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 coming—and Hogwarts felt like it was collectively holding its breath.
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 turned into a war zone. Not in the explosive, magical duel kind of way—but in the silent, slow, soul-crushing march of parchment, ink stains, and open-mouthed horror at one's own lack of preparation.
Dorcas had taken to making a sound every ten minutes that Avery privately referred to as The Dying Hippogriff.
"I've re-written the Confundus Charm application essay four times and I still don't know what I'm saying," she groans, forehead hitting the table. "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. Thoe notes were spread across the table in a way that made no sense to anyone but her—sections circled, cursed, connected by wild arrows and scrawled handwriting.
"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 says, still facedown.
"Already tried that," Pandora replies mildly. "Professor Vance asked me to analyze my own handwriting for signs of delusion."
Avery finally looked 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 quiet as she slipped down the staircases, past the common room and out through the portrait hole. Her feet knew where they were going before she did.
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 tea 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.
"You're late," he says without looking up, notes floating around him in silent orbit.
"I had to explain to Dorcas that crying on a book doesn't make it absorb into your brain."
Regulus didn't smile, but he slid her a chocolate bar like it was an agreed-upon ritual. "You're going to overthink the Ancient Runes section."
