Beatrice Lestrange has always been an outsider in her own story. Born into one of the darkest families in the wizarding world, she grew up under the looming shadow of her infamous mother Bellatrix Lestrange.
Despite this, Beatrice is nothing like th...
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Later that week, Beatrice found herself tucked into the corner of the library, the heavy silence pressing down on her like a weight. She was hunched over a book of advanced spells, her fingers nervously tapping against the edges of the pages. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, her mind a haze of exhaustion and relentless thoughts.
The third task loomed over her like a stormcloud. She had been running herself ragged, pouring over spells she might need, strategies she could use, but nothing felt like enough. And even in those rare moments when she wasn't worrying about the tournament, Hermione's biting words echoed in her head, leaving her stomach knotted with guilt and shame.
She felt like she was failing at everything, her friendships, her emotions, even herself.
The chair beside her creaked, breaking her spiral of thoughts. Bea glanced up to see Theo sliding into the seat, his presence filling the small space like a warm current. His dark eyes swept over her face, narrowing as he took in her disheveled appearance.
— Bea — he said softly, a note of concern in his voice, — You look...awful. —
Bea let out a weak laugh, more bitter than amused. — Thanks for the compliment. —
— I'm worried, — he said, leaning closer, his hand brushing lightly against hers on the table. — What's going on? You've been avoiding me, and now you look like you haven't slept in a week. Is this about the tournament? —
— It's about everything, — Bea admitted, her voice tight. — The task, the tournament, my family...— She stopped short, her heart pounding. — It's just... a lot. —
Theo's hand lingered against hers, warm and steady. — Bea, you've been handling 'a lot' since I've known you. You don't have to do it alone, though. Talk to me. —
Beatrice shook her head, pulling her hand away and clutching the edges of her book as if it could shield her from the conversation. — There's nothing to talk about. I'm just... tired, okay? —
— You're not just tired, — Theo said firmly, his tone softening as he leaned in closer. — I know you, Bea. When you shut everyone out like this, it's because something's eating you alive. —
She avoided his gaze, her throat tightening. He wasn't wrong, but how could she possibly explain everything? The weight of the task, the shame of what she'd said to Hermione, the impossible tangle of her feelings—it was too much.
Theo reached out again, this time catching her chin gently between his fingers and tilting her face toward him. — Hey, — he murmured, his voice low. — I miss you. I miss us. Whatever's going on, you can tell me. I'm here, Bea. —
Her heart twisted painfully at his words, and for a moment, she let herself lean into his touch. But the guilt surged back, drowning her. She shook her head, pulling away. — I can't, Theo. I just... can't right now. —
