we few, we happy few

by poppythorn

She never planned on befriending a Gryffindor—she still didn't. What starts as an ill-conceived plan to get James Potter to stop tormenting her spirals into reunifying the estranged Black brothers and accidentally sabotaging Lord Voldemort. (Or: How one Slytherin stumbled into saving the wizarding world and somehow got the Black brothers to have a civil conversation.)

13. Lady Selwyn

"Lady Selwyn."

The voice was low and sudden, cutting through the quiet crackle of the common room's fire. Ellis startled at once. She nearly dropped the scattered parchment in her arms but steadied herself quickly, clutching the pages to her chest. Candlelight illuminated the Bloody Baron, who hovered in a corner—his expression severe. The silver knife lodged in his spectral torso caught the glow.

He said nothing at first, only staring at the papers in Ellis's grip. His eyes flicked over the scrawled notes before fixing on her face, dark with warning. The fire popped and hissed behind him.

"Lady Selwyn," he began, drifting closer, "I should not have to warn you what follows when curiosity becomes a liability. Some magicks die for good cause."

Ellis swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "And some simply need a more delicate hand."

"Perhaps. But a curse is a curse. To tamper with such things…can unmake a mind."

Her jaw tightened. "Is madness something to fear? They say Albus Dumbledore is mad, but I rather like him. He's clever and kind and a good teacher."

"Yes," the Baron murmured in agreement. "Albus is a wizard of singular brilliance."

She shifted her weight, feeling the cold of the stone floor seep through her slippers. "Was it like that when you were young? Under Salazar Slytherin?"

"I have not given thought to those days in an age."

She set her papers aside, taking a small step forward. "I only want to understand it, so that I might—"

"Might what, Lady Selwyn? Play the hero? Oppose the Dark Lord?" The Baron's tone grew steely. The blade in his chest glowed in the firelight, a silent reminder of his cruel temper. "You are a good witch, but you have waded into perilous waters. Tell me—are you prepared for what follows?"

"Yes."

His expression did not soften. "Then I pray it is so. It would be a shame for you to die."

"I am not afraid of death," she said quietly, "and I don't understand what it is that makes you afraid to talk ofhimwhen you are already dead."

A faint shift in the room's warmth made her skin crawl. The Baron's eyes shone with a sudden, somber intensity. "There are fates far crueler than death, Lady Selwyn. Tom Marvolo Riddle was an unnatural child. An unwelcome one. If you seek knowledge of him, do not look to me—but to the Headmaster. And perhaps, to those who bore the brunt of his greed. The half-giant… and the Grey Lady."

Silence followed. The flames in the hearth guttered, their light retreating from the Baron's form. An unwelcome chill threaded through the room. The Baron's features grow distant, haunted by whatever memories lurked in his past.

"I am sorry for upsetting you," she said softly.

He exhaled; more habit than breath. "You remind me of another…one who once held that same hunger for knowledge, that same defiant light in her eyes." His gaze fell to the half-crumpled parchment at Ellis's feet. "…your friend…the Greengrass girl."

Ellis's chest tightened at the mention. She straightened. "What of Helena?"

"There are spells of old. Forgotten spells. Bone for bone…blood for blood…send it back…" His voice trailed.

"Baron?" She kept her tone gentle, though her pulse throbbed with anticipation.

He hesitated, drifting as though caught in an unseen current. "Has he spoken to you? Salazar…"

Ellis pursed her lips. "No."

"He may." The Baron's eyes flickered with caution. "You will need to keep trying."

"I've tried learning it on my own, but—"

"It is not something you learn, Lady Selwyn, but I suspect you already know that it will require some sacrifice on your part." His voice sank to a measured whisper. "You must be exceedingly careful moving forward…there are eyes everywhere."

"Thank you for the warning."

He inclined his head, drifting away. The dying flames grew in his absence.

"Baron?" she called again.

He paused but did not turn.

"Is there anything you'd like me to tell her?"

His hand curled into the air by his side. "Only that I am forever sorry for the pain that I wrought upon her." His voice was heavy with an old ache. "We Slytherins know naught of love—only the mad grasp of obsession."

Ellis spent the following morning ingratiating herself with the Ravenclaws—a task made significantly easier by the fact that she hadn't hexed any of them in recent weeks. In fact, she and Stubby Boardman had even struck up a sort of partnership. He supplied her with Muggle and underground wizarding records, and in return, Ellis very kindly turned a blind eye whenever he and his band snuck out of Hogwarts in the middle of the night for their gigs.

The Grey Lady never spoke to Slytherins. At least, not that Ellis had ever seen. Some Ravenclaws claimed they could coax a word or two from her—sometimes even help in retrieving lost things.

Stubby, naturally, was immediately suspicious of Ellis's sudden desire to partner with him when Professor Kettleburn assigned them to handle the nifflers. His concerns proved somewhat valid when one particularly determined niffler attempted to steal the rings off her fingers. When that failed, it scrambled up her body and made a valiant effort to rip an earring straight from her ear.

Ellis spent the next twenty minutes grumbling about the snow, the cold, and the absolute injustice of having to be outside in such miserable weather. She bemoaned the fact that her boots weren't properly lined for this nonsense, that her gloves were entirely decorative, and that if she lost feeling in her fingers, it would be on Professor Kettleburn's conscience.

Stubby tolerated it for approximately five minutes before he lost patience.

"For Merlin's sake, Selwyn, will you stop whining?" he groaned, unwinding the thick, woolen scarf from around his neck. "Here—go inside and warm-up. I'll finish the rest."

Ellis didn't hesitate to snatch it from his hands. "Was that all it took?" she asked, looping it around herself. It was still warm from him wearing it, and despite her best efforts to remain indifferent, she sighed contentedly. "By the way... just out of curiosity, would you say three in the morning is a dead zone in your common room?"

"I'm not answering that."

Ellis laughed to herself. Instead, she tightened the scarf around her neck and turned on her heel, trudging across the snow-covered grounds toward the Great Hall. The cold still bit at her exposed skin and fat flakes of snow fell from the sky. It was beautiful, but Ellis was a summer child. Though she loved winter very much, it did not love her back.

Her fingers trembled from the cold. Despite the layers and heating charms, it felt as if she would never be warm again. With each step, her boots crunched against the frost-covered grass, while the hem of her cloak grew damp where it dragged through the snow. It was time to swap out her autumn cloaks for the fur-lined winter ones, which warded off the cold, the snow, and every other miserable thing that came with winter.

By the time she reached the entrance, the scent of roasted ham, spiced with cinnamon and clove, drifted through the heavy oak door mingling with the buttery warmth of baked potatoes and parsnips and the sharp tang of aged cheese. At least lunch would be worth the suffering. Tugging Stubby's scarf tighter around her, she stepped into the warmth of the Great Hall, already scanning the Slytherin table for a seat—and possibly someone to complain to about her morning.

In the distance, she spied Helena and Maisie near the middle of the Slytherin table. An empty spot lay beside them.

She approached the table and announced her arrival with a stomp to shake off the last clumps of snow. "It's brutal out there!"

"Ellie," Maisie mumbled, lifting her head from her arms. She looked pale, eyes red-rimmed and watery, as if she hadn't slept properly. "It's been snowing since the morning. Why go out at all?"

"Because she's an idiot," Helena said. She reached for a nearby teapot, poured steaming chocolate into a cup, and pushed it in front of Ellis. "Care of Magical Creatures won't do anything for you in life, don't you know?"

Ellis gave a small shrug as she slid onto the bench. She unfastened the top clasp of her cloak, but she kept it on while she cupped her hands around the hot chocolate. The warmth seeped into her aching fingers. "It'll be freezing for the game tomorrow too."

Helena nodded, though her expression twisted into a slight grimace. "We're only playing Ravenclaw. Should be an easy win."

They all stole a glance at the Ravenclaw table, where a group of students sat enthralled by Gilderoy Lockhart's latest animated tale. The blond boy had one foot planted on a bench, the other hovering dangerously close to someone's shepherd's pie. He gestured wildly, his expression full of self-importance. No doubt he was recounting some grand, heroic could guess exactly what kind of nonsense he was spouting. Once, he had projected his own face into the night sky, only for several students to scream in terror, mistaking it for the Dark Mark. Ellis still thought his glowing, smug face in the sky had been worse than the Dark Mark itself.

She shook her head and turned back to Maisie, whose face had gone gray with discomfort. "Are you ill?" Ellis asked, scooting away slightly. "What's wrong?"

"I'm having a monthly visitor," Maisie muttered through clenched teeth. She had both arms wrapped around her stomach.

"I'm due soon then," said Ellis, grimacing. Though there were potions to keep such things at bay, she was rather bad at taking them in a timely fashion. "Should we go to Gladrags on Sunday and look for dresses? I've got a few catalogues too, if nothing suits us."

Maisie shook her head, dropping her chin in her hand. "I can't. I've got detention with Professor Sprout."

"Helena?"

"I suppose I could spare some time."

"Because you're so busy?"

"I've got a Quidditch game tomorrow," Helena reminded her. "We'll have a party and who knows how exhausting that will be. Recovery is important. You should get more sleep too, you know. Every morning you're gone, and you don't come back until midnight—who knows what you're doing?"

Maisie inched closer to Ellis, voice dropping to a low whisper, "Did you take my advice and finally sleep with Black?"

"No, Burke, I didn't."

"Don't get snippy, Ellie. You're the kind to stick that pointy nose in everyone's business, so there's no reason for me not to do it back."

Ellis inhaled sharply, "My nose isn't—"

"Proving my point," Maisie interjected, smirking cheekily. The smugness disappeared just as quickly, and she lowered her gaze to the table, tracing her fingers over the scratched wood. "I just think you're lucky," she went on softly, "that you even have the option of…" She hesitated, not finishing the thought. The words carried a bitterness that was impossible to miss.

Ellis's heart twisted. Maisie's situation was dire. She was expected to marry a man with more money than decency to clear her crushing family debt. It made Ellis's blood boil just to think about it. She reached out and gently touched Maisie's arm. "How much is the debt?"

"Too much," Maisie replied, her voice going hollow. "Two hundred fifty thousand galleons."

"Two hundred fifty thousand…" Ellis said quietly. She did the mental arithmetic: it was roughly twelve and a half million pounds in the Muggle currency. "Do you—" She hesitated, unwilling to pry yet unable to stop herself. "Do you care about your parents…enough to go through with it?"

Maisie's eyes darkened with a flash of anger. "Yes," she said defiantly. "They're my family. I'm not going to let them rot away in ruin. Especially not over something as—" She cut herself off and exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't spare the breath to elaborate.

Yet, they'd sold her. Ellis clenched her teeth. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of it. There were moments she wondered if the Slytherin ideals of pure-blood heritage had twisted so many families beyond recognition.

"They're going to die one day," said Ellis, harshly. "And you're going to be alive, stuck in a marriage with a wrinkled bollock that—"

"And I'd be set for life once he dies," snapped Maisie. "You think you'd do it differently if it were your family on the line?"

Ellis opened her mouth, prepared to retort, but she saw the slight tremble of Maisie's lips. She was close to tears or fury, or both. Still, Ellis trudged forth gracelessly, "I can't imagine how anyone can claim to love their daughter when they've sold her away."

Maisie's eyes flashed, "One day, you will marry, and you will marry someone who has already sworn their life away to the Dark Lord, and you will need to learn to swallow it down or die. Don't think that your family is any different from mine, because you have a bigger cage. It's a cage all the same."

"Is that what you do? Swallow everything down until you're not even a person? You can't shag away the truth, Burke."

Helena gasped, color draining from her cheeks. She kicked Ellis hard under the table, eyes flaring with the silent command to apologize. But Ellis's own anger was up, and she glared defiantly at Maisie, whose chest was now heaving, face blotched red and white with emotion.

"Do you always have to be so bloody righteous?" Maisie snapped, abruptly standing. The bench scraped loudly against the stone floor. "Althea is right about you sometimes," Maisie said, voice loud enough that a few curious onlookers at the table glanced their way. "You're judgmental, and you have no friends—not because you choose to be alone, but because you're insufferable. Your pride is no different from ours, yet you want to pretend you're better than us? You're not."

"Just because I have a conscience—"

"And we all need to suffer under the weight of your conscience? How funny, Sel—"

"STOP IT!" Helena's voice, normally cool and collected, broke with a surprising force. The sudden shout stilled both Ellis and Maisie, who looked at Helena as if truly seeing her for the first time in that heated argument.

Helena exhaled sharply. "Maisie, of all people, don't bring Althea into this," she said, voice quieter but still trembling. She turned her glare on Ellis. "And you—don't you dare act like what Maisie's doing is so different from what Black or any other boy in this school has been doing for years. Unless you're planning on coughing up two hundred fifty thousand galleons, keep your mouth shut. You think she wants to go through with this?"

"She shouldn't have to marry someone she doesn't love," Ellis insisted, eyes flashing.

"It's not an option," Helena snapped. "And you know it. Talk about something else."

A tense silence followed. The anger didn't vanish completely, but it thinned, leaving behind exhaustion rather than fire. No one spoke for a long moment, the weight of the argument settling between them.

Then Maisie snorted. "Merlin, maybe you need to get laid."

Instead of getting angry, Helena shifted in her seat, opening her mouth a few times as if searching for the right words. Ellis and Maisie exchanged glances, their earlier frustration dissolving, replaced by growing curiosity. Helena was sensitive about such topics and, like Ellis, preferred discretion when it came to discussions about sex, unlike Maisie who spoke openly without hesitation.

"What…" Helena blushed, lowering her voice. "What is it like? What if I don't know how? I've never met anyone I wanted to kiss, and the thought always felt strange to me… but now…"

"Love makes it easier," Maisie said softly. There was a story tucked behind those words, but Ellis doubted Maisie was ready to share it.

"How do you know if you're… ready?" Helena asked.

Maisie shrugged. "You just do."

Helena nodded. She did not press Ellis on the topic—perhaps out of sensitivity, given Ellis' history with Mulciber. It was true that she and Gideon broke up three days after that incident, at Ellis' request, with little explanation beyond the fact that he was graduating, and she didn't want to be followed by the word "bloodtraitor." Gideon hadn't taken it well.

She hadn't been with anyone since. But it wasn't fear of intimacy holding her back. Even with Gideon, it had taken time before things turned physical. Now, though, she wanted it. She wanted Regulus, and she had no idea how to handle that. Thinking about Regulus made her chest tighten, as if breathing properly was suddenly a challenge. It felt like fire coursing through her veins, a curse only his touch could cure. To be fair, Maisie wasn't wrong about Ellis' growing frustration, but Ellis hated having it pointed out.

Lunch ended on a quiet note with their bellies nice and full. Helena was the first to leave, mumbling something about needing to catch Lucinda for a quick conversation and drop some letters off at the Owlery. She hurried off. Maisie and Ellis remained seated for a moment longer, neither in a rush to break the silence that had settled between them. Finally, Maisie stood, stretching lazily and slinging her bag over her shoulder. Ellis followed suit. They meandered out of the Great Hall, slow and aimless.

"Sorry," muttered Ellis, shifting her feet. "For making you angry and…"

Maisie laughed and pinched her cheek between her fingers. "Don't worry about it, Ellie. Gods know, you're aching for a bit of release."

"That's…that's not…"

"I know." Maisie stretched her arms over her head. "I don't want to get married. I really don't. But, I can't see any other option, so I'll go through with it. Helena…told me what you're doing for her…so, focus on that. It'd be awfully sad if we had no one to yell at us when we've gone crazy. Merlin knows, we're all a bit batshit."

Ellis nodded, but she couldn't shake the feeling of hopeless inadequacy, as if she were abandoning Maisie to her fate and choosing Helena instead. It felt all wrong. Maisie Burke got on her nerves constantly—Ellis hated how careless she was about her studies, how messy she was, and how shamelessly vulgar she could be about things Ellis felt were best kept private. But she didn't hate her. Not at all. Even when it came to Althea, Ellis could shed a few tears for her dreadful future. Alecto, though, was beyond sympathy.

"Oh, Ellie," Maisie cooed, squeezing her face between her hands. "Look at you, getting all weepy!"

They were so caught up with one another that neither realized the trouble they'd stepped into. Mistletoe. A thick bough of it hung overhead, its pale green leaves dusted with frost, and clusters of white and red berries. Ellis glanced up first, her heart sinking as she registered the mistletoe fastened in the threshold. She groaned; a sharp, exasperated sound that made Maisie look up too.

"Brilliant," Maisie said, laughing. "The Marauders' work?"

They exchanged a look, equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement. The unspoken rule of the mistletoe hung heavier than the bough itself, and neither seemed eager to acknowledge it outright.

Ellis crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Look, Black's right over there," whispered Maisie. "Why don't we put all that practice to good use and give him a little show?"

Ellis glowered, "…I thought we said we'd never speak about that again…"

"I really must thank you for teaching—" Maisie yelped as Ellis' hand snapped out to slap her elbow sharply.

Ellis's scowl deepened, her retort poised on the tip of her tongue until she turned her head and caught sight of Regulus. He was leaning casually against a stone archway, his arms crossed, dark hair falling into his cool, grey eyes. But he wasn't watching Maisie. His gaze was fixed on the Ravenclaw scarf wrapped snugly around Ellis's neck. His eyes lingered there, perplexed.

He had been in a terrible mood for days, though he tried his best not to show it—brooding stoically and taking any chance he had to lay in her lap and sleep. Ellis wished she knew why, but Barty suspiciously fell silent whenever she brought it up to him Herbology. She believed it had everything to do with Sirius Black. Though Ellis had all but laid the blame at his feet, the Marauders seemed convinced that Regulus had done something unforgivable. So much so that they had stopped showing up to the Dueling Club.

Maisie, with the reflexes of someone who thrived on chaos, reached out, hooked a hand around the end of Ellis's scarf, and gave it a sharp tug, yanking her forward. Before Ellis could protest, Maisie planted a quick, mischievous kiss right on her mouth—warm, soft, and entirely disarming.

Maisie pulled back with a grin, her cheeks flushed with triumph. "There. Problem solved," she chirped, releasing the scarf and skipping off.

Just before disappearing around the corner, she called over her shoulder, loud enough for Regulus to hear, "Try not to miss me too much, Ellie. I know I'm unforgettable but do your best!"

Ellis stood frozen, face burning, and mind racing to catch up. She glanced back at Regulus, half-expecting him to smirk or sneer. But he didn't. He was walking toward her now, his stride unhurried. His gray eyes were fixed on that damn scarf.

Regulus stopped just close enough that she had to tilt her chin slightly to meet his gaze. He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Changing allegiances?" he asked quietly. His eyes flicked to the scarf, then back to her, lingering with pointed disapproval. "Boldly sporting enemy colors right before my match…very brazen of you, Selwyn."

Ellis swallowed hard, summoning the faintest hint of a glare to cover the flush warming her cheeks. "It's got nothing to do with you. It was cold out and Stubby was kind enough to ease my suffering."

"Stubby." He repeated. Regulus's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "You're perfectly capable of summoning your own clothes to warm up." He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "Really, this level of disloyalty is…"

"I didn't realize I needed your approval, Black."

"Oh, you don't," he murmured smoothly, leaning in just enough that Ellis caught the faint scent of his cologne. "I just assumed you had better taste."

Ellis rolled her eyes. "Because fraternizing with the Black family is the epitome of good taste."

"My family doesn't require good taste.I do."

"Forgive me for trying not to freeze to death, then."

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you, Selwyn, but when a boy very eagerly hands you a piece of his clothing, it's not an innocent attempt to save you from the weather. Stubby, was it? That…sleezy, moron who goes telling everyone about his moronic little band?"

Jealous. He was jealous. Ellis shouldn't like that, but she does. She told herself it was wrong, petty even, to find satisfaction in his jealousy. But there was something intoxicating about it—the sharp edge in his voice, the way his jaw tightened, how his eyes went dark when he glanced at her.

Ellis knows she shouldn't crave that. But there's a thrill in it, a dangerous little flame she can't help but feed. A smile rose to her face, "You said moron twice."

Regulus arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What would you call him, then?"

"I wouldn't call him anything. I'm using him, you see. I need a key to the Ravenclaw common room."

He paused and the tightness in his jaw loosened, "At least you're not losing your grip."

"Trust me, Black—grip isn't an issue."

Regulus's smile was slow, lazy, like a cat who'd just discovered his prey wasn't nearly as boring as he'd thought. "Well," he murmured, his gaze flicking to her hands for the briefest of seconds, "That's good to know. Though, I can't say I've ever doubted your…abilities…especially after that little display with you and Burke."

"Enjoyed the show, did you?"

"Not at all." He took a step closer, his voice lower now, smoother. "It was a pity, really."

"A pity?"

Regulus leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost against her cheek. "If you're to be kissed, more care should be applied." His hand rose fingertips grazing the curve of her jaw before his thumb skimmed the corner of her mouth, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He closed the remaining sliver of space, his lips just skimming hers with infuriating softness. Time stretched in that brief contact.

Then something much heavier rained down overhead.

It was thick and wet, the slow and startling sensation of slime sliding through her hair and creeping, cold and slick, down the back of her neck. Her entire body seized in surprise.

Slime. Thick, blue slime.

The squelching drip echoed in her ears, and Regulus jerked back in confusion just as an obnoxious, singsong voice boomed from above.

"OHHH, TWO SNAKES SITTING IN A TREE, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Ellis tore her gaze away from Regulus, casting it upwards. Peeves, the poltergeist, hovered near the vaulted ceiling with a wicked grin, holding an empty bucket that still dripped a few last globs of bright blue goo.

Ellis inhaled and shouted louder than anyone had ever heard her, "PEEVES!"

"OH! NOT YOU!" cried the poltergeist, stopping his song abruptly.

The rattling bucket in his grip sailed through the air, spinning end over end. Before Ellis could even fully process the attack, Regulus pulled her back against his chest. The clang of the metal pail against stone reverberated down the corridor.

"I'll kill you, I swear I will!" Ellis snarled. Fire rushed through her cheeks, half fury, half embarrassment at being interrupted—again!

Peeves cackled and darted down the hall in a blur, but not before Ellis whipped out her wand. Her spell shot a silver flash that sparked against the stones as it whizzed around the corner. A shrieking cry told her she had hit her mark. Panicked footsteps followed, belonging to a small cluster of third years who must have caught a glimpse of the slime-covered Slytherins and decided they wanted no part of Peeves' trouble—or Ellis' wrath. They vanished with Peeves, fleeing into the gloom.

Regulus cleared his throat, his voice low and edged with irritation. "It's starting to feel as though the universe is very determined to stop—"

"I have slime all over me."

The goo was thick, dripping from her hair and sliding across her collar. It was cold enough to make her shiver, and the sour, brackish smell of it assaulted her nose. She felt it sinking into her robes, making the fabric stick unpleasantly to her skin.

"You and I both," said Regulus, lifting an arm, only for the thick, blue substance to stretch with him.

Ellis tried to regain her composure. "I just—" She drew in a deep breath. "I just wanted—"

Regulus' lips twitched, smile blossoming with wry amusement. The tension around his eyes seemed to ease in light of her fury. He tipped his hand beneath her chin, gently brushing aside a particularly sticky strand of her hair with his free hand. "I know."

Ellis clenched her jaw. She was going to hunt Peeves down and hang him from the ceiling by his toenails.

"Shall we go wash up?"

Ellis, still fuming, nodded silently and let Regulus guide her away.

Ellis didn't immediately notice the new scarf draped over the end of her bed the next morning. It was a Slytherin scarf—one that could have easily been mistaken for hers, except it was longer, softer, and, as she soon realized, enchanted to stay warm despite the bitter cold that crept through the castle walls.

It was this scarf she wore when she found herself in the Slytherin stands the next day, cheering alongside them during the Quidditch match. The morning air was crisp, the sky a sharp winter blue, and the stands thrummed with the buzz of eager anticipation. Banners floated, emblazoned with serpents that writhed and coiled. The cold bit at exposed faces, but Ellis felt none of it.

The whistle blew, and the game erupted into motion.

Within six seconds, Helena flew across the pitch, the Quaffle tucked securely under her arm. She executed a flawless feint, dodging two Ravenclaw Chasers, before hurling the Quaffle through the center hoop with a sharp, precise flick of her wrist.

"I… I believe that may have been a… a record broken," the announcer stammered, his voice echoing over the roaring crowd, stunned into disbelief by the speed and precision of the goal.

Ellis found herself on her feet, cheering along with the Slytherins.

But Helena wasn't finished.

Barely three minutes later, she swooped in again, intercepting a pass meant for the Ravenclaw Captain with ruthless efficiency. Helena twisted mid-air, dodged a Bludger that whistled past her ear, and scored with an effortless throw that left the Ravenclaw Keeper grasping at empty air.

And then, astonishingly, Helena did it again.

The Ravenclaw team, clearly rattled, tried to regroup, but Slytherin's momentum made it impossible. Every pass and every block was executed with mechanical precision. The crowd's energy surged with each goal, a roaring tide of green and silver fervor. Ellis' couldn't quite believe what was happening and after the messy showing they'd made during the Gryffindor match; it was a welcome relief to know that they weren't out of the running just yet.

Before five minutes elapsed, Regulus performed dive that seemed almost reckless. His broom sliced through the air, chasing a glint of gold that barely shone against the winter sky. The Ravenclaw Seeker, Basil Bagshot, was right on his tail, but Regulus was faster.

With a final stretch, his fingers closed around the Snitch. The whistle blew, signaling Slytherin's victory.

The stands erupted. Ellis found herself shouting with unrestrained excitement, her heart pounding in sync with the triumphant roar of the Slytherin crowd. She was the first of them on the pitch, throwing herself at Helena, legs wrapped around her waist as she kissed her cheeks. "I love, love, love you! Six seconds?! Helena, play for France! Take them to the World Cup!"

"As if!" laughed Helena, shaking her off. "It'll be England or nothing."

"I don't even think I was this happy when Ned won."

"We got a very motivating threat in the Locker Room before coming out. You might want to go thank Black for it too."

"…but…"

"I'm not saying that I approve fully," murmured Helena, "But…let's be happy, yes?" Helena let her drop and then tilted her head back, "Was it really only six seconds? I'm better than I thought."

"You're the best player on the team," confirmed Ellis. "You'll be in the papers by the evening and then we'll have scouts here—"

"I'd like to play for the Arrows if the chance came up…but, I'd need to make the pitch to my parents. I don't know what they'd think about their daughter becoming a professional Quidditch player."

"I was hoping for the Magpies…but the Arrows…I could tolerate," muttered Ellis to herself. "Better than Puddlemere, surely. And the blue is rather nice."

"Tolerate?" asked Helena, raising a brow. "Aren't you supportive?"

"I can't root for you to win first place, but second…"

Helena laughed and shook her head. "I'm going to go change. I'll see you in the common room for the party?"

As Helena disappeared toward the changing rooms, Ellis lingered on the pitch. The roar of the crowd had faded into a dull, pleasant hum. She shifted from foot to foot, the adrenaline slowly ebbing, leaving her with a strange, restless energy. Her eyes scanned the crowd without purpose at first, then found him.

Regulus was standing just beyond the edge of the pitch, surrounded by Evan, Barty, and a few others, all of them laughing and talking animatedly. Regulus was in the middle of it, effortlessly at ease, his smile crooked and rare, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but was enough to fool everyone around him. His hair was slightly windswept, dark against the pale cut of his sharp features, and he had that look—like he belonged exactly where he was.

Ellis hesitated.

She dug the toe of her shoe into the grass. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk to him. She did. But the idea of walking over, inserting herself into that circle, made her stomach twist. She wasn't sure she fit into that scene. Regulus laughed at something Evan said, and Ellis felt her fingers curl slightly at her sides. She could leave. She should leave. But then—almost as if he'd felt her looking—Regulus glanced up.

Their eyes met.

It was just a second, maybe two, but it was enough. His smile faded, replaced by something softer. He said something she couldn't hear, brief and dismissive, and then he was moving—effortlessly disentangling himself from his friends, his strides long and purposeful, cutting across the pitch toward her without hesitation.

"Your brother's getting too cocky for my liking. He thinks winning against Diggory is an achievement."

Ellis thought of the seventh year Hufflepuff and said, "Oh, the fit one?"

"Fit?" repeated Regulus, saying the word as if it were foreign. "Selwyn, I need you to think before you speak to me."

"Don't worry you are too, but he's older."

"I'm older than you."

"Not by much and wholly irrelevant to my calculations. I bet he'd give me his jersey if I asked."

Regulus reached for the fabric at the back of his neck and pulled his jersey off in one smooth, effortless motion, revealing the lean muscle beneath. She cast a fleeting, anxious glance at his arm, but the braces he wore concealed his forearm completely, keeping the Dark Mark hidden from sight. A war raged within her—part of her wanted to see it, to make real what he had chosen, to face the weight of it. The other part, the louder part, hoped she never would.

But those thoughts vanished the instant her attention snapped back to his body. Caught in the spell of the Quidditch-boyfriend fantasy, she let out an involuntary giggle, a little breathless, a little ridiculous. His skin was slightly flushed from exertion, and the sharp lines of his toned abdomen pulled taut with each breath. The faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone made him seem just a little more untouchable.

Ellis, momentarily struck dumb, barely managed to drag her gaze away from the bead of sweat tracing an infuriatingly slow path down his hipbone. Regulus, ever observant, caught the sound she made and smirked, the expression sharp and knowing.

His dark eyes gleamed with interest as he reached for the end of her scarf, curling his fingers around it before giving a slow, deliberate tug, drawing her closer.

"I can't imagine you'd want another one," he murmured. He handed her the jersey. "Or is your taste in Quidditch players terrible too?"

She took it. "It's not."

He hummed, satisfied, before turning toward the locker rooms. He took a few steps, then glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk still in place.

Regulus nodded satisfied, making his way toward the locker rooms. He turned back just once, calling out, "Wear that for me, will you?"

Slytherin parties were decidedly different from Gryffindor parties. For starters, they allowed the first, second, third, and fourth years to remain until exactly curfew, sending them to bed with bellies full of sweets and snacks. They charmed the doors to block the sound, warded them to ensure they remained inside, and then let loose.

The atmosphere shifted like a flip of a switch. The lights dimmed considerably, and the music grew louder. It skewed toward something darker, with a bass that thrummed through the floor, making the stones pulse beneath their feet. A bewitched gramophone played a selection of underground wizarding tracks, some banned in more respectable circles. And…funnily enough…there was a considerable amount of muggle music at play—snuck in by some of the few half-bloods or the other purebloods, like Ellis, who were deft at toeing the line between prejudice and tolerance.

Drinks flowed freely. Elf-made wines, imported whiskeys, and an assortment of dubious, magical concoctions nicked from their family homes. The drinks were poured in charmed glasses that refilled themselves, encouraging a reckless sort of indulgence. There were games, of course. A corner of the common room was dedicated to a high-stakes round of Wizard's Truth or Dare. On the other side, a group played "Spin the Bottle" with an enchanted bottle that spun and would curse anyone who refused to kiss with spontaneous nosebleeds, bat-bogeys, and had even turned someone into a cockroach once—that had been a mess to explain to Professor Slughorn.

Potions Roulette consisted of a long, dark table, lined with an assortment of vials, each filled with liquids of varying colors. The game was simple: drink from a random vial and deal with the consequences. The potions ranged from harmless to humiliating—temporary antlers, uncontrollable hiccups that shot soap bubbles, voices pitched like a banshee's wail, love potions, and the ever-dangerousVeritaserum. Severus Snape, with his gift for brewing, delighted in watching others suffer the effects. He never participated himself. It was there that Evan and Regulus were, forcing one another to try vial after vial.

Ellis lingered on the edges, nursing a glass of something suspiciously green that tasted like mint and lemon-sugar, as she lay on the carpet beneath one of the large glass windows, watching as the mermaids danced about the water, drawn in by the music. A faint echo of their song layered beneath the beat. Her housemates shed their usual masks to indulge in something raw and chaotic. Helena drank so much and so quickly that she was currently cuddling a group of puffskeins that one of Wilkes' peers stole from Professor Kettleburn, murmuring softly every time they purred. Avery and Althea, who had done a poor job hiding their relationship, were currently swapping spit in the corner. Even Dolores Umbridge, a girl in seventh year that was universally hated, had come down with her cat and was giggling very obviously at a group of boys that had set about proving their strength by arm-wrestling.

Barty, tuckered out already, lay on the couch nearby making them all laugh with the nasty little stories he'd gathered about everyone's illicit affairs.

"Should we go play?" asked Maisie, turning her head. One of the puffskeins escaped her grasp and ran its long tongue close to Ellis' neck, making her squeal and sit up in disgust.

"You're scaring it," said Helena, cooing to it softly. "Be quiet, Ellis."

"It licked me."

Barty snorted, "I bet Reg wishes he was lick—"

"Finish that sentence and you'll be holding yourintestines, Barty."

He promptly shut up.

"Roll me over," muttered Helena, wiggling her fingers at the two of them. Embarrassingly enough, it took all of Maisie and Ellis' strength to get Helena onto her back. Dead weight. "So much better."

Maisie giggled, pressing into her side to share her warmth.

"Deal with this," said Evan, depositing Regulus by her side with all the care one might give to a sack of flour. Regulus collapsed against her, a boneless heap of limbs and tousled hair, his breath warm and sweetened with the faint tang of some potion. Evan claimed the couch for himself, sprawling out with an entitled stretch, nearly kicking Barty in the ribs as he made space. Barty hissed in protest, but Evan's glare was enough to silence any complaint.

Helena plucked out a particularly round, drowsy puffskein with cinnamon-speckled fur and silently offered it to Evan. They all expected him to throw the poor creature into the fire, just for the spectacle. But instead, a ghost of a smile flickered across his face, softening the sharp angles of his usual sneer.

"Thanks, Greengrass," Evan muttered, cradling the puffskein awkwardly.

Helena's face brightened, her smile wide and disarming. "It's so nice that we're all together again."

Regulus was all hands, one trailing along her thigh, inching closer to the hem of her skirt, the other just edging along her waist where his jersey had ridden up to expose a sliver of skin. His cheek pressed against the swell of her breast.

"What did he have?" asked Ellis, looking at Evan. "Why do you guys even play that game? Snape rigs it to make everyone act like fools."

"Elysira."

Elysira—so named after the Elysian Fields. It melted away inhibitions, heightened every emotion to a fever pitch.

"It's not the potion," Regulus said, his voice steady, unmistakably his own. "I know how to resist that. But, do you know what it's like seeing my name on you?"

His gaze, dark and unguarded, flicked to the lettering stitched below the Slytherin seal—Black. No one had said anything about her jersey, but Ellis knew better to think that they hadn't noticed it. That kind of connections was information, and information was worth a lot these days. Either Ellis had done something to be so blatantly accepted by Regulus Black or he was more like his bloodtraitor brother than anyone accepted—neither version of events was close to the truth.

"No, I don't," murmured Ellis, voice meant only for him. "Why don't you tell me?"

Regulus's hand tightened slightly on her thigh, his fingers splaying, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above her knee. His other hand slipped under the hem of her jersey—his jersey—grazing the curve of her waist, igniting goosebumps in their wake. His head tilted slightly, lips brushing against the hollow of her throat, a whisper of contact that made her pulse jump.

"If you're going to fuck, go do it in a bed."

"Shut up, Burke."

"Or do it here, I don't mind watch—"

Ellis reached for her wand and blindly sent a stinging hex. It bounced off the wall and shot across the room, hitting Avery square in the head. Ellis stowed away her wand and pretended that she didn't hear his shout demanding to know who had cast the hex.

Barty began to entertain them with a story of some ministry fellow in his father's office who had been caught having an affair with not one, but two vampires while off in Romania on a business trip. "And so, there he was—clothes askew, fangs marks on his neck, looking for the bloody owl in every room he could. Apparently, the owl was delivering the divorce papers…except they reached…Alastor Moody instead."

"No!"

"Oh, they did," laughed Barty. "And guess what Mad-Moody does? He hexes the owl. It went spinning like a wheel, screeching so loud you could hear it in the court-rooms. But that's not even the best part. The owl crashes straight into a suit of armor, the divorce papers go flying, and Moody thinks it's an assassination attempt. He dives for cover, yells,'CONSTANT VIGILANCE!'so loud the poor owl dropped dead out of pure trauma."

Laughter erupted between them. Helena laughed so hard she nearly cried; Maisie's giggles muffled against her shoulder. Even Evan let out a rare, sharp chuckle. The puffskein nestled in his lap twitched its nose, unimpressed by the noise.

Ellis snorted, "Oh, that's a little much even for Moody."

"It gets better, loves. He starts interrogating theowl corpse,because obviously it's a spy.'WHO SENT YOU? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?'—as if the owl's going to confess. Meanwhile, the poor Nigel Crumplehorn finally rounds the corner and is just standing there. He's so bloody scared of Moody, he takes an hour to confess that it's his owl and his divorce papers, but by then Moody's got the full Ministry on lockdown. Pure artistry, really."

"Do you think vampires have, like, a specific... style?" Helena pondered aloud, her face scrunching in contemplation. "Or is it just all teeth and dramatics?"

Maisie replied without missing a beat, "Silk sheets, candles, probably a lot of unnecessary moaning. Very intense eye contact."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience," Evan drawled, arching a brow.

Maisie grinned wickedly. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Tell us another one, Barty."

Barty obliged, diving into a scandal involving a high-ranking Auror and an ill-timed wardrobe malfunction during a Ministry gala. He had them all in stitches, the room filled with the kind of laughter that made their cheeks ache and eyes water.

And as the night wore on, the warmth of the crackling fire and the rhythmic lap of water, lulled them into a cozy lethargy. One by one, they drifted off: Helena curled up like a cat, her face buried in a pillow borrowed from the couch, puffskeins cuddled into her side. Barty crunched into the corner, trying to stay out of the way of Evan's long limbs. Evan was still as a corpse, hands folded neatly over his chest. Maisie was strewn out, arms stretched across the carpet, snoring loudly. The common room looked like the aftermath of a particularly polite brawl—bodies sprawled, empty bottles rolling lazily across the floor, and a single sock mysteriously perched on top of the mantelpiece like it had important business there.

"Tired?" murmured Regulus when it was clear that everyone was asleep. His palm slid higher, tracing the line of her ribcage.

"No," she managed, though her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Regulus pulled back just enough to meet her eyes; his pupils blown wide swallowing the gray. A lazy, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

"No?" he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, the tips of their noses brushing. "I'll be here in the morning, Selwyn. Go to sleep."

And she did, except she dreamed again as she had that night after the concert.

She was somewhere dark, without windows or light. Bones littered the ground, brittle and scattered: rat bones, cat bones, some larger, unrecognizable. The brittle crunch of them echoed underfoot as she walked, her wand trembling in her grasp, casting a faint, flickering glow. The narrow tunnel stretched on endlessly.

Then she saw him.

The man turned, his eyes red and piercing, slit like snakes. He had white, waxy skin, his featured blurred and burned as if someone had made him from clay but had not finished the task.

She shifted in her sleep, disturbed, but not afraid.

Behind him, a snake rose from the darkness, impossibly large, its scales glinting like polished emeralds. Its eyes were a wide, unblinking yellow, slitted and cold. Ellis' breath turned ragged even in sleep. She wanted to run far from these monsters, never to see them and never to have them see her.

She nearly awoke, gasping at the edge of consciousness, her heart pounding against her ribs. But something cool settled in her veins, slipping beneath her skin to quench the burn in her chest and dull the sharp edges that carved themselves into her. It pulled her gently—irresistibly—away from the darkness.

The world softened, blurred at the edges, until the harsh echoes of her nightmare were little more than distant ripples. Ellis sighed in her sleep, nestling closer to Regulus who's hold on her tightened unconsciously.

He was in this dream. Regulus. She didn't know where they were. It didn't matter, because she wasn't wearing her stockings. Nor her pleated skirt. Just the jersey, sitting in his lap, thighs spread over him. There was a slick wetness between her legs that came as no surprise. She'd spent the whole evening going half-mad with want and now the ache was undeniable.

Regulus met her eyes with a lazy smirk; his pupils blown wide swallowing the gray. "You're letting me take far too many liberties, Selwyn."

"And?"

Regulus's smile didn't falter. In fact, it deepened, his thumb brushing the edge of her bottom lip. "Can I then?" he murmured, "Take a few more?"

Before she could respond, he kissed her. Not the tentative, teasing kind of kiss they'd might have shared if given the chance. It was hungry and unapologetic, a collision of mouths that left no room for doubt. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp against his lips. He took advantage of the opening, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a possessive, claiming heat that made her knees weak, even though she was already sitting.

She felt everything he didn't say in the way he touched her: the raw edge of want, the weight of his desire for relief and the urge to make sure she found it first, and the sharp ache of pleasure bringing them close to ruin.

The hunger which surfaced on their skin began to accumulate with frustration. Ellis gasped into the kiss as he laid her flat on her back. His weight settled over her, the solid warmth of his body pinning her in place, grounding and overwhelming all at once. His hand reached down, fingers swirling against her clit, soft and slow, pressing and pressing into her until Ellis was not sure where the line between them began and ended. She didn't want to know. Something about this felt safe, right.

Her voice was a breathless gasp, no more than a name.

"That's it," said Regulus, smiling against her skin as she curved beneath his hands. "Just let go."

"Fuck," she breathed, eyes fluttering shut. "Is this what it'll feel like?"

Regulus stilled beneath her, voice pulling from his throat like glass. "S—Selwyn?"

She kissed him this time, harder—desperate, as if she could burn away her own impatience with sheer force. He was teasing her with this slowness, and it was maddening. Regulus chuckled softly against her lips, the sound a low, tantalizing vibration that sent shivers through her. When she finally pulled back, it was only because they both needed air. His forehead rested against hers again, his breath ragged and uneven.

"I wish this wasn't a dream."

Regulus's voice turned sharp; urgent now. "How do you know it's a dream?"

Ellis was wrenched away, and she was falling, falling, falling, somewhere far and long, through smoke, through water, until she landed in the dirt. Fenn. She recognized this tree, knew it from all the times she'd climbed it as a child, with its sharp little leaves and gnarled roots. At the base of it was a small stone plaque covered with a script no one in Fenn knew how to read, but…but…Ellis could read it…

Here lie the bones of Salazar Slytherin,

May Those Who Seek Greatness Walk His Path,

And Those Unworthy Fear His Name.

But, I do not fear Slytherin, nor Slytherin's heir, thought Ellis.

Another voice answered:Then walk, dear girl. Walk.She did not dream again after that and did not remember the dreams when she stirred in the early hours of the morning. She woke up pressed against something warm. A heavy weight lay across her back, the slow rise and fall of steady breathing brushing against her nape. Ellis usually woke up with cold feet and a cold nose, but this morning, she felt as if she'd slept beneath sunlight. She didn't dare inhaled, slow and deep.Regulus. His scent was distinctive, something like bergamot and clove, sharp yet clean—brisk, like the air before the first snowfall, but never overpowering. It lingered in a way that was utterly him. Settled deep. Threaded into the space between her ribs and throat.

They were testing each other, their magic coiling and clashing, a dangerous game neither seemed willing to stop. But this—this was nothing like that. Wizard or Muggle, magic or none, she knew him in the same way she knew herself.

Her hold tightened on him unconsciously, her fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as she shifted closer. She felt him stir behind her, his breathing hitching slightly.Let's stay like this forever, she thought lazily.What was the point of moving away?The common room was still dim. The fire had long since burned down to embers, and scattered around them were the remnants of the night before—crumpled sweets wrappers, empty goblets, and a few discarded scarves that hadn't made it back to their owners. Ellis cracked open her eyes. The others were still asleep, draped over the plush sofas, tangled in blankets or curled up against each other.

Regulus shifted again, his arm tightening around her waist for the briefest moment before he stilled. She felt the way his breath ghosted against her skin, warm and even, like he was still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness. "Ellis." Her stomach tightened at the way he said her name; low and rough with sleep.

She could feel his heartbeat against her cheek. She let her fingers curl lightly in the fabric at his ribs. Regulus shifted slightly, his chin brushing the crown of her head. His fingers twitched slightly at her waist before moving—slowly—trailing up the curve of her spine in a barely-there touch.

"Do you want to get up?" he asked, his fingers stilling for a moment before continuing their lazy path along her back.

"No."

A slow heat curled beneath her ribs that made Ellis hyperaware of every point where their bodies touched. His fingers ghosted along her spine, featherlight and unhurried, trying to map every ridge and curve he felt beneath his hand. His touch grew bolder, fingers pressing into her skin with more purpose, dragging slowly up the dip of her spine before trailing back down again.

She shifted, tilting her head, nuzzling against the hollow of his throat. His scent was stronger here and made her feel lightheaded in the best way. She didn't even think before she pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his skin, barely-there but unmistakable.

His hands stilled, processing the moment in real-time, not sure whether to lean into it or pull away. Ellis didn't give him the chance to decide.

She lifted her head, nose brushing the edge of his jaw. He was sharper here, all clean lines, and she felt the way his throat worked as he swallowed. Her fingers curled against his sweater, gripping the fabric softly, grounding herself before she pressed her lips to his jaw in the softest of kisses.

Regulus let out a breath like he'd been holding it for hours.

His entire body went still, not frozen, not tense—just waiting.

Ellis lingered, lips mapping the sharp line of his jaw, her breath warm against his skin.

She felt the way the last of his hesitation melted into something softer, something dangerous. His hands, which had gone still, resumed their slow exploration but now, they weren't idle.

His hand slid up, tracing the ridge of her spine, the curve of her waist, brushing so lightly against the lace of her bra that it made her shudder, before moving to the nape of her neck, fingers threading lightly into her hair. It wasn't a forceful touch. Neither a demand, nor a question—it was there and that was all that mattered.

"Fuck." His voice was barely above a whisper, taut in a way she'd never heard from him before. Heat bloomed between her legs, in her chest, everywhere. She wanted to stretch to release the ache that was building, to draw it long and taut until it snapped.

Her mouth found his pulse, drawing it into her mouth.

His fingers tightened in her hair, the faintest of pulls, andthat—that sent heat curling low in her stomach, made her chest feel light and too full all at once.

His thumb brushed along the nape of her neck, slow and lazy, a quiet indulgence he wasn't bothering to mask. She felt his breath ghost against her hairline, felt the way his body relaxed against hers, like he'd given up any pretense of retreating.

She shifted again, tilting her face up to his, meeting his gaze properly for the first time since waking. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but there was something else there too—something sharp and unreadable, something focused.Hungry. She could feel the length of his cock pressing against her.

Her thighs shifted restlessly, a slow, involuntary press, full of craving.

Regulus studied her for a long moment, his fingers still curled lightly at the base of her skull. She had the distinct feeling that if she moved even an inch closer, he would be the one to close the distance.

A loud, exaggerated yawn shattered the moment like glass.

Ellis flinched. Regulus went rigid.

From across the common room, a body shifted with a groan, then another yawn, louder this time, followed by the distinctive voice of Barty Crouch Jr.

"Ugh," Barty muttered, voice hoarse from sleep. "I need water."

Regulus found his wand. "Aguamenti."

Across the room, water rained down over Barty's head, drenching him. He shouted and cursed, but the noise woke up Evan and Helena and suddenly they're all laughing and laughing, and Ellis nearly began to cry. This was how it was meant to be. No Dark Lords, no countless deaths and blood supremacy, just laughter and the rush of victory following a Quidditch match, and the warmth of friendship

Once they were more awake, they all went down to the Great Hall together. The morning sun filtered through the windows, casting golden rays over the tables. The smell of freshly baked bread, bacon and sausages, and eggs lingered in the air. Helena and Regulus gained a thunderous round of applause from a group of fourth-years, which made the nearby Ravenclaws scoff and turn their noses up in fury.

Ellis settled onto a bench across from Regulus, who sat with his chin propped on his hand. To her right, Barty lounged lazily. Every so often, when Ellis was turned the other way, he'd reach over and steal one of the strawberries from her plate. On the far side of Barty, Maisie and Evan traded sarcastic remarks back and forth like a Quaffle.

Ellis was chattering with Helena about a few trivial things that had cropped up in the dorm that morning: Althea's strong new perfume that clung to the bathroom in a thick, heavy fog, and Alecto's suspicious behavior poking around Ellis's trunk while they were changing.

"That one's always up to something," Helena agreed, rolling her eyes as Ellis swore, she'd throw the girl out the window. "I don't know why you get worked up about it."

"Do you think she wanted to borrow something for a date? She could have asked me."

"Would you have given it to her?"

"No."

Their laughter rang out, easy and unaffected,

Regulus didn't eat. He drank a bit of tea, stirring the drink aimlessly as he stared at her. It wasn't his usual intense stare. This was different—softer, almost hesitant. She stole a glance his way, catching the subtle furrow between his brows and tilted her head. He looked away quickly, but not before she noticed the flicker of something unspoken in his expression. Concern? Hesitation? She couldn't tell.

Ellis tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Are you upset about something? You've been…"

Regulus blinked, his composure slipping in favor of a smile. He shook his head, "Just thinking."

She arched a brow. "In my experience, thinking rarely leads to anything good before nine in the morning."

"That explains a lot," Evan drawled from further down, just loud enough to draw a scornful look from Ellis.

Regulus let a small huff of laughter escape as he straightened in his seat. Clearing his throat, he posed his next question with surprising directness: "What does your mother know about magical compatibility?"

Helena laughed at him, "Someone's been readingWitch Weekly."

Regulus' head turned toward her, a smile on his mouth. "Don't think I've forgotten how seriously you took divination, Greengrass. Not to mention that you spent all of first year thinking Astronomy was Astrology."

Helena ignored him and pointed her knife at Ellis, "I want it on the record that I do not like that he's sitting with us again."

"Your objections are duly noted, counsel," Ellis said at last, finally turning to Regulus' question. "My mother is an odd woman, but you're welcome to write to her and ask. Though I can't fathom why you'd take an interest in such things—most of her experiments revolve around testing love potions on my father." His expression twisted in disgust. "And if you're not careful, she'll have you trying them too."

"Where do I post the letter?"

Ellis was a bit disturbed that he took her seriously, "…give it to me and I'll send it…"

"Tomorrow, then," Regulus said, as though the matter were decided.

Ellis caught Helena's eye, and both shared a look.

Ellis and Helena departed the castle not long after breakfast, slipping out through the grand wooden doors into a crisp Sunday morning. The sun hung high in the sky reflecting off the frozen grounds which were covered in thick mountains of snow. Other students dotted the path to Hogsmeade buzzing with anticipation for the weekend outing. It was just the two of them, strolling side by side and occasionally kicking up small puffs of powdered snow as they went.

The air smelled of chimney smoke as they neared the village. From a distance, Hogsmeade looked like a scene straight out of a storybook, with little cottages and shops thatched by fresh snow and lampposts adorned with wreaths of evergreen. The mood was festive—everyone seemed excited about the upcoming holidays, now only a few weeks away.

But, it was the upcoming Yule Ball which held the students attention. Whispered conversations speculated on who was taking whom and what the decorations would look like. Some already clutched new dress robes in crisp packages, evidently trying to beat the last-minute rush. Ellis and Helena broke off from the general swarm nearThe Three Broomsticksand followed the narrow lane that ledto Gladrags Wizardwear, the best place in the village for formal attire.

It was a modest shop from the outside. Inside, rows of robes in every hue imaginable lined the racks. Some changed color every few seconds; others trailed streams of glittering dust behind them. A cluster of mannequins by the storefront displayed the newest arrivals: sleek, velvet robes for wizards in deep emerald, plus dresses embroidered with star constellations that twinkled. Helena wrinkled her nose at a particularly frilly display.

"I can't believe Evans decided on a ballet theme for the Yule Ball," Helena grumbled under her breath, absently tugging a rose-pink satin robe off the rack and giving it a critical once-over. "A Muggle ballet at that. 'The Nutcracker'? Honestly."

Ellis, crouched near another rack, rummaging through a swirl of pale blue chiffon gowns, let out a small laugh. "I voted for it too, Helena. It's quite good, you know," she said, plucking a dress out and holding it up against her front. "And Tchaikovsky—the composer—he did Sleeping Beauty as well, which is even better."

Helena sniffed. "I wouldn't expect you to hold strong, butBlack? I suppose he just falls in line if you—" She caught herself before going off on a tangent, then shook her head dismissively. "Whatever. Couldn't you pick something less…controversial? A proper wizarding motif. Maybe something with actual magic, you know, not—" She trailed off, gesturing vaguely as though "muggle magic" was the pinnacle of absurdity.

Ellis stood up straight, shrugging out of her cloak as the warmth inside Gladrags began to make her cheeks flush. "I haven't even told you about the Rat King, yet."

Helena arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Rats? You really must have lost your mind."

Ellis laughed.

They wandered further into the store, weaving between racks and shelves that seemed to get narrower the deeper they ventured. A display of intricate lace and satin underthings caught Ellis's attention, and she half-turned to inspect them. Helena stepped closer, rummaging through a rack of knee-length dresses that shimmered in a subdued silver.

Despite their banter, there was an undercurrent of anticipation between them. The Yule Ball was the only major ball they had to look forward to at Hogwarts. Beyond Slug-Club parties, there wasn't much of an active social scene. And though Helena and Ellis put on a blasé front, they both cared very much about attending and looking good.

Ellis was about to pull a pale lilac gown from the rack—something that looked reasonably graceful—when Helena's hand shot out and grabbed her sleeve in a tight grip. Before Ellis could protest, Helena's palm pressed firmly against her shoulder, and in one swift, startling motion, she shoved Ellis to the floor behind a low table stacked with shoeboxes. Ellis let out a quiet yelp, landing on her arse with a thump. Her stomach dropped, and for a split second, she thought Helena was angry with her.

"Hel—?" Ellis tried to speak, but Helena cut her off, pressing a finger to her lips for silence. Her eyes were wide with alarm as she crouched down next to her.

"What in Merlin's name—?" Ellis whispered. Her heart hammered in her chest, half from shock and half from the sudden urgency in Helena's posture. Ellis rubbed her nose as some dust floated up. The shoes looked ancient.I'm better off writing Aunt Lola and having her send something, then shopping in this dingy little shop, thought Ellis. Luxury over practicality. A French label from Paris.

"Shut it," Helena hissed, her voice barely above a breath. "Look. Near the front. Tell me that isn't Narcissa Black and Bellatrix Lestrange."

Carefully, she peeked around the edge of the table, and sure enough, two tall, striking women had just swept into Gladrags, bringing with them an unmistakable aura of cold elegance. Narcissa Black. She was as pretty as Ellis remembered her. Slim, blonde, and graceful like the ballerinas she'd seen at the Royal Opera House as a child. Her eyes seemed tighter at the corners, stress drawing her mouth in to a frown. Her nose was pointed high, as if trying to escape an unpleasant smell. To Ellis, she had always looked more like a Rosier than a Black.

"I'm only meeting with Regulus, so there's really no need for you to come, Bella."

"I already told you there's no reason to see him." Bellatrix drawled, her tone edged with amusement. She was Narcissa's opposite in every way—coiled black hair, hooded eyes that spoke of perpetual boredom. Beautiful, yes, but with an air of haughtiness, of unshaken arrogance. Ellis caught sight of her ebony wand, slightly crooked, and thought that the woman herself was much the same. Mr. Ollivander never failed in discerning a person's nature.

"Much as I'd love to believe that you can be…insensitive…at times. It was his birthd—" Narcissa cut herself off, shaking her head as if she'd already conceded the argument.

"If we're fortunate, we might get to see Sirius too," Bellatrix mused, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile, "and I finish the job myself, since Aunt Walburga is far too soft to do it properly."

"Don't talk like that in public," Narcissa hissed. "And you must have lost your wits if you think slaying our own kin is acceptable. Would you do the same to Andromeda?"

"Kin?" Bellatrix sneered, her voice turning sharp as a blade. "Are you truly that naïve, Cissy? Those filthy bloodtraitors have no kin but Mudbloods and beasts. I'd sooner call Kreacher my cousin than—"

"He was dealt with. It's done."

Ellis's stomach twisted. A swirl of black and ivory fabric drifted around Narcissa's feet as she breezed toward a nearby display, turning a critical gaze upon a set of robes in midnight-blue satin. Bellatrix surveyed the store as though she owned the place, her lips twitching with vague amusement whenever her eyes fell on a dress she found especially hideous.

"Just wait." Helena's voice was taut, a note of anxiety creeping through her usual composure. "They might not stay long."

Ellis nodded, though the prospect of squatting behind a display for who knew how long made her calves ache preemptively. She cast a quick glance at the shopkeeper, who was engaged in polite chatter with Narcissa, occasionally showing her a piece of fabric or a swatch of embroidery. Bellatrix was drifting around, fingers trailing over the shimmering dresses with an air of mild contempt, as though nothing in the store was quite good enough.

A moment later, they heard the shopkeeper's polite murmur. Narcissa's voice, cool and self-assured, responded: "Yes, something tasteful but elegant. None of these… gaudy…things." She gave a little sniff.

"Just buy something and be done with it—we've real matters to attend to."

Time dragged on for what felt like ages. Just when Ellis thought they might slip by unnoticed, fate decided otherwise.

"Ellis. Helena. Aren't you two too old to be eavesdropping?" came Narcissa's voice, cool and sure. Her gloved fingers curled tightly around the fabric in her hands, and she cast a warning look at Bellatrix. "Off the floor, girls."

Helena stood first, cheeks burning, and hauled Ellis upright. Ellis's dignity lay somewhere behind that table, but she tried to mask her embarrassment with a stony expression. Both sisters watched them with hawk-like intensity.

Helena cleared her throat, clearing away the momentary awkwardness. "Er—congratulations, by the way," she ventured, offering Narcissa a tentative smile. "On your upcoming wedding. We, um…didn't mean to intrude."

Ellis nodded stiffly, still trying to compose herself. She could feel Bellatrix's eyes on her, assessing every twitch of her face. "Yes," she added, her voice quieter than usual. "Congratulations, Narcissa."

Narcissa inclined her head in cool acknowledgment, her pale features softening just a fraction. "I appreciate the sentiment."

An awkward pause followed.

"Are your parents attending?" Narcissa asked, voice clipped. She smoothed a fold on her glove before tilting her head to Ellis, arching a perfect brow.

Ellis forced a tight smile. "They're busy," she replied bluntly. In truth, it had been decided that Ellis alone would represent her family at the wedding—a wise choice, if only to avoid the possibility of her father saying something incendiary. In truth, Ellis' temper was no better than his. "But they send their well-wishes on your marriage."

"What a shame," Narcissa said, though her voice suggested she felt little regret. "Lucius was hoping to introduce himself, but I'm sure you can pass the message along. You've never met him, have you? He graduated the year before you joined Hogwarts."

"Fascinating," Ellis deadpanned, her tone so devoid of emotion that Helena elbowed her in the side. "You once told me if I wanted help, I should've been sorted into Hufflepuff. Shall I say the same to you now?"

Narcissa tutted, unfazed. "Have you held a grudge for that long, Ellis? How childish." Her pale eyes flickered with amusement. "You wasted too many tears on those silly boys—my cousin included. Look at you and Helena, getting along now. Wasn't I right in the end?"

Ellis stiffened at the mention of Regulus. She didn't respond.

Narcissa's lips curled in a small sigh, her gaze traveling over Ellis as though she were an unruly child. "I can't imagine what your mother must have put up with when you were young."

"Likely less than yours."

A pause settled over them, tense and electric. The sisters exchanged a look that made Ellis's anger blaze even hotter: haughty, arrogant, as though Ellis were a pesky bug flitting about their feet. The sting in her chest wasn't shame—it was anger, a fast coil of resentment. She hated how the Blacks wore their bloodline like armor yet bent their spines so easily to serve another.

Narcissa turned her attention to Helena with practiced grace, leaving Ellis to fume. "Are you looking for dresses?" she asked, her tone suddenly lighter. "Regulus mentioned he was helping plan the Yule Ball this year—I'm not sure why. He's never had much interest in such things."

Ellis scoffed under her breath. Bellatrix's dark gaze snapped toward her, a faint smirk on her lips. Helena cleared her throat and threw Ellis a pleading look. "Yes, we're shopping for the Ball," she said politely. "We're still looking."

"Do you have dates yet?" Narcissa inquired, the question laced with mild curiosity. "I'm sure there's no trouble there."

Helena's cheeks warmed as she idly toyed with the fringe of her scarf. "Actually, I've been exchanging letters with one of Ellis' cousins… and, well, we're getting along. So, I don't think I'll be going with anyone else. Maybe I'll take Evan, just for company—he's not particularly fond of balls anyway."

Narcissa's eyes glittered. "And is this cousin handsome? The Beauxbatons boys often are. They visited once in my fourth year for a Charms tournament. Lucius was so jealous he took points off the Ravenclaws for inviting them."

Ellis's mind flickered to her cousin René—she wondered if he'd be at Narcissa's wedding. He probably would; the Rosiers had surely been invited. Perhaps she could owl him and confirm. That might please Helena.

Somehow, the conversation turned to mundane topics: the closeness between the Greengrass and Malfoy families, Helena's older brother Hector (married but childless), and the intricacies of pureblood society. Ellis, mostly silent, was privately amazed at how purebloods like Narcissa and Bellatrix prided themselves on "noble lineage" yet seemed to do precious little with their days beyond meddle. Being chained to a dull routine of tea and gossip would drive Ellis up a wall.

As Helena chatted politely, Ellis kept one wary eye on Bellatrix. It was an open secret that Bellatrix was a devoted follower of the Dark Lord, the only female Death Eater of note. Ellis could practically feel the Dark Magic that clung to Bellatrix, flickering in the background. It made her stomach twist with revulsion.

When had Bellatrix last seen Regulus? Was it on his birthday? Had she ruined a day that Ellis had put so much effort into making perfect? Anger began to stir, and she had to force herself to look away before she did something foolish, like hex the witch.

When Narcissa gestured for them to follow her around a corner draped with silk and organza, Helena shot Ellis a frantic glance. Helena dropped her voice to a whisper, eyes flicking between Ellis and the Black sisters. "Stop being so rude and talk," she hissed. "I'm running out of things to say."

Ellis crossed her arms and glowered. "I think it's best if I don't talk. Otherwise, I'll say something that'll get us both in trouble."

Narcissa, for her part, seemed content to drop the earlier hostility. Bellatrix, on the other hand, radiated nothing but malice. The tension was suffocating. Eventually, Narcissa was done holding them hostage and made to leave. "Helena, Ellis… I'll see you both at the wedding."

Helena managed a gracious smile. Ellis gave a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak. Then, with the swish of their fine cloaks, Narcissa Black and Bellatrix Lestrange glided away, their chilly presence leaving an uneasy silence in their wake.

Only once the sisters were gone did Ellis and Helena finally exhale. They all but fled Gladrags, relief flooding them the moment they stepped out into the icy Hogsmeade air. For a few seconds, neither spoke; Helena tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, while Ellis knotted her scarf tighter.

"I'm never doing that again," Helena muttered as they started down the lane. "How are we meant to survive her wedding?"

Ellis let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "With the Auror's Office escorting us, preferably." She shot Helena a sidelong glance. "You are excellent at keeping your composure. Much better than me. Twenty points to Slytherin."

"You're not allowed to do that!"

"For impeccable poise, Lady Greengrass."

They continued along the main road, drawn toward the warm glow of Honeydukes. The scent of sugar wafted out each time the door swung open, beckoning them inside. The shop was crowded, jam-packed with students looking to satisfy their sweet tooth or buy gifts. Over in a corner display, the famous Honeydukes' chocolate was stacked in neat pyramids; at the counter, a seventh-year Hufflepuff was counting out Sickles for an overflowing paper bag of Fizzing Whizzbees.

"I think I see Amelia," Helena said, standing on her toes and squinting above the heads of a cluster of Ravenclaws. She raised one hand to wave, but as soon as the small knot of people shifted, Amelia was nowhere to be found—likely vanished deeper into the shop.

Ellis, however, was too distracted by a looming figure outside to notice. Her eyes followed the tall, broad shape strolling past the glass storefront.

"Helena, I've got to go," Ellis blurted, brushing off Helena's attempt to catch her sleeve.

"Go? Where?" Helena demanded, confusion crossing her features.

"Sorry—I'm a terrible friend," Ellis called, already inching toward the exit. "I'll make it up to you, promise!"

"Ellis! Ellis!" Helena's voice echoed after her, but Ellis was already pushing through the door, determined to intercept the gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, before he disappeared down the winding path.

She had only spoken to Hagrid a few times including an instance where she'd shouted at him for tipping a smelly bucket of dragon dung onto her freshly weeded patch of soil in Herbology. Professor Sprout had been torn between reprimanding Ellis for rudeness and rewarding her for saving the newly potted mandrakes from contamination.

Now, seeing Hagrid with his arms overloaded by packages wrapped in brown paper and twine, Ellis wove through the thinning crowd. By the time she caught up, a stitch formed in her side from sprinting across the snowy courtyard. "Mr. Hagrid! Wait—please!"

Hagrid glanced over his shoulder, his beetle-black eyes narrowing with unmistakable suspicion. "Eh? You?" His gruff voice sounded somewhere between a mumble and a growl.

Ellis forced a polite smile. "Let me help you with those," she offered, extending her arms.

Hagrid shifted the packages, but his grip stayed firm, as though expecting her to yank them away. "Got it sorted meself," he said, trying to sound courteous but failing. He was never one to deny an offer of assistance outright, but experiences with Slytherins had taught him caution. "Why're yeh outta Hogsmeade so soon, anyway?"

Ellis clasped her hands behind her back, doing her best to appear harmless. "Oh, well… the crowds were stifling. Besides," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "I saw you and realized I've never had a proper conversation with you, Mr. Hagrid." She winced at the memory of her own brashness. "Let me help you carry something to your—"Was it a rude to say hut?"—house. Please?"

Hagrid hesitated for a moment before relenting with a half-sigh. "All right, then. Long as yeh don't drop anything. Fragile, some o' these."

Ellis took one of the smaller parcels, careful to mind the clattering objects inside. They were lumpy, somewhat heavy, and smelled faintly of barley. Together, they trudged down the snowy slope leading to the small wooden house on the outskirts of Hogwarts.

Despite the icy wind that whipped across her cheeks, Ellis's excitement grew. She felt a surge of determination to put Hagrid at ease. "I can't wait to warm up," she said in a cheery tone, that came out just shy of menacing, "Perhaps some tea? I can make it if you like." She was sure Hagrid would never let her brew anything unsupervised—he seemed the type to fret over a kettle—but she wanted to sound helpful.

They reached his hut, which looked snug beneath the shimmering snow. A thin coil of smoke drifted from the chimney. Hagrid dug a massive key out of his coat pocket, fumbled with the lock, and finally nudged open the creaky door. Inside, the fireplace glowed with embers. Fang, Hagrid's boarhound, perked up immediately, wagging his tail with enough force to topple any fragile object in his vicinity.

"Down, Fang," Hagrid muttered, and the dog reluctantly settled by the fire, still eyeing Ellis with curiosity.

Once they were inside, Ellis set her package gently on a rickety wooden table. Hagrid dropped his own load with a dull thump, releasing a long sigh. He seemed to relax once his arms were free, but his distrustful gaze flickered over Ellis as if expecting her to break something or pry into something private.

Still, Ellis refused to be deterred by Hagrid's wariness. "Thank you for letting me help," she said, dusting off her palms. "I don't get many opportunities to speak with people outside my House."

Hagrid huffed. "S'pose not," he said, then busied himself with re-stoking the fire.

Ellis perched on a stool that squeaked under her slight weight, making it clear that she was going nowhere. Hagrid seemed to tense the longer she remained, clearly seeing through her act. Ellis wasn't offered any tea, which she found rude, but she held her tongue—mentioning it might get her thrown out, and she needed to stay.

Ellis took a breath. "I'm in a club," she said. "It's called S.N.U.G.—the Society for Nurturing Unfriendly Ghosts." She fiddled with the end of her scarf, sighing in what she hoped was a Gryffindor-like manner. Acting had never been her strength, and she worried she sounded insincere. "Everyone thinks it's silly, but Moaning Myrtle is my friend, you see, and I just feel so sorry for her. I wish I could help her…move on."

She scrunched up her eyes, struggling to squeeze out a few tears—if only she'd paid more attention to Althea, the master of crocodile tears

Hagrid straightened, sending her a sharp look. "Myrtle, eh?" he echoed carefully. "She don't get many visitors. Always sobbin' in that bathroom."

Ellis nodded, a subtle glint in her eyes. "She's mentioned fragments of her life here—how it was cut short," she said, her tone smooth and measured. "But she's deliberately vague. I've been trying to piece it together, but without the full story, it's difficult to find the most… effective way to help."

Hagrid turned abruptly back to the fireplace, poking at the logs until sparks shot up the chimney. His shoulders stiffened. "That's… that's not summat to be talkin' about lightly," he muttered, avoiding Ellis's gaze. "'Specially not you, from Slytherin. Nothin' but trouble, that House."

She did not like the accusation, but she kept her tone calm and composed. "Not every Slytherin is destined for the Dark, Mr. Hagrid. Ambition doesn't cancel out compassion."

Silence hovered. Then, with a great sigh, Hagrid turned around, his massive hands hanging at his sides. "Look, Myrtle died the last time the Chamber o' Secrets was opened," he said, words tumbling out in a rush. "Not that the Ministry believed me over Tom. They thought he was…" He trailed off, chewing his lower lip as though he had already said too much.

Ellis's heartbeat raced. The name had always been there….in the back of her mind…and now she stood at the precipice of a deep abyss and the ground beneath her feet was crumbling, throwing her down into the dark. "The…the Chamber of Secrets was opened?"

Hagrid grimaced, glancing at the door as though expecting a Ministry official to burst in. "There was… an acromantula named Aragog. People thought he was responsible." His eyes flickered. "But he wouldn't've killed Myrtle. An' if he had, she wouldn't o' stayed a ghost in that bathroom anyway. He'd've eaten her."

The moment the words left his mouth, Hagrid looked mortified, as though he had betrayed a long-held secret. Ellis blinked, struggling to hide her intrigue. "Aragog, was it? And where is he now?"

Hagrid hunched his shoulders. "Nothin'. Forget I said it."

But Ellis was nothing if not persistent. "There's said to be an Acromantula colony hidden in the Forbidden Forest, isn't there?"

"Never yeh mind," Hagrid growled, but the slip was already out in the open. The giant man scrambled to collect his thoughts, rummaging in a nearby cupboard as though the clattering of pots could drown out the conversation. Fang let out a low whine and padded over to nudge Hagrid's leg.

She chose her words with care, her tone smooth and soothing. "I apologize if I've stirred up unpleasant memories—that wasn't my intention."

Hagrid's eyes were clouded with regret and worry. He finally slammed the cupboard shut. "Yer best off leavin' it alone," he said, gruff but not unkind. "Myrtle's got her reasons fer bein' moody. It's not a matter o' fixin' her with a wave o' yer wand."

Ellis stayed quiet. She understood that pushing further would only make Hagrid clam up. Still, curiosity thrummed beneath her skin. For now, she forced a polite smile.

She stood from the stool and gave Fang a quick pat on his broad head. "I'll leave you alone then," she said lightly. "And carrying the parcels wasn't much work, so if you need a bit of help, feel free to ask."

Hagrid gave a curt nod, glancing at her uncertainly. "Yeh sure yer not up to somethin'?"

Ellis held up both hands, a sly grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I'm not a Gryffindor as you very well know," she teased, inching toward the door. "I'll see myself out."

She paused on the threshold, the winter wind gusting in. She gazed back over her shoulder, "Take care, Mr. Hagrid."

As Ellis stepped into the cold, she pulled her cloak tighter, replaying every word he had let slip. The Chamber of Secrets, a mysterious creature named Aragog, and the truth of Myrtle's death—all swirled in her mind, fueling her determination to find out more. She would need to venture into the Forbidden Forest to speak to the monstrous spider herself. This secret needed to be dragged into the light before its darkness bled into every corner of the world.

Only the Heir of Slytherin could open the Chamber…then it must have been Lord Voldemort who opened it. Tom Marvolo Riddle must have been a student during her parents' time, and if that was true, they had to know something about the Chamber's opening. Perhaps they'd suspected it was him all along and recognized the monster he would become. Perhaps that was why her father's hatred for the Dark Lord burned so fiercely, why her mother seemed to wither at the mere mention of his name.

A knot tightened in Ellis's chest.

If the pieces fit the way she feared, then Lord Voldemort was an enemy, and there was no neutrality in this war.

It was simple: fight or die. And if death was inevitable, she'd rather meet it on her feet, wand in hand, than on her knees, bowed beneath his terror. Or better yet, do the very Slytherin thing—kill that which sought to kill her.