The remainder of summer unfolded like a forgotten song in a minor key—soft, slow, and ever so slightly off.
Astraea spent her days at the escritoire in the drawing room, quill scratching across parchment in an endless dance of letters. The fine lines at the corners of her mouth deepened with each passing sunrise, and Eleanor noted how even her mother's posture—usually so poised—had taken on a faint tension, like a harp string pulled too taut.
Eleanor had sent Pegasus with messages to Berenice, but no reply had come. Not a single line, not even a blank parchment to prove the owl had returned safely. The only tether she had left to the Wizarding World outside Seymour Hall was a regular correspondence with Adrian Pucey, whose letters had grown darker in tone.
He confirmed that the Dark Mark had indeed appeared above the Quidditch World Cup, though the Ministry had yet to apprehend the culprit. The Prophet had been quick to cast suspicion—Sirius Black, they whispered—but no evidence followed, and like a candle left to gutter in the wind, the story flickered into silence.
So it was, oddly, a relief when Eleanor awoke on the morning of the first of September to the sight of fat raindrops streaking down the windowpane, as though the sky itself shared her mood.
Nemea lay curled at the foot of the bed, glaring at Eleanor as if still seething over last Christmas. To be fair, Eleanor had forgotten entirely to bring her home for the holiday—though in her defence, Nemea had hidden under the dressing table and refused to budge.
Dressed in soft rose jumper and loose, comfortable trousers, Eleanor padded down the grand staircase to the breakfast room, where the family typically convened.
"Pleione, darling. Have you packed everything?" Astraea asked, not glancing up from her coffee. She wore a creamy wool midi dress that hugged her frame just so, her ash-blonde hair pinned into an elegant French chignon. Her makeup was precise, only enhancing the severity of her high cheekbones and cool eyes.
Eleanor's father sat opposite, completely absorbed in his newspaper. His gaze was vacant, glassy, and she knew—without needing to test it—that nothing said in the room would reach him.
"Yes, Mother," Eleanor said, smoothing her skirt as she sat. "Everything's packed. I just need to lure Nemea into her cage. Could you send Pegasus once you're back from London?"
"Of course, dearest," Astraea replied with a curt nod. "We'll leave within the hour."
Eleanor helped herself to toast as a house elf silently refilled her cup.
After breakfast, Poppy accompanied her upstairs to fetch her trunk and owl cage. Nemea, as expected, was less than cooperative. Eleanor crouched beside the bed, coaxing her with a piece of cold chicken.
"Give the cat to Poppy, Lady Eleanor. Poppy will make sure nothing happens to her," the house elf said earnestly.
"Thank you, Poppy. Will you be coming back to Hogwarts with me this year?"
"Poppy will always go where Lady Eleanor goes, miss," she answered, her bulbous green eyes gleaming with loyalty.
"Very well. You're dismissed."
With acrack, Poppy vanished, and Eleanor took one last look around her bedroom. There was always the chance of forgetting something, but she preferred not to trouble her mother unnecessarily. Even a forgotten quill seemed a bother too great.
By the time they set off for London, the rain was coming down in sheets. The windows of the car were fogged, blurring the passing countryside into smudges of grey and green. Astraea sat stiffly beside her, fingernail tapping against her lower lip in a rhythm Eleanor recognised all too well.
Her mother was deep in thought.
"Do you promise to be careful this year, Pleione?" she said suddenly, as they reached the outskirts of the city.
Eleanor blinked. "Of course, Mother."
"I mean it," Astraea said, her tone softer than usual, almost unsure. "No unnecessary risks. No foolish ventures."
"Did something happen?" Eleanor asked carefully.
Astraea's lips pressed into a line. "Yes. I received word this week. Dumbledore, in all his dubious wisdom, has decided to resurrect the Triwizard Tournament."
Eleanor's eyebrows shot up. "But that was banned centuries ago. People died."
"Exactly," Astraea snapped. "And yet Dumbledore, Crouch, and that buffoon Bagman have seen fit to bring it back. I don't know if it'll be announced tonight, but I'm telling you now:do not that clear?"
"Crystal," Eleanor said, though she wasn't sure if she should be alarmed or intrigued. "I have no intention of getting myself killed."
Astraea gave a rare, strained smile and reached over to squeeze her daughter's hand. "Good girl."
At King's Cross, the rain had become a downpour. Their chauffeur's enchanted umbrella kept them dry as they crossed into the station. Steam hissed from the Hogwarts Express, casting a silvery mist over the platform. The usual society eyes tracked them like hawks—discreet, but ever-present.
Astraea walked as if she were royalty. Eleanor trailed beside her, not quite matching her mother's grace, but holding her chin high.
Fred and George Weasley were laughing with their brothers nearby. Eleanor caught George's eye, and the faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips before she composed herself.
"Madam Seymour," Lucius Malfoy greeted, bowing slightly as he kissed Astraea's hand. "Mister Malfoy," she replied smoothly. "Mister Yaxley," she added, extending the same gesture to Corban Yaxley, who had appeared at Lucius' shoulder.
Berenice was just behind her father and caught Eleanor's eye. "Shall we find a seat before the train leaves?" she asked, taking Eleanor's hand.
"I'll see you at Christmas, Father," Berenice said, airily kissing his cheek.
"Goodbye, Mother," Eleanor said, her voice polite but distant.
"Goodbye, darling. I'll send Pegasus this afternoon," Astraea replied without looking at her, eyes still fixed on Lucius.
Once out of earshot, Eleanor turned to Berenice. "Why didn't you write back?"
Berenice sighed, charming their trunks to hover. "Because I didn't know what to say. You wanted answers, and I didn't have any."
"Even your father knows nothing?"
"Not a word. It's been buried—officially. They don't want the Tournament overshadowed."
Eleanor's reply was cut off by the arrival of Adrian Pucey.
"You honestly think it was an outsider?" he asked with a scoff. "I expected more from you, Berenice."
He guided them towards an empty compartment and stowed their trunks before taking a seat.
"Who, then?" Berenice asked, frowning as she peered out the window. "Your dad's talking to Yaxley and Malfoy."
"I don't know," Adrian said. "But it wasn't an outsider. Only someone from the old inner circle would know how to summon the Dark Mark."
"The old guard wouldn't be that stupid," Berenice muttered. "They've managed to avoid Azkaban for fourteen years. Why throw that away?"
Eleanor opened Nemea's cage, letting the cat stretch and leap up beside Adrian.
"With the Dark Lord gone, there's no point," Berenice added softly.
They fell quiet. Outside, the rain thickened. Lanterns flickered to life along the carriage walls, despite it being barely midday.
Nemea curled up in Adrian's lap, and soon the conversation drifted to lighter topics—the match at the Cup, the chaos in the stands. Eleanor opened a book, letting the voices of her friends wash over her.
The trolley came by shortly after one. Berenice ate her homemade salad, Adrian hoarded Pumpkin Pasties, and Eleanor bought chilled pumpkin juice.
"Who do you reckon will be Hogwarts' Champion?" Berenice asked between bites.
"Half of Gryffindor will try," Eleanor said dryly.
"They'll have to be of age," Adrian pointed out. "My father hinted there'd be an age restriction."
"My money's on Cedric Diggory," Eleanor offered.
"The Hufflepuff?" Berenice gawked. "You mad?"
"Possibly. But he's got the right mix—ambition, bravery, and a clean reputation."
"She's not wrong," Adrian said thoughtfully, stroking Nemea.
Berenice made a face, but didn't argue further.
As they neared the station, Eleanor secured Nemea back into her cage and changed into her school robes.
"I don't envy the first years," Adrian muttered, peering at the storm outside.
"Horrible way to meet the school," Berenice agreed, braiding her hair as they disembarked and made for the carriages.
Rain pelted the roof as they trundled toward the castle. Lightning lit up the sky, and just as the carriages slowed to a halt, a bolt split the sky over the Forbidden Forest.
"Finally," Berenice said as they sprinted up the stone steps.
"WATCH OUT!" Eleanor shouted, yanking Berenice aside. A second later, a massive red water balloon exploded where she'd been standing.
"Peeves!" Adrian groaned.
The poltergeist cackled overhead, taking aim again. The three of them bolted into the Great Hall.
"Thanks, Nell," Berenice panted, drenched but grateful.
"Least I could do. Not like you could get wetter," Eleanor quipped.
The Great Hall was warm and golden, candlelight gleaming off the golden plates and goblets. The four long tables were already packed. Eleanor ignored Hestia Carrow's sneer as she passed.
"Did they swim across the lake?" Adrian whispered as McGonagall led the soggy first years inside. Eleanor smiled in spite of herself.
The Sorting Hat began its song—longer than usual, as always—and soon the sorting began. The second boy, Malcolm Baddock, was sent to Slytherin. Eleanor clapped politely.
The Gryffindors did not.
From across the room, Fred and George hissed at the boy.
Eleanor's mouth fell open.
"Did George Weasleyhissat an eleven-year-old?" she murmured.
Tears pricked her eyes.
"What's wrong, Nell?" Berenice whispered.
Eleanor fixed her eyes forward.
"Nothing, Bunny. Absolutely nothing."