Daughter of a Witch

Superboy and the Invisible Girl

Superboy and the Invisible Girl / Son of steel and daughter of air

The photos are already out when Y/n comes downstairs.

They always are.

Agatha never announces it. There's no pause, no visible decision, no moment where she opens a drawer and says Today I will remember my son. The frames simply appear on the coffee table whenever Wanda comes to visit, like the house itself understands the pattern. Like Westview, with all its magic and memory, knows when to reopen old wounds.

Y/n slows at the last step.

The living room is warm with lamplight, shadows stretching softly along the walls. Wanda kneels in front of the coffee table, fingers hovering reverently over the photographs like she's afraid to disturb them. Billy stands nearby, taller now than Y/n remembers, shoulders broad and solid in a way that speaks of survival. Tommy paces behind the couch, restless energy crackling under his skin, flipping through old DVDs and photo albums like he might stumble onto something new if he moves fast enough.

"Oh," Wanda breathes.

She lifts a frame carefully, like it might shatter if she isn't gentle.

"Nicky."

The photo is old enough that the edges have softened, colors slightly faded. Nicholas Harkness-Vidal, eight years old, sitting upright in a hospital bed like it's a throne instead of a sentence. His cheeks were too thin by then, his skin pale in a way no spell ever managed to fix—but he's smiling. A real smile. The kind he always saved for his parents, for moments when he knew they were scared.

Agatha's hand drifts down without her noticing she's moved.

Her thumb brushes the glass once. Then again.

"He insisted on that shirt," Agatha says quietly, voice rough around the edges. "Said it made him look like a superhero."

Billy crouches beside Wanda, studying the photo with open curiosity. "He looks strong."

"He was," Agatha answers instantly. No hesitation. No room for nuance. "He never stopped being strong."

Tommy glances over. "Yeah. You can tell. Like... grounded."

Steel, Y/n thinks.

That's what Nicky was. Solid. Heavy. A presence that filled rooms even now, years later. His absence still had weight.

Y/n shifts her backpack higher on her shoulder and steps into the room.

No one notices at first.

Rio does, though.

She's seated in the armchair near the window, one ankle resting on her knee, posture loose but watchful. Her gaze flicks from Agatha's hand on the frame to Y/n standing by the stairs. Their eyes meet for half a second, long enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

Rio looks away first.

Y/n moves quietly to the floor and sits cross-legged against the couch. She tucks herself into the space like she's learned how, careful not to intrude, careful not to cast a shadow.

She listens.

She always listens.

Agatha starts telling a story Y/n has heard before. About a bad hospital day. About how Nicky cracked a joke that made the nurse laugh. About how he held Agatha's hand and told her not to cry because he "didn't like it when his moms looked sad."

Wanda smiles through glassy eyes. Billy nods, respectful and attentive. Tommy still, unusually quiet.

Y/n watches their faces.