Bound By Blood.

~Christmas Bonus Chapter~

Alexandra.

Hogwarts, 1997.

Everyone went home for the holidays.

One by one, I watched them drag their trunks down the corridors, scarves trailing behind them, excitement buzzing in the air like static.

And then—slowly—the castle emptied.

The noise faded.

The drafts grew louder.

Hogwarts became... quiet.

Almost unsettlingly so.

I told the Weasleys I'd join them next year.

Even thought we all knew, there probably wasn't a next year.

I smiled, I reassured, I promised I'd be fine.

Molly tried to insist through letters, Ron and George looked offended, Hermione threatened to drag me by the hair, and Fred... he just hugged me tight like he already knew he was losing the argument.

But I stayed.

I stayed because something feels like it's shifting beneath my feet.

Like the world is tilting, preparing for something none of us are ready for.

And as much as I love the Weasleys—as much as they've made me feel like I actually belong somewhere—I wanted them to have a Christmas untouched by fear or planning or war.

They deserved something warm.

Something simple.

Something theirs.

So here I am.

In a mostly empty castle with too much quiet and too many thoughts.

There are a few other students wandering around—kids who can't go home, kids who don't want to, kids who pretend they have somewhere waiting for them but don't.

We exchange polite nods like ghosts sharing the same haunting ground.

I spend most of my time in the library.

It's warm there—my favorite corner near the old fireplace—and I can pile books around me like a fortress.

Research for Harry.

Notes for Hermione.

Spells I need to memorize.

Maps I need to annotate.

If I keep my hands busy, maybe my mind won't— But of course it does.

Every time I settle in, every time the fire cracks just right, every time the castle sighs around me, my thoughts drift where they shouldn't.

Him.

Mattheo Riddle.

The problem I can't solve.

The feeling I can't name.

I catch myself wondering about his holidays.

Does he even have them?

Does warmth exist in a place like the Manor?

Does anyone there care enough to—

"No," I tell myself, closing the book a little too sharply. "You can't think like this."

And I hate it.

I hate how often my mind pulls toward him the second I let myself breathe.

I hate that the quiet makes it worse.