🌻The Phantom Peddlers | M.YG

XI

| A Crown of Serpents |

October 30th, 2023. 

Climbing the spiral staircase to the Headmistress's office always brought a knot of unease to Noctua's stomach. This time, that knot was tied tightly, her pulse quickening with each step as the circular steps seemed to stretch endlessly beneath her. The sense of foreboding didn't match her immaculate appearance—the crisp Hogwarts uniform, her prefect badge gleaming as if freshly polished—but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was heading toward a reprimand, or perhaps something far worse.

Her fingers dug into her palms as she approached the stone gargoyles at the top, their cold, unmoving eyes following her with an almost indifferent detachment. The sensation only made her nerves spark sharper.

"Tabby," she announced, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil swirling inside. She hoped she looked as confident as she sounded. The gargoyles shifted, the heavy doors swinging open to reveal the room beyond.

The office was tidy, every surface meticulously organized, a far cry from the chaotic collection of curious objects she'd heard filled the room in Dumbledore's day. She imagined, just for a second, his old passwords that tasted of lemon drops, the warmth of a different era. Now, only a quiet order ruled here, with a distinct coolness that made her feel even more like she was under a silent watch.

A tabby cat was curled on the Headmistress's desk, its keen, intelligent eyes tracking her with a warmth that belied its stern expression. Noctua inclined her head. "Professor McGonagall."

The cat leaped gracefully from the desk, landing with the poise of a creature accustomed to transforming. In a blink, Professor McGonagall stood in its place, her posture regal but worn by the weight of battles fought on these very grounds. A flicker of softness entered her gaze as she took in the sight of Noctua, hands clasped tightly together in a desperate attempt to hide their trembling.

"Miss Peverell," McGonagall greeted, her voice a calm anchor amid Noctua's storming thoughts. "The Floo is ready for you."

Noctua swallowed, her throat tight. She approached the hearth, every step weighted with anticipation, and accepted the small velvet pouch of Floo powder McGonagall held out to her. The professor's hand lingered on the pouch for a moment, her gaze meeting Noctua's with something that felt almost reassuring.

"Peverell," McGonagall said softly, a hint of rare gentleness slipping through her usual composed tone, "everything will go all right."

Noctua offered a small, grateful smile, heartened by the words. "Thank you, Professor," she replied, truly meaning it. She took a steadying breath, tightened her grip on the pouch, and, with a final nod, cast the powder into the flames.

"Peverell Castle!" she declared, her voice steady as the green flames roared to life around her, pulling her through the floo network swiftly. 

Before she knew it, she appeared in the grand floo room of her ancestral home, her mother's figure sitting regally, her plum robes with the infamous W embroidered on the right side and the Selwyn emblem on her left side, right over her heart as a sign of loyalty to her house. 

"Oh, my dear Nocttie," her mother's voice came, soft and gentle as she rose from the sofa, "welcome home." Her mother wrapped Noctua in a warm, familiar embrace, transporting her back to countless childhood memories of being held just like this. In that moment, she felt as though she was once again the cherished treasure of her parents, enveloped in the same warmth and boundless love.

For a moment, Noctua allowed herself to set aside the anxiety of the impending Wizengamot meeting. She would rather be anywhere else, yet this session was unavoidable; it was where her formal heirship of the House of Slytherin would be acknowledged. Her father had confirmed that the seat had sat vacant, without an accepted Head of Household, for well over a century.