betrayal and reluctant pride. She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide with faux outrage, as if personally wounded by the act.
Adharia only grinned, unrepentant.
Two could play at that game.
Their silent battle of wills was interrupted by Luna, who had finally calmed her laughter enough to speak.
"Cho and I are going to the library after dinner," she announced, loading her own plate at last. "Do you want to come with us?"
Adharia sighed, offering a regretful smile before lowering her voice.
"I can't, Luna. I, unfortunately, must go play nice with Harry and Ronald."
The very mention of Ronald Weasley's name made something sour coil in her stomach, the distaste evident enough that Luna shot her a sympathetic look.
Not that it stopped the younger blonde from being thoroughly amused.
"And what thrilling adventure awaits you three tonight?" Luna asked, her baby-blue eyes glittering with interest.
She may have felt bad for Adharia, but she certainly found no shortage of amusement in her deep-seated dislike for Ron.
Adharia huffed.
"Harry said he has a bad feeling. Wants me to meet him by the Black Lake after dinner."
Luna arched a delicately curious brow.
"A bad feeling?"
"That's all I got," Adharia sighed, rubbing her temple as if already anticipating the headache. "I can only imagine that whatever it is, it'll be utterly exhausting."
Luna tilted her head. "Because of the mystery? Or because of the company?"
Adharia shot her a pointed look.
The latter.
Always the latter.
Harry and Ron together were draining in ways she could hardly articulate. Harry was the perpetual martyr, shouldering burdens like they were his only currency, always caught between brooding self-sacrifice and reckless heroics. And Ron?
Ron was… well.
Ron was always fighting for validation, always bitter when it wasn't handed to him. She had long since stopped making excuses for it.
"Sounds mysterious," Luna mused, finally digging into her meal. Adharia gave a noncommittal hum, reaching for her own fork once more. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Harry was being paranoid.
Maybe tonight would be nothing more than cold air and wasted time.
But deep down, in the quiet corners of her mind, Adharia knew better. She had learned, painfully and thoroughly, that bad feelings were rarely just bad feelings. And whatever this was—it wasn't going to be pleasant.
It never was when Harry Potter and Ronald bloody Weasley were involved.
~Adharia's POV ~
~ Black Lake, Hogwarts~
~Later the same day~
The crisp autumn wind whipped around Adharia, tugging at her cloak and sending loose strands of her dark curls dancing across her face. She barely noticed. The chill was invigorating, a welcome contrast to the feverish heat that still clung to her skin on occasion, a lingering side effect of the forced suppression of her magic for all those years. The damp air settled over her like a balm, soothing in a way she could not quite describe. She sat upon a pile of rocks nestled beneath the largest willow tree at the edge of the Black Lake, its long, swaying branches rustling with the wind. She watched the water, its surface restless, rippling with something close to agitation. The lake had not been still since the arrival of the Durmstrang ship, its enormous, eerie vessel disrupting the balance of the lake's creatures.
Adharia could not blame them for their displeasure. The Durmstrang students were crude, boisterous, and carried themselves with the kind of arrogance that reminded her of the most insufferable pure-blood heirs she had ever encountered. She had little fondness for their presence either.
Still, she only hoped that the lake's creatures would not hold Hogwarts accountable for the intrusion.
A particularly strong gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine, but she did not pull her cloak tighter. She welcomed the bite of it. The aches that still lingered in her bones were far less severe now, though her body was not yet fully recovered from the trauma it had endured. Her grandmother suspected it was the result of her Veela blood awakening earlier than expected—too soon for her body to endure the transformation without consequence. Her magic had been bound too long, and now, as it slowly unfurled within her, she was left to suffer the painful transition.
Yet another curse placed upon her by Dumbledore's manipulations.
She exhaled, her breath visible in the crisp evening air. Just a few more minutes. That was all she wanted—to sit here, alone with the sky darkening over the lake, the lights of the castle reflecting on the restless water. Just a moment longer before she had to play the role she had perfected over the years.
"Hermione! You made it!"
The enthusiastic voice cut through the wind, and she barely refrained from groaning aloud. Of course. Her moment of peace had expired.
She looked up, watching as Harry and Ronald approached. Harry, as usual, was bundled in his robes, his Gryffindor scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Ronald, similarly dressed, had forgone his uniform scarf in favour of the atrocious knitted jumper his mother had gifted him the previous Christmas—the one with the hideous orange R emblazoned across the front. The colours clashed violently with the rest of his attire, an eyesore even from a distance.
Adharia knew the tradition well—Molly Weasley had been knitting those sweaters for her children since Bill's first year at Hogwarts. She had even made one for Harry, which he had, in an uncharacteristically candid moment, admitted to appreciating. But he had also confessed, with a grimace, that he absolutely hated the colour scheme. Ronald, meanwhile, had been too busy shovelling food into his mouth to notice their conversation.
Adharia had been grateful in that moment—grateful that, despite everything, she was not considered part of the Weasley family. She had endured years of ill-fitting hand-me-downs at the orphanage, but even she would never willingly wear something so appallingly ugly.
"Hi, boys," she greeted, infusing her voice with just the right amount of warmth and curiosity to sound natural.
Harry dropped onto the rock beside her, flashing her a smile—one that did not quite reach his eyes. She could sense the tension in him, the way his shoulders were held too tightly, the nervous energy simmering just beneath the surface.
Ron, on the other hand, remained standing, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His expression was his usual mix of boredom and impatience, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He scowled slightly, his wind-chapped lips pressed into a thin line.
For a moment, none of them spoke. They simply watched the lake, the wind howling softly through the trees around them. Adharia kept her silence, observing from the corner of her eye as Harry fidgeted with his scarf, his jaw tightening as he struggled to put his thoughts into words.
"I wasn't really sure where else we could meet," he admitted after a long pause. His voice was careful, almost apologetic. "Somewhere private. Somewhere we wouldn't be overheard."
Adharia merely shrugged, a silent gesture of indifference. The location mattered little to her. She had always preferred the outdoors, found solace in the open sky and the rush of the wind against her skin. Her grandmother had once told her it was her Veela blood, that their kind was most at peace when surrounded by nature, where their magic could stretch and breathe.
"What's going on?" she prompted instead, offering Harry a flicker of encouragement.
His answering smile was small, almost grateful. But the worry in his green eyes did not fade.
"I don't know, Hermione," he admitted, running a hand through his already untidy hair—a nervous habit she had long since noticed. "I just have this feeling… that something's going to happen. Something bad."
She arched a brow, tilting her head slightly. "Something bad?"
Harry exhaled, shifting uncomfortably. "Like in first year," he explained, his voice quieter now, as if saying the words aloud would make them more real. "The night Quirrell tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone? I had this feeling then too, like something terrible was coming."
She nodded, recalling the way he had described that unease before.
"Well, it's like that again," he continued, his brows drawing together. "Only worse. It started a few days ago, but I ignored it at first. Let's be honest, my entire life is bad luck." He let out a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. "But today, in Defence… Moody was acting weird. Cruel, even."
"He wasn't being cruel, Harry." Ron's interruption was immediate, his voice sharp with irritation. "We need to know about the Unforgivables. That's just how it is."
Adharia clenched her fists, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. It was not the argument itself that annoyed her—she did not particularly care about the inner workings of Harry and Ronald's friendship. What irked her was Ronald Weasley himself—his constant need to assert his opinions, to act as if his thoughts were the only ones that mattered. His arrogance, his sense of entitlement—it reminded her far too much of Dumbledore.
"Did you see Neville's face?!" Harry snapped, his frustration bubbling over. He turned sharply to Ron, his green eyes flashing.
Ron, to his credit, looked momentarily abashed, his shoulders slumping. But his expression quickly darkened again.
"Well, yeah," he muttered. "I mean, that was a bit much. He probably shouldn't have used the Cruciatus in front of him. But that doesn't mean he was being cruel."
Adharia's gaze flickered between them, her mind whirring at the mention of Neville Longbottom. She knew the name, of course—recognized him from her classes.
"Neville's parents," Harry explained, his voice quieter now, laced with something heavier. "They're in St. Mungo's."
She frowned, piecing the fragments of memory together.
"They were tortured," Harry continued, jaw tightening. "With the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix Malfoy, Rabastan Lestrange, and the Carrow twins did it. It was the same night Voldemort killed my parents."
Adharia's breath caught in her throat.
Bellatrix Malfoy.
The name reverberated through her mind, each syllable sharp and unforgiving. She knew that name—not just from whispered conversations in the halls or the occasional reference in a textbook, but from something much more personal.
Her godmother.
A woman she had only heard of in hushed, careful tones, always referenced with an air of caution. Her parents had refused to speak of her in detail, brushing aside her questions with vague reassurances—not yet, ma chérie, now is not the time. But why? Why?
And now here was Harry, saying her name in the same breath as torture, pain, and cruelty.
Adharia forced herself to remain utterly still, though her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. The world around her seemed to slow, the wind howling in the background like a distant scream. She tried to make sense of it, tried to connect the Bellatrix Malfoy she had imagined—the godmother she had never met, the woman her parents refused to discuss—to the Bellatrix Malfoy Harry spoke of now.
But she could not.
Torturing Neville's parents? Why? For what purpose?
Her hands curled into the fabric of her cloak, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white. She wanted—needed—to ask more. To demand details. To understand why the woman her parents had shielded her from had committed such a monstrous act.
But she couldn't.
Not here. Not in front of Harry, with his wide, earnest eyes and his unwavering belief in good and evil. Not in front of Ron, whose worldview was as black and white as the ink on a Daily Prophet page. To them, Bellatrix Malfoy was nothing more than a Death Eater. A villain. A monster.
If she showed even a sliver of doubt—if she questioned the why instead of simply condemning the act—Harry would look at her with confusion, perhaps even concern. Hermione wouldn't ask that. Hermione wouldn't hesitate to brand Bellatrix as evil. But Ron?
Ron would not be confused. He would be suspicious. He would sneer and mock and turn on her in an instant.
She could hear it now—his sharp, derisive voice.
"What, feeling sorry for Death Eaters now?"
"Typical, always thinking you're smarter than everyone else—"
"Sounds like you're making excuses, Hermione."
It would be suspicion first, then anger. And that, more than anything, was dangerous. Ronald Weasley, in all his arrogance, had a talent for turning people against each other. It was one thing for Harry to have doubts; he would talk to her privately, try to understand. But Ron? He would not hesitate to plant seeds of distrust in others. And that was something she could not afford.
So she swallowed her questions, buried them deep where they could not escape.
When she finally spoke, her voice was controlled, measured—practiced.
"Oh," she murmured, brow furrowing just enough to convey appropriate concern. "That's awful."
Her stomach twisted violently at how easy the lie came. It was one thing to lie to those against her. But to llie about her godmother? The feeling made her feel queasy.
Harry nodded, mistaking her silence for solemn sympathy. "Yeah," he said, voice tight. "Neville doesn't talk about it much, but… I think he was only 18 months old when it happened."
Barely two years old? A baby, left orphaned in every way that mattered.
Adharia's mind reeled. Why had Bellatrix done it? What had possessed her godmother to use the Cruciatus Curse—to torture—a pair of Aurors until their minds shattered?
What kind of woman was she?
What kind of circumstances had led a woman her parents trusted enough to name her godmother to act in such an unforgiveable way?
And—more terrifying still—if Adharia had never been stolen from her family, if she had grown up with her parents, within their world, hearing the stories of Bellatrix Malfoy—
Would she have hated the woman as vehemently as Harry and Ron appeared too?
The thought sent ice down her spine, but she forced herself to breathe through it. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.
Because right now, she was Hermione Granger. And Hermione Granger did not ask questions about Bellatrix Malfoy.
She only condemned her.
Adharia swallowed hard, her expression carefully schooled into one of quiet sympathy even as her mind raced. A thousand thoughts clamoured for space inside her head, but she could not afford to give them air, could not allow even the hint of doubt or curiosity to slip through. Because if she did—if she so much as hesitated—Harry would notice. Ron would pounce.
She forced herself to focus, redirecting her attention to the conversation.
"He was so young," Ron added unhelpfully, as if Harry hadn't just said the exact same thing.
Adharia's stomach twisted, a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat.
Hadn't she been even younger?
She clenched her jaw, shoving the thought aside before it could sink its claws into her. She could not afford to dwell on her own stolen childhood—not now.
"What makes you think something is off with Professor Moody?" she asked, grasping onto the change of topic like a lifeline. She needed to regain control, to anchor herself in something other than the revelation that her godmother was a torturer. "Is there anything else besides whether he was or wasn't being… cruel?"
The sneer that twisted Ron's face at her pointed jab made her feel a little better. It was petty, perhaps, but she needed something—anything—to counter the gnawing unease still coiling in her gut.
At least she could bite back at this particular insufferable Pure-blood brat.
"Uh, I—erm—I don't really know," Harry admitted, his voice hesitant, as if he feared saying the wrong thing. "It's a feeling. Like he's always watching me. We met him in the summer at the Order safe house, and… he's not the same. His personality is different."
There was something raw in his tone—an uncertainty that made Adharia's usual exasperation with him wane just a fraction. He wanted so desperately to be believed.
Adharia sighed, softening—just a little.
She turned to Ron. "What about you, Ronald? What do you think?"
Ron's face, already red from the wind, darkened to a shade that nearly matched his hair. His disbelief flashed in his eyes before he scowled at her, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.
"I dunno. Maybe." He shrugged. "He's mental, that one."
Adharia resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull. Utterly useless. But, she supposed, the fact that he hadn't taken the opportunity to insult her outright was a small victory.
"Have you spoken to anyone about it?" she asked, glancing back at Harry. "Dumbledore? McGonagall?"
She hadn't even finished her sentence before Harry was already shaking his head, looking wary. Ron, on the other hand, gaped at her like she had just suggested confessing their deepest secrets to the Daily Prophet.
"You've got to be joking," he scoffed. Then, turning to Harry, he sneered, "Harry, tell me why we need her again? Even the most stupid of people would know you can't go around accusing teachers of things without proof."
Adharia's grip on her temper snapped.
"Oh, it's alright, Harry," she cut in before the boy could stammer out some half-hearted attempt to de-escalate. "I wasn't suggesting accusing any professor of anything. I simply meant have you spoken to them about how you feel? You could raise concerns without accusations, you know. Even the most dunderheaded of people should be able to figure that out."
Ron's ears burned red, and for a moment, she thought he might actually lunge at her.
Go on, she thought coldly. Give me an excuse.
But before he could say something truly idiotic, she turned back to Harry, ignoring Ron entirely.
"Keep an eye on Moody and let me know if anything changes," she instructed, tone brisk. "I'll have a closer look myself. My class with him isn't until after lunch tomorrow, so I'll see if anything seems… off."
She stood, brushing off her robes and stepping carefully around Harry. She did not look at Ron. He wasn't worth the breath it would take to acknowledge him.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I really should get back." She slung her bag over her shoulder, lifting her chin. "And you both should too—it's getting late. I have an essay to write."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, her movements sharp with irritation.
She needed distance.
Distance from Harry, with his endless gut feelings and haunted eyes.
Distance from Ron, with his gargantuan ego and absolute lack of common sense.
And—more than anything—distance from the name still echoing inside her head.
Bellatrix Malfoy.
Her godmother.
Her family.
Her aunt.
The thoughts churned inside her like a storm, and she walked faster, as if she could outrun them.
She could not allow herself to think about this here. Not where people could see. Not where she might slip, where her mask might crack. She already felt far too overwhelmed—she could not afford to let her emotions rule her.
Not when the consequences of doing so would come at too much of a cost.
She quickened her step, heading for the one place she had come to feel safest.