The Corpse That Lived.

Chapter 23

Hyacinth woke in the dark with a throat as dry as parchment. She tried swallowing it away, then groaned softly when that made things worse. Dahlia, curled up on the far side of their room like a wary fox in stolen blankets, didn't stir. Good. Hyacinth slipped out of bed, tugged on her dressing robe, and padded down the stairs as quietly as she could.

Halfway to the kitchen she froze.

Muffled voices. Low, frayed at the edges. Not the pleasant hum of tea-time and late-night whispers. This was tighter, harsher, like two people trying to argue without waking the whole house.

Her stomach twisted. She crept closer, bare feet hovering over the cool wood floor. Maybe they weren't fighting. Maybe they were just... talking. But the tone made her chest pinch.

She stopped just shy of the kitchen doorway, peering around the frame.

"...not ready," one voice hissed. Dad. "Lily, you saw what happened. Ollivander reached for her hand and she—"

"I know," Mum whispered back, sounding tired and thin. "But she didn't mean to react like that. She's trying."

"She nearly hexed him." A pause. A heavy breath. "She didn't even realize she'd pulled her wand. It was... reflex. Pure reflex."

Hyacinth's mouth went dry for a whole new reason. She pressed her back to the wall, heart fluttering like it wanted out.

Someone raked a hand through their hair; she could hear the rustle. Dad again. "A crowded school, Lily. Thousands of students. Hundreds of adults. A castle full of strangers brushing past her. She can't even handle a shopkeeper reaching toward her sleeve."

"She'll get better."

"She might get worse."

Hyacinth swallowed hard. The edges of the conversation blurred when their voices dropped again, only fragments reaching her.

"...she barely sleeps..."

"...startles at everything..."

"...what if she panics in class..."

"...not fit to go yet..."

Not fit to go.

Her chest squeezed. Dahlia had been buzzing with a strange, quiet excitement since they got their letters. Nervous, sure, but excited. Hopeful in that fragile way she never said out loud. Hyacinth couldn't imagine pacing that train platform without her. Couldn't imagine sleeping in a dorm while Dahlia stayed behind, prowling the house alone like something half-wounded.

The thought snapped something inside her.

Hyacinth shoved the door open.

Both her parents jumped.

"Mum—Dad—please don't." The words tumbled out, messy and too loud in the sleepy kitchen air. "Please don't keep her home."

Lily's face softened instantly. James looked stricken, caught between guilt and worry.

Hyacinth stepped further in, fists balled tight at her sides. "She wants to go. She really does. She's scared, but she still wants it." Her voice cracked. "And I want her with me. I don't want to go without her."

"Hyacinth," he said quietly, "your sister can't even call us Mum or Dad."

Hyacinth blinked. He'd said it so plainly, without anger, without judgment. Just truth. Heavy truth.

James kept going. "She barely tolerates a hug from us on her best days. Half the time she flinches before she even realizes it's us touching her. And you want us to rush her into a castle full of strangers? A school where kids pack into corridors like sheep?"