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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April 29th, 1980
The sun had already dipped behind the taller buildings of the city, casting long shadows across the cobbled pavement as the door to The Crooked Cup, a quiet wizarding café tucked between a second-hand cauldron shop and an apothecary, swung open with a soft chime.
Avery stepped inside first, her hair still slightly frizzy from the afternoon's hex-rebound incident. The air in the café was warm, scented with cinnamon and roasted coffee beans, and lit with low, floating orbs that glowed a soft amber. She tugged off her Ministry cloak with one hand, her wand in the other, tucking it into her inner coat pocket as she turned toward the back corner table — the one they always took when they needed to decompress after a long day at the Ministry of Magic.
Dorcas followed behind her, stifling a yawn. Her braid had half come undone, and a small singe mark still lingered on the hem of her left sleeve. She dropped into the seat across from Avery with a grunt, resting her head in her hands for a moment before peeking out from between her fingers.
"Do I have soot on my face?" she asks without looking up.
Avery smirked, setting her bag down on the floor beside her chair. "Just a smudge on your cheek. Adds to the charm."
Dorcas sighed and grabbed a napkin from the table, scrubbing at her face half-heartedly. "I cannot believe we spent four hours crawling under magically suspended crates just to practice 'situational stealth.' I nearly got concussed by a rogue levitating goblet."
"You're lucky you didn't get assigned to Wilkes again," Avery replies, raising a brow. "He cast Expelliarmus so hard it ricocheted off the target dummy and hit McAllister in the knee. She limped for ten minutes before threatening to transfigure him into a broom."
Dorcas laughed, finally leaning back as a small plate with two hot drinks floated over to them, carried by a tiny puffskein-shaped enchanted tray. She took hers — dark roast with a dash of honey — and wrapped her cold hands around the warm ceramic.
It had been five months since Avery had joined the Auror Training Program — a grueling, elite track meant only for the sharpest and most determined witches and wizards. She had applied in the fall and been accepted quickly, her aptitude for field logic and precise spellwork evident from the start. Dorcas, ever Avery's shadow in some ways and opposite in others, had taken a bit longer to apply — not out of hesitation, but deliberation. When she'd finally joined in January, their days had started blending into one another: training together, commuting to the Ministry, late-night study sessions, and then moments like this — cups of coffee, the scent of ink and spell powder still clinging to them.
"You holding up?" Avery asks after a quiet moment, watching her friend over the rim of her cup.
Dorcas blew on her drink and shrugged, her expression unreadable for a second before softening. "Yeah. Honestly... I think I'm getting better."
