in her silent stars ; hp

three

CHAPTER THREE: ꒰ 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞-𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 ꒱
୨୧──────·˚˚·──────୨୧

The morning air in the Great Hall felt unusually crisp, the ceiling bewitched with a gauzy layer of autumnal clouds, their dull glow casting a silvery sheen over the long breakfast tables. Plates clinked faintly, but beneath the ordinary sounds of clattering cutlery and quiet murmurs, tension stirred like fog curling around ankles.

"That was a lie, Harry," Hermione said, her voice slicing through the air like a well-aimed spell. She hadn't meant to be cruel, but there was sharpness there—cut from worry and tempered in truth.

Harry had spoken the words moments ago, brushing off his scar pain like a leaf on his shoulder. Like it meant nothing. But Hermione knew better. They all did. Even if he didn't say it aloud, his nightmares were loud enough to echo in their silence.

Willow didn't speak. She sat still as stone, spoon stirring idly in her oatmeal, gaze fixated not on her friends, but on some invisible point far beyond the table. Her silence was louder than Hermione's concern.

"So what?" Harry said roughly, defiance laced through each syllable. "He's not going back to Azkaban because of me."

Ron shifted, sensing the flame building, and stepped in. "Drop it," he told Hermione, a bit more sharply than necessary. And surprisingly, she did.

But Willow didn't.

"She's got every right to talk, Ron," she said. Her voice didn't rise, but the edge in it struck like a whip-crack. It was the first time she'd spoken like that to him, and it landed hard.

Ron stared at her, stunned, before muttering an apology. Hermione, slightly startled but secretly vindicated, gave a small, knowing smile.

"What's with you, Will?" Harry asked, leaning forward, voice laced with quiet concern.

Willow looked at him—green meeting green—and offered a faint shrug, her expression unreadable. "I'm fine, Harry... just a small headache," she murmured before rising, her books clutched tightly against her chest.

"Got some work to do before class... see you guys later." Her footsteps echoed against the stone as she disappeared through the archway, leaving confusion in her wake.

"She's not fine," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"She's fine," Hermione countered, sipping at her soup with a vague air of distraction.

"I totally got on her wrong side today... Merlin, I'm never doing that again," Ron muttered, still red-faced. Hermione smirked into her spoon.

━。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ゜。━

The following weeks passed in a quiet blur.

Willow was like a ghost gliding through corridors—present, yet intangible. She answered when spoken to, laughed when necessary, and kept her head down in her books. The workload had exploded like a Weasleys' firework, and Professor McGonagall wasted no breath on sympathy.

"You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!" she declared to their groaning Transfiguration class, eyes flashing behind her spectacles. "Your O.W.L.s draw nearer with each passing day—"

"But that's next year," Dean Thomas objected.

"Perhaps," she replied coolly. "But Miss Granger remains the only one capable of turning a hedgehog into a suitable pincushion. And you, Mr. Thomas, have managed only to terrify yours."