Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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The last two weeks of June, 1979
The N.E.W.T.s were approaching, and Hogwarts had begun to feel like a castle under siege.
Seven years of magic, theory, incantations, essays, breakdowns, and late-night cramming were culminating in these final exams. There was no more bluffing. No more getting by with half-done essays or last-minute spells. The future was now being measured in how quickly you could identify the properties of monkshood under pressure.
The library had become the epicenter of the crisis. Rows of tables disappeared beneath mountains of parchment and textbooks. Empty teacups multiplied like magical pests. Every few minutes someone would make a noise suggesting either intellectual breakthrough or complete psychological collapse.
Avery sat near one of the windows with enough notes spread across the table to qualify as a small research archive. Most of it made perfect sense only to her. Across from her, Dorcas stared at her essay draft with the hollow expression of someone confronting a personal enemy. A few moments later, she let out a long, suffering groan and dropped her forehead onto the table. The sound echoed through the library. Several nearby students glanced up though none looked particularly surprised.
Avery privately referred to the noise as The Dying Hippogriff.
"I've rewritten this essay four times," Dorcas muttered into the wood. "Four times, Avery, Pandora. And I still don't know what I'm saying. What if I've been confused the whole time and that's the irony?"
Avery flipped through her Defense notes with a highlighter charm that was losing patience. "Maybe that's exactly the point. Existential Confundus."
"Maybe I'll just fake a prophecy and tell them I'm destined to fail and we can skip the whole thing," Dorcas said, still facedown.
"Already tried that," Pandora replied mildly. "Professor Vance asked me to analyze my own handwriting for signs of delusion."
Avery looked up, her nose scrunched up. "This is going to be fine."
Dorcas sat up slowly. "Say that again, but make it sound like you believe it."
Avery didn't. She just shoved her notes into a pile, muttered something about the Astronomy Tower (a lie), and walked out. The castle was unusually chaotic as she slipped down the staircases, past the common room and out through the portrait hole. Her feet knew where they were going. The kitchen was warm, dimly lit, and blissfully silent-except for the soft clinking of dishes and the rustle of parchment.
Regulus was already there, of course. He sat at the long wooden table with his sleeves rolled up, quill in hand, parchment neatly aligned like soldiers in formation. A pot of coffee hovered just above the surface, pouring itself into two mismatched mugs. Beside it, a plate of toast and treacle tart sat untouched. Avery dropped into the seat across from him without a word.
