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.)

15. Durmstrang

Durmstrang Castle was small and squat, its dark stone walls weathered by centuries of ice and wind. Unlike Hogwarts, it had no great spires, only thick, imposing ramparts that loomed like jagged teeth against the bleak northern sky. A heavy, impenetrable wall encircled the fortress, dusted with frost, warding off both intruders and the relentless winter.

The grounds stretched endlessly in either direction, vast fields blanketed in snow. The air was sharp, biting, filled with the distant howls of creatures lurking beyond the black pine forests that bordered the school.

Its great iron doors bore a deep carving of a two-headed eagle flying above the skull of a long-horned deer. Narrow, slitted windows lined the stone. No smoke curled from chimneys, making Ellis worry that the cold would have no end. The harsh, unwelcoming presence of Durmstrang bore down on her as the doors were thrown open.

The opening yawned like the mouth of a beast, dark and unwelcoming, the hallway beyond lined with tall, looming candelabras that cast eerie, flickering light onto the stone floors.

"Goodness," muttered Professor Flitwick, shivering so hard, his teeth were chattering in his skull. "What a frightening place."

Ellis nodded in agreement, burying her pink nose in the thick swaddle of furs she wore.

Amelia's boots crunched in the snow next to her, her tall-frame shrouded in wool. "And I thought Hogwarts got cold."

It seemed that much of the school had come to greet them as the hall was filled with students wrapped in red wools and black, sable cloaks. Everywhere she looked, there was a handsome boy. The girls were lovely and each prettier than the last. There was something strange in the air of Hogwarts that bred trolls like the Carrows.

Ellis straightened, eyes skimming for two familiar faces. Agatha and Louis Warhold were Ellis' cousins by way of her Aunt Delphine, her mother's second-eldest sister. The twins were a grade above Ellis and in their final year of schooling at the Durmstrang Institute of Magic.

They were her opposite, where Ellis had dark hair that curled and coiled and would tan easily in the sun, her cousins were fair, blonde, and blue-eyed. It painted an ugly picture for her mother, who never got on well with Delphine, but hated her husband even more. He was the sort of man who claimed to have 'done as ordered' during the war. A pureblood, through and through. The twins were the same. They despised all things muggle, stuck their noses in the air as if the entire world smelled of dung, and had spent much of her childhood annoying her. Ellis could proudly claim to be better at magic than both.

Headmistress Ragna Blodvin, an aging witch with thick, bug-eyed glasses, crept forth, putting a pause on Ellis' search. Her back was hunched, hands old and weathered, voice creaky. Her robes dragged against the ground. The snow-soaked hem left a wet trail behind her. Snail, thought Ellis. The woman is a snail.

"Welcome, welcome," she murmured, shaking Ellis' and Amelia's hands. She nearly missed Professor Flitwick entirely, but he let out a loud cough. "Oh, an elf."

"I am no such thing," snapped Professor Flitwick, sharp as a whip.

Blodvin blinked, leaned in close, until her breath nearly mingled with Flitwick's. "Goblin, then."

"Madam Blodvin," said Ellis, interceding before Professor Flitwick decided to show the witch exactly how skilled he was with his wand. "We've come a long way and are very tired. Might we retreat to our quarters until dinner? Have the other competitors arrived yet?"

Blodvin's neck bobbed, "You were the last."

Late, by Ellis' standards then. As always, the efficiency of the British Ministry of Magic was truly astounding.

Amelia let out a small sigh, "And we requested the Portkey permit two weeks ago."

She and Amelia were the only two who had qualified for the final round of the tournament. Ellis had half-expected one of the Gryffindors to make it through as well, but they had all dropped out of the club in unison. She would be lying if she said the sudden wall of ice between them didn't sting. She had grown used to their ridiculous antics, had even enjoyed talking with Mary and Remus. But whatever their reasoning, it was none of her business.

"We could have asked for it ten years ago and would have still gotten it five minutes prior."

Amelia smiled. "Why is it always the department that should be the most punctual that's always falling behind?"

"You've seen the amount of paper in that place," said Ellis, with a grimace. "I'm surprised they can find their own way home after a full day's work."

"Paper trails are reliable though."

"There's nothing I would hate more than records of all my misdeeds."

"Long list?"

"Very long."

Amelia and Ellis shared a room across from Professor Flitwick in the west wing of the fortress. The room was ill-suited to her. Its drab stone walls and worn tapestries were a pauper's halls. There were furs on the bed rather than blankets. The tapestries covered thin windows blocked off by wooden shutters. Neither her or Amelia dared to open them and let the frigid cold air into the room.

Ellis set her bag down and removed her cloak and gloves. It was stifling inside, and while Amelia got herself sorted, she wandered around the room, opening drawers, peering into the fireplace, looking under the bed, and testing for any charms or wards that might be spying on them. Finally, she found a small brass vent cover, which she immediately pried off to inspect.

"Pipes."

"Hmm?" asked Amelia, turning toward Ellis, only to catch her with her arm stuck in the vent. "Should you be doing that?"

"There are pipes pumping hot-water to heat the castle. That's why the fire-places aren't lit. You'd die of heat exhaustion if they were."

Pipes! That's how the basilisk must have gotten around the school, but a thousand-year-old basilisk was not a small beast. She wondered if it had the same magic as an occamy, which could shrink or grow to fit into any space. She hoped that was the case. Perhaps she ought to write a letter to Mr. Newt Scamander and ask him directly. Fantastic Beasts contained nothing on basilisks—understandably so, given that they had been banned in the U.K. and across Europe for centuries. A whole department in the Ministry existed solely to prevent their breeding, which meant that information on them was scarce.

"I hope that means the baths here are better than Hogwarts'. I'm not sure how it is down in the dungeons, but in the Ravenclaw Tower, if you're not quick, you're stuck with ice-cold water before breakfast even begins."

"We have hot water all the time."

"Must be nice."

"The plumbing at Hogwarts was installed by the Gaunt Family—Slytherin's descendants—so I imagine they were a bit biased."

"It might have been better if I'd never learned that."

Ellis patted off the dust on her sleeve and threw herself into the bed, sinking into the soft fur. "What do you think they'll have for dinner? A roast maybe? I hope it's nothing pickled."

"Hopefully, something warm. Are we wearing our uniforms?"

"Our uniform is so bland compared to the other schools," said Ellis, leaning up on her elbows. "I'm going to wear my own clothes. You can borrow something if you'd like."

Amelia shook her head. "Black, then?"

"Black," agreed Ellis.

Durmstrang's robes were deep red; Beauxbatons' were blue. Koldovstoretz was also in attendance, along with several smaller schools from Albania, Italy, Spain, Poland, and Ukraine. Muggles classified some of these territories as part of the Soviet Bloc. Wizarding borders were different, though some argued they should mirror the Muggle ones. Voldemort's followers in the East had been stirring up tensions, using these disputes to their advantage.

The tournament was for the European Championship, which would determine who would go on to compete in the official IWC tournament at the international level. The top six contestants would advance.

Durmstrang, a school that did not admit muggleborns, had been a controversial choice to host the championship, especially given the presence of several muggleborn contestants.

Ellis dressed in her finest robes, the heavy wool settling comfortably over her frame. Gold clasps fastened it shut, each engraved with the Selwyn family crest: a serpent coiled around a sword, its hilt balancing a pair of scales. The high collar framed her neck, and the fitted sleeves tapered neatly at her wrists. She wore simple gold earrings, tucked her repaired locket beneath the collar, and pulled her hair up with a hairpin. A quick brush of makeup over her face, and she declared herself ready to go.

Amelia slicked her dark hair into a neat bun, giving her a severe, almost intimidating air—one that would surely unnerve future defendants in her courtroom. With her sharp eyes and precise angles, she had the look of a scholar, a lawyer in the making. Dressed in black, she appeared even more formidable, which Ellis thought was only fitting, given they were walking into a den of Dark Arts practitioners.

Amelia did not like the Dark Arts. But Amelia's disapproval was nothing compared to James Potter, who never missed a chance to get on Ellis's nerves whenever she cast a hex that edged too close to the line. At least Amelia understood that light and dark had to coexist, that balance was necessary. And, more importantly, she knew Ellis well enough to trust that her will was too strong to be corrupted by such magic.

Ellis and Amelia stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, their boots clicking against the cold stone as they followed the slow trickle of students heading toward the dining hall. The halls of Durmstrang were low and narrow. The candelabras embedded into the walls were lit with blue flames.

The Great Hall of Durmstrang was nothing like Hogwarts'. It was long and narrow, its high-vaulted ceiling intersected with thick wooden beams that looked like the ribs of a sleeping beast. Massive iron chandeliers hung in uneven intervals, their candlelight illuminating the crimson banners of the school. Mounted animal heads and skulls hung between the banners.

A massive bear's head, its fur still thick with age, loomed over the main entrance, while the skull of a great elk dominated the farthest wall. Some were creatures Ellis couldn't even name—beasts with elongated fangs, unnatural horns, and knotted skeletal structures. Sacrifices, she realized, feeling the heavy weight of their magic wash over her. Her face pinched with something close to pain.

At the far end of the hall, Headmistress Blodvin sat upon a throne unlike any Ellis had ever seen—carved from the massive, bleached skull of a dragon. Its jagged teeth flanked her, its curved horns rising high above her head, casting long shadows in the flickering firelight. The rest of the chair was made of blackened wood. Behind her was an enormous fireplace, its stone mantel carved with depictions of wizards locked in battle. Though there was wood resting there, it had not been lit.

Ellis swallowed.

She did not like this place and was glad that she had never been swayed into attending.

Some of the Beauxbatons students had already integrated themselves among the Durmstrang students. Professor Flitwick seemed to have recovered from his earlier annoyance and was telling an animated story to the Durmstrang professors that had them laughing.

A boy with dark eyes and a handsome face approached them as they searched for seats, offering his arm up in a shallow bow. His fingers were covered in dark ink, runes tattooed into his skin. Ellis gazed at them curiously. "Please come with me," he said, in a thickly accented voice. "You are the 'ogwarts girls?"

The boys are too busy playing at war, thought Ellis.

"Yes," said Amelia, but did not take his arm. "And you?"

"Aleksandr Pushkin."

Ellis cocked her head, recognizing his last name. "Back from the dead?"

His eyes flashed to her, a bit of amusement in his gaze. "No, but it is good that you recognize the brilliance of my family," he grinned. Ellis would not call it brilliance that Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin, a famous poet in both the wizarding and muggle world, died dueling a muggle with pistols.

Aleksandr guided them into their seats, high-backed chairs with animal pelts draped for extra warmth. "We have been worried all week that you English—"

Ellis protested to that. "I'm from Fenn."

"—would not carry a conversation."

A mix of Russian, German, French, and Latin filled the air, leaving English on the sidelines. Ellis was more than comfortable with that, but she knew Amelia wasn't, so she stuck to English as they chatted, not wanting her to feel like an outsider.

She caught sight of Agatha and Louis from across the room but made no move to go to them. Her mother and Aunt Delphine had not spoken in years—not since Ellis' grandmother, Lorraine Louise Rosier, died and left everything to her three youngest daughters: Elodie, Celeste, and Odette. All three sisters were from Lorraine' second marriage to an Algerian-French Wizard named Iaudas Ammar.

"Do you know them?" asked Amelia, catching her gaze.

"My cousins."

Aleksandr turned to look, "Ah, cousins?"

He looked between Ellis and the Warhold twins with some surprise. Though Ellis had paled from the lack of sunlight in the United Kingdom, she was tanner than Louis who was paper white in every-sense. White-blond hair, pale skin, startling blue eyes that Ellis' mother and grandfather claimed were the evil-eye.

Ellis answered a little too honestly, "I wish they weren't."

Aleksandr nodded, seeming to understand, "They are…difficult…people."

Aleksandr turned out to be very charming and had her and Amelia laughing like the schoolgirls they were as he told them stories of their classes at Durmstrang. He introduced them to some of his classmates and a few of the students from Beauxbatons' changed seats to join them. They made up the so-called 'Big Three' schools of magic.

"Karkaroff?" asked one of the other girls, Kateryna Aksinin, when talk turned to their classes. "Not our Karkaroff?"

"Yes, him."

A bit of laughter sounded. "Unlucky. He is good at magic but not teaching. He played favorites with us—poor Smirnov had to scrub the dishes by hand one time because he hit him with a stray spell."

"I am glad to be rid of him," said Smirnov, shaking his head. "He must have come there to pledge himself to…"

"Lord Voldemort?" asked Amelia.

Silence fell over the table.

"It is bad, there? In England? We do not have muggleborns or half-bloods here," said Aleksandr, quietly. "We avoid most of the terrors of war, but many of our families were killed by Grindelwald's acolytes and those who were not…joined him. It feels the same now."

Amelia nodded, "There are attacks every day."

She left it at that.

Ellis reached for one of the steaming goblets of mulled elf-wine and took a careful swallow. It was sweet, layered with cinnamon and cloves. Another glass or two and she'd sleep like the dead. Chicken and boar drenched in wild garlic and butter rested on the table. A hearty meal, but the mention of the war and Grindelwald soured Ellis' mood and kept her from filling her belly.

"But, there are no Dark Arts under Dumbledore?" confirmed Aksinin. "If the tournament was longer, we would have invited you to sit in. Many mistake Dark for bad, but it is not all like that. Not if you are strong."

"We learn to defend against it, rather than cast it," said Amelia, diplomatically.

Aleksandr leaned closer to Ellis. "Are you strong enough?" he teased lightly.

"Yes," Ellis replied, shortly, gaze narrowed in suspicion.

His eyes crinkled. "Good. I have always admired a witch who knows her worth."

Aleksandr asked about her wand, her favorite charms, and the sort of duels she preferred. His questions, though polite, were threaded with a light flirtation that Ellis couldn't ignore. She was sparingly short with her replies, which only seemed to amuse him more.

"We have met before," he revealed, as dinner neared its end. "I am glad you do not remember it as I lost very badly."

"I don't make it a habit to remember every duel I win."

"No, I would not expect that," he said lightly. "But I have been waiting for a chance to redeem myself. In fact, I swore I would practice day and night until we met again. I had no idea we would cross paths here at Durmstrang."

Ellis quirked a brow, leaning an elbow on the table. "We may not cross paths at all if you lose again."

He laughed and nodded. "I will not."

Something about the way he said it made her believe it.

She eyed the runic tattoos that curled around his fingers. Some looked like they were done in a single continuous line, dragging from his wrist to the side of his thumb; others were more intricate shapes, carefully etched in geometric patterns. If she had dueled him before, she truly could not recall it, but it must have been some time ago—perhaps when she first started competing.

She studied him closely. He may not have looked the same back then.

Ellis resisted the urge to take his hands and inspect the markings more thoroughly. Instead, she settled for asking, "What are the tattoos for?"

He smirked, as though he had expected the question and was pleased she had asked. She glowered. If Regulus had been here, he would have likely called Aleksandr a criminal. The thought made her smile.

"This is not so common in Britain, I think," he said with a hint of amusement. "At Durmstrang, we have the option to specialize in certain areas of magic very early. Some of us choose the path of ritual magic, others Alchemy, some prefer the more…physical enchantments." He raised both hands, offering them to her. She traced the sharp lines with her eyes. "These runes are my own work, combined with certain warding spells for the body. We can activate them wandlessly, if we choose. A little bit like your 'Protego' or your charming of magical items. Only here, I charm myself."

She had read about that in older tomes, though the practice was rarely taught at Hogwarts. Wandless magic was advanced. Inscribing runes directly onto the flesh to focus it was even more so. It danced along the edges of blood magic. Ancient Runes classes at Hogwarts barely touched the surface of possibilities, focusing mostly on translation.

Aleksandr continued, smiling at the fact that he had captured her interest. "All living flesh is connected to magic, and each wizard or witch has a certain signature. By carving runes that reflect that signature, you can call upon them with an incantation or simply with will. It is subtle, but powerful."

She tilted her head, curiosity burning hotter now. "You must trust your own skill quite a bit to do something so permanent."

He chuckled. "Or be foolish, yes. Some say the line between confidence and foolishness is very thin. What about you, Ellis Selwyn? Are you not confident? I saw you duel. Not just once, but many times. Even if you do not remember me, I promise, I remember you."

A small flutter, something like both vanity and unease, flickered in her chest. She prided herself on her dueling skills. But to have him remember her so vividly, while she had barely recognized him, felt…unbalanced. She didn't like that. "You said you lost to me once, but I can't place the time or the tournament," she admitted, keeping her voice even. "Where was it?"

"Charlottenburg," he said. "There was a winter event—a small dueling club that used to gather for Yule."

"The Ambrose Cup." She frowned. "You had a shaved head back then."

He winced in exaggerated fashion. "My older sister was practicing her hair-cutting charms. She was…enthusiastic. I looked like a convict, no? That year was not my most handsome. So, you see why I prefer to be remembered like this." He ran a hand through his now longer, dark hair, which curled faintly above his ears, well-styled and carefully parted.

Ellis let out a short laugh despite herself. "You're certainly more memorable this way."

He inclined his head graciously. "I am pleased. And if you wish for a demonstration…" He gestured to one of the runes and it flashed with the faintest light, "I would be most happy to give it…in private.

He said it with such ease that Ellis nearly choked. She cleared her throat, trying to mask her sudden surprise. "That won't be necessary."

"In private, in public," he said breezily, "makes no difference, truly. But as a courtesy to you, I thought you might prefer fewer distractions."

"Thank you for your…courtesy," she said, carefully keeping her tone polite. "But I think I'd rather watch from a distance."

"As you like. You do not strike me as a timid witch, but I understand. Perhaps we can arrange something tomorrow, in one of the practice rooms. Or a courtyard, if you enjoy fresh air." He smiled, as though a sudden thought had occurred to him. "This castle, it is large, yes? But it can feel very cramped sometimes, especially in winter when the storms blow in from the north. The days are short, the nights are very long. And the nights can be very…lonely."

She blinked, unsure where he was going with this, though she suspected it wasn't anywhere she wanted to follow. "I imagine so."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a low whisper. "Do you have someone waiting for you at home?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He shrugged, "Someone who claims your attention? Your affection?"

A flush warmed her cheeks. "That's a very personal question to ask a witch you've only just met—well, reacquainted yourself with," she corrected.

"Why?" he countered, unabashed. "We are living in dark times. The future is always uncertain. Durmstrang teaches us to be bold. If you do not ask, how will you know?"

Ellis found her composure slipping. "I…well," she started, then silenced herself, suddenly unsure. Regulus did flirt with her, had even promised to ask her to the ball, but he hadn't done so yet. "I think so," she answered honestly.

His smile widened as though her admission was precisely what he'd hoped for. "You do not sound certain." He paused, letting the statement hang. "If there is doubt, then I must be direct in offering: If you find you are cold, or uncomfortable in these old stone rooms, you would be very welcome to find a warm bed in my quarters."

Next to Ellis, Amelia let out a small snort of surprise that she quickly disguised as a cough, lifting her napkin to her lips. Ellis' eyes darted around, but no one else seemed to be paying attention. In a hall full of chatty students, they were just one conversation in a sea of many.

"That is quite an offer," she said, a little sharply. Her heart thumped with a mixture of amusement, embarrassment, and near indignation. "And very…blunt."

Aleksandr lifted a brow in clear challenge. "Blunt, yes. Is that not what you call 'straight to the point?' We do not have time for games, I think. You are attractive, skilled, clever. I admire such traits in a witch. If you are uncomfortable, my apologies."

For a moment, she couldn't speak. "Consider me flattered," she said, mustering politeness, "but I'll pass."

He accepted this with a tilt of his head. "A pity. But I understand. My door remains open if you change your mind. Or simply wish to see the runes up close."

That last addition, which dripped with innuendo, had her biting down on a wry retort. Next to her, Amelia's expression was caught between shock and muted hilarity. Ellis could almost hear her friend's thoughts: Merlin, is this how Durmstrang students court each other?

Clearing her throat, Ellis drew herself upright. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I'm here for the tournament, not for…extracurriculars."

Aleksandr's eyes sparkled. "Do not let your focus slip, of course. But remember, life is short. We take our joys where we can find them."

She was thinking about Aleksandr's words when she was in bed that night. Amelia had gone to sleep almost immediately, a combination of wine, heavy food, and the warmth in the air. Ellis found that she couldn't sleep.

She had drawn the curtains around her bed closed and cast a silencing charm to not disturb Amelia's sleep. In the low light of a candle, she had the two-way-journal that she made open in her lap, reading over Regulus' old messages. He liked using it to insult Professor Dumbledore's outfits during class or to complain about something that was annoying him.

Today, there was only a simple message.

Tell me when you've won.

He had written 'when' and not 'if.' Regulus was not as talkative as she was, neither in writing nor when speaking. She had learned to parse out the silences in his letters.

It's cold here and the castle very ugly, but the boys are handsome, so it makes up for it. I think I might bring one back with me and take him to the Yule Ball. His name is Aleksa—

She was still writing when Regulus' jagged script appeared on the page: I'm sure there are a thousand Aleksandrs and Dimitris and whatever other manner of idiot they have there, all too happy to take you anywhere you please, but none know you like I do.

Ellis read it a few times, because she could hear his voice in her ear, could practically imagine the annoyance that pinched at his mouth, and wished that he were closer.

No, they don't. Ellis could have left it there. But, I was offered a warm bed and private lessons.

A minute passed and then two, before Regulus answered: Come back quickly and I'll give you far more than that.

How brave Regulus seemed when they were alone until he reached the line he would not cross. Ellis wondered if it was her fault. Did he sense the doubts in her heart and refuse to act until they were silenced? But, Regulus had never been the type to hesitate when it came to sex, yet with her, he held back. Did he think she was… broken… after what had happened with Mulciber last year? Or was she only someone to flirt with, never to touch? As if she might taint him somehow?

She frowned to herself, wondering when she let all those stupid ideas get into her head.

She responded: Would you?

If that's what you want.

And what do you want?

I don't have the words to describe what I want.

Try.

Ellis Selwyn.

She went to sleep with a giddy heart and woke up in such good spirits that Professor Flitwick asked if someone had cast a Cheering-Charm on her.

Professor Flitwick taught Ellis' favorite subject and was about the only Professor that Ellis would give her life for. He had a wickedly good sense of humor, was fair in all aspects from house points to exam scores and even let them play games in class when he noticed that the class's mood was low. More than that, he had been Ellis' most enthusiastic supporter when she petitioned to revive the long-defunct dueling club, a tradition that had fallen out of favor since her father's time at Hogwarts. Where other professors had expressed caution, Flitwick had seen promise

"Are you nervous, dear?" asked Flitwick, finding her pleasant mood to be strange.

"I'm not nervous, Professor. Just happy."

"Oh! Very good, then!" he laughed. "I remember I would get excited right before a big match too. Fleamont and I would have a little cup of mead to take the edge off."

"Fleamont?"

"Potter. James' Potter's father—skilled dueler. One had to be with such an unfortunate name, but please don't mention that to anyone."

"I don't talk to Potter much anymore."

Professor Flitwick patted her hand lightly. "Gryffindors tend to be stubborn in their ways. Don't think too badly on them."

"Oh, no," said Ellis, shaking her head. "I'm not upset at all. If they'd followed us out here, we'd have an international incident on our hands."

"Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a bit of that Gryffindor spirit thrown in," said Professor Flitwick, throwing Ellis a knowing look.

A quick, rhythmic sound of footsteps on stone made her turn in her seat. Amelia approached, cheeks flushed pink from exertion, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, tendrils clinging to her temples. She'd clearly gone for her daily run—an odd habit, as far as many pure-blood wizards were concerned, but Amelia insisted it kept her sharp. Ellis was more of the lounging type.

"Amelia!" Ellis called, lifting a hand.

"Oh, good," Amelia replied between measured breaths, slowing to a stop in front of them. "I was afraid I'd missed you two."

Professor Flitwick chuckled, setting down his tea. "Out for a run, Amelia?" The girl nodded. He beamed up at her. "Did you manage to find your way without losing any toes?"

"Barely." Amelia peered at the assorted platters on the table—slices of dark bread, smoked fish, pickled vegetables, and a cauldron of steaming stew that smelled of wild garlic. A heavy pitcher of mulled wine sat in the center, still warm. It was a heavy meal for the morning, but they'd need the energy. "It's a good thing I'm not picky."

They ate their fill, knowing that the combination of cold and exhausting their magic would leave them starving by lunch.

Professor Flitwick dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin and pushed away from the table. He let out a satisfied sigh, then glanced at Amelia and Ellis. "I believe it's time I attend to a matter or two with Headmistress Blodvin," he said brightly, his voice echoing in the cavernous Durmstrang dining hall, "I'll see you two at the medal ceremony?" He slipped from his seat, using the table's edge for balance. The tall candelabras lining the wall flickered over his small figure, making his shadow loom larger than life.

Ellis and Amelia exchanged wry smiles. Amelia answered, "We didn't come here for any less, Professor."

"Best of luck, both of you," he said softly. "I know you'll make Hogwarts proud."

They watched him waddle toward the far side of the hall, stepping around thick wooden pillars and the students who milled about in conversation. Once he disappeared through a wide archway, Amelia released a small exhale and turned to Ellis.

"I'm glad he's come," Amelia murmured. "Professor McGonagall always makes me feel as if I've done something wrong. I don't think she'd approve of this place."

Ellis's brows pinched. "She's held a grudge after I threw that curse at Black. I got an 'E' on my last transfiguration paper…and she said I went over the page count again, she'd stop reading them altogether."

"Maybe it also had something to do with you calling her class a waste of time."

"There are only so many animals we can turn into teacups before it gets old."

They fell into a moment of silence as a group of Durmstrang students walked by, sweeping red robes brushing the stone floor. One of them gave Ellis a lingering look. She noticed a faint glimmer of curiosity in their eyes.

Ellis waited until the group was out of earshot before continuing, "How's Arithmancy? I almost took it, but the only kind of counting I like involves money."

"It'd be nice if we focused less on the theory and more on its practicality, but Professor Digits is a bit of a traditionalist. Black and I take that together, you know? Strangely enough, he's been a great help"

"Regulus likes you."

Amelia choked and looked at her, half stunned, half horrified. "I'm sorry—what?"

Ellis continued, cluelessly. "He said you're very practical—which, in his words, basically means he thinks you're a genius."

Amelia stared. "That's... deeply disturbing."

Ellis caught Amelia's eye and laughed. "Don't look so stunned."

"You're the only Slytherin I talk to, Ellis. Crouch said hello to me in the hallway the other day and I thought I was going to die."

"We tend to keep to ourselves, but we're…"

"Nice?" asked Amelia, skeptically.

Ellis snorted. "Merlin, no." She tilted her head, thoughtful. "Best thing you can do is go with the flow. Start thinking too hard about it, and your head will explode."

She looked around, noting that the dining hall had gradually begun to empty. Students were drifting toward the towering doors at the far end, where an older wizard in red Durmstrang robes was directing the traffic.

"Should we head out?" asked Amelia, following her gaze.

Ellis nodded. "Might as well."

They crossed the threshold of the dining hall into one of the fortress's long corridors. Outside, the wind howled through the courtyard. They turned down another corridor, guided by the flow of students. At the far end, tall iron-bound doors stood propped open, leading to the grounds. But just as they were about to pass a suit of blackened armor—its visor down, sporting a monstrous spiked helmet—someone stepped abruptly from behind it, blocking their path.

Ellis felt a jolt of recognition even before the figure fully emerged. Light hair caught in the corridor's pale glow.

"Ellie," Agatha said in a tone that tried for bored indifference, but the sneer curling her lip betrayed the older girl's distaste. Burgundy leathers wrapped around Agatha's torso and coiled in her thick locks was a pin made of dragonbone. She looked more dangerous than she was. Agatha was good at magic, but she was hesitant with it. More akin to a snarling dog than a wild wolf.

Agatha gave Amelia an appraising once-over, then lifted her chin. "I'm surprised it took you so long to find your way to the dining hall. I thought you'd be thrifty about everything, given how stingy your mother can be."

Ellis forced her voice to remain steady. "Fascinating how you never get tired of insulting your own family. But yes, good to see you too."

Amelia placed a subtle hand on Ellis's arm, a gentle caution. Clearly, she sensed the tension.

Agatha's eyes flicked to Amelia. "Bones, is it? You're the other Hogwarts champion? How thrilling for you. Must be nice, trailing behind Ellis, mopping up her messes."

Amelia's brows rose, but she seemed neither angered nor offended by the words. "That's a strong assumption that you're making."

A cold smile spread across Agatha's lips. "The weak always cling to the strong when climbing up the ranks." Then her focus pinned itself back on Ellis. "And I know you can't resist a chance to show off, cousin."

Ellis's mouth flatted, . "I'm here to do my best, not feed your insecurities."

Agatha's cheeks reddened. She drew herself taller, shoulders squared in that imperious posture Ellis had seen a hundred times back at family gatherings. "You have no idea what we've been learning here. The Warhold name is quite respected, you realize. Louis and I have connections—deep ones. Durmstrang's staff is far more advanced than your spineless lot at Hogwarts."

"That remains to be seen," said Amelia, coldly.

Tension crackled like static. The corridor, once filled with bustling conversation from passing students, seemed to hold its breath at the swirl of old family drama. A handful of onlookers slowed, watching the scene from the corners of their eyes.

"Go on ahead," said Ellis, nudging Amelia, gently. "There's no need for you to waste your time with her nonsense, Amelia."

Amelia hesitated, her gaze flickering between Ellis and Agatha, as if weighing whether it was safe—or polite—to leave. Her lips parted like she might protest, but the words never came.

With a small, uncertain nod, she turned away. Her steps were cautious at first, but grew quicker as she put distance between herself and the two cousins. Within moments, she had crossed the hall and disappeared through the doors ahead, her silhouette swallowed by blanket of snow.

Ellis watched her go in silence, jaw tight, then slowly turned back to face Agatha. "Don't ever speak to my friends like that again, Agatha."

"Friends?"

"For someone so obsessed with being a lady, you're remarkably lacking in basic decency. Even wild animals know how to treat a guest. Amelia is a stranger to you, and we're guests here. Try to act like you understand that."

Agatha looked at her with those blue, blue eyes, trailing from head to toe, lip curling at her outfit. Ellis glowered at her, daring her to say something.

This morning, Ellis slipped into a set of black dragon-skin leathers. The surface was ridged with tiny scales, each one catching faint glints of crimson when she moved. It was warm, flexible, and warded against certain spells and hexes. Over it, she wore a heavy red cloak lined in dark velvet. The cloak was pinned at both shoulders by ornate clasps shaped like little dragon heads with open jaws. Each dragon head glinted gold in the torchlight, the carved eyes set with flecks of garnet that made them gleam. Amelia had opted for her own variation on dueling leathers: deep navy leather with the Bones family crest—an emblem of skull and crossed bones—on the breast, over which she'd pinned a long cloak.

Agatha gave a little scoff from the back of her throat, "You should have opted for manticore leathers, Ellis."

Manticore skin repelled most charms making it highly desirable and incredibly expensive. There were no official rules against wearing it in a tournament, but it was bad showmanship. Dragon leather was the standard if you could afford it.

"I could've opted to stay in bed and sleep too, but here I am."

"Funny as ever, Ellis."

"When did you learn about humor?"

Agatha's mouth curled into a sneer, and she flicked her fingers at her, making Ellis catch the glaring, glittering stone on her ring finger. Oh, god. Maybe she would go work in the Wizengamot and ban marriage under the age of 30. What on earth was the rush when witches and wizards lived for nearly 200 years? Children. It always came down to breeding a new generation of monsters to carry on the family name. "…should I say congratulations?"

"And curse me? Best to keep your mouth shut."

"Who is it?" asked Ellis.

"I introduced you to him at Leonore's wedding, Ellis. Are you so selfish as to not remember?"

"…right…Adol—"

"You are such a child," snapped Agatha, and then struck her in the shoulder with her glove. "I would have thought you would have learned something from your classmates. Instead, you and Edmund run about sullying yourselves with—"

"With what?"

"Bad blood. I would not be surprised if you turn up with a…what is it called? A mudblood…one day."

"Did they open an enlistment office in the German Ministry, yet? Will you sign up? Last I heard, your Minister was involved in some very undesirable things during the war. Funny how he's just gained power as Lord Voldemort does. It seems as if you people learned nothing from the war."

"I would brush up on your facts," said Agatha, coldly. "You wouldn't want to get your father in any trouble by throwing out wild accusations, would you?"

"Is it an accusation when I know it's true?"

"You know the defense to that, don't you? At the end of the day, it was the Imperius Curse doing all the work. And no—" Agatha rolled up her sleeves showing her bare arms. "—I haven't joined, dear cousin. I'll let you know when I do."

Ellis' mouth curled. "All that talk and none of the commitment?"

"Are you looking forward to me joining?"

"I think it cowardly to become one of the Dark Lord's followers, but perhaps, it takes a certain level of bravery that people like you and Louis will never have."

"Or a death wish."

Ellis frowned at that. "What?"

"During the last war, people made the mistake of entering the fight too soon and hundreds of families were wiped out from existence. The same is happening with the purebloods in England, but they cannot see it yet. If this Dark Lord wins and Europe falls, I'll join to save my own neck. If not, I can happily say that I disagreed and live my life as if this ugly thing never happened."

"Do you think someone would join because they want to die?"

"For some, only death gives meaning to life."

Did Regulus think his life had no meaning?

"You can already see that your government is not taking it lightly. Kill orders. The Dementor's Kiss. If they have learned something from Grindelwald, it is to snuff the embers before they grow. Uncle Edward is relentless in that sense. Perhaps, too much so. People hate him."

"Yes, they do."

Silence. Ellis wished, not for the first time, that her father was a little less noble—less shackled to his principles. He wasn't the kind of man to walk away from a fight and therein lay the entire problem. Where others might have bent beneath the weight of the Malfoys' veiled threats or the Rosiers' cold disdain, he stood straighter. He welcomed the conflict, even relished it.

He claimed it kept his mind sharp. Ellis found it exhausting. She watched her cousin, wondering if maybe they were more alike than she previously thought.

Agatha cleared her throat, breaking the solemn air, "What about you?"

Ellis blinked at her. "Me?"

"I saw you sitting next to Pushkin—he has good breeding."

"Is he a horse or a person?"

Agatha eyed her shrewdly, "Is it girls that you like?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"We are cousins," Agatha said, her tone laced with condescension, as if Ellis were foolish for even questioning her motives.

Ellis narrowed her eyes, "Did Aunt Delphine ask about me?"

Agatha shifted, folding her hands in front of her. "She would be happy to introduce you to some—"

"Oh, I've no doubt she would. And tell me, what did she offer them? My estate? My wealth? None of it is hers to give. I would rather the name 'Selwyn' die with me than see my inheritance stolen away under the guise of marriage."

"All that history gone because of your pride?"

"Yes."

Agatha shook her head, "I don't know why you are such a difficult person, Ellis."

Ellis frowned at that. Difficult. It wasn't the first time someone had called her that, and she doubted it would be the last. What vexed her most was not the insult itself, but the expectation behind it. Why was it so unreasonable for her to expect what she was owed? To want more than what was politely handed to her?

Men could be ruthless in their ambition, and they were admired for it. When she dared to question or demand, she was labeled troublesome. As if she was an inconvenience. Was she meant to fold herself neatly into the space others had carved out for her? To be voiceless, demure, endlessly agreeable?

Without another word to her cousin, Ellis turned on her heel, the conversation left hanging in the air. Her cousin was hardly worth the breath it would take to argue with her. The world would lose nothing if Agatha and Louis faded into irrelevance.

Ellis quickened her pace, her irritation propelling her forward as she hurried to catch up with Amelia. Agatha followed and then took the lead, claiming Ellis would embarrass her if she got lost along the way.

The cold bit at their faces, and a swirl of wind tugged at the loose edges of Ellis' cloak. Agatha led her across the courtyard, toward a narrow path that snaked into a dense, snow-dusted wood. Beyond the open expanse around the castle lay the looming pines, black against the grey sky. She had no choice but to follow Agatha toward the cliff side that lay beyond the forest.

The path was steep, the soil frozen solid, and more than once Ellis nearly slipped despite the traction on her dragon-skin boots. The pines loomed overhead, branches rattling in the wind. A swirl of fallen needles and half-frozen drifts cluttered the path, some dusted in crystals of ice so pale they looked silver beneath the wan winter sun. Agatha didn't glance back once, clearly expecting Ellis to keep up.

At length, the trees thinned, and the ground sloped sharply downward. A jagged cliff dropped away before them. The sea—though here it looked more like an endless plain of white—stretched out below, a massive fjord frozen so completely that even the occasional gust of wind didn't shift the surface. Its expanse was mesmerizing, shimmering with a thin layer of frost that caught the sunlight. Ellis paused at the cliff's edge, raising a hand to her brow to peer out over the spectacle.

"There's a spell to help with snow-blindness," said Agatha, but did not offer to show Ellis what it was. Ellis scowled.

Jutting from the vast ice was a black ship, pinned helplessly, as though it had plowed into the fjord centuries ago and never managed to escape. Masts extended upward, draped with tattered sails that snapped in the wind. The hull was huge and ominous, carved with archaic runes that might have once glowed with power. Now the vessel served as a sort of stadium. Along its main deck, stands had been raised—long rows of bleachers set up for the day's tournament. Higher up, the crow's nest bristled with watchers who stood on conjured floating platforms. Torches were clamped to the rails, burning with blue fire that withstood the stinging wind.

Groups of students—some from Beauxbatons in their pale blue cloaks, some from Koldovstoretz in thick furs, others from Spain, Italy, and Eastern Europe—crossed the iced fjord in waves, heading for the improvised stadium. Durmstrang staff posted at intervals along the cliff ensured no one tumbled to their death. Runes etched into the frozen water seemed to bolster it so it wouldn't shatter under the combined weight of so many.

"The final stage is always performed here," Agatha said over her shoulder, voice carrying on the wind. "But they've re-purposed it for the entire tournament this year—since the attendance is bigger. Not that it matters. I doubt you will last long."

Ellis stayed silent, letting her eyes roam the ship. A twinge of excitement tugged at her. She was no stranger to magical tournaments, but Durmstrang prided itself on the brutality of its events. Ellis felt like winning here would give her the same high as winning her very first tournament.

They made their way down a narrow, winding set of stairs carved into the rock. Once at the foot of the cliff, the wind cut sharper. Ellis' cloak flared out behind her. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth while Agatha led her across the ice.

Enormous braziers lined the path, each spouting tall, vivid flames that flickered white at the edges. The thick, smoke from pitch logs floated overhead, swirling into the bleak sky. When they reached the black ship, a Durmstrang professor waved them up a ramp that merged seamlessly with the ice. The main deck bustled with staff, referees, and contestants.

The tournament began with a wand weighing ceremony. Dueling with a broken or ill-maintained wand could result in nasty injuries, so it was tradition to ensure every competitor's wand was in peak condition before the first spell was cast.

Near the center of the deck, a tall dais was erected. Headmistress Blodvin stood upon it, conferring in hushed tones with an official from Koldovstoretz. Next to them, Ellis recognized the flamboyant Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons, towering over them all in her shimmering robes. Several other delegates hovered near—leaders of smaller magical academies scattered across Eastern Europe.

The crowd quieted as a man in silvery robes stepped onto the platform. Though he seemed old, he stood tall and proud, holding a weight to his body that suggested he'd seen many things in his long life. His long, weathered hands traced over the polished surface of a wand laid before him, his expression unreadable. The man had a curtain of pure-white hair and a thick bushy beard with eyebrows to match. His accent was thick, holding her name roughly in his mouth. His eyes were pale, nearly colorless.

"Gregorovitch," breathed Agatha, next to her ear. "He made Grindelwald's wand…and mine."

Ellis turned her head slightly, catching Agatha's eager gaze as it flickered over the wandmaker with something bordering on reverence. There was always a certain hunger in Agatha's voice when she spoke of Grindelwald.

"Are you sure Aunt Vinda didn't give birth to you?" Ellis muttered, rolling her eyes.

The ceremony favored the Durmstrang students first, all wielding wands that Gregorovitch had crafted himself. There was a stark difference in style between his wands and Ollivander's, who preferred to carve them delicately, often adding ornate details and embellishments. Gregorovitch's wands, by contrast, were raw, as if someone had plucked them straight from a tree.

The wandmaker's approach was pragmatic. Gregorovitch did not wax lyrical about the nuances of wandlore; he simply observed, tested, and judged. When a wand responded well, he nodded in satisfaction. When it faltered, he frowned and muttered under his breath.

"Ellis Selwyn," called the aging wizard.

Ellis straightened at once. For all her sharp tongue and quick wit, there was something about standing before a master wandmaker that made her spine stiffen. She parted through the crowd, her wand already held firmly in her grasp. Gregorovitch's gaze flicked over her, scrutinizing her posture before extending his hand expectantly as she reached him.

Ellis did not like the idea of handing her wand over, but she had seen a spell backfire because of an unmaintained wand before and did not fancy having the same thing happen to her.

"Beautiful," he said, nodding. "Yes, Ollivander did well with this…thirteen inches…aspen…unyielding…"

He held the wand delicately and a rain of gold and silver sparks filled the air. He ran his weathered fingers over the wood, checking for any scratches or cracks. He would find none. Ellis took better care of her wand than she did herself.

"Phoenix-feather?"

"Yes."

He waved the wand, and a snake shot out with a whip-like CRACK. It curled up in the snow, hissing at the two of them. Ellis looked to Gregorovitch, wondering if he somehow had garnered what she had been doing over the last few weeks.

The snake lunged toward them, but Ellis was quick, slamming the heel of her foot down on its neck. It vanished and her wand was returned to her.

"Better options exist," Gregorovitch said, looking at her with his unnerving gaze. "If you are in need of a new wand…come to see me."

"I should hope never to need a new one."

Gregorovitch studied her in silence, then nodded to himself. "All hope the same, but one day…you may have it no more."

Gregorovitch turned away, calling forward the next student.

The tournament commenced at the end of the wand-weighing ceremony with a duel between two of Durmstrang's students. She and Amelia squeezed next to the students from Beauxbatons, huddling together in the cold, and watched. It was over all too soon with a brutal curse that left one of the boys collapsed on the frozen ground, twitching and pale, while the victor stood breathing heavily, his wand still sparking. A heavy silence settled over the crowd, broken only by nervous murmurs as the defeated student was carried away.

Ellis was called to the dueling circle shortly after the first match. The scoreboard shimmered, lines reconfiguring. The announcer, a Durmstrang professor with a deep voice, rattled off her name in that thick accent: "Ellis Sel-vinn of Hogwarts, versus Aurelius Moretti from Italy!"

Her breath plumed in front of her face as she stepped down the designated dueling platform. The wards rose around them, a slight shimmer indicating the boundary. Moretti was a lanky wizard with a hawkish nose and sharp eyes, wearing black breeches and a fur cloak. He wasted no time in bowing curtly. Ellis mirrored the courtesy, crossing her wand over her heart.

A moment later, the referee dropped a red handkerchief. The duel began.

Moretti opened with a volley of hexes that sizzled through the cold air. Ellis slid a foot back, looking for traction on the ice, and flicked her wand upward, summoning a shield. His spells ricocheted harmlessly. The impact left Moretti open. Ellis lunged in with a silent stunner, forcing him to pivot.

The world narrowed to the immediate swirl of magic. She was aware of the crowd's roar, though it felt distant. Her wand movements, hammered into muscle memory by hours of practice, flowed seamlessly. Another flick. A lash of white-blue light cracked through Moretti's parry, forcing him to scramble. With a swift feint, Ellis circled to his flank and unleashed a potent disarming charm. Moretti, desperate, tried to conjure a barrier, but she'd already switched tactics: a quick, half-whispered curse that bound his ankles in invisible cords. He stumbled, lost his balance—and his wand soared from his grip, caught in a swirl of magic. Ellis caught it.

That was it. Ellis straightened. The crowd cheered. Moretti, scowling, got to his feet as the referee declared Ellis the winner. She offered him a curt nod. He shrugged, half annoyed, half resigned.

It was over in less than five minutes.

Amelia's first duel followed soon after, and she had the misfortune of being paired against Agatha. Only sixteen competitors were in the tournament, with two rounds scheduled today to narrow the field down to the final four. The championship duels would be held tomorrow.

"Amelia Bones of Hogwarts versus Agatha Warhold of Durmstrang!"

A roar of applause erupted from the Durmstrang stands. Some boisterous chanting soared overhead in support of Agatha. The red-robed students near the fore banged the handles of their wands against the deck in a slow, intimidating rhythm.

Agatha stepped into the dueling ring first. Her posture brimmed with a haughty air, chin lifted, eyes flicking across the stands as though already posing for victory.

Amelia approached from the opposite side, shoulders straight, not a whisper of fear in her dark eyes. A hush descended as the referee lifted both arms, then dropped them in a swift motion. The wards around the circle flared, sealing Amelia and Agatha inside.

Agatha moved first, wand slicing the air. A crackle of red sparks spewed forth. Amelia, anticipating the aggression, sidestepped and conjured an arcing barrier that splintered the hex into a shower of lights. She answered with a silent disarming attempt, forcing Agatha to pivot. The ice beneath them glistened, each step sending subtle ripples across the ward lines.

Ellis found herself leaning forward on the wooden rail, breath caught in her throat. Amelia typically fought with measured precision, but Agatha was ruthless.

Amelia launched a wave of illusions. For an instant, three more Amelias branched out, each brandishing a wand. Agatha spun, eyes narrowing, and stabbed her wand downward. A pulse of raw, greyish-blue light burst outward, slicing through illusions in a haze of static. The illusions evaporated. Agatha pressed forward, unleashing what looked like a chain of bright orange energy that lashed across the space. Amelia retreated, a Shield Charm flickering around her.

A hush fell as the chain shattered on Amelia's shield, but not without leaving cracks in the ice. Amelia seized that chance—she whipped her wand in a tight spiral, conjuring a wedge of shimmering white light that rocketed toward Agatha. Agatha barely managed to fling herself aside, hair whirling around her face.

Ellis tightened her grip on the wooden banister. She could see the tension in Amelia's stance, the slight crease in her brow that meant she was analyzing. Meanwhile, Agatha's expression was twisted in a determined grimace. She spat something under her breath, and a jagged black javelin of dark energy erupted from her wand.

Amelia recognized the danger too late. She tried to deflect it, but the javelin hammered her Shield Charm with savage force, slamming her backward. She staggered, boots sliding across the ice, and Ellis saw the flicker of real pain in her friend's face.

A chorus of gasps rippled through the stands. Agatha pressed the advantage, flicking her wand again. Another slashing curse soared forth. Amelia, battered but not beaten, mustered a burst of watery-blue magic that swallowed the slash, dispersing it into swirling vapor.

For a heartbeat, the duel hung in precarious balance—both witches breathing hard, wands raised, lines of tension etched into their stances.

Then Amelia struck. With a sudden pivot, she delivered a cunning hex that sizzled through the air. Agatha tried to dodge, but the hex skimmed across her wand arm, forcing her to flinch. Amelia capitalized on the opening instantly—hurling a disarming charm that made the boards under their feet vibrate. Agatha braced, face contorting. Her wand quivered in her grasp, dangerously close to flying free.

A sharp, pained snarl tore from Agatha's throat. She twisted sideways, something intangible crackling around her. Ellis recognized the hallmarks of Agatha's magical signature cling to her wand like a leech, preventing it from being disarmed. A nasty trick.

Amelia's eyes widened. The disarming spell nearly rebounded. She reeled back, forced to drop her stance or risk having her own wand wrenched away by the recoil.

Shouts rang out from the stands. The referee frowned, raising a hand as if unsure whether what Agatha had done was legitimate. But Durmstrang's regulations for advanced dueling must have allowed it, because no official condemnation followed.

Agatha seized her moment, chest heaving. She whipped her wand forward, unleashing a scarlet lash that cracked across the ward. Amelia hissed and flung an arm up to shield her face. The lash caught her shoulder, sending sparks dancing around her. She stumbled.

Ellis' heart hammered. "Come on, Amelia," she breathed to no one in particular.

Amelia's expression flickered, and then she steadied. Another round of illusions came to life again, wrapping around her like a ghostly tapestry. Agatha, perhaps overconfident, advanced, hurling curses that crashed into illusions. For a crucial second, she lost track of the real Amelia.

The true Amelia sprang forward on Agatha's blind side. Her wand moved in two sharp arcs—one to parry Agatha's frenzied hex, and the next to cast a bright beam of teal light. It streaked like a comet across the small space. Agatha tried to whirl around, but she was half a beat too slow. The beam struck her side.

Agatha began to laugh. Laugh so loudly they could all hear it. Every breath was riddled with giggles that made her double over, trying hard to counter the charm, but ending up in a new bout of laughter that made it impossible for her to do much of anything. A Giggling Charm.

A flash of red. Agatha's wand tumbled through the air.

Agatha's eyes flashed wide, and for the second time, she attempted to anchor it. But the angle was wrong, and her concentration too shaken. The wand soared out of her grasp and clattered across the ice behind her. She lunged for it, but Amelia flicked her wand a final time. Agatha collapsed, pinned by an invisible force that hammered her shoulders into the deck and stole away her voice.

A hush. A single heartbeat of silence.

Then the entire crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in stunned disbelief.

The referee cleared his throat, stepping forward. "Winner—Amelia Bones of Hogwarts!"

The Durmstrang side gave stifled applause, less enthusiastic. Some bold whistling sounded from the other schools. Professor Flitwick hopped in place, wool scarf bouncing, a grin etched on his face. Agatha remained on her knees, glaring daggers at Amelia. Color flooded her cheeks. She ripped free from the invisible binding once the referee dispelled the wards, then marched off the platform without a word.

Amelia bowed politely to the official, took a quick glance at Agatha's retreating back, then stepped out. She spotted Ellis near the rails and gave a subtle wave, relief and exhaustion shining in her eyes.

Ellis exhaled, tension unspooling inside her chest. She realized she'd been clinging to the banister so hard her fingers ached. She offered Amelia a loud cheer and clapped her hands enthusiastically with Professor Flitwick.

Grumbling, a few Durmstrang watchers filtered away.

From then, everything was swift. Louis, Agatha's twin, overcame a Spanish duelist with an uncomfortably powerful curse that made Ellis uneasy. He wove curses so unrelenting that his opponent spent half the duel teetering at the circle's edge, trying not to get blasted into unconsciousness. He seemed angered by something and when his eyes caught her in the crowd, Ellis knew Agatha had likely told him everything she said.

Between the main duels, smaller competitions filled the lulls. Charms and transfiguration mini-tournaments took place on the far side of the fjord, overshadowed by the central event. A potioneering contest had set up in a corner of the old galley below deck, repurposed into a brewing station. Ellis almost expected to see Severus Snape prowling around, but he found official competitions pointless.

By mid-afternoon, the sky hung heavy with clouds, and the temperature dropped further. The stands filled with spectators shivering under furs, conjured warming charms, and flasks of piping hot mulled drinks. Music occasionally drifted from the prow, where a small Durmstrang band played ominous, drum-heavy tunes.

Ellis' second match was decidedly harder than the first.

Louis Warhold strolled onto the ice, meeting Ellis near the center.

He was tall, slender, with the same white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes as Agatha. The faint sneer curling his lip was identical, too. He wore a crisp red Durmstrang cloak edged with black sable, and the Warhold family crest pinned to his collar—a stylized letter 'W' over crossed wands.

Where Agatha might seethe with open malice, Louis was calculating and silent. Danger coiled in every poised movement. She'd dueled him a few times when they were younger, forced to "play nice" at family gatherings. She couldn't even remember who had the winning record—only that they parted each time with fresh bruises and deeper grudges.

"Hello, cousin," he greeted. "Don't take it personally if I break your wand."

"I'll try not to break your face."

A small smile crossed his face. "Ever the brute."

She forced herself to block out the noise, focusing solely on Louis, on the subtle shift in his stance, the angle of his wand. There was no bowing between her and Louis.

When the referee gave the signal, neither moved for a long second. Louis hovered in a half-crouch, wand hand steady, reading her for a sign. Ellis tracked his movements, scanning from his wand arm to his stance. Then she spotted it—the tension in his leading leg.

He attacked first—a silent hex that cut through the air in a twisting wave of blackish-green. Ellis met it with a shield, her breath hitching at the impact that jarred up her arm. She twisted aside, returning a stunner that soared by him, missing by an inch.

Then the real duel erupted. Light and sound colliding in a furious dance. Louis was fast; each flick of his wand brought forth curses so quick it was hard to track. Ellis responded with equal speed, not caring how dangerous the curses she used were—she knew Louis was skilled enough to voided them.

Ellis slashed her wand through the air, landing a vicious cutting curse across Louis's side. Blood bloomed through the crisp white shirt beneath his robes, staining it deep red. He struck back hard—burns seared across her arm, bruises blooming along her ribs. With a snarl, he conjured a jagged spear of ice and hurled it at her. She snapped her wand up and blasted it mid-air, shards exploding in every direction and skittering across the frozen deck.

They circled like predators, eyes locked, each waiting for the other to slip.

Louis feinted left, then launched a volley of stunners that hammered her shield, cracking it at the edges. In a sudden pivot, he dropped low and jabbed his wand into the ice. The deck trembled beneath her boots. With a sharp pop, a serpent of frost burst from the surface, its crystalline jaws snapping for her ankles.

Ellis leapt back, slashing her wand downward in one fluid motion. The serpent evaporated in a blast of fire, vanishing into steam. She lunged forward, wand flicking out a disarming charm, but Louis twisted and deflected it with a shimmer of silver light.

No mercy—only the grim certainty that neither would walk away unscathed.

Louis struck next. Ellis recognized the faint red glow coursing along the lines of his wand. He whipped out a hex that soared with an almost unstoppable force. Ellis braced behind a complex Shield Charm. Even so, the impact rattled her teeth and forced her backward. She hissed, pushing more of her will into the shield. She felt the tingling burn of raw magic.

With a steady breath, she dropped the shield and sidestepped at the last heartbeat. His hex crashed past her, carving a crack into the dueling ring's edge. Silver ribbons coiled from her wand toward Louis, serpentine and fast. He parted them in a swirl of red sparks, but not before one coil snagged his left arm.

Louis snarled and blasted the silver coil from his arm, but the slip gave Ellis her chance. She lunged, wand slashing in a tight arc, and unleashed a wave of raw force—an improvised slicing hex, sharpened and brutal. Louis threw up a ward, but too late. The spell clipped his shoulder, tearing fur from his cloak and sending him stumbling. A gasp echoed through the stands as he dropped to one knee.

Ellis didn't wait. Her disarming charm shot forward. Louis barely managed a shaky barrier, deflecting it just enough. He snarled an incantation, magic flaring from his free hand, and hurled a hex that grazed her side. Pain lanced through her ribs. Another shot came fast. She rolled, cloak tangling, then tore it off and rose, breath sharp in the cold.

Cousin or not, Louis was not about to hold back. If she let him get the upper hand, he'd do worse than a hex.

Determined, she struck again, summoning venomous serpents that hissed across the ring. Louis tried to dispel them, mistaking them for illusions, but they held form, forcing him back. In the chaos, Ellis fired a severing curse. It slashed his forearm—blood bloomed. His wand flickered in his grip.

He glared, eyes flaring with hatred. "You—Selwyn—"

She surged forward with a finishing strike, but he dropped, slammed his wand into the ice, and triggered a shockwave. The ring trembled. Wards sparked. The crowd stood frozen.

Ellis steadied her breath. One shot. She traced a complex pattern—part stunner, part sleeping curse. The curse soared free, unstoppable.

With a final crack, it struck Louis square in the chest. He gasped, eyes wide with shock as the light flared around him, enveloping him in a swirl of swirling gold and red sparks. His wand fell from limp fingers. Then he toppled, unconscious, onto the deck.

A hush, dense as lead, blanketed the stadium.

Then a massive cheer erupted from the stands—scattered but loud. The referee hurried to confirm Louis' condition. Satisfied he was unconscious but stable, they declared, "Winner—Ellis Selwyn of Hogwarts!"

Ellis bowed stiffly. The medical staff rushed forward. She glimpsed the Warhold crest slip from Louis' collar, the pin bent. A wave of complicated feelings rushed through her, because they were still cousins, much as they wished they weren't.

Ellis knelt and repaired the pin with a murmured charm. Then, without a word, she tucked it back into place.

Up on the ship, Amelia offered a cautious grin, relief shining in her eyes. Ellis felt the corners of her mouth lift in an answering smile. She hurried off the ice, boots crunching on frost, and reached Amelia quickly. A tournament official waved them inside, ushering both girls through a narrow corridor and into a small break room. Ellis sank onto a bench, unspooling the tension in her shoulders, while Amelia poured two cups of steaming tea from a waiting tray.

Professor Flitwick burst in not a moment later, his short frame moving with surprising speed, his robes flapping like wings. His eyes sparkled beneath bushy brows, cheeks pink with excitement. "Incredible, both of you—incredible!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He pressed a square of wrapped chocolates into each of their hands with an earnest grin. "Just a little energy. My treat—my treat."

"Thank you, Professor," Ellis said, a genuine warmth threading through her voice.

She unwrapped her chocolate and ate it gladly, letting the linger on her tongue. Amelia smiled and tucked hers into a pocket for later. Amelia's second match had gone smoothly—precise spellwork, clean execution—earning her a spot in the finals tomorrow alongside Ellis. For now, though, they could rest.

After Professor Flitwick gave them some final advice and left, Amelia dropped her chin into her hand with a sigh. Her hair came partially undone. "Merlin, my arms are shaking," she confessed.

"Do you know how muggles run marathons for fun?" asked Ellis, with a tired half-smile. "Is that what it's like for you?"

Amelia looked surprised. "A bit, yes. Is that why you do it?"

"No, I just hate myself," Ellis said dryly.

Amelia searched Ellis' face, before realizing she was joking. She laughed and nudged Ellis lightly, "Not as much as she does." Amelia nodded to one of the Beauxbatons students.

Laurane Dantès—a girl so pretty, it hurt to look at her. She was the last girl left outside of Ellis and Amelia. Laurane was surrounded by a group of boys from Durmstrang, trying hard to squeeze by them to the food station. Ellis had met her a few times at other tournaments. She had invented a Stinging-Rose hex that left its targets covered in blossoming welts for days.

Amelia and Ellis shared a look of mutual understanding and went off to rescue their fellow contestant. It was when they approached that they realized it wasn't that Laurane was pretty—what had attracted their attention was the fact that Laurane was muggleborn.

"Cute, isn't she?" one of them was saying in Russian. He reached for Laurane's shoulder, but she stepped back sharply, pressing herself against the table behind her. Another boy barked out a laugh and fired back in rapid Russian. Words spilled from him too quickly for most to catch, but Ellis had enough familiarity to piece together the gist: "She's playing shy. Mudbloods always pretend to be above it."

Laurane's lips parted. Her face was set, but she was clearly outnumbered. Ellis made out a small, defiant exclamation, "Don't touch me." Just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to provoke a brawl. They pinned her with leering looks and muttered jokes. One of them closed in, reaching for the slender wand in her belt, as if to test if she'd dare hex them.

Amelia caught Ellis's eye. "Shall we?"

Ellis nodded, weaving through the last row of onlookers. The tension in her chest coiled tighter with every step.

Laurane noticed them instantly. A flash of relief lit her eyes. She tried to appear cool, but her forced smile betrayed her. The Durmstrang boys turned. A few recognized them from the last day's duels. The one on the far left, half shrouded by a tall fur collar, had the crisp posture of someone with no worries or cares. His gaze flicked to her face and then a slow grin stretched his mouth.

"Looks like we have an audience," he said, English tinted thick with accent.

"Yes," murmured another—leaner, pale hair shaved close to his skull. He licked his bottom lip. "And two pretty witches at that."

The third boy purred, "I know that one. Amelia Bones?"

Ellis watched Amelia's expression: all calm, but the subtle flaring of her nostrils said she was about two seconds from jinxing someone. Meanwhile, Laurane tried to slip sideways, aiming to free herself now that the group's attention was divided. But the cluster of them pressed in, continuing to block her exit. Ellis was close enough now that she could smell the pungent bite of the sea wind, tangling with the faint whiff of alcohol on their breath. Were they drunk?

The blonde boy draped an arm over Laurane's shoulder. "Why hurry away?" Then to Ellis, he said, "We're just talking with your friend from Beauxbatons."

Ellis's voice edged with steel, "She doesn't look like she's enjoying that talk."

Laurane took the opening: "No, I am not."

Before she could finish, one of the Durmstrang boys clicked his tongue, muttering something rude in Russian that Ellis caught: So quick to run. Like a mouse.

Ellis shot him a glare that would've felled lesser men. She understood perfectly and made no attempt to hide it. Surprised flicker in his eyes—he hadn't expected her to catch the slight. He tried to cover with a laugh.

Ellis clicked her tongue, eyes skimming them—it wouldn't be hard to take them out between her, Amelia and Laurane, but it'd likely disqualify them from the tournament. Attacking another student was grounds for removal, but if they attacked first, then Ellis could claim self-defense. Smiling, she said, "I don't think there's a rubbish bin big enough for these idiots."

The effect was immediate. Both boys jerked, shock flaring in their eyes. One hissed, "Rubbish?"

"Trash. Garbage," clarified Ellis, and repeated the words in French and Russian.

"You dare—"

"You're not half as clever as you think," Ellis said acidly. Her wand hand tightened at her side. "Laurane, come on." She beckoned the Beauxbatons girl, who used that moment to slip from under the heavy arm restraining her. Laurane shot forward, nearly stumbling as she swerved around the ring of bodies.

"Thank you," Laurane breathed, stepping to Amelia's side. Despite her controlled posture, Ellis could see the slight tremor in Laurane's jaw.

"Are you alright?" Amelia asked softly.

Laurane nodded, gaze flicking to the Durmstrang group. "I've been in worse. But I'd rather not remain here."

The cluster parted to let Laurane pass, though not willingly. Pascha bared his teeth in something akin to a grin, but Ellis could see it was a show of anger. "In a hurry, Dantès?" he sneered. "My friend, he was only complimenting you. You don't want to be rude, do you?"

"Move," Ellis ordered. Her voice cut like a blade. Beside her, Amelia placed a protective hand on Laurane's elbow. People were stopping to watch; the low buzz grew sharper, full of curious, hungry stares.

One of the Durmstrang boys, hair dark and parted down the middle, cleared his throat. Then, in an oily voice, he said to his companions, "Let them go. We have bigger amusements to attend to."

But the lankier one with a pointed face snickered back, "No need. This one—" He jabbed a finger at Ellis. "Is the famous Selwyn? I've heard about you."

"How nice that must've been for you."

"Your father made you his sole heir." His eyes glimmered with malicious curiosity. "A daughter over a son?"

"If only your father had daughters, he might have an heir too," Ellis retorted.

He shrugged, making a show of looking her up and down. "Your father's reputation isn't so noble around here, you see. He kills wizards of pureblood and calls it justice? Justice written by his hand?" He curled his lip. "If you know what's good for you, Selwyn, you'll keep your place and not meddle in our affairs. Your father's hand won't stretch this far."

A nerve pulsed in Ellis's temple. Next to her, Amelia tensed, exchanging a look with her that said, Wands?

Ellis shot Amelia a subtle sign: Not yet.

Laurane tried to intervene. "Look, let's just go. There's no need—"

"You talk a lot for a filthy mudblood," one spat, glaring at Laurane.

"And you talk too much for a nameless bastard," snapped Ellis, stepping in front of him.

"Someone should teach you how to keep that mouth of yours shut, Selwyn."

"It seems blood can't make up for manners," said a voice so cold that the laughter and chatter around them fell silent in an instant.

Ellis' head whipped around, recognizing the voice in an instant.

Regulus Black stepped forward, polished and self-assured. At first glance, he looked frighteningly like Sirius, haughty and arrogant, without a care in the world, but the weight of his bearing was entirely different. The tightness at the corner of his mouth and eyes made it clear that there was no humor to be gleaned from the situation. His dark hair fell to the collar of a high-necked coat, edges embroidered in the faintest silver threads. Everything about him spoke of someone who had never wanted for anything. He was undeniably handsome in that moment, in a way that Ellis found strangely disarming.

The tension in her chest eased the instant she saw him, but her surprise mounted just as swiftly. She hadn't expected him to come. Her family had long since stopped attending, too busy with work or, in Ned's case, so certain she would win that it felt pointless to watch. Ellis understood; even she tired of the competition and thought about quitting. But she felt obligated to continue having started the club.

Yet, Regulus was here. Regulus, who never stepped foot outside of England, had suddenly traversed the continent.

People shifted uneasily. One of the rude boys—perhaps realizing who he was dealing with—swallowed audibly. Regulus leveled a cool, unamused stare at the Durmstrang boys.

"Nothing to say?" he asked, and though his voice was quiet, it carried easily over the hush. "You were so eager to bestow your invaluable advice a moment ago."

The taller boy bristled, reddening. "We were only—"

"You were only proving yourselves to be pitiable cretins," Regulus cut in, arching a brow. "But don't let me stop you. Do continue. The spectacle is altogether more interesting than your dueling techniques could ever be seeing as none of you are competing."

His words were a careful mixture of disdain and sarcasm, delivered with a dryness that made Ellis's lips twitch. He was humiliating them without raising his voice or stooping to curses. Beside Ellis, Amelia Bones stifled a laugh behind her hand. Laurane looked between Regulus and the unfortunate boys with wide eyes.

"Who do you think you are?" the shorter boy managed at last, though his voice trembled. His wand was now out, but now it shook slightly at the tip.

Regulus shifted his stance, his coat falling open just enough to reveal his crisp, white shirt beneath. "If you want to question my identity, you should've studied genealogies. Or simply use your eyes." He paused, flicking a glance up and down the boy's much cheaper robes, then back to his stunned face.

The boy made a strangled noise, glancing at his companion, then at the ring on Regulus's finger, the crest of the House of Black unmistakable. "We didn't—er— We'll just—"

"Leave," he ordered in a low tone, authority dripping from every syllable, "before I decide it might be entertaining to force you out."

The boys exchanged a desperate look, then bolted, scurrying into the crowd without another word. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as everyone in the vicinity tried to pretend they hadn't been listening. The hum of conversations resumed soon after, but that pocket of space around Ellis, Amelia, Laurane, and Regulus stayed remarkably clear.

"It's always so telling when boys only listen to other boys. They want our attention, but never our opinions," commented Amelia, lightly. "Black, I'd say I'm surprised to see you, but…"

Laurane relaxed the moment the threat dissolved. She breathed a shaken sigh, hugging her arms close. "Thank you," she said, in a thick accent, giving Amelia a grateful look. Then, glancing at Ellis, "And you too, Ellis. Thank you for stepping in. And…"

"I'd rather you not thank me," said Regulus, gazing at Laurane for a quick second. "I'm not even sure who you are."

Ellis' face turned to one of pure horror at the rudeness, but Laurane didn't seem to mind. In fact, she laughed and inclined her head at Ellis, throwing her a look that Ellis wasn't sure how to interpret. Amelia offered to take Laurane back to the Beauxbatons students, leaving Ellis and Regulus alone together.

It was only after she saw Amelia and Laurane turn the corner that she acknowledged Regulus. Her eyes skimmed over him again, still finding it hard to believe that he had appeared so suddenly. "You're dressed up more than usual," said Ellis, lightly.

"I had to make a respectable entrance, didn't I?"

"Were you looking to impress someone?"

A faint smile ghosted his face. "Isn't that obvious?"

Her cheeks grew warm. She offered him a small, genuine smile. "You should have told me you were coming."

He smiled back, "The point of a surprise is that the one being surprised isn't aware of it." He's eyes roamed her face. "Should I not have—"

"No, no, I'm glad you're here."

He acknowledged it with a nod. "When you win tomorrow, I'll be the first to congratulate you."

"You sound awfully sure that I'll win."

"You wouldn't be in Slytherin, if you didn't want to."

"Most people tend to think that I shouldn't be in Slytherin."

"Most people forget that beyond blood, there's ambition and cunning and greatness."

She laughed softly, glancing up at him. "Are you trying to seduce me with house pride?"

"Would it work?"

"No."

"Even after I came all this way?"

Regulus stood so near she could see every dark eyelash framing his gray eyes, could feel the faint warmth radiating from him even in the chill air. Snow clung to the back of his coat, speckling the finely woven fabric. He seemed entirely unbothered by the cold or by the fact that half of Durmstrang had been staring at him seconds ago.

Ellis pretended to consider, crossing her arms across her chest. "Well," she teased, "travel alone isn't enough to impress me, Regulus Black. I'm a girl of high standards."

"Are you? What will it take then?"

"I'll let you figure that out. How did you even get here?" she asked. "I didn't see your name on the official travel logs, and Portkeys are notoriously delayed—"

"I called in a favor with Professor Slughorn. He was all too eager to help make his favorite student happy."

Ellis smiled widely, "I knew I was his—"

"Meaning me, of course." He laughed at the instant scowl that flew across her face, "But, I thought it was unfair that you've been to all my Quidditch matches—"

"I love Quidditch," said Ellis, dumbly. What did that matter? Regulus could have been in the stands and she would have still gone.

"—and I'd never seen you at a competition."

Ellis had complained once that no one in Slytherin ever bothered to watch her tournaments. Years ago, maybe. Even she had forgotten making the complaint, but Regulus hadn't. She felt a bit lightheaded, dizzy, like she should take a deep breath before she tipped over.

"Do you want to take a walk?" asked Regulus. Then, glancing around, he inclined his head toward the plank leading off the ship's deck.

Though she was finished with her own matches for the day, one final match remained, the result of which would reveal her opponent for tomorrow. The crowd milling around them had begun to shift again, anticipating the next duels. Professor Flitwick was busy regaling a group of Albanian delegates near the bow. Amelia was likely with Laurane, ensuring she was all right. Ellis had no immediate responsibilities, though part of her worried she'd miss something.

But Regulus had come all this way and that was no light matter. So, she nodded. "Alright."

He offered his arm, half in jest, and she slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow. They set off across the main deck, boots tapping against the wooden boards. The wind ruffled her hair, chilling the tips of her ears.

She glanced sideways at him, let her gaze linger. His profile was all sharp angles—an elegance that reminded her of a falcon, perched and watchful. He looked ghostly all in black, a pale figure cut from an old painting. And yet, the heat in his eyes whenever he glanced at her was anything but cold.

"I watched the end of your match." A note of pride laced his voice, surprising her. "You were brilliant."

"That was my cousin—Louis."

"One of the twins," recalled Regulus, from the stories Ellis told him. "Not your favorites?"

"Not anyone's favorites," said Ellis. Regulus' hand moved into her hair, tangling between the locks. "You'd like them though."

He let out a sharp scoff. "Would I? Why?"

"They're proper purebloods."

Regulus did not respond. Ellis tried not to fidget, but his silence pressed on her, unspoken words crowding behind her teeth.

"I'm not sure I know what that means anymore."

Her heart thudded strangely. Never had she imagined that Regulus Black, of all people, would be the first to realize how wrong the cult they were all sworn into was. Ellis' had the luck of distance. Fenn was isolated, the Selwyn Estate even more so, and her parents were the type to look at muggles as people from a foreign land—they had their own language, their own culture, and their own rules. Beyond that, they were no different from wizards.

Ellis had been terrified of muggles as a child, less so the people and more so the strangeness of their world. How loud it was. How fast it was. How everyone was pressed together in narrow spaces.

"And if it's not what your parents say it is?"

"I'm heir now—isn't it my responsibility to decide what that means?"

"Aren't you afraid that they'll disown you?"

"Do you think I'm going to go home and tell my mother that I'm opening the doors to our house to muggles' and muggleborns?"

Ellis shrugged. "Not in those words."

"Not in any words. Sirius made the mistake of fighting with her; I'll do better than that. She's not unreasonable. Her first and only concern is the Noble House of Black, and she'd do whatever it takes to ensure it survives intact."

"Even at your expense?"

"I'm in a better position than Sirius was. Mother has the guilt of knowing that the reason I joined the Dark Lord has as much to do with my own beliefs as it does with hers. And, I'm the last of the male line."

"That's why it should be first-born, not first-son," said Ellis with a shake of her head. "You'll have to marry well."

He frowned at her and seemed agitated, "I didn't come all this way to talk about that, Selwyn."

"You wasted your first trip abroad—if it were me, I would've gone to Brazil. My mother took us there when we were kids and I learned how to play footie with the muggles on the beach. Plus, the food is a thousand times better than anything at Hogwarts. And the people are very friendly. And it's hot."

"It's not a waste to come see you."

"You're acting as if I was never going to return."

"I was miserable without you."

"You had Evan."

"Evan's even more miserable than I am. And before you suggest Barty or Helena or anyone else, is it such a terror to think that I might have missed you? And wanted to see you? And wanted to enjoy the things that you enjoy?"

A terror? No, it wasn't that. She loved it. Hated it. What if he went home and came back as unkind as he had in fifth year? How long did it last? How far was she willing to go before she realized she'd run out of time?

"It's hard to miss someone after a day," she said, lightly.

"Well, I have a lot to make up for. Every day counts." Regulus's jaw tightened; his mouth set in a faint downward curve. His half-lowered lids gave him a look that hovered between boredom and something more predatory. But beneath the surface, she sensed the raw vulnerability of someone unsure how to bear the crushing weight of shame.

Ellis, of course, folded in an instant. She reached up to brush a stray lock of his hair back from his forehead. "You're off to a decent start, but I do have very high standards. For starters, I don't like competing with other people for attention, especially if that person goes around spooking witches and wizards behind a mask and cartoon-nickname."

"We'll have to get rid of him then."

Ellis smiled widely, "Secondly, even if I am wrong about certain things, I don't like knowing that. If you must disagree with me, do it in a manner that's agreeable."

"Is that possible?"

"It is."

"And third?"

"A drop of blood."

Regulus flinched back, making Ellis laugh. "That was a joke, but seeing as you're sufficiently alarmed, I've succeeded in inspiring the right amount of fear in you. On a more serious note, if you ever betray me, I'll kill you myself. Slowly too. It'll make a Dementor's Kiss seem preferable."

"Will you really?"

"I don't really have qualms about killing, especially if it's my life at stake. Though, when its state sanctioned, then I'm wholly against it. No government should force the indignity of murder on its citizens. Personally though—take your revenge."

"You must have a lot of arguments with your father."

"Oh, no, not at all," said Ellis, shaking her head. "He's abusing his position of power to enact personal revenge on all his schoolmates. It's insidiously evil."

Regulus laughed, genuine and light and warm. He reached out and without thinking about it, cupped her face to press a kiss against her forehead. Both froze. But he recovered first, gently tilting her head up. She thought that he might kiss her, but he gazed at her with a tenderness so deep it made her feel like a monster for ever doubting his intentions. She was the sort of person who only remembered the bad, but there was plenty of good memories between her and Regulus.

Thousands of them. Like when he snuck her extra dessert from the kitchens after a brutal Potions exam. The way he'd hexed the boys scorched her favorite sweater, and then pretended he hadn't done it, even when he got detention. How he wrote little notes in the margins of her textbooks—sometimes sarcastic, sometimes kind, always him. The time he gave her the Snitch he'd caught, slipping it into her hand without a word—because once, ages ago, Ellis had said they reminded her of birds, and it made her sad to think of something so small and fast being chased, caught, and crushed

She'd cried in the bathroom after what he said to her on the train in fifth year—thinking she'd lost one of her closest friends.

And that was the truth, wasn't it? She and Regulus Black had been friends. Close friends. Whatever they were now, it was no longer just friendship. It hadn't been for a long time.

A sharp cough cut through the air, snapping them apart like they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't have. Ellis turned to see Aleksandr Pushkin walking toward them, wearing heavy black robes lined with deep burgundy. He made a show of flexing his hands, wiggling them in greeting.

"Aleksandr," Ellis said, trying not to betray her surprise— or annoyance.

Aleksandr's dark eyes slid from Ellis to Regulus, taking note of their proximity. He grinned at her, all teeth and confidence, and for a moment Ellis wondered if he had interrupted them on purpose. "You are leaving before my duel? I would think you'd want to see me win."

Regulus turned to Ellis with a quirk of his lips. "Ah. This is Aleksandr?" he said softly, in a tone that suggested everything and nothing all at once.

Aleksandr, catching the subtle edge, let his gaze sweep over Regulus. "A friend of yours?"

"Regulus Black," Ellis introduced.

At this, Aleksandr's polite mask flickered. "Black," he echoed, inclining his head. "I know this name. Yes, Headmaster Black once banned Quidditch at Hogwarts—it is no wonder the English never win."

"A pleasure to be known," Regulus said dryly.

"I can see that means a great deal for you," Aleksandr replied, his accent curling the words. He turned back to Ellis. "I did not mean to interrupt your conversation with your friend."

It was impossible not to sense Regulus's sudden apprehension. The tension in the set of his shoulders was telling. A wave of unexpected amusement welled up in Ellis' chest.

"That's very gracious of you, Aleksandr," she said, mustering a smile.

Aleksandr met her gaze steadily. "Yes, I am good at pleasing others."

Ellis coughed harshly, cheeks heating up. Regulus' eyes narrowed.

"One should be dedicated to their crafts," continued Aleksandr, "but I'm sure you understand that well."

His gaze passed back to Regulus, a flicker of challenge passing between them. Ellis decided it was time to leave. "Good luck in your match, Aleksandr."

Aleksandr's eyes shifted to her face. "Luck? No, I will win, and we will see each other tomorrow, Ellis Selwyn."

He gave her a half-smile that might've been sincere or mocking—it was hard to tell. Then he strode off, his robes sweeping behind him. A breath of silence lingered as he disappeared into the crowd.

Regulus glanced down at Ellis, a sardonic twist to his lips. "Charming. How on earth did you resist him?"

"You're reading too much into it."

"Am I?" Regulus mused. He gave a noncommittal hum, "Never thought tattoos would be the selling point."

"They're not."

Regulus was entirely too serious when he said, "It's the one thing him and I have in common, isn't it?"

Ellis looked at Regulus incredulously, eyebrows raised like she couldn't quite believe what she'd just heard. For a heartbeat, she said nothing—just blinked at him, stunned. And then the laugh burst out of her

"This isn't a laughing matter, Selwyn," Regulus said, entirely deadpan. "I hope you don't expect me to defile myself with tattoos like that. I've already begun to regret the one I do have."

"Every witch who saw Lucien Arnaud rip his shirt off and reveal that dragon sprawled across his back wished she'd been the one to draw it on him. I've never been prouder to be French. We've even got his poster up in our dorm—"

"You're claiming that Helena Greengrass allowed such a thing?"

"Why do you think Helena and I are friends?"

He cocked his head. "I'm beginning to realize I don't know you half as well as I thought I did."

"There's time to learn," Ellis said, softer now, stepping just a little closer. "How long are you staying?"

"I'll leave when you do."

A small, almost shy smile tugged at her lips. "I can't promise I'll have much time to entertain you. The finals are tomorrow, and after that, there might be a ceremony or some ridiculous banquet."

"It's all right," Regulus said, gently brushing aside a stray curl that had fallen into her eyes. "I'll keep myself busy. Make some friends."

"Well, be careful with that," she replied, smirking. "I was offered a warm bed if I got cold. I can only imagine what they'd offer a mighty Lord like yourself."

Regulus arched a brow. "If you do get cold…"

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Yes?"

He dipped his head, lips grazing her ear. "You're a witch. Light a fire."

Ellis shoved him away but couldn't help but smile as his laughter filled the air.

Later that evening, after dinner and the day's festivities had ended, Ellis lay in bed, watching Amelia brush her hair across the room. It was the first time she'd really seen it down—rich, chocolate brown and much longer than she'd expected. Usually, it was wound tight in a bun at the nape of Amelia's neck.

"What is it?" asked Amelia, catching her stare. "Nervous for tomorrow?"

There were only two matches left. Amelia would face Aleksandr, and Ellis was set to duel Laurane. The winners would advance to the finals. Professor Flitwick was positively beaming—two of his students had made it to the semi-finals, and for the first time in decades, there was a real chance a Hogwarts student could take the European Championship.

"I was admiring your hair," Ellis said. "You should braid it back. It must hurt your neck to keep it up all the time."

"I don't know how to braid it."

"I can do it," Ellis offered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and slipping on her slippers. She'd been planning to take a bath to ease her bruised limbs, but the thought of hauling herself down to the communal baths beneath the castle suddenly felt exhausting.

Shuffling over to Amelia, she settled behind her and began the quick, practiced task of braiding. As her fingers worked, she explained how she'd learned as a child—her cousins had been so delighted with her skill that she was always the one enlisted to do their hair.

Amelia's mother was dead. She'd been ill for most of Amelia's childhood and passed away during their second year at Hogwarts, leaving Amelia to be raised by her father and older brothers. The Bones were a tight-knit family—closer, even, than Ellis's own.

There was something quietly steadfast about the Bones—a sense that no matter what happened, they would rally around one another. It showed in Amelia, too. She was always composed, always on time, always prepared. The kind of person who never left a book out of place, whose quill never ran out of ink. Everything Ellis liked in a person.

And yet, sometimes—when she thought no one was watching—Amelia looked devastatingly lonely.

Ellis didn't know what it was like to lose a mother so young. But she could guess. And it made her very sad to think of, so she tried her best to be a better person around Amelia.

"Dumbledore pulled me aside a few weeks ago and asked if I would boycott the tournament—they weren't going to let Laurane compete," said Amelia, quietly. "Durmstrang hadn't seen a drop of muggle blood in centuries."

Ellis frowned as she wound Amelia's hair together, "There's a handful of halfbloods doing a fine job pretending they aren't halfbloods, so I doubt that."

"Did Dumbledore ask you as well?"

What Amelia was really asking was if Ellis would have agreed not to compete. "Yes," Ellis said, "I figured going along with one of his schemes might give me an edge when exams came around."

Amelia shot her a look in the mirror—she knew, maybe, that Ellis hadn't hesitated. That when Dumbledore first brought it up, she'd laughed and said Durmstrang was the kind of place parents sent their children if they hated them. But no, Ellis hadn't hesitated. She'd rather be called a blood traitor than be mistaken for a Death Eater.

"Done," announced Ellis, resting her hands gently on Amelia's shoulders

Amelia reached up, running her fingers over the braid. "Thank you, Ellis."

Ellis gave her a soft smile, then pushed herself to her feet with a groan. Her limbs ached from the day's sparring; she could already feel the bruises blooming across her ribs. "Alright," she said, stretching her arms overhead, "I'm actually going to take that bath now before I can talk myself out of it."

She crossed the room and gathered her nightclothes from the trunk at the foot of her bed, tugging a jumper off the top of the pile. She glanced at Amelia as she tucked the bundle under her arm.

"I'll be back in a bit," she said, already halfway to the door.

"Should I lock the door, or will you come back?"

"Why wouldn't I come back?"

Amelia didn't answer right away. She just looked at her—head tilted slightly, one brow lifted, a neutral expression carefully in place, but her eyes said something else entirely.

Ellis hung her head in shame, mumbling, "…if I'm not back in thirty minutes…"

"Have fun," laughed Amelia.

She took her time in the baths, letting the warmth seep deep into her sore muscles. The tension of the day bled away into the heat. She stayed until her skin was pruned and flushed pink and her thoughts finally quieted. Then, she went to look for Regulus.

Regulus' room was at the other side of the guest wing. He was awake when she arrived, his head hanging out the open window bringing a cold draft into the room, silently staring up at the night sky. His room was bigger than the one she and Amelia were in. A thick red rug lay on the floor depicting the scenes of a long-forgotten battle. There was a tapestry behind the bed of a dragon resting in a field of ash and unlike her room, the fireplace here was lit with a roaring fire. Ellis glowered at the room, having half a mind to find whoever was in charge and give them a piece of her mind. She'd save the rage for tomorrow and win the whole tournament.

Ellis closed the door silently as she entered and walked the length of the room to the open window. Having just bathed and still warm from the steaming water, the cold hit her hard. Regulus shifted and a blanket came floating over, draping across her shoulders.

"Any grim futures awaiting us?" asked Ellis, tilting her head upwards. She could name a few of the stars, but she never had the patience for Astronomy, nor did she really see the romance in stargazing. At most, she left those classes with a sore neck.

"They're much clearer over here," he said, turning slightly to look at her. "In London, all the muggle lights block them out, so the telescopes have to be charmed."

Ellis hadn't thought of that. Beyond sometimes going to Diagon Alley or visiting her father at the Ministry, Ellis never had much of a reason to step foot in London. If she was going to venture into the muggle-world, she normally went to more exciting cities like Rome or Marrakesh.

"That one is yours?"

He followed her finger and nodded, a faint hint of surprise on his face.

"Qalb al-Asad. The heart of the lion."

He let out a short, dry laugh

"My grandfather taught me that, so don't laugh," said Ellis, reaching over to pinch him.

"It's ironic, that's all."

"But, you are brave."

"Am I?"

"Yes, actually," she pressed, her tone firm. "It takes a lot of bravery to admit you've made a mistake, and even more to correct it. Most people never bother."

Regulus fell silent at that, turning away to look at the stars again. The line of his shoulders tightened, as though her words had cut a little too close. After a moment, Regulus reached over and pulled the windows shut, locking them firmly. The fire's warmth instantly began reclaiming the room.

She stepped off to the side toward the fire and slid down onto the soft, battle-worn rug. Crossing her legs beneath her, she held the blanket around her shoulders. The thick weave pressed comfortably against her ankles. Regulus followed, surprising her by joining her on the floor. With a wave of his hand, the cushions from the armchair rose into the air and drifted over, plopping neatly beside them.

He sank onto one cushion, unrolling his shirt sleeves a little, though he paused halfway as though he wasn't sure what to do with his hands. Ellis watched the firelight dance along the silk of his shirt, avoiding looking at him for too long because he was dangerous in a way that Ellis wasn't sure she was ready to face yet. He had unbuttoned the top of his shirt to the second or third button, revealing just a bit of pale collarbone. His sleeves rolled up to expose his muscled forearms.

She found the sight strangely arresting, like some old bachelor in those romance novels her mother liked to read. Salivating over a bit of ankle. Her mind flashed back to his Quidditch match, remembering the sight of him shirtless, and an instant flush took over her face.

He caught it and half-smiled, a little crooked at the corner of his mouth.

"What is it?" he asked, though the slight smirk implied he already knew the answer.

"Nothing," she said, clearing her throat.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn't respond. Instead, he looked back into the fire. Something weighed on him—she could see it in the tightness around his mouth. Ellis glanced at the long line of his arm, saw how every so often he'd shift subtly to keep the left sleeve from riding up. Of course. The Dark Mark was there, and she knew it even if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. That fact, unspoken, hung between them.

Regulus, perhaps sensing her scrutiny, turned the conversation elsewhere. "I was wondering about your grandfather…on your mother's side." He paused, as though searching for the right words. "You never speak of him."

Ellis had said plenty about her father's father: Eugene Selwyn, a nasty wizard who haunted the Selwyn Estate and never had a good thing to say, but she rarely spoke about her mother's father at Hogwarts, not wanting to spoil her memories of him.

"He died the summer before my first year." Regulus froze. Ellis forced a smile, but it felt thin, "His name was Iaudas Ammar. My grandmother waited until her first husband died and married him immediately after—it was a big scandal."

Her throat thickened at the memories, swirling to the surface with unbidden clarity: the dusty book-lined study where he'd let her curl up with a pillow, the songs he'd hum in his deep, resonant voice, the sweet almond cookies he always had ready whenever she visited—small, crescent-shaped ones dusted in powdered sugar.

"Almond cookies. I loved them," Ellis said, with a light smile. "He'd bribe me with them when I was little. After I read a chapter of some boring text or did well in my lessons, he'd slip me a few."

She expected to laugh at the memory, but it only brought a twinge of grief so sharp it almost stole her breath. She pressed on, if only to distract herself from the sudden ache in her chest. "He was there when I got my wand too. Every wand Mr. Ollivander handed me seemed to backfire in some spectacular way. My grandfather threatened him at one point—told him, 'If you injure my granddaughter one more time, old man, I'll turn your shop into a chicken coop.'" She let out a genuine laugh this time, shaking her head. "Poor Mr. Ollivander had to deal with him and my father. My mother was the only calm one in the shop. Ned got so scared; he didn't want to get a wand at all."

Regulus studied her, memorizing every shift in her expression. "I'm sorry he's gone."

She shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "It was a long time ago. I felt sorrier for my mother, because I had to go to Hogwarts right after it happened."

Regulus ran a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Selwyn, how I acted back then…"

She shook her head, "There's a lifetime to make up for it."

Regulus shifted slightly, a slow grimace contorting his features for just a fraction of a second before it smoothed over. He masked it quickly, but she caught the flicker of pain.

Her brows knitted. "Let me see it," ordered Ellis, the blanket slipping from her shoulders as she shifted toward him.

She reached for his arm, and he made no move to stop her as she folded his sleeve back, exposing the Dark Mark. "Is it hurting still?"

"No."

"But, it does sometimes?"

"Not as much as it used to."

When she was hurt as a girl, her mother would give her kisses. Ellis thought of doing the same, because a kiss was both love and comfort, but she would not touch the mark upon his skin. Part of her felt disgust at Lord Voldemort who branded his followers, coaxed with wishes he would never make true, tossed them aside when he was doing reaping the benefits of their actions.

But, the other part saw Regulus for who he was. The boy who had willingly offered his arm out to Lord Voldemort, had likely thought it an honor, had sat with the paper in the mornings excited at stories of Death Eaters.

Ellis could still remember her father sitting her up in the highest level of the court, so she could watch the proceedings. How many Death Eaters had marched through his courtroom, muggle blood on their hands, some tall and proud, others shaking and claiming that they had been put under the Imperius Curse? Which would have Regulus been?

"Don't touch it," said Regulus, catching her wrist in a tight hold. Ellis' surprise must have been apparent, because he looked immediately regretful and loosened his grip, but retracted his arm from her hold.

"Why?"

"It's how we're meant to call the Dark Lord."

"By flooding magic into the mark? He can feel it?"

"And feel us—where we are. Call us to him. Find us, if needed."

"That's why you can't leave."

"Yes."

"Why did you do it?" Join Lord Voldemort? Why? Why had he given his life away so easily?

"I grew up hearing that we were destined to rule—muggles, muggleborns, anyone who wasn't like us. We had magic, they didn't, and that alone made us better. Muggleborns had to have stolen it. I used to believe that to my core. Seeing them at Hogwarts…blundering through spellwork like they had a troll's tongue…felt like proof of everything my parents ever said: they weren't real wizards, just lucky thieves who didn't belong."

"And then Sirius came home from Hogwarts saying it was all rubbish—that blood didn't matter, that our parents were wrong. Our parents had always adored him more. He was their Heir, a natural genius, handsome, stronger than I… the son they wanted. The brightest star in the sky. So, I clung to what we were taught, doubled down on it, because that was the only way I could stand out—by being the one who agreed with them. That made me the 'good' son."

"But there was a small part of me—so easy to ignore—that started asking questions. Not good ones. Just practical things like, 'How do we do it? How do we win?' Every plan, every next step, was uglier than the one before. I'd stack up reasons—justify every horrible act that Dark Lord committed—telling myself it was necessary. Once it was all over, the world would be better because we'd be in charge."

"Then I met Dark Lord. I was part of his world, one of the people he kept close. It wasn't that I'd suddenly grown a conscience or had some great moral awakening. I only lived to be of use to him. I wasn't a person. I wasn't anything. The name Black means more in this world than my own."

"Sirius was right when he called me soft. I am. In war, all that would mean is death. And it may be that the Dark Lord already knows that I am too weak to follow him to that end, but if there's even the smallest chance that my death can lead to his end, then what choice do I have?"

"Can it be enough…for now…to say that the only side I have in this war is my own? Can I be selfish for a little while longer?"

Good people seldom won in life—Ellis had learned that as a child. She would come to regret this later, maybe. But later felt so far away in that moment and Regulus was saying all that she wished to hear to reassure herself that she was not betraying her own principles in the name of love, that she was not blinding herself to his faults.

"Give me your arm."

Regulus, without hesitation, did so. His skin was pale, and the Dark Mark—twisted, black, alive—rested there like a scar burned into his soul. He didn't flinch when she touched him. He never did.

"Filium Arcanum."

The Dark Mark pulsed and seemed almost to life from his arm into thin layers of black smoke. Ellis moved her hand over them, and the layers opened like the pages of a book. He narrowed his eyes, trying to read what she was, but he didn't know what she was looking for.

Her attention was on the shadows, reading the patterns hidden beneath the spell. She was close—so close—to the thing she could only guessed at. And then—

"There."

"What?" His voice was soft, right beside her now.

She pointed, her fingertip hovering over the Mark. "That thread. Do you see it?"

"Yes, but…" He leaned in, shoulder brushing hers, hair falling into his eyes. She didn't move away. His closeness grounded her, pulled her focus into something sharper. The thread shimmered faintly within the black—a vein stretching from the Dark Mark outward in a perfect line. So thin. So precise.

Ink, yes—but Voldemort's understanding of magic was woefully incomplete. He hadn't realized what he'd truly created. These weren't chains. They were fine, delicate strands in a vast spiderweb, and he was sitting at the center. Each Dark Mark was a thread, drawn from its bearer and woven back to the man who had branded them. A network. Not a binding.

"If he can find you, then you can find him. And not just him, but the others too. Do you know what that means? You could make a—"

"A map," he breathed out.

"A map," agreed Ellis, with a smile. "Do whatever keeps you alive, Regulus."

Her spell dispersed and she was stuck looking at the Dark Mark again, closer to it than she had ever been. The magic felt thick like oil, black like rot. And she thought that she might have felt it somewhere else before. Somewhere like a dream.

Regulus was watching her. She could feel the warmth of his gaze pressing in close, steady and searching. There was a raw intensity in the way he looked at her. As if he was truly seeing her for the first time, and the depth of it made her heart skip without warning.

He shifted, closing the distance. His knee brushed hers. His hand, still palm-up in her lap, rose to cup her cheek. She felt her body still, instinctively, like the air had gone out of the room. Not with fear—but hope.

"You might be the greatest—"

"Might be?"

He smiled, correcting himself, "You are the greatest witch I know."

Her eyes flit away briefly. "The last time you complimented me, you were drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"That's good. They're a bit too liberal with the elfwine around here. Apparently, it warms the blood."

"Do you think I drank because of you and…Potter…that night?" he drawled, just the faintest arch to his brow. "I was trying to avoid having to do something unpleasant."

"Like holding my hand?"

"No, no, I was glad to do that."

Ellis found her mouth curving in response, drawn to him in a way that made her chest ache. Their knees nearly touched. She watched his throat work in a subtle swallow. If she swayed forward just a little more…

With a slow, deliberate movement, she braced a hand against his shoulder, testing the pressure as though she meant to steady herself. Regulus went very still. His fingers slipped from her cheek, and for half a heartbeat she wondered if he'd push her away. But he didn't.

Instead, his other hand brushed lightly over her thigh, more a question than a touch. She felt the phantom heat of it through her dressing gown and the blanket bunched around her. In the flicker of the fireplace, his gray eyes reflected the light, alert and transfixed on her.

"Selwyn—" he started, the shape of her name on his lips filled with something like warning…or perhaps hope.

Ellis let her weight shift onto her knees, pressing them against his thighs. The cushion dipped under her as she rose, moving to straddle his lap. Regulus's mouth parted, his grip tightening her thigh as if she might slip away. He was absolutely still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. The little flicker of vulnerability tugged at her heart, but so did the coil of triumph—he wanted this. He wanted her.

She settled there, the bare skin of her calves brushing the edges of his trousers. Her heart beat so hard she almost worried he could hear it pounding. Beneath her palms, she felt his shoulders tense, but his eyes never left hers.

"You look like you've never had a girl in your lap before," she said, letting a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

Regulus let out a soft scoff. "I haven't."

Curiously, she tilted her head, "No?"

He swallowed and looked away, "It was always quick—a distraction."

"From what?"

"What I really wanted."

His lashes lowered, gaze tipping downward to her mouth. A knot of anticipation coiled in her stomach. She skimmed her fingers down the collar of his shirt, feeling the subtle shift of muscle as he inhaled. Beneath that controlled façade, he vibrated with a tension that bordered on hunger.

"You're very tense."

"It's difficult to stay relaxed," he said dryly.

She couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face. "You're the one who said you came here for me."

His eyes flicked to her lips, hovered there. "I did."

"I should feel honored then, shouldn't I?"

Regulus shifted, one hand settling at her waist, the other gently brushing the hair from her face. He pulled her closer until their bodies pressed flush. The friction made her thoughts short-circuit. A swirl of heat, sweeter than any wine she could drink, flooded her veins.

With a carefully measured slowness, he leaned in. Their mouths hovered inches apart, breath mingling in a hush of warmth. A spark crackled in the air, as if the magic in her had leapt to her chest and then out. His lips parted, and for a second, Ellis teetered at the threshold, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. Her body thrilled at the closeness, that dizzying possibility of feeling his kiss—

"You're meant to take me to Madam Puddifoot's first," she said, shifting back. She pressed her palm to his mouth and pushed him back. She heard the soft, frustrated sound he made—half groan, half resigned laughter. "And ask me to the ball."

He pulled back, eyeing her, "I think you enjoy making me beg."

"I do."

"On my knees then?"

Ellis scoffed, "You're lucky I haven't taken my wand out and thrown you on your back."

"Is that what you like? Being on top?"

"I'll hex your mouth off if you—"

"Before you do that, why don't I show you what it can do?"

Ellis reached out to hit him, but Regulus dodged with ease, laughing as he did. "I'd say your cruel," he said, "But you're well within your rights to be so."

"Patience is a virtue."

Ellis shifted her hips, drawing a sharp hiss from him, and he dropped his hands, holding her tightly, forcing her to still. His pupils were blown wide, the silver rims of his irises barely visible. With an effort, he pulled his hands from her hips, braced them back on the floor, and exhaled. "If you keep doing things like that, I'm liable to forget you're the one who insisted on patience."

She arched a brow. "I said it was a virtue. I never said it was my virtue."

He laughed softly, a hitch in his breath that told her how close she'd pushed him.

Ellis eased off him. Her body still hummed with awareness of him, and her limbs felt almost boneless. She swayed from the sudden change in position, and Regulus rose too, one hand steadying her elbow so she wouldn't stumble.

"Do you want me to take you back?"

"Can't I stay?"

"Here?"

Ellis nodded.

He seemed surprised for a moment, gazing at the bed with a cautious expression. Ellis wanted to laugh at him and make a joke that it was not a marriage bed, but she thought if she did, it might cause him to pull away. She waited for him to come to a decision, but it took longer than she thought it would. He kept gazing at the bed as if it would come to life, leap at them, and devour each whole.

"I've never shared a bed with anyone before."

"Never? What about with Sirius? Sleepovers?"

"Never."

"No wonder you're such a prat," laughed Ellis, breaking Regulus' hesitation with an easy smile. "You've never had to share anything in your life."

A lazy grin crossed his face, and for a moment, he looked so relaxed it made her chest clench. She realized she rarely saw Regulus at ease, that rigid set of his spine undone. "I'm not very good at sharing."

"I'll teach you," she said, "It's easy once you start."

"Everything's easier with you, Selwyn."

"That's good," she said, smiling again. "All you have to do is stay by my side, then."

Time slipped away like grains of sand between their fingers.

And somehow, when they returned to Hogwarts after the tournament, Regulus Black managed to cast a Patronus. He said nothing about the memory he used—but she knew. Knew it was this one. Knew that, for all the teasing and the sidelong glances, all the dancing around what they wouldn't say aloud, this was enough for him.

But she was a greedy witch. And enough was never going to be enough.

Not with Regulus Black and certainly, not for herself.

Greatness demanded greatness.

Tomorrow, Ellis Selwyn would do something no witch or wizard had done before—and the ripples of it would reach the Dark Lord's ear, setting in motion their first meeting.