Bloodlines of Legacy

by rraebearr

Summary:

Their sixth year has barely begun.

Zuko and Draco are best friends… And so are their fathers.

Both of whom loyally serve the Dark Lord as his Grand Banneret, with the full expectation of their son's to follow in their footsteps.

Something neither Slytherin wants, but accepts nonetheless, knowing they have no choice.

And then there's those two Witches.

Katara and Hermione.

Both captivating, brilliant, and completely out of reach.

Just as they've resigned themselves to watching from afar, a spark is ignited. A spark that threatens to burn everything they've carefully built to ash.

Because now, they're killers.

Notes:

• For phin_and_frob.

This is a Fic I started strictly to convince my amazing lovely wonderful friend, Phin_and_Frob that Dramione is a good ship.

And it has grown from there.

Also, shoutout to Phin for beta-reading for me on this fic as well, you are forever appreciated and loved <3

I adore both ships on many levels, and I have worked very hard on combining the dynamics, abilities and worlds of the characters I've chosen to include in this story. This story has pushed me creatively and has been such a joy to explore and create.

This is a labor of love.

Uploads will be every 3rd, 13th and 23rd of every month.

If any of this changes, I'll update in the end chapter notes of the latest upload.

Chapter 1: Druk and Yue

“Oi! Watch it!” Draco yanks his scroll of potions notes out of the way just as Druk huffs out a plume of flames in a wide yawn.

I smile at the small scorch mark he leaves on the table, “Come here Druk.” I call to the small dragon. He blinks his blood red eyes sleepily at me, fluttering over to me, wrapping his small hot body over my shoulders and nuzzling his snout into my neck in another squeak of a less fiery yawn.

“Tiny beast,” Draco shakes his head, his usual scowl adorning his features. “How do you keep him from burning up all your work?”

I shrug, “He actually likes me.” I smile, passing my own notes over Draco so he can finish copying the section he missed earlier this week.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his temple, groaning lightly, "Must be nice with that fire magic and all.” He teases with a crooked grin.

The library feels smaller tonight, shadows pressing closer around our hidden alcove. Druk's warmth seeps through my robes as his tiny claws knead my shoulder, a rumbling purr vibrating against my collarbone. I watch Draco's quill scratch across the page, his brow furrowed in concentration, silver hair falling into his eyes. A soft trill sounds from under the table, then I see the fluffy shadow of Yue hop onto the tabletop next to Draco's arm. She meows softly, her mismatched eyes—one crystal blue, one moonlight white—studying me with that intelligence cats always seem to possess. Draco reaches out to scratch behind her ears. She leans into his touch, purring.

“Katara will have a fit if she catches you with the local riff raff,” I smile as the small cat rolls towards me. She butts her forehead into my palm, her silky black fur absorbing the candlelight. Her purrs grow in volume, those huge eyes closing in satisfaction as I run my hand along her back.

“That’s cheating, you’re extra warm.” Draco jokes, his note’s momentarily forgotten in favor of our visitor.

Druk lifts his head from my neck, noticing Yue. His wings flutter with excitement, sending warm air currents across my face. He launches himself from my shoulders toward the table, landing with a soft thud beside the cat.

"Traitor," I whisper, smiling fondly as the two familiars circle each other playfully.

Yue's black fur seems to absorb the light while Druk's scales catch it, tiny flecks of gold glimmering against deep red. They're opposites in every way, yet inseparable.

Druk pounces on Yue's tail, sending her skittering across the table with a playful mew. She recovers quickly, crouching low before launching herself at my dragon, tackling him in a blur of black fur and red scales. They tumble together, Druk's wings flapping uselessly as Yue pins him down, only for him to wriggle free and nip gently at her ear.

"Five sickles on the cat," Draco whispers, leaning back in his chair.

I snort, unable to hold back my laughter as Druk flips onto his back, all four limbs flailing dramatically while Yue bats at his belly. "No bet. My familiar's a complete pushover around her."

"Yue?" A familiar soft voice calls from around the corner of our alcove. "Where have you gotten to now?"

My spine stiffens.

Katara Raine appears a moment later, Hermione Granger at her side, both carrying stacks of books. Her bright blue eyes land first on her cat, then trace the table to find me. The warmth in her expression cools noticeably.

"There you are," she says, her voice softening as she addresses Yue. "Always wandering off, aren't you, sweet girl? Having fun with Druk?"

I keep my face carefully neutral. Druk scampers back to me, climbing my arm to reclaim his spot on my shoulder. He leans his thin body out towards Katara, chirping for her attention.

She reaches over, patting his scaly head kindly, her copper skin an almost deeper shade against his blood red, “You’re a sweet boy, aren't you?” she says softly to my dragon.

Not to me.

Never to me.

"Malfoy," Hermione nods politely, her soft coily curls bouncing with the movement. "Ember."

"Granger," Draco returns with civility. "Raine."

Katara doesn't look directly at me as she steps forward to collect her familiar. "I hope she wasn't bothering you."

"Not at all. She's... welcome anytime."

Katara nods, her blue eyes not meeting mine, “Thank you, Zuko.”

My name. It's the first time she's said it directly to me in months, maybe years. Usually it's just cold nods and careful avoidance. Terse annunciations of my family name, laced with that angry grief she carries for her mother.

Yue stretches languidly on the table, clearly reluctant to leave her warm spot. She looks between Katara and me with those mismatched eyes, as if weighing her options.

"Come on, Yue," Katara says gently, extending her arms. "We have studying to do."

The cat gives one last purr in my direction before allowing herself to be scooped up. Druk whines softly against my neck, his tiny claws digging into my shoulder as he watches his playmate disappear into Katara's embrace.

"We should get going," Hermione’s warm brown gaze lingers on Draco, "The library closes soon."

I catch the way Draco's jaw tightens slightly. He's fighting the urge to say something—anything—to keep her here longer.

"Right," Katara agrees, already turning away. "Goodnight."

They're halfway around the corner when Hermione glances back. "Oh, Malfoy? Professor Snape was looking for you earlier. Something about detention schedules."

Draco's face pales slightly. "Thanks for the warning."

Hermione gives a small nod, her tan skin looking slightly flushed before she turns back to Katara. I try, and fail, not to watch Katara's long deep brown curls trail behind her as they walk away. Their footsteps fade into the library's depths. I stroke Druk's neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath my fingers.

"She actually talked to you," Draco observes quietly, rolling up his parchment.

"Barely." 

"It's progress."

I want to believe him, but the careful distance in Katara's voice still echoes in my ears. The way she can be so gentle with Druk, so kind to a creature that belongs to me, while treating me like I'm made of poisonous thorns. I can't exactly blame her though. It is my family's fault that her family is dead. Her hatred and anger have morphed into distrust and disdain for me. Because I am what represents everything that was taken from her, watching her mother die in front of her, losing both her father and brother. Being raised by that mad witch.

Hama works closely with my father, and of course, The Dark Lord. From all the meetings Draco and I have been made to attend, Katara has refused every offer to practice the darker side of magic, preferring to carve out her own path. Always independent, and frustratingly stubborn about it too.

We start packing up our things. Druk huffs impatiently, tiny wisps of smoke curling from his nostrils as he watches me organize my scrolls.

"You think Snape's actually looking for me, or was Granger just being helpful?" Draco mutters, shoving his potions text into his bag.

"Probably both," I reply, distracted by a flash of blue beneath the table where Katara had been standing. I bend down to investigate and find a slim, leather-bound book with worn edges.

"She dropped something," I mutter.

The moment my fingers touch the cover, I feel a strange resonance, like water rippling against fire. The book feels strangely warm in my hands, almost alive. The cover is a deep ocean blue with silver runes etched along the spine—symbols I've never seen in any standard magical text. There's no title on the front, just an embossed wave pattern that shimmers in the candlelight.

"What is it?" Draco leans over my shoulder.

I carefully open the cover, "Ancient Water Magic: Healing Practices of the Southern Tribes," Water magic—not the standard charms and spells taught at Hogwarts, but something older, more primal. Something like what runs in my blood, but its opposite.

"Water magic?" Draco's brow furrows. "Like actual elemental manipulation? That's not taught at Hogwarts."

"No, it's not." I flip through the pages, finding diagrams of human bodies with glowing blue channels running through them, illustrations of water being shaped into healing forms around wounds. "This is... specialized magic.”

"Like your fire?" 

I nod slowly. "My father mentioned that the Raine family used to have water benders among them. Before..." Before my father and his followers killed most of them. Before Katara's mother died protecting her. "I've never seen her do anything like that," I say, flipping carefully through the pages. Illustrations of flowing forms, diagrams of healing techniques, and ancient symbols fill the margins. Some pages have small notes written in neat, tight script that I recognize as Katara's.

Druk chirps curiously, sniffing at the book's edge.

“She and Granger are pretty studious. Maybe she’s just doing research, or doing that thing sad kids do… looking into things to connect to dead parents.” Draco shrugs. His words sting. He has both of his parents, he’d never know the pain…

“Mmm.” Is all I offer.

His eyes widen, “Ah, fuck, Sorry. I didn’t mean—-”

I raise a hand, stopping his apology, “You’re fine. And probably right.” I sigh heavily. After my mother was killed, I threw myself into studying her family's history, wanting to know more of her through them and their magic.

"You should return it to her, Ember." Draco suggests, though his expression tells me he knows exactly how that would go.

I imagine approaching Katara, book in hand. The suspicion that would immediately harden her features, the accusation that I was spying on her, or stealing from her bag. That wall between us, growing even higher.

Druk nuzzles against my neck sensing my discomfort. His warmth is reassuring, constant.

"You're going to read it first, aren't you?" Draco smirks, shouldering his bag.

I don't answer, but my silence is confirmation enough. Part of me knows I should just find her now, hand over the book, and walk away.

But another part of me—the part that remembers the way her eyes softened when she spoke to Druk, the way her fingers moved so gently through Yue's fur—wants to understand. I close the book gently, running my thumb along the worn leather binding. The silver runes seem to pulse under my touch, and for a moment I swear I can feel the echo of water magic thrumming through the pages. It's foreign yet familiar, like hearing a song in a language I don't speak but somehow understand.

"Come on," Draco says, "Before Madam Pince locks us in here for the night."

I slip the book into my bag, feeling its weight settle against my other texts. Druk shifts on my shoulder, his tail curling around my neck as we make our way through the darkened library.

"You know," Draco says as we reach the entrance hall, "she might actually be grateful. People lose books all the time.".

"Maybe," 

We part ways at the dungeons, Draco heading toward Snape's office with reluctance, while I make my way to the Slytherin common room. The corridors are mostly empty this late, save for a few prefects making their rounds and the occasional ghost drifting through the walls.

Back in my private dorm, I light a single candle and pull out the book. The ancient text is written in a flowing script that seems to move in the flickering candlelight, and I find myself drawn into descriptions of water as a healing force, as something that can mend what fire destroys. The pages whisper softly as I turn them, filled with knowledge that feels both ancient and vital. Healing techniques that use water to mend bone and flesh, purification rituals that cleanse poison from the blood, defensive spells that create barriers of ice and mist. It's beautiful and terrible, reading about magic that could have saved lives—that could have saved her mother, if circumstances had been different.

Druk settles on my pillow, his small body radiating warmth as he watches me read. Occasionally he chirps softly, as if commenting on a particularly interesting passage. His presence is comforting, a reminder that not everything I touch has to burn. I find myself lingering over her handwritten notes in the margins. Small observations about technique, questions about applications, connections drawn between different healing methods. Her handwriting is neat but hurried, as if she's trying to capture thoughts before they slip away.

As I read, I think about the careful distance Katara keeps between us, the way she flinches almost imperceptibly when I move too quickly. I think about the scars we both carry—mine visible on my face, my body, hers hidden somewhere deeper.

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Notes:

Any comments / theories / feedback are greatly appreciated <3

Chapter 2: Breakfast with a Dragon

Notes:

I adore writing Draco and Zuko's dynamic

Druk is nowhere to be found when I manage to drag myself from my bed just as the sun peeks through thick emerald curtains.

“Trouble maker,” I mumble to myself. The tiny dragon sometimes wanders the deeper halls of the dungeon, in search of rats to feast on.

Draco is exiting his room the same time as I leave mine. His hair is mussed, eyes rimmed with lack of sleep. “You look like shit, Ember.“

I can’t help the quirk of my lips, “Late night reading.”

“Fucking scholarly prat.”

"Pot, kettle."

We trudge toward the Great Hall, equally silent and exhausted. The weight of Katara's book still sits heavily in my bag, pressing against my side like a guilty secret.

"So, what did Snape want last night?"

Draco's shoulders tense. He glances around, "Not here." he mutters.

We enter the Great Hall, which is only half-full this early. Most students are still dragging themselves from their beds. The enchanted ceiling reflects a gloomy sky, heavy with the promise of rain. We take our usual seats at the Slytherin table, away from the others. I pour myself a large cup of coffee. The bitter aroma helps clear the fog from my mind. Draco does the same, his hands trembling slightly as he lifts the cup to his lips.

"It's about the initiation," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Snape had a message from... him."

The coffee goes sour in my mouth. I set my cup down, trying to keep my face neutral. "And?"

"He has decided on our first task. There's a muggle," Draco stirs his coffee, "Some scientist who's been getting too close to our world. Developing technology that could detect magical signatures or something." His jaw works, clenched hard with tension. "We're supposed to take care of it."

My stomach twists, "What's their name?" I ask though I'm not sure I want to know.

"Snape didn't say, probably best we don't know anyway. Just that we'll get the details when we meet with him later this week." Draco's voice is hollow.

I take another sip of coffee, "Just us? Or are others involved?"

"Just us." Draco's knuckles are white around his mug. "It's our... special honor."

"When?" I ask, forcing myself to eat a piece of toast that tastes like nothing.

"We meet him Friday night, after dinner." Draco finally looks up, meeting my eyes. The fear there is controlled, but unmistakable. "This is it, Zuko. After we—-"

Druk launches past both our heads a hot streak of red and gold trailing through the air. Yue sprints across the tablecloth, sending mugs and silverware spinning in her pursuit. I barely snatch my coffee out of the way before she’s skidding by, eyes locked on the tiny dragon. The commotion draws the attention of several students. Druk, ever the showman, performs a series of dramatic loops before diving between two benches on the Gryffindor side. He emerges with a squirming, squealing rat clamped in his jaws. Yue is right behind, fangs bared, her tail lashing with predatory delight.

The rat’s owner erupts in protest. “OI! Let go of Scabbers!”

Ron Weasley’s voice cracks, his long arms flailing as he reaches to pluck the rat from Druk’s mouth. He catches Druk by the wing, earning a slap of Druk's hot tail to his lanky pale hand. Yue leaps to Druk’s defense, launching herself onto Ron’s forearm and digging in her claws, drawing small drops of blood. Ron shrieks, stumbling back and almost upending the entire Gryffindor breakfast setup. Druk spits the rat onto Ron’s plate with a wet, triumphant chirp.

“Your bloody dragon is mental!” Ron howls, his fierce dark blue eyes landing on me, holding his scratched arm with theatrical exaggeration. “It tried to eat Scabbers!”

Druk lands back on my shoulder, indignant and unfazed. Yue plants herself on my other shoulder, tail curled protectively around Druk’s feet.

Draco’s laughter is so loud it echoes off the enchanted sky. For a split second, the entire Hall is watching us. I catch a glimpse of Katara from across the room, frozen mid-step with her bag strung over one shoulder and her blue eyes shifting from her cat perched on my shoulder, then to me. I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she processes the scene: my familiar, her familiar, a Gryffindor in distress, and the resulting spectacle.

Hermione is the first to recover, snatching Scabbers from the table and scolding Ron for making a scene. Harry, beside them, just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath about “typical Slytherins.”

The tension fades, students already returning to their breakfasts and gossip. Draco wipes a tear from his eye, still snorting with laughter. Yue and Druk bask in their victory, sitting side by side on my broad shoulders as if nothing at all has happened. I reach up to scratch Druk’s chin, and he bumps his head against my knuckles in smug satisfaction.

I see Katara moving toward our table. She comes to a stop on the opposite side, folding her arms. Her gaze settles on me, then Druk, then on Yue. The silence is loaded, like the breath before a spell is cast.

"So this is where you've been all morning," Katara says to Yue, her tone like that of a mother talking firmly to her child, "Making trouble with dragons and terrorizing Gryffindors?"

I hold perfectly still as Yue stretches luxuriously across my shoulders, in no apparent hurry to obey her Witch. The cat's mismatched eyes regard Katara with what I swear is amusement. Druk, the little traitor, chirps happily at the sound of Katara's voice.

"To be fair, they were hunting rats.” I defend, “Perfectly natural behavior." 

Druk takes this moment to launch himself from my shoulder, flying in a small circle around Katara's head before landing in her arms, nuzzling against her robes, looking up with those wide red eyes that could melt even Snape's cold heart.

"Traitor," I mutter under my breath.

The corner of Katara's mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. "At least one of you knows how to behave properly," she says to him, her eyes flicking pointedly to Yue.

Draco snorts into his pumpkin juice. "If by 'properly' you mean stealing food and terrorizing rodents, then sure."

Yue stretches languidly on my shoulder again before leaping gracefully onto the table, padding over to Katara. The cat rubs against her owner's wrist, purring loudly.

Druk flies from Kataras arms, coming back to wrap himself around my shoulders.

"Come on, you little monster." Katara says fondly, scooping Yue into her arms.

Draco kicks my leg under the table.

The book.

My stomach drops as I remember what's still hidden in my bag. I should return it now, hand it over casually, explain that she dropped it last night. It would be so simple.

"Katara," I start, not entirely sure what I'm going to say.

She pauses, her blue eyes meeting mine with that familiar guarded expression. "Yes?"

The words stick in my throat. Draco kicks me again, and I can feel his questioning gaze. "Nothing," I finally say. "Just... Your familiar seems to have developed a taste for hunting with mine.”

Druk chirps in agreement, nuzzling against my neck.

Katara's gaze flicks to Druk, then back to me. "Apparently." A pause, then, "I hope she's not being a nuisance."

"Not at all. They make a good team."

Something that’s almost a smile quirks one side of her mouth, "Well, they're certainly good at causing trouble together."

Then she's gone.

"Smooth," Draco mutters beside me,"Very smooth."

I ignore him, watching as Katara joins Hermione at the Gryffindor table. She leans in close to whisper something, and both girls turn to glance in our direction before looking away again. Yue sways over to Ron, her tiny paw deliberately knocking his pumpkin juice over with what I swear is a smug expression.

Druk chirps sadly, his tiny body leaning in the direction of Yue, clearly wanting to start more shenanigans with his fluffy companion.

“Oh stop it you little drama-dragon,” I tease, scratching his chin, “I’m sure you two will be back at it before lunch.”

I spot Harry Potter and Ron Weasley making their way across the Great Hall toward us. Ron's face is flushed almost as red as his hair, and Harry's expression is somewhere between exasperated and determined. I notice Scabbers' tiny head poking out from Ron's front shirt pocket, whiskers twitching nervously.

"Ember," Harry's voice carries that authoritative tone he always uses when he thinks he's being reasonable. "We need to talk about your dragon."

Druk perks up at the mention of himself, his scales rippling with interest as he eyes Scabbers. I feel his muscles tense against my neck, preparing to launch.

"Down," I murmur to him, placing a firm hand on his back. "No more rat hunting today."

Ron clutches his shirt pocket protectively, taking a half-step back. "Your bloody fire-lizard nearly killed Scabbers! Look at him—he's traumatized!" The rat squeaks pitifully, as if on cue, burrowing deeper into Ron's pocket.

"Druk was just playing," I know it's not entirely true. Dragons, even small ones like mine, are predators by nature. "He wouldn't have actually eaten your rat."

"Playing?" Ron splutters, his voice cracking. "He had Scabbers in his mouth!"

Draco snickers beside me. "Maybe your rat should learn to run faster, Weasley."

Harry ignores Draco completely, focusing on me instead. "Look, Ember, you need to keep better control of your dragon."

I stroke his scales gently, feeling the heat pulsing beneath my fingertips.

"Fine," I say, standing slowly. Druk chirps indignantly as I rise to my full height, a good measure taller than Potter. "I'll keep him in check."

Ron takes another step back, his hand still protectively covering his pocket. Scabbers seems unusually agitated, squirming more frantically now that he's closer to Druk. The rat's tiny claws scratch against Ron's shirt.

"Keep that thing away from Scabbers," Ron mutters. "He's been through enough already with Granger's monster cat Crookshanks, and that shadow of fluff Yue."

Something about the rat's behavior strikes me as odd. Druk is certainly predatory, but he's never shown such intense interest in other students' pets before. He's fixated on Weasley's pocket now, his red eyes narrowed to slits, a low hiss building in his throat.

“Down.” I say with more force. Druk settles, a low growl rumbling through his warm body. I glance toward the Gryffindor table where Hermione sits with Katara, both of them watching. Yue’s large eyes focused on me from where she sits perched in Katara's lap.

Harry nods curtly, apparently satisfied with my response, though his eyes linger on Druk with obvious wariness. "Good. Just... try to keep him occupied with something that isn't other students' pets."

“Familiars aren’t pets.” I correct. Druk chirping in agreement.

“Right.“

Ron shoots one last suspicious glare at Druk, who has the audacity to chirp cheerfully in response.

"Charming as always, Potter," Draco drawls once they're out of earshot. "Nothing like a good morning lecture to start the day."

I settle back into my seat, my attention keeps drifting to where Katara and Hermione are deep in conversation. Hermione's coily hair bounces as she gestures animatedly, while Katara nods along.

The weight of Katara's book in my bag sits heavily. I need to return it, but every interaction we have seems to build another brick in the wall between us. The way she'd almost smiled when talking to Druk gives me hope, but it's fragile as spun glass.

"You're staring," Draco observes, "Again."

"I'm not staring."

"Right. And I'm a bottle blonde." He takes a sip of his coffee, "You know, if you actually talked to her instead of just brooding dramatically in her direction, you might get somewhere."

"It's complicated."

"Everything's complicated" Draco's voice drops lower. "Especially now, with… Friday."

In just a few days, we'll be crossing a line we can never uncross. After that, any chance of bridging the gap between Katara and myself will be gone forever. 

How can I even think about approaching her when I'm about to become exactly what she fears most?

"You're overthinking it. Just give her the bloody book."

"It's not that simple."

"It is, actually. You walk over there, hand it to her, say 'you dropped this,' and walk away. Even you can't mess that up."

But he's wrong. I can mess it up, and I probably will. The moment she sees me approaching with her book, she'll assume the worst. That I've been reading her private notes.

Which happens to be true, which makes it even worse.

Druk nuzzles against my jaw, his warmth a small comfort against the churning anxiety in my chest. Across the hall, Katara stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Yue leaps gracefully from the table onto her arms, settling against her chest.

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Notes:

Druk and Yue are so fun to play with, especially when they're hunting rats, hee hee

Chapter 3: Draught of Peace

The corridor leading to the potions classroom is crowded with students, their voices echoing off the stone walls. I spot Katara ahead of us, walking with Hermione and a few other Gryffindors. Yue trots beside them, her tail held high with feline dignity.

"Now's your chance," Draco murmurs, nudging me forward.

But before I can make a decision, Professor Snape appears in the doorway. “Enter.”

The air is thick with the scent of herbs, potion ingredients, old stone walls and mildew. I follow Draco to our usual table near the back, Druk still perched on my shoulder.

"Before we begin," Snape drawls, his voice cutting through the murmurs, "there will be a change in our usual arrangement for the remainder of this term."

The class falls silent.

"The Headmaster," he continues, "believes that inter-house cooperation should be encouraged, particularly in these... uncertain times." His dark eyes sweep across the room, lingering momentarily on Draco and me. "Therefore, you will be assigned partners for the remainder of the year. These partnerships are non-negotiable."

A collective groan ripples through the classroom.

"When I call your names, move to sit with your assigned partner." Snape unfurls a scroll, his expression suggesting he finds this exercise as distasteful as we do.

"Malfoy and Granger."

Draco freezes beside me. I glance at him, catching the flash of panic in his eyes before he masks it. Across the room, Hermione's curly head snaps up, her expression a mix of disbelief and resignation.

"Go on, then," Snape says impatiently. "We haven't got all day."

Draco gathers his things, his movements stiff. "Perfect," he mutters under his breath. "Just bloody perfect."

I watch as he crosses the room to Hermione's table. She shifts to make space for him, her back ramrod straight. Her cat, Crookshanks, curls up at her feet, watching with that squashed face and those yellow eyes as Draco takes his seat.

The large orange cat is nearly twice the size as Yue. His more reserved and prim demeanor keeps him from getting into the same shenegains, most of the time. The two cats get along along from what I've seen, and Crookshanks seems to enjoy the odd game of chase with Druk, though he tends to keep it short, opting to laze about and bask in windowsils under the warm afternoon sun. He steps over, nudging Draco's ankle, turning in a slow circle to flick his tail over the dragonshide boots before returning to his spot at Hermiones feet.

Snape continues down his list, pairing Slytherins with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Each announcement is met with varying degrees of displeasure.

"Ember and Raine."

Of fucking course.

Of all the students in this class, Snape would pair me with the one person who can barely stand to look at me. I glance at Katara, she’s already staring at me, her blue eyes wide with surprise that quickly hardens into something more guarded. Yue, curled on her desk, perks up at the announcement, her mismatched eyes finding Druk.

"Today, Mr. Ember," Snape says pointedly, and I realize I haven't moved.

Druk chirps excitedly, his wings fluttering against my neck. He's practically vibrating with eagerness to be near Yue again. I gather my things, feeling the weight of every stare as I make my way to Katara's table. Druk launches himself from my shoulder and flies directly to where Yue sits. The cat looks up, trilling in response. I slide into the seat beside Katara, hyper-aware of the inches between us. She shifts subtly away, creating more distance.

"Hi," I manage, my voice a rough rasp.

"Hello," she replies, not looking at me as she arranges her potions texts and notebook.

Druk has no such reservations. He's already circling Yue on the tabletop, his scales gleaming with excitement as he chirps and flutters his wings. Yue watches him with regal amusement before batting at him playfully with one paw.

Within seconds, they're engaged in an elaborate game of chase, weaving between our cauldrons and ingredient jars.

"They seem happy about the arrangement." I observe, trying to break the ice.

Katara's eyes follow the familiar's, a small smile on her lips, but she says nothing.

I busy myself with unpacking my own potions kit, pretending her silence doesn't bother me.

Druk nudges Yue with his snout, encouraging her to follow him. The cat stretches before hopping down from the desk, following my little dragon as he leads her in playful circles around our feet. Crrokshanks watches from where he's moved closer, his yellow eyes watching Druks path. He chitters at Yue who mews back.

"Today," Snape announces, "you will be brewing a Draught of Peace. The instructions are on the board.” With a flick of his wand, writing appears on the blackboard. "You have until the end of class."

Katara stands first. "I'll get the ingredients," she says, clearly eager for any excuse to put distance between us.

"I can help—" I begin, but she's already walking away, her back straight, shoulders tense.

"Quite the partnership," Draco drawls as he passes by on his way to the supply cabinet. "Having fun yet?"

“A blast,” I shoot him a glare, “How’s it with Granger?”

“Intolerable,” he smirks wryly and continues on.

Katara returns with an armful of ingredients—hellbore, porcupine quills, Moonstone, and more. She sets them down carefully, organizing them in the order we'll need them.

Without looking at me, she begins dividing the preparation tasks.

"I'll crush the moonstone and prepare the hellebore. You can handle the porcupine quills and powdered unicorn horn." Her instructions are clipped, professional.

"Alright." I reach for the ingredients, my sleeve brushing against her arm. She flinches, and something painful twists inside my chest.

Below us, Druk has convinced Yue to chase him beneath the neighboring tables. They weave between students' legs, Druk occasionally letting out small puffs of smoke that make Yue pounce more enthusiastically. Crookshanks has made his way to a small shelf, watching lazily, occasionally stretching out a paw whenever Druk passes by, chased by Yue. Several students yelp in surprise as the pair darts past them.

"Your dragon is going to get us in trouble," Katara whispers, finally looking at me directly.

"He's just playing." I defend, though I know she's right.

Her expression softens slightly as she watches the familiars. "Yue's been restless lately. She keeps sneaking out to find him. Crookshanks plays with her on occasion, but he's a very sleepy cat, and she's well… not. Druk seems more her speed in terms of energy and playing."

It's the most she's said to me in years without that edge of cold formality. I seize the moment, desperate to keep this fragile thread of conversation alive.

"They're good for each other," I say, carefully measuring powdered unicorn horn. "Druk needs the exercise, and Yue..." I hesitate, not wanting to overstep.

"Needs a friend," Katara finishes. Her blue eyes meet mine briefly before returning to her work. "She's always been independent, but lately she seems... lonely."

Lonely.

I know the feeling intimately. The way it sits on your chest like a stone, constant and cold, driving air and warmth from your lungs. Suffocating in its isolation.

"Maybe they can spend more time together," I suggest softly, "When they're not terrorizing Gryffindors and rats."

The corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smile. "That might be nice for them."

I watch her work, noting the focused expression that smooths the usual tension from her features. When she's concentrating like this, the walls come down just enough for me to catch glimpses of who she might be without all the anger and grief.

A small crash sounds from under the table next to ours, followed by a distinctly feline yowl of indignation. Katara sighs, setting down her mortar.

"Yue," she calls softly, crouching down to peer under the table. "What are you two doing down there?"

I lean over to look as well, and our shoulders brush. This time, she doesn't pull away. Durk's head pokes out from beneath the neighboring table, a guilty expression on his scaled face. Yue emerges a moment later, her black fur dusted with what looks like powdered beetle eyes.

"Oh, for Spirits sake," Katara mutters, fondness in her voice as she gently brushes the powder from the cat's fur. Yue purrs softly looking up at Katara with the most innocent expression, despite the mess just behind her.

I can’t help my chuckle, drawing the furry creature's attention. She prances over, hopping up onto the table to curl in front of me, rolling and showing her belly with soft purrs and head butts to my chest. Druk catches on, wrapping himself around Katara's shoulders, nuzzling into her jaw and trilling in that sweet way he uses when he knows he’s made too much trouble.

"You two are menaces," Something warm unfurls in my chest as I watch Katara stroke Druk's scales, her fingers gentle against his warm body.

"They're certainly quite the pair," she agrees, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. It's not quite a smile, but it's the closest thing to one I've seen directed at me.

The moment stretches between us, fragile and unexpected. I want to preserve it, to build on it, but I'm acutely aware of how easily it could shatter. Katara's eyes meet mine briefly before she straightens, clearing her throat.

"We should get back to work," she says, her voice regaining its usual formality. "The moonstone needs to be ground to a fine powder."

I nod, turning my attention back to our potion. Yue has made herself comfortable on my lap, as I continue preparing ingredients. Druk stays draped across Katara's shoulders, occasionally chirping softly as she works.

"Add the powdered moonstone," Katara instructs, stirring the cauldron in a careful counterclockwise motion. "Three pinches, evenly spaced."

I follow her directions, noting how she watches me. The potion simmers, turning a delicate shade of blue that reminds me of her eyes.

"Now the hellebore," she says, handing me the vial.

Our fingers brush as I take it from her.

Snape prowls between the tables, his critical gaze sweeping over each cauldron. He pauses at our station, observing the color and consistency of our brew.

"Acceptable," he says curtly before moving on to criticize the Gryffindor pair behind us.

I glance at Katara, finding her already looking at me with mild surprise.

"We make a good team," I venture quietly.

She turns back to the potion, adding the unicorn horn "The potion does seem to be coming along well."

It's not agreement, exactly, but it's not rejection either.

I'll take it.

Across the room, Draco and Hermione appear to be engaged in a tense whispered argument. Hermione's cheeks are flushed with frustration, while Draco's posture is rigid with indignation. Crookshanks watches them with half-lidded yellow eyes, yawning wide from where he hasn't moved on the low shelf.

Draco stands abruptly, striding across the room over to the shelves of potions ingredient.

“Look’s like we need a few more quills,” I murmur, gently placing Yue in my seat before walking over to check on Draco. He’s hunched over, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the wooden cabinet.

"What was that about?" I ask quietly, positioning myself between him and the rest of the class.

"She's insufferable," he hisses, not looking up. "Thinks she knows everything about brewing potions. Correcting my technique, my measurements—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

I lean closer, keeping my voice low. "Is that really what's bothering you?"

Draco's eyes flash dangerously. "What are you implying, Ember?"

"Nothing," I say, carefully selecting a few extra porcupine quills. "Just that you’re always so affected by her… opinions."

"Don't be ridiculous." His voice drops to a whisper, "She's brilliant, and it's infuriating. Do you know what she said? That my moonstone powder wasn't fine enough, and she was fucking right. She's always right."

I recognize the conflict in his eyes—I've seen it in my own reflection enough times. The grudging admiration, the frustration, the impossible pull toward someone who represents everything you're supposed to reject.

"It's not just that she's smart," he continues, almost to himself. "She's... good. Genuinely good. And I'm..." He trails off.

"I know," I murmur, understanding completely. How can we even think about connections with people like Hermione and Katara when our hands are about to be stained with blood? When we're about to cross a line that will make us exactly what they hate most?

"It doesn't matter anyway," Draco says, straightening his shoulders and adopting that familiar Malfoy mask of indifference. "Granger would sooner kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than look twice at me. Fucking scholarly bookworm of a witch."

I think of Katara the way she'd let Druk curl around her shoulders. The tiny moments of connection that feel like victories.

Unearned.

Undeserved.

Unwelcome in that warm place in my chest… Victories.

"Maybe," I say, "but that doesn't stop you from noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating, does it?"

Draco's cheeks flush slightly. "Shut up, Ember." But there's no real heat in his words. After a moment, he adds, "I saw you with Raine. Looked almost civil."

"Progress," I admit with a wry smile. "At this rate, she might actually use my first name consistently by graduation."

We share a bitter laugh, both understanding the impossibility of what we're not quite admitting. People like us, with our family names and the darkness that follows them, have no business dragging bright, brilliant girls into our shadows. After Friday, the rift will only widen. Our hands will be stained with a kind of blood that can never be washed away. I think of Katara, of the almost-smile. Of how quickly it would vanish if she knew what I was about to become.

"It wouldn't work anyway," Draco mutters, as if reading my thoughts. "Girls like Granger—like Raine—they're too..." He gestures vaguely, searching for the word.

"Good," I finish for him.

He nods once, sharply. "Too good. Too pure. Too bloody innocent for their own good."

We stand in silence a moment longer, both of us picking up our feigned ingredients, exchanging no more words as we go back to both the bane and salvation of both our existences.

“Everything okay?” Katara asks, not looking up from her notes as she writes down measurements.

I clear my throat, “Fine.” I pass her the extra quills.

“Is Malfoy okay?”

I pause in my own measuring, “Not that it’s any of your business, Raine. Yes, Malfoy is fine. Why?” I keep my voice hard and distant. For both our benefit.

She lets out an annoyed sigh, “Hermione worries about him,” she admits, “Since classes started back up last month, she’s noticed how.. he doesn’t seem to get enough sleep… kind of like you.”

“Stir that before it boils over,” Snape notes, striding by our table.

I notice Yue pat his elbow with her tiny paw as he passes, earning her a quirk of the Professor's eyebrows before he turns and continues his assessments.

I stir the cauldron, letting her words sink in.

Hermione is worried about Draco? And Katara has noticed my lack of sleep?

I keep my eyes fixed on the swirling blue liquid, refusing to meet her gaze. Something about her concern—even if it's secondhand through Hermione—feels like a knife twisting in my gut. The implication that they've been watching us, discussing us, settles uncomfortably in my chest. She shouldn't care. It would be easier if she didn't. Whatever fragile connection we'd built crumbles as I retreat behind my walls.

It's better this way. Better she keeps her distance. After what I am to become, her concern would turn to disgust anyway.

"The potion needs to simmer for exactly seven minutes now," Katara says after my prolonged silence. Her voice has regained its cold detachment.

I nod but say nothing. Druk, sensing my shift in mood, abandons Katara's shoulders and returns to mine, curling his warm body against my neck. The rest of the class passes in tense silence. I hand her ingredients when needed, follow her instructions, but offer nothing beyond that. Occasionally, I catch her glancing at me with an expression I can't quite read. But I keep my walls firmly in place.

It's better this way. I remind myself. Safer. For her.

When Snape calls time, our Draught of Peace has achieved the perfect silver vapor the textbook describes. He moves between the tables, examining each cauldron with his usual disdain. Snape gives a silent, but approving nod he reaches ours. Making no snide comments or insults, he simply continues his stride through the desks.

Across the room, Draco and Hermione receive a similar assessment, though neither looks particularly pleased about it. Hermione's cheeks are flushed, and Draco's jaw is so tense it looks like it’s going to shatter.

As we clean our workspace, Katara gathers Yue into her arms. The cat gives Druk one last affectionate headbutt before allowing herself to be collected.

"Thank you for your help with the potion." Katara says formally, her blue eyes meeting mine briefly.

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. I watch her leave with Hermione, the two of them already deep in conversation. Draco appears at my side, his expression thunderous. "Ready for Herbology?"

"Can't wait." I mutter, shouldering my bag.

The rest of the morning blurs together. In Herbology, we repot Mandrakes, their ear-splitting screams muffled by our earmuffs. The physical labor helps distract me from the weight of Katara's book in my bag and the memory of her almost-smile.

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Notes:

Next upload will be 3 chapters on October 13th

Chapter 4: Crinus Muto

Notes:

Happy Monday! Thanks for all the love and support on the first 3 chapters! It means so much!

I've had a lot of fun working these two pairings together with the characters and their abilities.

McGonagall's classroom is already half-full when Draco and I arrive.

Potter and Weasley occupy their usual spots in the middle of the room at the center desk, heads bent together in whispered conversation. They fall silent as we enter, their eyes following us with poorly disguised suspicion.

Draco slides into a seat near the window. I take the spot beside him. Potter's gaze lingers on me a moment too long, his green eyes narrowed behind those ridiculous glasses.

Professor McGonagall sweeps into the room, her emerald robes billowing behind her. "Today we will be practicing human transfiguration," she announces, her Scottish accent more pronounced when she's excited about a lesson. "Specifically, altering hair color."

A ripple of interest passes through the class. Human transfiguration is notoriously difficult, and we've only covered the theory until now.

"You will work in pairs," McGonagall continues, "taking turns to transform each other's hair. The incantation is Crinus Muto, and requires precise wand movement." She demonstrates, her wand making a complex swirl that reminds me of how Katara stirs her potions.

I push the thought away. Thinking about Katara now will only distract me, and human transfiguration is dangerous enough without my mind wandering.

"Mr. Ember," McGonagall calls, "You earned the highest marks for Slytherin in last year's exams. Perhaps you would demonstrate for the class?"

I stiffen, feeling every eye turn toward me. "Yes, Professor."

"Excellent. You'll be working with Mr. Potter today."

Draco makes a choking sound beside me.

I stand slowly.

Potter looks equally displeased as he moves to the front of the classroom, his jaw set in that stubborn line that makes me want to hex him on principle.

"Remember," McGonagall says, "concentration is key. Focus on the color you wish to achieve."

Druk stirs around my shoulders, his small glittering head popping up to assess Potter.

“Mr. Ember, for your familiar's safety, perhaps the dragon could wait at your desk?”

I look down at the small dragon, “You heard her.“

With a chuff and one last glare towards Potter, he flutters back over to where Draco watches with barely suppressed amusement. He curls next to Draco's arm, watching me closely.

Potter and I face each other at the front of the classroom, wands drawn but held loosely at our sides. His green eyes narrow slightly, that familiar mix of suspicion and dislike hardening his features.

"Mr. Potter will attempt the spell first," McGonagall instructs, stepping back to give us space.

Potter raises his wand, his knuckles white against the polished wood. I force myself to stand perfectly still, fighting the instinct to raise my own wand defensively. His eyes flick to Draco, then back to me.

"Crinus Muto," he says, making a clumsy attempt at the wand movement McGonagall demonstrated.

I feel a slight tingling sensation across my scalp, but nothing more. A few snickers ripple through the Slytherin side of the classroom.

"You need to focus more clearly on your intended result, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says. "Try again."

Potter's jaw tightens. "Crinus Muto," he repeats, with marginally better form.

This time, I feel a more pronounced sensation, like fingers running through my hair. McGonagall conjures a mirror, my black hair remains unchanged except for a single streak of red near my temple.

"A partial transformation," McGonagall notes. "Your concentration wavered. Once more, Mr. Potter."

Potter's frustration is evident in the tense line of his shoulders. He tries again, and again, achieving only partial transformations—a streak of gold here, another in purple there. By the fifth attempt, looking in the Professors small mirror I see my hair is streaked in several odd colors.

"Perhaps Mr. Ember would like to demonstrate now," McGonagall suggests, her tone making it clear this isn't a request.

I raise my wand, meeting Potter's frustrated gaze. I think of Katara's deep brown curls, how they catch the light in the Great Hall, the way they frame her face when she bends over her books.

"Crinus Muto." 

The transformation is immediate. Potter's hair lengthens slightly, smoothing out and lightening to a pale, almost white blonde. The classroom erupts in laughter and gasps.

Draco's cackle is loudest of all.

"Excellent work, Mr. Ember," McGonagall says, "Perfect transformation on your first attempt."

Potter scowls at me, then at the mirror McGonagall holds up. His reflection shows his familiar face crowned with hair so similar to Draco's that he looks like he could be a Malfoy cousin. His scowl deepens.

"How do I change it back?" he demands in an angry huff.

"The spell will wear off naturally in a few hours," McGonagall explains. "Or you can perform the counter-charm, which we will practice in the next class. Mr. Potter, please attempt the transformation again on Mr. Ember."

Potter's jaw clenches as he raises his wand once more. I can see the frustration in his eyes, the way my easy success has rattled him. His pride is wounded, and Potter has never handled wounded pride well.

"Crinus Muto!" Potter snarls, his wand movement sharp and jerky with frustration.

White-hot pain lances through my scalp, spreading down my neck and across my shoulders. I gasp, dropping to one knee as my hands fly to my head. It feels like my hair is being ripped out by the roots, each follicle burning as if dipped in acid.

Druk shrieks from across the room, a high-pitched sound of distress that cuts through the silence of the classroom. I can't see him through the tears that spring to my eyes, but I hear the frantic beating of his wings as he launches himself toward me.

"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall's voice is sharp with alarm. "That was entirely too much force!"

I struggle to my feet. The pain is receding now, fading to a dull throb, but my ears are ringing and my vision swims.

I blink hard, trying to clear it.

"I didn't mean to—" Potter’s eyes are wide.

"Five points from Gryffindor for careless spellwork," McGonagall cuts him off. She turns to me, her stern face softening with concern. "Mr. Ember, are you alright?"

Druk lands on my shoulder, his small body trembling with agitation. He hisses at Potter, smoke curling from his nostrils in angry wisps.

"I'm fine," I straighten my spine, refusing to show weakness in front of Potter and the rest of the class. "Just caught me by surprise."

McGonagall conjures her mirror again, holding it up for me to see. My reflection stares back, but instead of the colorful streaks from before, my hair has turned a vibrant, unnatural red. Not Weasley ginger, but a deep crimson blood red. The color seems to pulse with my heartbeat.

"An... interesting result, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says dryly. "Though achieved with far too much force. The spell should not cause pain." She waves her wand, and my hair returns to its natural black. "That will be enough demonstrating for you two. Everyone pair up and practice the correct technique, focus on wand movement, practice the wrist flick before casting."

I return to my seat beside Draco, ignoring the curious stares that follow me. My scalp still tingles unpleasantly, the ghost of pain lingering in my nerve endings.

"You alright?" Draco asks under his breath as I sit down. "You took a knee for a second there."

“Fine.” I shrug it off, "Potter put too much force behind it." I mutter, stroking Druk's scales to calm him.

I catch Potter watching me for the remainder of class, his gaze narrowed in suspicion. Weasley leans in periodically, whispering something that makes Potter's frown deepen.

Draco and I practice the spell on each other, our transformations nearly perfect every time. By the end of class, Draco's hair has a few streaks of midnight black running through his platinum blonde, while mine has golden streaks that match Druks scales.

"Nice look," Draco smirks as we gather our things. "Very... rebellious."

"Shut up," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. My scalp still tingles faintly where Potter's spell hit hardest.

As we file out of the classroom, I feel Potter's eyes boring into my back. I resist the urge to turn around, to confront him about whatever theories he's concocting with Weasley.

It's not worth it.

Not with Friday looming over me like a storm cloud.

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History of Magic provides a welcome respite from the morning's tension. Professor Binns floats through the blackboard as usual, his ghostly form barely substantial in the morning light.

I settle into my seat near the window next to Draco, letting Druk curl up on the desk in front of me. The tiny dragon yawns widely, sending a small puff of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling before settling into a comfortable position, his wings folded neatly against his sides.

Binns drones on with his lesson. His voice fades into background noise as I turn my attention to the window.

The sky stretches endlessly beyond the glass, a perfect, clear blue unmarred by clouds. The same blue as Katara's eyes when she's focused on a potion, when she forgets to guard her expression around me.

I catch myself making the comparison and inwardly curse. This is exactly what I shouldn't be doing—finding her in everyday things, letting her occupy my thoughts when there's no future there.

Not for us. Not with what I'm about to become.

Beside me, Draco is actually taking notes, his quill scratching quietly against parchment. I know he's just as haunted by what's coming, but he hides it well. I try to force my attention back to Binns, but within minutes, my gaze drifts back to the window.

The lake is visible from here, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

Water magic.

Healing practices.

I think of Katara's book, still hidden in my bag. I should return it.

I will.

Eventually.

The sky stretches above the castle grounds, a clear, vibrant blue that reminds me painfully of—

No.

I won't think about her eyes. I won't compare the endless expanse of sky to the way her gaze shifts like water—sometimes deep and fathomless, sometimes bright and clear.

I can’t afford thoughts like these. Not about her.

But the sky doesn't care about my resolve. It remains stubbornly, achingly blue.

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Notes:

I am nothing if not a walking trope. Harry and Ron of course are going to be an🌟issue🌟

Chapter 5: Petty Revenge

The Great Hall buzzes with conversation, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a perfect early autumn sky. We make our way to the Slytherin table, and I'm trying—really trying—not to scan the room for a certain pair of blue eyes.

I fail miserably.

She's at the Ravenclaw table, bent over a massive tome that takes up half her place setting. Her lunch sits mostly untouched beside her—a half-eaten apple, a sandwich with just one bite missing.

Her dark curls cascade over her shoulder like a waterfall, a few spiraling tendrils framing her face. There's that familiar crease between her eyebrows, the one that appears whenever she's deeply focused on something.

It shouldn't be endearing. It shouldn't make my chest feel tight.

But it does.

"Earth to Ember," Draco's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're staring."

I tear my gaze away, focusing intently on serving myself shepherd's pie. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Right." He smirks, helping himself to roast chicken. “Sure mate.”

Druk launches from my shoulder, flying in a quick circle around our heads before landing on the table. He sniffs at the food, chirping hopefully.

"Here," I say, offering him a small piece of meat. "But behave yourself. No more rat hunting today."

He gulps it down eagerly, then turns his head toward the Ravenclaw table, letting out a soft, longing trill.

"Even your dragon's got it bad for his friend," Draco passes a piece of his crust to Druk.

I ignore him, focusing on my food. But my eyes betray me again, I see what Druk sees. Yue lying just beside Katara's book, stretched out comfortably as Katara absently strokes her soft fur. Her small dark tan hands are graceful and soft against the midnight fur.

I notice the slight tilt of her head as she reads, the way her teeth catch her lower lip when she encounters something particularly interesting. The sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling catches in her hair, illuminating hidden strands of warm amber among the deep brown. She tucks an errant curl behind her ear, I track the movement, memorizing the curve of her jawline, the elegant arch of her neck.

"For Merlin's sake," I mutter to myself, tearing my gaze away and stabbing viciously at my shepherd's pie.

What am I doing?

I'm Zuko Ember, son of Ozai Ember, heir to a legacy of darkness that stretches back generations. People like me don't get to admire the way light plays across a girl's face.

"You're pathetic," I tell myself, forcing a forkful of food into my mouth. "Absolutely pathetic."

Druk chirps questioningly, his head tilted as he studies my face.

"Not you," I assure him quietly. "Me. I'm the pathetic one."

She deserves better than this—better than me watching her from across a crowded hall, thinking about the curve of her smile while my future is already mapped out in blood and darkness.

I need to stay far, far away from Katara Raine.

I force myself to focus on my plate, on Draco's idle chatter, on anything but her. But my traitorous mind keeps circling back, like water always finding its way to the sea.

"What is wrong with you?" Draco asks, frowning.

"Nothing." But it's not nothing. It's everything.

It's the way Katara tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The way her blue eyes flash when she's passionate about something. The way her voice softens when she speaks to Yue. And it's all completely, utterly pointless.

"You're a fucking idiot," I whisper to myself.

I'm damaged goods. Scarred inside and out. The mark on my face is just the beginning—a visible reminder of the ugliness that runs deeper. And after Friday, there will be no turning back.

No redemption. No chance at being anything other than what my father has always wanted me to be. What he's made me.

She deserves better. Someone whole. Someone untainted. Someone who doesn't carry death in their family name.

Movement at the Ravenclaw table draws my attention again. Hermione approaches Katara, her arms laden with books, her curly hair bouncing as she slides onto the bench beside her. They immediately lean toward each other, Hermione gesturing animatedly as Katara nods, pointing to something in the massive tome before her.

"Looks like the bookworms are having a meeting of minds," Draco drawls, following my gaze. “They’re both so… tiny.”

I grunt noncommittally, though my grip tightens on my fork when I spot Potter and Weasley. Potter's hair has mostly returned to its natural messy state, though I can still see hints of blonde at the tips. His stride is purposeful, confident, as he approaches Katara.

"Great," I mutter, watching as Potter slides into the seat across from her, his smile wide and eager.

Weasley follows, dropping down beside him with considerably less grace, his eyes lingering on Hermione for way too long.

Potter leans forward, his eyes never leaving Katara's face. I recognize that look—I've seen it too many times before.

Possessive.

Hungry.

Like she's something to be claimed rather than someone to be known. My blood simmers beneath my skin, hot enough that Druk stirs on my shoulder, chirping questioningly. I stroke his scales, trying to cool the flare of anger that threatens to ignite.

"Potter's not exactly subtle, is he?" Draco observes, his tone casual, his eyes sharp on the Ravenclaw table.

"No," I manage through clenched teeth. "He's not."

I watch as Potter says something, clearly trying to draw Katara's attention away from her book.

She barely glances up, offering a polite but dismissive smile before turning back to Hermione.

They bend their heads together over the tome, Katara's finger tracing something on the page as she explains, her face animated with enthusiasm that Potter will never understand.

He tries again, leaning further across the table, his hand inching toward hers.

Katara shifts, subtly pulling her hand back to turn a page.

I should feel satisfied. Vindicated even. But all I feel is a hollow ache as I watch Katara's face light up at something Hermione says, her laughter ringing clear across the hall.

Potter's eyes track the movement of her lips, the curve of her neck, the way her hair falls across her shoulder when she leans forward.

"She's not interested," I mutter.

"Obviously," Draco replies, following my gaze. "But I don't think Saint Potter has figured that out yet."

Potter tries again, reaching across the table to touch Katara's wrist.

She glances up briefly, offers a polite smile, and returns her attention to Hermione and the book.

His hand lingers a moment too long before he withdraws it, his expression a mixture of frustration and determination.

"Looks like you've got competition," Draco says, his smirk growing wider as he watches Potter's persistent attempts. "The Chosen One seems quite determined to win your water Witch's attention."

The words hit like a knife between my ribs.

Competition.

As if there's something to compete for. As if I have any right to feel this burning in my chest when Potter leans closer to her.

"There's no competition," I snap, "And she's not my anything."

I know he’s only joking, trying to lighten the tension clearly pouring from me.

Draco raises an eyebrow, nudging me with his elbow. "Could have fooled me, with all that brooding and staring."

Something hot and ugly unfurls in my chest. If Draco wants to play this game, I can play it too.

"Speaking of," I say, keeping my voice low and controlled, "Hermione was asking about you today."

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"In Potions. When you stormed off." I lean closer, "She seemed concerned."

Draco's eyes dart to the Ravenclaw table where Hermione sits, her head still bent close to Katara's.

I push harder, hating myself for it but unable to stop. "She's the brightest witch in our year. And she's watching you, Draco.”

His knuckles whiten around his fork. "Shut up."

"Katara mentioned it." I twist the knife deeper, feeling a cruel satisfaction at the way his eyes widen slightly. "Granger's worried about you. Says you look like you haven't been sleeping. Apparently, she's been... noticing things."

The color drains from Draco's face, then rushes back in a flush that climbs up his neck. "She said that? About me?"

"She did. Seems you've made quite an impression."

Draco watches the Ravenclaw table where Hermione sits, her curly hair catching the light as she gestures animatedly about something in the book.

His throat works as he swallows, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. "That's... ridiculous. Why would Granger care if I'm sleeping or not?"

I shrug, already regretting my petty revenge. "Maybe for the same reason you care whether she thinks your moonstone powder is fine enough."

"Fuck off, Ember." he mutters, but his eyes keep drifting back to Hermione.

"Just thought you should know," I say, softer now. "Since you're so interested in my non-existent love life."

We sit in tense silence, both of us staring at our plates. Druk shifts uneasily on my shoulder. I stroke his scales, trying to soothe him—or maybe myself.

"That was low." Draco finally says, his voice barely audible.

"I know." I don't apologize.

We don't do that, Draco and I. We understand each other's darkness too well for empty words.

He heaves a heavy sigh. "What exactly did she say?"

I run a hand through my hair, "Just that she'd noticed you seemed tired. That she was... worried."

"Worried," He repeats. His eyes on Hermione again, something like longing flickering across his face before he shutters it away. "Fucking perfect."

I watch as his jaw tightens, that familiar mask of indifference sliding back into place. But I caught the vulnerability underneath—the same desperate longing I recognize in my own chest whenever I look at Katara.

"This is fucked," he whispers, "We're both fucked."

"Yeah," I agree, because there's nothing else to say.

We are fucked. Completely, utterly fucked.

Across the hall, Potter makes another attempt to capture Katara's attention, gesturing broadly as he tells what's probably some heroic tale from his latest adventure.

She nods politely but her focus remains on her book, on Hermione. Her disinterest is obvious to anyone actually paying attention, but Potter seems determined to interpret her politeness as encouragement.

"He's not going to give up," Draco observes.

"No," I say, watching Potter lean even closer. "He's not."

The rational part of my mind knows this shouldn't matter. I have no claim on Katara, no right to feel this burning jealousy that threatens to ignite flames at my fingertips. But watching Potter pursue her with that entitled confidence makes me want to set something on fire—preferably him.

Druk senses my agitation chirping softly, nuzzling against my neck in that way he does when he's trying to comfort me. His warm scales ground me, pull me back from the edge of doing something spectacularly stupid.

"We should go," I mutter, standing. "Care of Magical Creatures starts soon."

Draco follows without argument, probably as eager as I am to escape this particular torture. As we gather our things, I catch one last glimpse of Katara.

She's still absorbed in her reading, completely oblivious to Potter's increasingly desperate attempts to impress her.

Good, I think savagely. Let him fail.

But even as we leave the Great Hall, I can't shake the image of her bent over that book. So focused and brilliant and so utterly out of reach.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Chapter 6: Thestrals

Druk chirps softly from my shoulder, his red eyes fixed on Yue, who sits primly at Katara's feet. The cat's mismatched eyes find us immediately, and I swear she gives Druk a look that can only be described as longing. Crookshanks looks between them from his spot next to Yue, tilting his squashed chin in the direction of Druk.

"At least someone has managed to make some friends," Draco observes dryly. "I'm stuck with your broody ass."

I shoot him a glare but say nothing.

Potter's voice carries across the clearing as he regales Katara with what sounds like a blow-by-blow account of his latest Quidditch heroics.

She nods politely, but her eyes keep drifting back to the open book in her hands.

Weasley, meanwhile, has launched into some animated story that involves a lot of arm-waving, his voice growing progressively louder as Hermione continues to politely ignore him.

Her eyes searching for our class instructor Rubeus Hagrid. The door to his hut remaining stubbornly closed.

"...and then the bludger came out of nowhere, but I managed to—" Potter's voice drifts over to us.

"Does he ever shut up?" Draco whispers, his expression a perfect mixture of boredom and disdain.

"Apparently not," I mutter, watching as Katara takes a subtle step away from Potter, creating distance without being openly rude.

Potter follows, closing the gap again.

I feel my jaw tighten, teeth grinding together as I watch him invade her space again and again. My fingers itch with the urge to intervene, to pull him away from her. To make him understand that she's not interested. That she deserves better than his persistent, unwanted attention.

Better than me, too. A voice whispers in the back of my mind.

Potter runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair, "Did you finish that Transfiguration essay yet, Katara?" he asks, his voice carrying across the clearing.

She barely looks up from her book. "Last week, with Hermione."

"I could use some help with mine," he continues, undeterred. "Maybe we could study together tonight?"

Weasley leans closer to Hermione. "That was brilliant work in History of Magic today," he says, his voice louder than necessary. "The way you presented—"

Hermione turns toward him, her expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. She opens her mouth, likely to tell him to cool it, when the door to Hagrid's hut finally bangs open.

The half-giant emerges. A skeletal, horse-like creature steps delicately behind him, tethered by a thin silver chain. Its black coat seems to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it, and leathery wings fold neatly against its emaciated sides. Its skull-like head turns toward us, milky white eyes surveying the gathered students.

"Bloody hell," Draco whispers beside me, his face paler than usual. "Is that—"

"A Thestral," I confirm quietly. 

I can't take my eyes off the creature. It reminds me of my nightmares, of things I've seen that I can never unsee. Its skeletal body and leathery wings stir memories I've spent years trying to bury—my mother's face, pale and still, the light fading from her eyes as my father stood over her, hands still glowing with deadly fire.

I was eight. Too young to understand death, but old enough to know my world had shattered. 

Beside me, Draco's breathing has gone shallow. His eyes are fixed on the creature. I know without asking what death haunts him—his grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, taken by dragon pox when Draco was nine. He never speaks of it, but I remember how he returned to school afterward, quieter, harder.

My gaze drifts across the semicircle of students and lands on Katara. The blood has drained from her face, leaving her copper skin ashen against the deep blue of her Ravenclaw tie. Her eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—are wide with recognition and horror.

She can see it too.

Of course she can. She watched her family die.

Hermione glances between the Thestral and Katara's face, her brow furrowing in confusion.

She can't see it—death hasn't touched her yet.

She places a gentle tan hand on Katara's arm, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. It's subtle—the way her fingers squeeze Katara's wrist, the way she shifts her body slightly to shield her friend from curious stares.

Potter has gone rigid, his attention no longer on impressing Katara. His face holds the same haunted recognition. The famous Harry Potter, who saw his parents murdered as an infant.

"Gather 'round, gather 'round," Hagrid calls, his booming voice breaking the tense silence. "Today we're studying one of the most misunderstood magical creatures—Thestrals."

Druk chirps softly against my neck, his tiny claws digging into my shoulder as he senses my discomfort. I stroke his scales gently, unable to take my eyes away from Katara's face. Her blue eyes are fixed on the Thestral, her expression a complex mixture of fascination and raw pain that I understand all too well.

"Now, some of you can see them, and some of you can't. Only those who've seen death can see a Thestral. Nothing to be ashamed of, mind you. Just the way it is."

The class shifts uncomfortably. Those who can see the creature stand silent and haunted. While those who can't, look confused or vaguely unsettled.

"They're dead useful, Thestrals are," Hagrid says proudly. "Powerful magical creatures. They pull the school carriages, you know. Most of you just never noticed."

Potter takes a step toward the Thestral, his face solemn, "I can see it," he announces, because of course Potter would make this about himself. “Because of my… parents.”

Hagrid nods solemnly towards the Boy Who Lived, “Of course Harry.” His eyes sweep across the rest of the class, “How many more of you can see it? Just raise a hand.”

I raise my hand slowly, feeling the weight of eyes turning toward me. Draco's hand rises beside mine, his face carefully arranged in a mask of indifference. I count silently - Potter, Longbottom, a Hufflepuff girl whose name I can't remember, a few scattered Gryffindor and Slytherin students. And... Katara.

Her hand trembles slightly as she raises it, her blue eyes never leaving the Thestral. I want to shield her from the curious stares, from the whispers already starting to ripple through the class.

"Quite a few of you, then," Hagrid says, his voice gentler now. "Thestrals get a bad reputation, you see. People think they're bad omens, harbingers of death. But that's not fair to them. They're gentle creatures, just misunderstood."

The Thestral tosses its skeletal head, milky eyes sweeping across our small group, landing on me for the briefest moment.

We understand each other, this creature and I. Both marked by death, both feared for things beyond our control.

"Now, who can tell me what Thestrals eat?" Hagrid asks, reaching into a bucket at his feet.

Hermione's hand shoots up automatically. "They're carnivores," she answers confidently. "They hunt small mammals and birds, but they're particularly attracted to the scent of blood."

Crookshanks has moved to tuck himself behind her feet, next to her bag. He's clearly wary of the skeletal creature. He curls into himself planting firmly to the spot, laying partially across her bag with a few sleepy looking blinks.

"Five points to Gryffindor," Hagrid beams, pulling something red and dripping from his bucket. "That's exactly right Hermione."

The scent of raw meat, metallic and sharp, wafts on the breeze. Druk stirs on my shoulder, his nostrils flaring with interest.

The Thestral steps forward eagerly, its skeletal neck extending as it takes the offering from Hagrid's massive palm.

"Would anyone like to feed him?" Hagrid asks, holding out the bucket.

Most students step back.

Katara moves forward, pushing herself toward the thing that frightens her, refusing to give in to fear.

"I'll try," she says gently.

Potter immediately steps forward as well. "I'll go too," he announces. Not to be outdone.

I watch as Hagrid hands them each a chunk of raw meat. Potter approaches first, cautious and theatrical, clearly aware of his audience.

The Thestral accepts his offering, its teeth gleaming white against the red flesh, turning away once it gets its food.

Katara moves closer, hesitant and careful.

The Thestral lowers its skeletal head, accepting the meat from Katara's palm. Its milky eyes fix on her face as it chews, studying her with an almost unsettling intelligence.

Then, instead of pulling away as it did with Potter, the creature takes a step closer to her, its bony muzzle nudging against her now-empty palm.

I can't look away from her face as the tension melts from her shoulders. The fear softens into a cautious wonder as the Thestral continues to nuzzle her hand, seeking more attention now that the food is gone.

Yue trills up at the Thestral, keeping a respectful distance at Katara's feet.

"Well, would you look at that," Hagrid exclaims, his voice filled with delight. "He likes you!"

Katara's lips part in surprise, then curve into a hesitant smile. She raises her free hand, fingers trembling slightly, and gently strokes the creature's leathery neck. The Thestral leans into her touch, its skeletal frame less menacing, more delicate.

Like her.

This is who she is—beneath the walls she's built, beneath the careful distance she maintains. Someone who can find beauty in creatures others fear. Who can offer kindness even when her own heart carries such deep wounds.

"She's good." Draco murmurs beside me, his voice soft.

"She's good with all creatures," I whisper back, my eyes still fixed on her. "It's people she keeps at a distance."

People like me.

"They can sense kindness," Hagrid explains, beaming proudly. "Good judge of character, Thestrals are."

Potter shifts beside them, his expression darkening as the creature continues to ignore him in favor of Katara. He steps closer, clearly trying to recapture its attention, but the Thestral remains fixed on her, its skeletal body angling away from him.

I watch Katara with the creature. Her initial fear has given way completely to fascination. She speaks to it softly, words I can't hear from where I stand, but I can see the gentle rhythm of her words in the way her lips move, in the soothing motion of her hand against its neck.

"They're not what I expected," she says, her voice carrying now,  "Everyone talks about them like they're omens of death, but they're just... misunderstood."

Her eyes lift, scanning the semicircle of students, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, they meet mine.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw for that insight, Miss Raine," Hagrid says warmly. "Who else would like to meet our friend here?"

A few brave students step forward, but I remain rooted to my spot. Druk chirps questioningly in my ear, his warm scales shifting against my neck.

"Not now," I murmur, stroking his tiny head.

Beside me, Draco clears his throat. "You going to stand there staring all day, or are you actually going to talk to her? Maybe return the book?”

Before I can answer, Hagrid’s voice booms over towards us, “Malfoy, Ember, I saw you raise your hands. I know you can see the Thestral. Come on over you two.”

My feet feel like lead as I force myself forward, Draco at my side.

The Thestral's milky eyes track our approach, its skeletal head tilting slightly in curiosity.

Katara steps back, creating space for us. Her hand lingers on the creature's neck, a silent reassurance. Yue’s mismatched eyes blink over at me, trilling in the direction of Druk, who chirps back.

"Go on then," Hagrid encourages, "They don't bite unless you give them a reason to."

Draco reaches out first, his pale hand hovering uncertainly before making contact with the creature's leathery flank. The Thestral turns its head, regarding him with those unsettling white eyes before letting out a soft chuff of approval.

"They're warmer than they look," Draco murmurs softly.

I stand frozen, unable to bridge the final distance.

The Thestral turns its attention to me, those milky eyes seeming to look straight through me. It knows what I am, what I'm about to become. It can sense the death that clings to my family name, the blood that will soon stain my hands.

"It's alright," Katara says softly, and for a heart-stopping moment I think she's speaking to me. But her eyes are on the Thestral, her hand stroking its neck in gentle, soothing motions. "They're friends."

Friends. 

Hagrid's voice drones on about Thestral behavior, about their incredible sense of direction, about their loyalty, but the words slowly stop registering. All I can focus on is the narrowing space between my hand and the creature's skeletal muzzle as I finally force myself to reach out.

The Thestral steps forward, closing the distance before I can retreat. Its nose nudges against my palm, leathery and warm and impossibly gentle. Something catches in my throat—a sound I refuse to release—as the creature presses into my touch with a trust I've done nothing to earn.

"Look at that," Hagrid booms from somewhere behind me. "He's taken a liking to you too, Ember!"

I don't deserve this.

I don't deserve the creature's trust, or the momentary softening in Katara's eyes. In three days, I'll be exactly what she fears most—what she hates. The mark of the Death Eaters will be more than symbolic; it will be my damnation, sealed in blood.

The Thestral nudges my palm again, more insistent this time. Its milky eyes hold mine, and I'm struck by the terrible thought that it knows. It can see the death that hovers around me—not just past deaths I've witnessed, but the one that I’m going to be responsible for. And likely many more after that.

"You’re so gentle with him," Katara says softly, her voice barely carrying over the murmur of the other students. "He trusts you. I wouldn't have expected that." Her blue eyes study me with a curiosity that lacks her usual guardedness.

For a moment, I forget to breathe.

I nod stiffly, “They respond to honesty," I finally manage, keeping my voice neutral, my eyes fixed on the creature rather than on her. "They know what you're feeling, no matter what you show on the surface."

"That makes sense," Katara says, her fingers tracing the ridge of the Thestral's spine. "Creatures that can only be seen by those who've witnessed death would understand pain... and masks." she stands close enough that I can smell the faint scent of jasmine in her hair, close enough that if I shifted even slightly, our shoulders would touch.

Too close.

Dangerous.

She doesn't deserve this—doesn't deserve to be tainted by proximity to what I am, what I'm about to become. Those blue eyes, watching me with that momentary softness, have no place in the world I'm destined for. I force myself to look away from her.

"They know, don't they?" she continues, her voice still quiet, meant only for me. "When someone understands what it means to see them."

I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on the creature. If I look at her now, with that almost-warmth in her voice, I might do something unforgivable. Something stupid. Like give her book back.

"I should go,"

The Thestral makes a soft sound of protest as I withdraw my hand. Druk chirps from my shoulder, his tiny claws digging in to hold me in place. I step back, creating distance between myself and Katara, between myself and the creature that sees too much.

"Ember," Hagrid calls as I retreat. "Where are you going? We're not finished with the lesson."

"Sorry, Professor," I mutter, not meeting his eyes. "I just remembered something I need to do."

It's a pathetic excuse, and from the curious glances the other students exchange, they know it too. But I can't stay here, not with Katara looking at me like that. Not with the Thestral's knowing eyes cutting through all my defenses.

I feel her eyes on my back as I walk away, feel the weight of her confusion and the fragile thread of connection I've just severed. She belongs in the light, with her brilliant mind and her compassionate heart. And I belong in the shadows, carrying my family's legacy of death and destruction.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Notes:

Next upload will be Three chapters on Thursday October 23rd!

Thank you for reading <3

Chapter 7: Happiest Memory

Notes:

Hello! Thank you all for the support and kind words of the last upload, it means a lot <3

We're diving right back in where we left off last time.

Charms is a loss to the static in my brain. Flitwick’s voice, usually a rapid-fire staccato of incantations, manages only to bounce from one side of my skull to the other without meaning.

Draco, to my right, makes a half-hearted effort at subtlety, shoving his elbow into my ribs every time I seem about to drift off entirely.

Eventually, he gives up, “If you fail this class, I’m not wiping your tears.”

I manage a noise that might be a laugh, but it tastes like iron and regrets.

As soon as the bell rings, the classroom empties in a rush of scraping chairs and murmured chatter. Draco has already packed my books into my satchel for me. His version of a favor, though he makes sure to mutter a complaint about my poor organizational skills.

I drift into the corridor behind him, blinking away the fog. We join the stream of students trudging down stone steps to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Lupin is waiting with his usual patience. He scans our faces as we file past.

It’s almost funny. He has no idea which of us is actually dangerous.

Katara and Hermione stand to the side of the classroom door, their curly heads bent together in conversation. A little ways down the hall, Potter and Weasley lean against a suit of armor, pretending not to watch the girls.

Weasley’s hair is so loud it could be seen from orbit, and it’s obvious even from here that he’s trying not to smile every time Hermione looks his way. Potter is less subtle. His eyes move between Hermione and Katara, then flick past to me and Draco, then snap back, like he’s keeping score for some match only he understands.

He probably is.

Draco’s entire body is angled toward Hermione, but he’s too proud to look at her directly, so he glares holes in Weasley’s back instead. For all his sneering and swagger, Draco is the world’s worst liar when it comes to his feelings. His hand is clenched so tight on the strap of my bag that I wonder if he even realizes it’s not his.

Hermione laughs at something Katara says, and I watch how the sound makes Draco flinch, how his whole face tries to reconstruct itself into indifference and fails fundamentally. He’d rather die than admit he likes the way she argues with him, matching his intelligence with sound arguments.

The bell rings, and Lupin waves us in. We shuffle into the classroom, and for a brief moment, the four of us—me, Draco, Katara, Hermione—find ourselves at the same desk. There’s a beat of awkwardness, and then Katara slides into the seat at the far end, Hermione next to her, Yue curls herself onto the tabletop between the two Witches. Crookshanks tucks himself into Hermione's bag, yawning wide and nestling for a nap in the late afternoon sun.

Draco tugs me down beside him, says nothing, and proceeds to open his notebook to a blank page, ready to take notes for both of us because he knows I won’t. Druk stirs, tucked securely around my shoulders, a gentle warmth against my neck as he settles. I can feel his tiny heartbeat, quick and light, like a trapped ember. 

Professor Lupin moves to the front of the classroom. There's something about him that always puts me on edge—something in his eyes. They're too knowing, too perceptive, like he can see straight through the masks we all wear.

"Today," Lupin begins, "we'll be discussing Dementors."

A ripple of unease passes through the classroom. 

Draco sighs resting his chin on his fist, trying to feign a measure of interest in the lesson. 

My mind drifts, fragments of the day replaying like a broken Pensieve. Katara's face as she touched the Thestral. That rare moment of connection between us before I shattered it. The weight of her book, still in my bag, grows heavier with each passing hour. Potter's hungry eyes following her. Friday looming closer, bringing with it a darkness I can't escape.

"Mr. Ember." Lupin's voice cuts through my thoughts. 

The classroom has gone silent, all eyes turning toward me. I straighten in my seat, forcing my expression into neutral indifference.

"Perhaps you could tell us what you know about the Patronus Charm?" Lupin asks, his eyes holding mine with an uncomfortable intensity.

"It's a defensive spell. Conjures a guardian made of positive energy. The only effective defense against Dementors." I answer almost straight from the text.

"Correct," Lupin nods. "And what form does this guardian take?"

"It's unique to the caster," I continue, aware of Katara's eyes on me, "Usually an animal that represents something... significant to them."

"Very good. Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Ember." Lupin turns back to address the class. "The Patronus Charm is among the most difficult magic you will attempt to learn. It requires not just technical skill, but emotional strength. You must focus on your happiest memory—a truly powerful one—and use it as a shield against the darkness Dementors bring."

Happiest memory.

What would I even choose?

The day my father scarred my face?

The moment I watched my mother die?

Or perhaps the day I learned what my family legacy truly meant?

I glance at Draco, whose face has gone carefully blank. What happy memory would he choose? I know his childhood held as little joy as mine.

"For your next assignment," Professor Lupin says, pacing slowly between our desks, "I want each of you to write an essay about your happiest memory. The memory you would draw upon to cast your Patronus." His eyes scan the classroom, pausing briefly on Potter, then on me. "The essay should be no less than twelve inches of parchment, detailing not just the memory itself, but why it holds such power for you."

A collective groan ripples through the classroom. I feel something cold settle in my stomach.

"Additionally," Lupin continues, unperturbed by the class’ response, "Next week you'll work on a separate report theorizing what form you believe your Patronus might take, and your reasoning behind this prediction. Both assignments are due by the end of the month."

Draco's quill scratches furiously beside me. I stare blankly at my empty parchment, already knowing I'll fail this assignment.

My happiest memory?

What a joke.

The thought of combing through my life for a moment of genuine happiness feels like searching for water in a desert. There might be mirages, fleeting moments that seemed like happiness until they evaporated, leaving only the burning reality of who I am, what my family is.

"End of next week, we'll begin practicing the wand movements," Lupin adds, "which are quite precise. We'll work our way up to actual casting, it will be slow moving, I want to ensure you’re each ready for this advanced magic. Though I must warn you—many adult wizards struggle with this charm. It requires not just technical skill, but emotional fortitude."

Hermione’s hand shoots up, “Professor, isn’t there a theory that one’s Patronus can change based on major emotional life events?”

"Excellent question, Miss Granger. Yes, profound emotional changes can alter one's Patronus. Trauma, loss, even falling in love—these experiences can reshape the very essence of who we are, and thus, the form our guardian takes. Five point to Gryffindor"

Falling in love. 

I don't dare look at Katara. I feel Draco tense beside me, his eyes staring daggers into his parchment, trying hard not to look up at Hermione.

"What if—" Neville Longbottom's voice is hesitant, "what if you can't produce one, at all?"

Lupin's face softens with understanding. "It's extraordinarily difficult magic, Mr. Longbottom. But I believe everyone in this room is capable of producing at least a non-corporeal Patronus with practice and determination."

I wonder what my Patronus would be, if I could even cast one. Something damaged and broken, probably. Something with scars that match my own. Or maybe nothing at all—just a wisp of silver vapor, insubstantial and useless, like every attempt I've made to escape my father's shadow.

"What about you, Professor?" Potter asks, eager as always to be the center of attention. "What's your Patronus?"

Lupin's smile tightens slightly. "That, Mr. Potter, is a story for another time. For now, focus on your own memories, your own potential guardians." Lupin moves back towards the front of the class. "Another thing to consider. This assignment requires honesty—with yourselves most of all—don’t write this off as a joke. This is something that could have the potential to save your life some day, or someone else. And finally when we've mastered the wand movements over the next few weeks, I'll want an additional essay from each of you." He pauses, scanning our faces with those knowing eyes. "I want you to examine what your greatest fear might be—what form your boggart would take if you encountered one. Once you know that, we can begin casting spells."

A murmur ripples through the classroom. Longbottom visibly pales.

"We'll be practicing with boggarts before I introduce the one I've specially trained to transform into a dementor," Lupin continues. "Your essay should detail not only what you believe your boggart would become, but how you think you'll be able to fight it—both practically and emotionally. This essay will be due the same time as the others."

My blood runs cold. The room seems to tilt slightly, the edges of my vision blurring as memories threaten to surface. My stomach twists into a knot. I already know what my boggart would become. I've known since I was eight years old. Since the night my his shadow fell across my mother's body. Since the moment his hand cupped my face with false tenderness before he burned his legacy into my skin.

My father.

His amber eyes cold with disappointment, his mouth curved in that cruel smile that always preceded pain. Powerful. Merciless. A god of flame and shadow who could extinguish lives with a flick of his wand. I would see him extending his hand to me, expecting me to take it, to finally become what he's always wanted me to be.

And the worst part?

I don't know if I'd have the strength to refuse.

"This assignment may be difficult for some of you," Lupin says, his voice gentler now. "Facing our greatest fears, even in theory, requires courage. But understanding what frightens us most is the first step toward conquering it. This is why we’re moving slowly, ensuring each of you are ready for the next step."

Draco's quill has stopped moving beside me. His face is carefully blank, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand. I wonder what he would see?

His father, most likely.

"As wizards and witches," Lupin continues, "we have the unique ability to transform our fears into something manageable, even humorous. The Riddikulus charm allows us to reshape a boggart into something we can laugh at. But first, we must confront what terrifies us most. Understanding your own fears is crucial to confronting them. I want you to consider not just what frightens you most, but how you might confront that fear—how you might find humor in what terrifies you."

Humor.

As if there could be anything remotely funny about my father's face, twisted in that familiar expression of cold disgust. The memory of his hand, engulfed in flames as he reached for my face, burns across my scar. I can almost smell my own flesh burning again.

"Your essays should be thorough," Lupin adds, "This exercise isn't merely academic— as I stated before, it could very well save your life someday."

My father's face floats in my mind's eye—not as he appears in public, all polished charm and calculated smiles, but as I know him to be. Eyes like burning coals, mouth twisted in that particular sneer he reserves just for me. His voice, soft and deadly.

"You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher."

The scar on my face throbs with phantom pain. I resist the urge to touch it, to trace the rough, raised tissue that marks me as his son.

His failure.

His property.

I feel Draco glance at me, "Are you okay?" he mutters, his voice barely audible.

I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. Druk climbs up to lay across my shoulders again, nuzzling into my neck in an attempt to comfort me.

My eyes drift across the room to Katara. Her head is bent, dark curls falling forward to shield her face as she takes notes. What would her boggart become? 

"Remember," Lupin says, "a boggart preys on fear itself. It becomes what frightens us most, but it cannot truly harm us unless we allow our fear to overwhelm us."

Unless we allow our fear to overwhelm us.

The words echo in my mind, bitter, resentful. My father runs my life. He’s harmed me in more ways than I care to think about. There is no escape, not with my blood.

Weasley's hand shoots up, a lopsided grin spreading across his freckled face. "Professor? What if you don't have any happy memories?" He laughs, nudging Potter beside him. "What if your life's been complete rubbish from start to finish?"

The class ripples with nervous laughter, but something inside me snaps. The words hit like a lightning strike, white-hot and searing. Before I can think, I'm on my feet, chair scraping against stone with a sound like bones breaking.

"You think that's funny?" I snarl, my voice low and dangerous.

Every head in the classroom swivels toward me.

"You think not having happy memories is some kind of joke?"

Weasley’s face flushes crimson, his freckles standing out starkly against his skin. "Calm down, Ember. It was just—"

"Just what?" I take a step forward, feeling Druk shift against my neck. "Just a joke? Because some of us don't have a perfect loving family, or a cozy little home, or brothers and sisters who actually give a damn about us. Some of us don't have cheerful Christmas memories to draw on, or birthday parties, or any of the other pathetic little moments you take for granted!"

The classroom has gone deathly silent. I can feel Draco's hand on my arm, trying to pull me back, but I shake him off.

The rage is too hot, too consuming.

Just like my father.

"For Merlin's sake," Ron stammers, his face growing redder. "It's not that deep. Your life can't be that bad—you're bloody rich, aren't you? Big manor house and all that?"

"You know nothing about my life, Weasley," I hiss, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Nothing about the 'big manor house' you're so jealous of.”

I feel everyone's eyes on me—Professor Lupin's concerned gaze, Draco's knowing one, Potter's suspicious glare. And somewhere to my left, Katara's blue eyes, watching with an expression I refuse to interpret.

My teeth grind together as I consider, for one wild moment, telling them all exactly why I have no happy memories worth conjuring. I could lay my ghosts bare—my mother's murder, my father's cruelty, the scars that marks me as property rather than son, visible and hidden. I could tell them about the night I learned what it means to be an Ember, about the legacy written in ash and blood that awaits me.

"Fuck off, Weasley," I say instead, "Not everyone gets to be the comic relief in Potter's heroic little story." I grab my bag, “Fuck all of you.” I growl turning on my heel to exit.

"Mr. Ember!" Lupin's voice cuts through the haze of my rage.

I freeze, one foot already over the threshold. Druk whimpers against my neck, his tiny body radiating concern as flames lick at my fingertips, begging to be unleashed. I feel the heat building in my palms, the telltale tingle that precedes flame. My magic responds to my fury, fire wanting to burst from my fingertips.

"Control it," I hiss to myself, clenching my fists so tightly my nails bite into my palms. The pain helps—a small, sharp focus that pulls me back from the edge. "Control it."

"Please return to your seat," Lupin says, his voice gentle. There's no anger there, which somehow makes it worse. I'd prefer his rage to this careful understanding. "We still have fifteen minutes of class."

I turn slowly, eyes fixed on the stone floor. The fire in my veins screaming for release.

One spark.

That's all it would take to show them what real fear looks like. Every instinct screams at me to keep walking, to escape the weight of all these stares. But that would only confirm what they already think of me—volatile, dangerous, unhinged.

Just. Like. My. Father. 

"Mr. Weasley," Lupin continues as I reluctantly return to my seat, "while I appreciate humor, some subjects require sensitivity. Five points from Gryffindor."

Potter and Weasley exchange glances, their faces a perfect mirror of righteous indignation. Of course they'd see themselves as the victims here.

"And Mr. Ember," Lupin adds, turning those perceptive eyes on me, "I'd like to speak with you after class."

A muscle in my jaw twitches. Of course. Potter and Weasley lose a few meaningless points, while I get a personal lecture. The unfairness of it burns in my throat.

"Yes, Professor." 

Draco shifts beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine in silent solidarity. He doesn't speak. The fire beneath my skin recedes slightly, though I can still feel it simmering, waiting for the slightest provocation.

"Now," Lupin says, turning back to the class, "let's continue our discussion of Dementors and their effects."

I stare fixedly at my blank parchment, not bothering to take notes. The weight of stares presses against me from all sides—some curious, some wary, some judgmental. I refuse to look up, to meet any of them.

Especially not Katara.

As the minutes tick towards the bell ring, Potter and Weasley pack slowly, whispering and shooting glances my way. Their faces hold that particular brand of self-righteousness that makes my blood boil—like they've confirmed everything they've always believed about me. About Slytherins. About Embers.

Draco takes his time packing his bag, “I’ll wait outside, we can walk to dinner together.“ 

I nod, not saying anything back.

The bell rings and the classroom erupts in movement. I keep my eyes fixed on the desk, refusing to look up as chairs scrape against stone and bags rustle. My fingers are still tingling with suppressed fire, the magic coiled tight beneath my skin.

Katara and Hermione pass by our desk, and despite my resolve, my gaze lifts. Their faces hold matching expressions of quiet concern. Not fear, not disgust, but so much worse.

Care.

Hermione's soft brown eyes flick between me and Draco, that brilliant mind of hers undoubtedly piecing together our sleepless nights, our haunted expressions, our growing distance from everyone else. I wish they'd look at me with fear instead. That's what I deserve. That's what someone like me should inspire in someone like her. Not this soft, careful worry that makes my chest ache with possibilities that can never be.

"We'll see you at dinner, then." Hermione says to Draco.

He nods, not meeting her eyes.

Katara says nothing, but her blue eyes linger on me for a heartbeat too long before she turns away. I watch her go, hating myself for it.

They're barely through the door when Potter's voice carries back into the classroom, deliberately loud. "We could walk you both to dinner, if you'd like. Maybe study together after? That Patronus essay is going to be brutal."

"Yeah," Weasley chimes in, his voice equally performative. "We could grab a table in the library. Work on it together."

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might crack. Of course. Perfect Potter, swooping in to play the hero while I'm stuck here, about to be lectured for losing my temper.

Draco waits a beat before leaving as well, throwing one last glance back at me before going into the corridor and leaning against the wall to wait, the door closing me in.

"Mr. Ember," Lupin says quietly once the classroom has emptied. He leans against his desk, arms folded loosely across his chest. There's no anger in his posture, no judgment in his eyes—just that same careful understanding that makes me want to set something on fire. "Would you like to tell me what that was about?"

"Not particularly," I mutter, not meeting his gaze. Druk shifts against my neck, his warm scales a small comfort against my skin.

"I understand more than you might think. About carrying burdens others can't see."

I let out a harsh laugh. "With all due respect, Professor, you don't know anything about me or my burdens."

"Perhaps not the specifics," he concedes, "But I recognize the signs of someone fighting battles on multiple fronts. Someone who feels cornered."

"I'm fine," I snap, "My life is none of your business outside of my grade in your class. Which when I last checked, is near perfect.” Heat pickles at my palms, “So back. The fuck. Off.”

Lupins eyebrows raise, his face remains calm, understanding.

It infuriates me.

“Very well. Another outburst like that, and I’ll have no choice but to assign detention. Don’t let it happen again.”

“It won’t.”

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Chapter 8: Fire Whiskey

Notes:

TW for underaged drinking to cope with stress

My magic is a caged animal, clawing to escape my skin. I can feel the heat building in my palms. The corridors blur around me, faces and voices merging into indistinguishable noise as I fight to keep the fire contained.

"Breathe, Ember," Draco mutters, keeping pace beside me. "Your hands are smoking."

I glance down to see wisps of gray curling from my clenched fists.

Shit.

I shove them deep into my pockets, focusing on counting my breaths. Druk shifts against my neck, his tiny body radiating concern as he chirps softly into my ear.

"I’m guessing your talk went well?" Draco asks, trying to sound casual.

I can't speak yet. My throat feels scorched, like I've swallowed burning coals. The magic still pulses beneath my skin, begging for release, for destruction. One spark and I could set this entire corridor ablaze. The thought is tempting in a way that terrifies me.

"Come on," Draco says, not waiting for a response. "You need air."

He leads the way through the castle, placing himself between me and any students we pass. It's a subtle thing—the way he shields me when I'm like this, drawing attention to himself with louder footsteps or the occasional sharp comment to a first-year who stares too long at my scar.

We've perfected this dance over years.

The Great Hall looms ahead, its massive doors spilling light and noise and the scent of dinner. I falter, the thought of facing that crowd. Of seeing Katara sitting with Potter and his sycophants. Of enduring curious stares and whispered theories about my outburst. Unbearable.

Draco notices immediately. "Wait here," he says, voice low. "Two minutes." He disappears through the doors, leaving me alone. 

I press my back against the cool stone wall, focusing on my breathing the way Uncle taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and controlled. The fire in my veins recedes slightly, though I can still feel it simmering beneath the surface.

Druk chirps softly, his tiny head nuzzles my chin. His scales are warm against my skin. I stroke his head, the familiar texture helping to calm the storm inside me.

True to his word, Draco returns in less than two minutes, balancing two plates piled with food and a flask that I suspect contains something stronger than pumpkin juice.

"Courtyard," he says simply, nodding toward the side exit. "It's quieter."

The early autumn air hits my face as we step outside. The courtyard is mostly empty—a few scattered students huddled on benches, finishing homework or stealing moments of privacy. Draco leads us to a table at the far edge, partially hidden by an ancient oak tree whose branches hang heavy with golden leaves.

"Eat," he orders, setting a plate in front of me. "Your magic always gets unstable when you're hungry."

I want to argue, to tell him I'm fine, but my stomach betrays me with an audible growl. The plate before me is loaded with my favorites—roast chicken, potatoes, buttered peas.

Draco knows me too well.

Druk immediately perks up, chirping hopefully as he eyes my plate. I tear off a small piece of chicken for him, watching as he devours it.

“My boggart would be my father, too.” Draco sighs heavily before stuffing a large bite of potatoes into his mouth.

"I'd rather not think about that right now," I mutter, cutting into my chicken.

Draco knows the contours of my nightmares as well as I know his.

“Good, neither would I.” He uncorks the flask offering it to me first.

The gesture is small but significant—an acknowledgment of the demons clawing at my insides. I take a long pull, the firewhiskey burning a path down my throat that almost matches the heat of my magic.

Almost.

"So," Draco says after a moment, "Friday."

Just the word makes my stomach clench. I pass the flask back, watching as he takes a long sip.

"Do you think he'll make us use the Killing Curse?" The firewhiskey loosens my tongue, makes the unthinkable speakable.

Draco's face pales slightly in the fading light. "Possibly. Though poison might be cleaner. Less traceable."

"Poison feels like cheating," I say, stabbing at a potato. "He'll want to see if we can do it... Directly."

"Looking into their eyes," Draco agrees, his voice hollow. He takes another swig from the flask before passing it back. "Proving our loyalty."

The liquor is working its way through my system now, dulling the edges of my rage, quieting the fire that's been threatening to consume me since Lupin's classroom. Druk seems to sense the shift, his tiny body relaxing against my neck as he chirps softly.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll be quick," I say, not believing it for a second. "One spell and done."

Draco's laugh is bitter and sharp. "When has the Dark Lord ever made anything quick or merciful?"

"Fair point."

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I imagine the muggle scientist—someone who never asked to be caught between worlds, whose only crime was curiosity. Someone whose life will end by my hand, my wand, my families legacy.

"He'll want us to... feel it. To make sure we understand what we're becoming." Draco breaks the quiet.

I take another bite of chicken, tasting nothing. "My father once told me the first is the hardest. That after, it gets easier." I laugh, a hollow sound, "As if that's supposed to be comforting."

"My father says much the same." Draco takes another swig before handing me the flask again. "Though Mother... she says each one takes something from you that you never get back."

"Maybe we could make it quick," I suggest, knowing even as I say it, how pathetic it sounds. "Find a spell that's... merciful."

Draco's laugh is bitter. "Mercy isn't what the Dark Lord wants from us, Zuko. He wants proof that we're willing to do the unforgivable."

Druk chirps softly. I feed him another piece of chicken, grateful for his small, uncomplicated affection.

"I wonder if it changes your Patronus," I muse, the liquor loosening my tongue. "Killing someone. If it changes what memory you'd use, or what form it would take."

"Bold of you to assume either of us would ever be able to cast one anyway." Draco's voice is flat, resigned. "Hard to conjure happiness when you've got blood on your hands."

The flask passes between us, our meal forgotten as we stare out at the darkening grounds. In the distance, I can see the Thestrals circling above the Forbidden Forest, their skeletal forms barely visible against the twilight sky.

"They know, don't they?" I murmur, "That we're about to join them."

"The Thestrals?" Draco takes another swig of firewhiskey, his cheeks flushed. "Probably. Creatures of death and all that."

"I think they're all going to die," I say, watching the Thestrals' graceful, morbid dance against the darkening sky. "Everyone we touch. Everyone who matters."

Draco follows my gaze upward. "Probably," he agrees, "That's what we do, isn't it? Embers and Malfoys. We destroy beautiful things."

The firewhiskey has settled into my blood now, making the world softer at its edges. The rage that consumed me in Lupin's classroom has dulled to a hollow ache in my chest. The world has taken on a slightly blurred quality, the firewhiskey warming my veins in a way that almost—almost—mimics the comfort of unleashed magic.

"Shit," Draco says, glancing at his watch. "Flying practice."

"Skip it," I mutter, reaching for the flask again. 

"Can't. Hooch said one more absence and I'm off the team." He stands, swaying slightly. "Besides, we don't want to miss the chance to fall to our deaths before Friday. Where's your sense of adventure, Ember?"

I snort, “Fine, but if you vomit, aim for Potter.”

“Deal,” He starts leading the way, “Let’s go.”

I groan, gathering our plates and the now significantly lighter flask. Druk chirps disapprovingly, clearly unimpressed with my coordination as I stumble slightly on the uneven stone.

"You're right," I tell the tiny dragon. "This is stupid."

But I follow Draco anyway, because the alternative is sitting alone with my thoughts, with the weight of Friday looming over me, with memories of my father. At least in the air, with the wind whipping past, I might feel something other than this crushing dread.

The firewhiskey has loosened something in both of us, making our usual careful silence give way to bitter laughter and dark jokes about what awaits us.

"Maybe I'll aim poorly," Draco says, his voice pitched low. "Miss the heart. Give them a chance."

"They'd just make you do it again. And punish you for the failure."

"True," he concedes. "But at least I'd know I tried."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Chapter 9: Mysterious and Aloof

Notes:

TW for underaged drinking and reckless behavior due to underaged drunkenness

We make our way across the grounds, the cool evening air doing little to clear the firewhiskey fog from my mind. The Quidditch pitch glows in the distance, torches illuminating the field where students have already gathered. Draco stumbles slightly beside me, and I catch his arm, steadying him.

"We're a mess," he mutters, and I can't help but laugh—a rough, unfamiliar sound that scratches my throat.

"Always have been," I agree.

We fall silent as we approach the pitch. I spot them immediately—a small cluster of figures near the entrance. Hermione's coily hair catches the torchlight, and beside her, Katara's dark curls cascade down her back as she laughs at something Potter just said.

The sound carries across the field, bright and musical, making something twist painfully in my chest.

Potter stands too close to her, his hand hovering near the small of her back without quite touching. His face is alight with triumph at having made her laugh.

"Fucking Potter," Draco growls, his words slightly slurred. "Always has to be the center of attention."

I say nothing, unable to tear my eyes away from Katara's face. In the golden torchlight, her features are animated with a joy I've never been able to inspire. Her head tilts back as she giggles again, the sound cutting through me like a knife.

Potter leans closer, whispering something else that makes her cover her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

"She's bloody brilliant," Weasley says, loud enough for us to hear. He's standing uncomfortably close to Hermione, his freckled face flushed with more than just the evening chill. "The way you explained that Herbology theory today—I've never understood it so clearly."

Hermione's cheeks turn pink as she tucks a ringlet curl behind her ear. "It's really not that complicated, Ronald. You just need to understand basic gardening techniques."

"See? Brilliant," Weasley grins, "Maybe you could help me with my essay later?”

My eyes slide to Draco, whose entire body has gone rigid beside me. His jaw is clenched so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding, as he watches Hermione's smile widen.

"I suppose I could," she says. "After dinner tomorrow, our usual spot in the library?"

The look of triumph on Weasley's face is nauseating. I can feel Draco's fury radiating off him in waves, his knuckles white around the neck of the flask.

"Perfect," Weasley replies, his hand brushing against Hermione's arm, "It's a date, then."

"It's a study session, Ronald," Hermione corrects, with a friendly eye roll. “Besides, it’s not like we don’t help the two of you with your essays on a regular basis anyway.”

Madame Hooch's sharp whistle cuts through the moment, saving me from having to physically restrain Draco, whose wand hand has started to twitch dangerously toward his pocket. He subtly tucks the flask into his robes.

"Attention, students!" she calls, striding onto the field. Her hawk-like eyes scan the assembled group, narrowing slightly when they land on Draco and me. "Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Ember—how good of you to join us. You're nearly late."

Draco straightens, "Apologies, Professor. We were detained after Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Well, now that everyone is here, we can begin." She gestures toward the brooms laid out in neat rows on the grass. "Today we'll be focusing on speed and agility. Each of you testing your ability to maintain control at high velocities."

This is a terrible idea. Flying while intoxicated is exactly the kind of reckless stupidity that will draw way too much attention to me.

But I can’t bring myself to care.

Madame Hooch's gaze sweeps over us, "We'll pair across houses today. Ember—" she points directly at me, "—you'll race with Weasley."

Perfect. Just perfect.

I glance at Draco, who is smirking at me, clearly fighting full blown laughter at my expense.

Weasley's expression sours as he reluctantly moves to stand beside me, keeping a careful distance as if my Slytherin tendencies might be contagious.

"Malfoy with Potter," Hooch continues, and Draco's smirk vanishes instantly.

She continues pairing students, her voice fading into background noise as I size up my competition. Weasley is tall and gangly, with decent flying skills—nowhere near Potter's level, but better than most.

In my current state, with firewhiskey warming my veins and dulling my reflexes, he might actually have a chance. But I can't let him win. Not after watching him fawn over Hermione, making Draco's face twist with that carefully hidden pain. Not after seeing the triumph in his eyes when she agreed to their ‘study session’.

I may be a mess in every other aspect of my life, but on a broom, I'm still an Ember.

"Granger with Raine," Hooch calls, and my attention snaps to Katara, who looks relieved to be paired with her friend rather than a Slytherin. Or Potter.

"Ember and Weasley will demonstrate first," Hooch announces, gesturing us forward. "Three laps around the pitch. First one to cross the finish line wins ten points for their house."

Weasley grabs a school broom, testing its balance. I select one as well, though the world tilts slightly as I bend to pick it up. Druk shifts nervously on my shoulders, chirping a warning that I pretend not to hear.

“You can sit this one out,” I murmur to him.

He chirrups. launching from my shoulders to float down next to Yue who’s watching with disinterest, cleaning her paws with that calm feline grace. 

Katara bends down to pat his head, “Hey there, trouble.” She giggles as the two settle next to each other, staying close to her feet.

"You sure you're up for this, Ember?" Weasley asks, his tone carrying that particular Gryffindor blend of challenge and false concern. "You look a bit... unsteady."

"Worry about yourself, Weasley," I reply, mounting my broom. "I could outfly you blindfolded."

He snorts, mounting his own broom. "We'll see about that."

We hover a few feet above the ground, waiting for Hooch's signal. I can feel Katara watching from the sidelines, her blue eyes intent.

"On my whistle," Hooch calls, raising her arm. "Three... two... one—"

I'm off, the world blurring around me as I urge the broom forward. The firewhiskey in my system doesn't dull my flying—if anything, it removes hesitation, replacing caution with reckless abandon. Wind tears at my hair, cold against my flushed face as I lean low over the broomstick.

Weasley is close behind, the determination on his freckled face visible even from the corner of my eye. Hunched forward, knuckles white against the weathered wood of his broom.

But I was born to fly—it's the one gift my father couldn't corrupt, the one skill that still feels purely mine. I take the first turn tight, feeling the broom vibrate beneath me as I push it faster than school brooms are meant to go. The stands blur past, faces melting together as I focus only on the path ahead, on the sweet rush of air filling my lungs.

"Come on, Ron!" I hear Potter shout from somewhere below. "He's not that far ahead!"

But I am. With each second, I pull further away, the distance between us growing as I complete the first lap.

"ALRIGHT EMBER!" Draco whoops over the wind in my ears.

Weasley's face has turned as red as his hair, his teeth gritted as he struggles to match my pace. He tries cutting the corner on the second turn, a desperate move that nearly sends him crashing into the stands.

"Careful, Mr. Weasley!" Hooch calls, but her voice is distant, irrelevant to the race unfolding above.

I dive suddenly, a feint that makes Weasley hesitate just long enough for me to gain another few feet.

Draco's laugh drifts over the pitch, loud and uninhibited, "SHOWING OFF, FIRE BOY!"

The combination of Draco's cheers and the firewhiskey makes me bold, reckless—I execute a roll that allows me to cut under Weasley's path, disrupting his concentration.

"THAT"S FUCKING FLYING!" My eyes flick to see Draco's hands cupped around his mouth, a huge smile on his face.

"That's cheating!" Ron shouts as I pull ahead.

I laugh, the sound whipped away by the wind. "That's strategy!"

As I round the pitch for the second lap I hear something unexpected—cheering. Not just Draco's voice, but others. I risk a quick glance down and nearly lose my grip when I spot Hermione jumping up and down, beside her—my heart stutters. Katara, her blue eyes tracking my every move, one hand raised in a small, almost reluctant wave when our eyes meet.

"Go, Zuko!" someone whoops. The small cheer is so unexpected that I nearly falter, my eyes darting to the source. Hermione's hands cupped around her mouth as she shouts.

I pull my gaze back to the race just in time to avoid Weasley's attempt to knock me off course with his elbow.

"Foul!" I hear Draco shout from below, but I don't need the referee.

I surge forward, calling on every ounce of flying skill in my blood. I've got this—I can feel it in my bones.

More whoops sound from Draco, along with a few supportive barks that make me laugh out loud.

Weasley is still trailing, his face contorted with effort as he tries to close the gap between us. The stands flash by, a kaleidoscope of colors as I urge the broom forward with everything I have.

As I cross the finish line, a roar erupts from the small crowd. I pull up sharply, the world spinning slightly as I hover above the pitch, chest heaving.

Weasley appears seconds later, his face flushed with exertion and humiliation as he glares at me.

"And the winner is Ember!" Hooch announces, “Ten points to Slytherin, for exceptional flying."

I descend slowly, the ground still unsteady beneath my feet as I dismount. My head is spinning—partly from the firewhiskey, partly from the exhilaration of flight, and partly from the memory of Katara's wave.

Draco is there immediately, his face split in a genuine grin as he claps me hard on the back. "Bloody brilliant!" he crows, all traces of his earlier melancholy temporarily forgotten. "Did you see Weasley's face? Priceless!"

The firewhiskey makes me grin back, wide and unguarded. "Told you I could outfly Weasley blindfolded."

Triumph coursing through me like liquid gold. For a moment—just a moment—Friday seems distant, less important than this perfect present where I've won something clean and fair.

Draco's eyes drift past me, his smile faltering slightly before strengthening again. I follow his gaze to where Hermione stands, her curly hair flying around her tan face as she whispers something to Katara. When she notices Draco looking, she gives him a small, almost imperceptible— smile?

Draco swallows audibly, giving a terse nod back.

But it's Katara who holds my attention. When our eyes meet, she doesn't look away. For once, she holds my gaze, and there's something in those blue depths that wasn't there before. She gives me a small smile, before turning back to Hermione.

"She's impressed," Draco murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Both of them are."

"Doesn't matter.” I nudge him with my elbow.

"Liar," he says, nudging me back, with a grin.

Druk flutters back over, small growls of approval coming out in small bursts of flame  as he wraps himself around my shoulders again now that I’m not flying drunk.

Across the pitch, Weasley's face is as red as his hair as he storms over to Potter, broom clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

"He cheated!" he insists, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That dive was illegal—and he cut me off!"

"Mr. Weasley," Hooch sighs, "what Mr. Ember performed was a perfectly legal racing maneuver. Perhaps if you spent more time practicing and less time complaining—"

"But he's—" Weasley gestures wildly in my direction, clearly struggling to articulate his frustration.

"A better flyer than you," Draco drawls, his smirk firmly back in place as he stares Weasley down. "Accept it and move on, Weasel."

Hooch's whistle cuts through the brewing fight. "Malfoy, Potter, you're up next. Same rules. Three laps around the pitch."

Draco saunters forward, the firewhiskey giving his usual strut an extra swagger that somehow makes him look more confident rather than drunk.

"Try to keep up, Potter," Draco drawls, mounting his broom. "I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of your fan club."

Potter's eyes narrow as he grips his broom. "Just fly, Malfoy."

"On my whistle," Hooch announces, raising her arm. "Three... two... one—"

They're off—two blurs shooting upward, Potter's crimson robes flapping wildly against Draco's emerald ones. For a moment they're neck and neck, but then Draco executes a perfect barrel roll, cutting under Potter's path and surging ahead.

"GO DRACO!" I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. "SHOW HIM HOW SLYTHERINS FLY!"

Draco hears me. I know he does because he immediately pulls into a tight spiral, his body nearly horizontal as he takes the first turn at a speed that makes Hooch gasp.

Potter tries to follow but over-corrects, losing precious seconds as he rights himself. Potter is good—I'll reluctantly give him that—but Draco is flying like a man possessed.

"That's it!" I shout as he completes the first lap, already several broom-lengths ahead of Potter. "Leave him in the dust!"

As Draco rounds the far goal posts, he pulls into a vertical climb that has everyone gasping, before executing a perfect spiral dive that brings him right back on course without losing any speed. It's showing off, pure and simple, but it's also bloody brilliant flying.

"Did you see that?" I crow to no one in particular, unable to contain my grin. "That's how you fly a fucking broom!"

Potter's face is tight with concentration as he tries to close the gap, but Draco is untouchable tonight. He performs another flashy maneuver—a barrel roll that transitions seamlessly into a corkscrew—purely for the spectacle of it, drawing appreciative whoops from the crowd.

I’m laughing, genuinely laughing, as I watch my best friend out-fly the famous Harry Potter with style to spare. It feels good—like winning something that matters, even if it's just a practice race on school brooms.

Hermione stands with her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes tracking Draco's every move with unmistakable fascination. By the second lap, Draco's lead is undeniable. He's flying with a grace that even Potter can't match today. When he catches my eye, a wicked grin spreads across his face.

And then he shows off even more.

Halfway through the final lap, with Potter still struggling to catch up, Draco pulls into another vertical climb, shooting straight up before executing a flawless backward loop that has the entire crowd gasping. He transitions seamlessly into a corkscrew dive, his control is perfect.

"THAT'S IT!" I whoop, jumping up and fist-pumping the air. "FUCKING BRILLIANT!"

He crosses the finish line with Potter still half a quarter behind, pulling up with a flourish that sends his broom into one final spin before he descends, his face flushed with triumph and firewhiskey.

I rush forward, clapping him hard on the back as he dismounts. "Bloody spectacular," I tell him, unable to keep the grin off my face. "That loop was perfect."

"Did you see Potter's face?" Draco laughs, his eyes bright with vindication. "Like someone slapped him with his own Firebolt."

Across the pitch, I catch Hermione's expression and can't help but smirk. She's completely transfixed by Draco—her eyes haven't left him since he dismounted, even as Weasley tries desperately to recapture her attention.

The bookworm's face is flushed her tan skin sporting a rosy hue, lips slightly parted in what can only be described as awe. Draco notices too; I can tell by the way his posture subtly straightens, shoulders pulling back with pride.

While Hermione's gaze is locked on Draco, Katara's blue eyes are fixed firmly on me. Not just looking—really seeing me. The firewhiskey must be playing tricks on me, but I swear her smile grows wider when our eyes meet.

At our feet, Yue stretches languidly before flicking her tail in an elegant arc toward Druk. My little dragon immediately responds, wings fluttering in excited little bursts as he chirps to his friend. He launches from my shoulder in a streak of gold, circling Yue's head once before landing next to her. Crookshanks sidles up beside them, chittering softly as Druk chuffs a greeting.

Katara's laugh—soft and melodic—carries across the pitch as she watches our familiars' playful reunion. For a moment, I forget about Friday, about my father, about everything except the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she's genuinely happy.

"You've got it bad," Draco mutters, elbowing me in the ribs.

"Shut up," I'm too distracted by the way Katara tucks a curl behind her ear, her eyes still on me as she whispers something to Hermione.

Madame Hooch's whistle sounds again. "Next pair!" she calls, gesturing for Hermione and Katara to take their positions.

Katara takes her eyes away from mine, though not before giving me one last smile that feels like a secret between us. She and Hermione move toward the pitch, their heads bent close together in quiet conversation.

"What do you think they're talking about?"

Draco snorts. "Us, obviously.” his smirk is playful.

I watch Hermione and Katara mount their brooms, their smaller frames making the school brooms look oversized. There's an ease between them that I envy—the way they bump shoulders and share quiet laughs, completely comfortable in each other's presence.

"They're actually pretty good," Draco murmurs beside me as the girls hover, waiting for Hooch's signal.

The firewhiskey has settled into a pleasant buzz now, making the torchlight glow warmer against the darkening sky.

"Ten galleons says Granger crashes into a goal post," Draco mutters, but his eyes follow her with an intensity that belies his mocking words.

"You're on," I reply, knowing full well he doesn't actually want to win that bet.

The girls shoot forward. They fly side by side, Hermione's coily hair streaming behind her like a banner while Katara's dark curls whip around her face. I can hear their laughter carrying across the pitch, bright and uninhibited.

Potter and Weasley have positioned themselves near the finish line, their faces upturned as they track the girls' progress. The hunger in Potter's eyes as he watches Katara makes something hot and ugly twist in my gut.

"Look at those two," Draco sneers, nodding toward the Gryffindors. "Pathetic."

I grunt in agreement, though the word applies just as well to us—standing here, pretending we don't care, while unable to tear our eyes away.

Katara takes the first turn, her body leaning into the curve with a natural grace. Hermione follows a second later, her technique less refined but effective. Their competition lacks the cutthroat edge that defined our races—when Hermione wobbles slightly on the second turn, Katara actually slows to make sure she's okay before they both accelerate again, their giggles floating down to us like music.

"They're good." I admit, unable to keep the admiration from my voice as I watch Katara execute another perfect turn.

"For bookworms." Draco adds.

By the third lap, Katara has pulled slightly ahead, leaning low over her broom. Hermione is close behind, her determination evident in the set of her shoulders as she urges her broom faster. They cross the finish line with Katara just a broom's length ahead, both of them flushed and laughing as they descend to the ground.

"Well done, Miss Raine, Miss Granger!" Hooch calls, looking pleased. "Excellent control on those turns, especially you, Miss Raine."

The girls dismount, still breathless with exhilaration. Hermione immediately launches into an animated analysis of Katara's technique.

"That last corner was brilliant!" she exclaims, her soft brown eyes sparkling.

I watch from a distance. Draco stands beside me, his eyes never leaving Hermione as she gestures wildly, reenacting Katara's turns with her hands.

"Should we go over there?" I murmur.

Draco snorts. "And interrupt the Potter admiration society? I think not."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Potter materializes at Katara's side, Weasley trailing behind him like an oversized shadow. They position themselves strategically—Potter next to Katara, Weasley beside Hermione—both wearing identical expressions of exaggerated admiration.

"That was brilliant flying," Potter stands too close to Katara, his hand almost but not quite touching her shoulder. "The way you handled those turns—almost professional quality."

Katara smiles politely, taking a small step back. "Thanks, Harry. I've been practicing."

"You're a natural," he persists, moving forward to close the distance she just created. "With the right training, you could easily make the Ravenclaw team."

Weasley turns to Hermione with an enthusiastic nod. "You too, 'Mione! That was really impressive for someone who doesn't even like flying!"

Hermione's laugh is kind. "That's very nice of you, Ronald, but I think we both know I prefer keeping my feet firmly on the ground."

I feel Draco tense beside me, his knuckles whitening around the neck of the flask hidden in his robes. I nudge him slightly, a silent reminder to keep his composure.

"We should practice together sometime," Potter suggests, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is an attractive murmur. "I could show you some seeker techniques."

"That's kind of you," Katara replies, her smile never reaching her eyes as she takes another subtle step away. "But I'm pretty busy with coursework this term."

Druk chooses this moment to make his presence known. He streaks across the pitch like a golden comet, circling Katara's head once before diving toward where Yue is already waiting, her mismatched eyes tracking his flight. Crookshanks bats a lazy paw in Druks direction, his fluffy orange tail flicking side to side.

The tiny dragon and fluffy cat disappear into the stands, their playful chirps and meows echoing across the pitch. I watch as they chase each other through the empty seats, Druk occasionally sending small puffs of smoke that Yue bats at with delighted paws. Crookshanks walks over to join them, his pace slow and unhurried, opting to sit a few rows down and watch them play.

"Look at them," I murmur, unable to keep the fondness from my voice. "They don't care about house rivalries or family legacies."

Draco snorts beside me. "Must be nice to be that simple."

Madame Hooch's whistle pierces the air as she calls the next pair forward. Two more students mount their brooms. Neither Draco nor I make any move to approach the others. The firewhiskey has left me in a strange limbo—bold enough to admire Katara from afar but not quite reckless enough to navigate the minefield of Potter and Weasley's territorial posturing.

"We should stay here," Draco says, as if reading my thoughts. "Let Potter make a fool of himself without our help."

I nod, leaning against the stands as we watch the next pair of students race. Their flying is competent but uninspired—nothing like the reckless abandon Draco displayed or the natural grace in Katara's turns. My eyes drift to where she stands with Hermione, both of them pointedly ignoring Potter's continued attempts at conversation.

"She keeps looking over here," Draco mutters.

"Who?" I ask, though I already know.

"Raine." He smirks. "Every time Potter opens his mouth, she glances this way."

I follow his gaze and catch Katara's eyes on me. She doesn't look away immediately. When Potter touches her elbow to reclaim her attention, her smile tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Granger too," Draco adds, a flush creeping up his neck. "Weasley's practically performing a mating dance, and she's looking over here."

I snort. "Maybe they're just wondering why we're lurking over here like a pair of antisocial prats."

"Speak for yourself. I'm being mysterious and aloof."

This pulls a genuine laugh from me, loud enough that several heads turn our way. The sound feels foreign in my throat—When was the last time I really laughed?

The race finishes to polite applause, followed by a Ravenclaw and Slytherin pair that draws more enthusiastic cheering. As each duo takes their turn, Draco and I remain apart from the main group, passing the flask between us when Hooch isn't looking. The firewhiskey has settled into a pleasant buzz now, dulling the edges of my anxiety about the coming days.

"—and that's why I think the Firebolt is still superior for competitive play," Potter drones on, gesturing wildly as if explaining Quidditch theory to someone who's never seen a broom. Katara's polite smile has gone fixed and glassy.

I'm about to suggest to Draco that we head back to the castle when Potter has fallen silent mid-sentence, his attention fixed on something in our direction. I follow his gaze and realize with a sinking feeling that Draco is mid-swig from the flask, the silver container glinting traitorously in the torchlight.

"Is that—" Potter's voice carries across the pitch, his eyes narrowing behind those ridiculous glasses. "Malfoy's drinking during flying practice!"

Draco freezes, the flask still raised to his lips. His eyes widen as he slowly lowers it, but the damage is done.

Weasley's head snaps around, his freckled face lighting up with righteous indignation. "A flask!" he announces loudly, pointing at us. "They're bloody drunk!"

Madame Hooch's hawk-like gaze locks onto us immediately. "Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Ember! Front and center, now!"

I snatch the flask, pointedly taking a swig to draw attention away from Draco, but it’s too late. Hooch gestures for us to approach. I shove the flask into my robes, both our steps unsteady, betraying exactly how much we've had to drink.

"Care to explain yourselves?" Hooch demands, her yellow eyes flashing dangerously.

"It's just water, Professor," Draco lies, though the flush across his cheeks and the slight slur in his words tell a different story.

"Water," she repeats flatly. "Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Malfoy?"

Potter and Weasley have sidled closer, their faces alight with smug satisfaction. The rest of the class has gone quiet, all eyes fixed on the unfolding drama.

I catch Katara watching from behind them.

"Hand it over, Mr. Ember," Hooch extends her palm toward me.

I hesitate, weighing my options. There's no scenario where this ends well.

"Now, Mr. Ember, or I'll be adding detention to your punishment."

With a resigned sigh, I reach into my robes and produce the flask.

Hooch snatches it from my hand, uncorking and taking a cautious sniff. Her nostrils flare in outrage. "Firewhiskey! During flying practice! Do you have any idea how dangerous—how irresponsible—"

"To be fair," Draco interrupts, “We did win our races.“

"Mr. Malfoy, this is no joking matter. I should march you both straight to Professor Snape's office."

Potter's eyes gleam with vindictive triumph. "They could have hurt someone," he presses, stepping forward like the self-appointed Prefect he wishes he was. "Or themselves."

"They need to be punished," Weasley chimes in, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. "Detention at least. Maybe even suspended from flying altogether."

I steel myself for the inevitable lecture, the points lost, the disappointed letter to my father that will result in consequences far worse than anything Hogwarts could devise.

Beside me, Draco sways slightly. Hooch gives the flask another contemplative sniff, then—to my complete shock—takes a small swig herself before corking it and slipping it into her own robes.

"Ogden's Finest," she notes with something almost like approval in her voice. "Well, at least you two have good taste."

Potter's mouth falls open. "Professor, you can't—"

"I can't what, Mr. Potter?" Hooch cuts him off, "Last I checked, I am still the flying instructor at this school."

"But they broke rules," Weasley splutters, his freckled face turning an alarming shade of red. "They were flying drunk!"

"And yet they both flew circles around you two," Hooch observes dryly. "Perhaps that's something to reflect on."

I bite back a smirk as Potter's face contorts with indignation.

Draco doesn't bother hiding his, the smile spreading wide across his face.

"But Professor—" Potter tries again. "they should be punished! Detention at least! They could have crashed into someone!"

"Yet they didn't," Hooch replies curtly. "In fact, they both flew rather spectacularly, as I recall."

Potter looks like he's swallowed something particularly unpleasant. "That's not the point—"

"The point, Mr. Potter," Hooch cuts him off, "is that I decide the appropriate consequences in my class." She turns back to us, her expression hardening. "Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy—back to your dormitories. Now. Sleep, whatever it is that drove you to drink, off."

Draco opens his mouth, probably to say something that will make this worse, but I grab his arm, squeezing in warning.

"Yes, Professor. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," she says, then adds, "The headaches you'll have tomorrow morning will be punishment enough, I suspect."

Weasley splutters in disbelief. "That's it? They just get to leave?"

Hooch rounds on him, yellow eyes flashing. "Would you care to join them, Mr. Weasley? Perhaps with a detention added for questioning my authority?"

That shuts him up.

As the other students begin to disperse, Hooch leans closer to us, her voice dropping so only Draco and I can hear. "Whatever's troubling you boys enough to seek solace in firewhiskey, I suggest you find better ways to cope with it. I won't be so lenient if this happens again. Understood?"

"Yes, Professor," we mumble in unison.

She gives us one last searching look before turning away, the confiscated flask clinking softly in her robes.

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Notes:

Next upload will be two chapters on Monday November 3rd

Thank you so much for reading and enjoying <3

Chapter 10: Draught of Living Death

Notes:

Happy Monday!

No warnings for this chapter :)

Thank you to everyone for reading and for all your kind comments on the last few uploads, it's very much appreciated. I'm glad you're all enjoying the fic. <3

"I'm never drinking again," Draco groans, pressing his palms against his temples. "Ever."

I grunt in agreement, the mere thought of consuming food making my stomach roll. The Great Hall seems impossibly loud this morning—forks scraping against plates, laughter echoing off stone walls, all of it amplified by the pounding in my skull.

"Water," I mutter, pushing my orange juice aside. "And maybe death. Death would be nice right now."

Druk peeks out from my bag, chirping softly before retreating back into the darkness. Even he seems to understand that today is not a day for his usual enthusiasm.

Across the hall, I spot Katara at the Ravenclaw table, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder as she bends over a book. She looks fresh and alert, completely unaffected by yesterday's flying lesson. The memory of her smile—that rare, genuine smile directed at me—feels like it happened in another lifetime.

"Look who's coming," Draco mutters, nodding toward the entrance.

Potter and Weasley strut in, they make a deliberate detour on their way to the Gryffindor table, stopping directly behind us.

"Morning, sunshine," Weasley says loudly—too loudly. "Sleep well?"

I wince at the volume, not bothering to turn around. "Fuck off, Weasley."

"Language," Potter chides with mock concern. "You seem a bit... under the weather. Too much to drink yesterday?"

Draco's fingers tighten around his goblet, knuckles whitening. "At least we can hold our liquor better than we can hold a grudge," he drawls, "Unlike some."

"Didn't look like you were holding it very well when Hooch sent you packing," Weasley counters, his freckled face smug. "Shame she didn't take points."

"Shame she didn't confiscate your broomstick after that pathetic flying." I reply, finally turning to face them.

Potter's smile tightens. "At least we don't need liquid courage to get through flying lessons."

"No, just an inflated ego and a desperate need for attention," Draco cuts in.

I notice Hermione approaching from behind them, her curly hair unmistakable even through my pounding headache. She's not alone—Katara walks beside her, both carrying stacks of books that look heavy enough to topple a first-year.

"You two look miserable," Katara steps around Potter and Weasley. Her blue eyes scan our faces, taking in Draco's near white pallor and my bloodshot eyes.

Hermione moves beside her, setting her stack of books on our table with a thud that makes both Draco and me wince. "Rough morning?”

"We're fine, Granger." Draco mutters.

Katara reaches into her robe pocket and pulls out two small vials filled with a cloudy blue liquid.

"Here," she says, placing one in front of each of us. "It'll help with the hangovers."

I stare at the vial suspiciously. "What is it?"

"A tonic. My own recipe." She tucks a curl behind her ear, "It's a water-based potion with willow bark, peppermint, and a few other ingredients."

Potter makes a choking sound behind her. "You're helping them? After they came to class drunk yesterday?"

Katara doesn't even turn to look at him. "They flew better drunk than most people do sober, Harry. Besides, we're potions partners. We need them to be functional for class."

The reminder hits me like a bucket of cold water.

Potions.

With Katara.

First thing this morning. My stomach lurches at the thought of leaning over a steaming cauldron for the next hour.

Draco eyes his vial with equal suspicion. "No offense, Raine, but how do we know this won't make things worse?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Oh, for Spirits' sake. If she wanted to poison you, she wouldn't do it in the Great Hall with witnesses."

"Reassuring," I mutter, but I uncork the vial anyway.

The scent that wafts up is surprisingly pleasant—cool and minty with an underlying sweetness. I glance at Draco, who gives a slight nod, and we down the contents simultaneously.

The effect is almost immediate. The pounding in my head recedes like waves pulling back from shore, leaving behind a blessed clarity. The nausea that's been churning in my stomach settles, and the harsh morning light no longer feels like daggers in my eyes.

"Holy shit," Draco breathes, straightening up as the potion works its magic. "That's... impressive."

I blink, looking up at Katara with newfound respect. "What exactly is in this?"

A small, satisfied smile plays at the corner of her lips. "Like I said, mostly water-based ingredients. The healing properties come from the combination, not any single element."

Hermione clears her throat, turning to Potter and Weasley. "You two should get going. Herbology starts in ten minutes, and Professor Sprout mentioned something about Venomous Tentacula seedlings today."

"But—" Weasley begins, clearly reluctant to leave.

"Now, Ronald," Hermione insists, "You know how Professor Sprout gets when students are late."

Potter's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Since when are you partnered with them?"

"Since Professor Snape assigned partners yesterday," Hermione explains with a roll of her eyes.

"Assigned partners?" Potter repeats, his eyebrows drawing together. "Since when does Snape assign partners?"

"Since yesterday," I repeat, feeling almost human again thanks to Katara's potion. "Try to keep up, Potter."

His green eyes narrow behind those ridiculous glasses. "And you two just happened to get paired with them."

"Dumbledore's orders," Hermione explains with a sigh. "Inter-house cooperation. Now, if you don't mind, we need to discuss our potions project before class."

Potter hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave Katara in our company. His eyes flick between her and me, narrowing slightly.

I meet his gaze, refusing to look away first.

"Fine," Potter finally concedes, adjusting his glasses with a deliberately casual gesture. "But we've saved you both seats for lunch."

"Thanks," Katara says, though her tone lacks enthusiasm. "We'll see."

They finally leave, Potter glancing back twice before they disappear through the doors.

"Thank you," I say once they're out of earshot, “For the potion."

Katara shrugs, though I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. "Like I said, I need you to be functional for Potions.”

"What are we making today anyway?" Draco asks, looking considerably more alive now.

"Draught of Living Death," Hermione replies, her eyes lighting up with that familiar academic enthusiasm. "It's well beyond N.E.W.T. level, but apparently Snape thinks our class is capable."

"Or he's hoping to watch us fail spectacularly," I mutter.

Katara's laugh—unexpected and genuine—makes my head snap up. "That's probably more accurate."

Druk chooses this moment to emerge from my bag, chirping excitedly when he spots Yue peering out from Katara's bag. The tiny dragon launches himself across the table, wings fluttering as he lands beside Katara's familiar. Yue's purr is audible even over the Great Hall's breakfast chatter as she nuzzles against Druk's scales.

"They're such good friends," Hermione observes, watching our familiars with a soft smile.

"Trouble makers is more like it." I reach out to stroke Druk's head, my fingers accidentally brushing against Katara's as she pets Yue. The brief contact sends a jolt through me that I desperately try to ignore.

"Sorry," Katara mumbles, pulling her hand back quickly. There's a hint of color in her cheeks that wasn't there before.

"Where's Crookshanks?" I ask, turning to meet Hermione's soft brown eyes.

She shrugs, "He wandered off towards the owlry this morning, probably looking for mice. He's quite independent, though he does seem to enjoy hanging around those two." she nods towards Druk and Yue.

An awkward silence falls between us, broken only by Druk's contented chirps as he nuzzles against Yue. I clear my throat, searching for something to say that won't make this moment more uncomfortable than it already is.

"We should head to Potions," Hermione says, glancing at her watch. "Snape will take points if we're late."

Draco nods, "Right. Can't give him the satisfaction."

As we gather our things, I notice Katara carefully transferring Yue back into her bag, the fluffy black cat reluctantly separating from Druk.

My dragon familiar chirps sadly, wings drooping as he watches his friend disappear into the soft worn satchel.

"Come on, drama-dragon," I murmur, offering my palm. He climbs aboard with a dejected trill, settling onto my shoulder with one last longing look toward Katara's bag.

The walk to the dungeons is strangely companionable. Hermione and Draco fall into step ahead of us, already arguing about the proper technique for crushing sopophorous beans. Katara walks beside me, close enough that I can smell the faint jasmine scent of her hair, but not so close that we risk touching again.

"Your potion really worked," I say, desperate to break the silence between us. "Where’d you learn to make it?"

She hesitates, then glances up at me. "Trade secret. But I can make you a batch to keep on hand, if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," I admit. "Though I'm not planning on making a habit of drinking firewhiskey before flying."

"Probably wise," she agrees, and there's that almost-smile again, "Though you did fly rather impressively."

"You noticed?"

Katara's eyes widen slightly, and for a terrifying moment, I think I've ruined whatever fragile truce we've established. But then she laughs—a soft, genuine sound.

"It was hard not to notice. You made quite a spectacle of yourself." She bites her bottom lip, those blue eyes watching me another moment, "Why were you drunk?" She asks softly.

I take a deep breath, contemplating wether to brush it off, or give a half truth. "I was… having a rough day, yesterday." I shrug, wincing at my lame excuse.

"I gathered that…" She hesitates, "Is everything okay now?"

No. "Yeah, it's fine." I sigh heavily, settling for a half truth, "The Thestral… got to me."

"But he liked you, he stomped his foot when you walked away." She attempts a small smile that I attempt to return.

"Yeah… I know. It just brought back memories of losing my… mom…" I trail off, not sure how much to share.

She doesn't say anything else, just steps closer, offering her presence as a small comfort.

A comfort I do not deserve.

We reach the Potions classroom just as Snape sweeps in from his office. The dungeon is already filled with the murmur of students setting up their cauldrons and gathering ingredients.

"Settle down," Snape drawls, "Today we will be attempting to brew the Draught of Living Death. I say 'attempting' because I have little faith that any of you will produce anything beyond a mediocre approximation." His dark eyes scan the classroom, lingering briefly on each pair. "The instructions are on the board. You have one hour."

"I'll do the sopophorous beans," I offer.

"Crush the bean with the flat side of your knife," she instructs, not looking up from her stirring. "Don't cut it."

"That's not what the book says," I point out, though I'm already following her direction.

She glances up, a hint of that rare smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Trust me."

And strangely, I do.

The next hour passes as Katara and I work together. When our potion turns the pale lilac described in the textbook, I catch a flash of genuine pleasure in her blue eyes.

"Perfect consistency," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

Across the room, Draco and Hermione seem to have had similar success. Hermione passes her notes over to Draco, letting him copy down the changes they made.

"Fine work, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," Snape observes, making Draco straighten with pride. He moves to our table next, dark eyes assessing our pale lilac potion with clinical precision. "Acceptable, Miss Raine, Mr. Ember. Though your stirring technique could use refinement."

It's as close to praise as Snape ever gives, and I catch Katara's small, satisfied smile as she carefully bottles a sample of our potion. The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and students begin packing their supplies with the usual scraping of chairs and clattering of cauldrons.

"Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy," Snape's voice cuts through the noise. "A word before you leave."

My stomach drops. The hangover may be gone thanks to Katara's miracle potion, but a new kind of nausea takes its place. Draco's eyes meet mine across the room, and I see my own dread reflected there.

"We'll see you in Care of Magical Creatures?" Hermione asks Draco, her voice hesitant as she gathers her books.

"Maybe." Draco replies.

Katara pauses beside me, her blue eyes searching my face. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I shrug, "Just Slytherin business."

She nods, though her expression suggests she doesn't quite believe me. "Well... thanks for being a decent partner today."

"Same to you," I reply, unable to meet her eyes.

How quickly would that almost-warmth vanish if she knew what awaited us? What Friday would bring?

I watch her leave with Hermione. The classroom empties until only Draco, Snape, and I remain.

We follow him through the connecting door into his private office, a room I've visited too many times over the years. Shelves lined with specimen jars cast eerie shadows across the stone walls, the contents floating in various colored liquids that seem to pulse with a life of their own.

Snape takes his seat behind the massive oak desk, gesturing for us to sit in the straight-backed chairs opposite. We sit, neither of us speaking as Snape studies us with those unfathomable black eyes.

"I received an owl this morning. From Ozai."

I give a curt nod of acknowledgement.

“Friday evening, post dinner service, you two are to report to the front steps. Transportation will be waiting to take you back to Ember Estate. You’ll receive further instruction there. You’re both spending the weekend away. Both your fathers have provided letters of absence to the Headmaster.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my face neutral.

"Yes, sir," Draco responds.

"You will need to prepare yourselves," Snape continues, his dark eyes unreadable. "The Dark Lord expects... dedication from his new recruits."

Dedication.

Blood.

Death.

My stomach churns, the remnants of Katara's hangover cure insufficient against this new wave of nausea.

“You’ll return Sunday evening. You’re both expected to keep up with your studies.” Snape eyes us both slowly. “Get to your next class. Don’t slip up. The Dark Lord expects perfection.”

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Notes:

Katara was sweet for offering that potion.

The story is going to start picking up a bit quicker now, and I'll do my best to include any notes for any particularly rough parts. If you catch anything I might've missed, feel free to leave a comment, just please keep it respectful.

Thanks for your patience and understanding :)

Chapter 11: Morsmordre Incarnatum

Notes:

Content Warnings for murder and maiming, some mentions of blood and gore, as well as child abuse in the form of manipulation.

Perfection.

Snape’s words haunt us until Friday, nothing is substantial enough to pull us from the stupor. I tell Druk to stay behind, spend the weekend exploring the castle, and no hunting Weasley's rat.

My father is waiting just outside the carriage, a wicked gleam of satisfaction in his golden eyes. 

The same color as mine. 

"Zuko," he greets me, his voice like silk over steel. "I trust your studies are going well."

I nod, "Yes, Father."

My father's eyes flick to Draco, acknowledging him with the barest inclination of his head before returning to me. "Get in. We have much to discuss."

The carriage interior is larger than it appears from outside—magic expanding the space into something resembling a small parlor. Plush black velvet seats line the walls, and silver lanterns cast an eerie glow over everything. Father sits across from us, his back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. The perfect picture of aristocratic composure.

"The Dark Lord is pleased you both accepted his invitation. He has great plans for you."

My stomach twists. 

Invitation. 

As if we had a choice.

"It's an honor," Draco replies,”to serve the Dark Lord.”

Father's lip curls into what might pass for a smile to anyone who doesn't know better. "Indeed. The Malfoy name still carries weight, though not as heavily as Embers."

Draco's face remains carefully blank, though I feel his body stiffen beside me.

"And you, Zuko," Father continues, his golden eyes—so like mine—fixed on my face, "have the opportunity to prove the Ember legacy remains strong. To show that my son is worthy of our name."

I swallow the acid rising in my throat. "Yes, Father."

The carriage moves faster than should be possible, the landscape blurring past the windows in smears of color. I focus on my breathing, on keeping my expression neutral, on not showing the panic clawing at my insides.

"The initiation is straightforward," Father says after a few hours, his voice casual as if discussing the weather. "You will be given a task. Complete it successfully, and you will receive the Dark Mark. Fail..." His smile is cold. "Well, failure isn't an option for an Ember."

Or a Malfoy.

Draco's face has gone so pale his skin looks translucent in the dim light.

Through the window, I see the imposing silhouette of Ember Estate against the twilight sky. The ancient manor house looms like a sentinel, its black stone walls absorbing what little light remains in the day. Windows glow with an unnatural greenish light, and I know without being told that they've already arrived—the Death Eaters, gathered to witness our initiation. To witness our fall.

The carriage jerks to a halt. Father exits first. Draco and I follow silently, our footsteps crunching on the gravel drive. The air tastes different here—heavier, charged with anticipation and a darkness that clings to the back of my throat. We're led through the grand entrance hall, past ancestral portraits whose eyes follow our progress with silent judgment.

I feel their disappointment pressing down on me, generations of Embers watching to see if I'll bring honor or shame to our name tonight. The drawing room doors swing open without anyone touching them. Inside, a long table dominates the space, and around it sit the inner circle—black-robed figures whose faces I know too well from childhood nightmares and family dinners.

At the head of the table sits Lord Voldemort himself, pale and serpentine, red eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Young Master Ember," he says, his voice a sibilant whisper that somehow fills the room. "And young Master Malfoy. How... eager we have been for this evening."

We bow, as we've been taught.

Not too deep—we are purebloods, after all—but enough to show respect.

My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I'm certain everyone in the room can hear it.

"My Lord," we murmur in unison.

Voldemort rises, "Tonight you join our ranks truly," he says, gliding toward us. "No longer children playing at power, but men taking their rightful place."

My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. Beside me, Draco's breathing has gone shallow.

"I have a task for you," Voldemort continues, extending a pale, long-fingered hand, "A simple one, to prove your dedication to our cause."

A small scroll materializes in his palm, sealed with black wax bearing his mark. He unrolls the parchment, revealing a map that glows with faint blue light.

"This muggle," he says, tapping a pulsing red dot on the map, "has been interfering with our plans. A scientist, studying anomalies that threaten to expose our world to muggle authorities."

The red dot pulses steadily, hypnotically, marking a location in what appears to be London. A small photograph appears next to it—a middle-aged man with glasses and a serious expression.

"You will eliminate this threat," Voldemort says simply. "Tonight."

My stomach drops.

"No magic," Voldemort adds, his lip-less mouth curving into what might be a smile. "The muggles must believe this is one of their own... unfortunate incidents." Voldemort gestures toward a cabinet. "Choose your weapons wisely."

The door swings open to reveal a wall of gleaming steel—every manner of blade imaginable arranged in meticulous order. My eyes immediately find what I'm looking for.

Dual Dao swords, their curved blades catching the greenish light. I've trained with these since childhood, the twin blades extensions of my arms in a way my wand has never really been.

I reach for the familiar hilts. The weight feels right in my hands, even as my world tilts on its axis.

Draco moves beside me, his eyes scanning the arsenal before settling on a Broadsword with an ornate hilt. He lifts it with confidence, testing its balance with a practiced motion that reminds me of our shared lessons when we were younger.

"Excellent choices," my Father says, appearing at my shoulder. His approval makes my skin crawl. "Traditional. Honorable."

There's nothing honorable about what we're about to do.

A house elf appears, bearing folded black clothing.

"Your attire for the evening," Father explains as we're each handed a bundle. "Tactical. Untraceable."

We go to a separate room, changing in silence. The black fabric clinging like a second skin. The material is unlike anything I've worn before—lightweight but impenetrable, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. The look is complete with matching balaclavas, only our eyes show. Perfect for disappearing into shadows.

Perfect for murder.

I secure the Dao swords to my back, the familiar weight both comforting and damning. Draco sheathes his Broadsword at his hip.

"Remember. Swift and clean. No hesitation." Father murmurs as he grips my shoulder.

Lucius approaches, his platinum hair gleaming in the dim light as he places a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Make me proud, son."

The weight of expectation settles over us like a shroud.

"We will observe," my Fathers voice carries to where the Dark Lord sits, "To ensure the task is completed correctly."

Voldemort inclines his head in agreement. "Of course. A father's pride in witnessing his son's first kill is... touching."

First kill. 

As if there will be many more to follow. As if this is just the beginning of a long, blood-soaked path.

I know it is.

My Father's hand tightens on my shoulder, his nails digging in just enough to be painful. A warning. A reminder of what happens to those who disappoint him.

"And remember," Voldemort adds, "failure is not an option. Not if you wish to  return to Hogwarts... or anywhere else."

Failure means death—not just for our target, but for us as well.

"We understand.”

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Moments later, we're apparating into a deserted London alley.

The rain has started—a light drizzle that muffles our footsteps, as we move through the shadows. The muggle scientist's flat is on the third floor, a corner unit with windows facing the street. Perfect visibility for what we need to do.

"Security system on the front door," Draco whispers, his breath visible in the cold night air. "We'll need to go around back."

I nod, following his lead through the narrow alleyway. Years of training have prepared us for this—sneaking, climbing, killing.

The thought makes me sick, but I push it down. There's no room for hesitation tonight. The fire escape creaks slightly as we ascend, every sound amplified in my hyper-aware state. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, in my throat, behind my eyes. The Dao swords on my back seem to grow heavier with each step. The window to the kitchen is unlocked—a stroke of luck we don't deserve.

Draco slides it open and we slip inside like shadows, our black clothing absorbing what little light filters in from the street lamps outside. The flat is small but meticulously organized. Books line every available wall space, scientific journals stacked in neat piles on side tables.

This is the home of a mind dedicated to knowledge, to understanding. The realization twists in my gut like a knife. A soft glow spills from beneath a door at the end of the hallway.

The muggle is still awake.

Draco's eyes meet mine in the darkness. I nod once, drawing my Dao swords with a whisper of steel against leather. Their familiar weight in my hands should be comforting, but tonight they feel like instruments of my damnation.

We move toward the light, our footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. Through the crack in the door, I catch my first glimpse of our target. The muggle scientist stands before a wall covered in papers, photographs, and maps, all connected by a web of colored threads. He's muttering to himself, adding another string—red this time—between what looks like a satellite image and a handwritten note.

He's tracking magic. Plotting anomalies. Getting too close to secrets that could expose our world.

That's what they told us, anyway.

I push the door open slowly, and the man doesn't turn. He's too absorbed in his work, in the patterns only he can see in the chaos of papers before him. I just watch him—this ordinary person whose life is about to end because he asked the wrong questions.

He doesn't hear us. Doesn't sense us. Doesn't know.

For one suspended moment, I see him clearly—thinning hair, glasses sliding down his nose, cardigan with patches at the elbows. Just a man, doing his job. Trying to understand the world. His world, which occasionally glimpses mine.

His crime is curiosity. His sentence is death.

Draco moves to my right, positioning himself for a clean strike. The floorboard beneath his foot creaks, barely audible, but the scientist turns.

His eyes widen, taking in the sight of two black-clad figures in his study, weapons drawn.

Confusion.

Then realization.

Then, finally, the terror I'd been dreading.

"Who—" We move in unison, a dance we've practiced in different forms since childhood. I focus my mind on the mechanical aspects.

Not the why.

Not the consequences.

Just the how.

My Dao swords sing through the air, a whisper of death. Draco's Broadsword flashes in the dim light. The scientist doesn't even have time to scream. I slice his neck open, while Draco sinks his blade into the man's chest.

It's over in seconds. Clean. Efficient. His body crumples to the floor, eyes still wide with that final moment of comprehension.

I don't look at his face. I can't.

"Done," Draco whispers, his voice hollow as he wipes his blade on the man's coat.

I clean my swords the same way. Muscle memory taking over where my mind refuses to function. The special fabric of our clothing has repelled every drop of blood—not a single crimson stain marrs the black material. Nothing to connect us to this moment. Nothing except the knowledge that will live forever behind my eyes.

We leave the way we came, silent shadows retreating into the night. The rain has intensified, washing away any trace of our presence. Nature's accomplice in our perfect crime.

Our Fathers wait in the alley, standing beneath an overhang that keeps them dry while we're soaked to the bone. The rain feels appropriate—like it's trying to cleanse something that can never be clean again.

"It's done." I report as we remove our balaclavas. The rain on my face, my scar, feels like condemnation of my sins, rather than cleansing them away.

Father studies my face, then Draco's, searching for weakness, for regret, for anything that might displease Voldemort. Finding none he nods once.

"Good," he says simply. "The Dark Lord will be pleased."

I expected to feel something more profound in this moment. Guilt. Remorse. Horror at what I've become. But there's nothing but a vast emptiness where my emotions should be, as if something essential has been carved out, leaving only a hollow chasm behind.

Draco looks exactly how I feel—his face a perfect blank, eyes focused on something distant that no one else can see.

"Let's go," Lucius says, placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Our Lord awaits."

The apparition back to Ember Estate feels like being torn apart and reassembled incorrectly. When we materialize in the drawing room, the assembled Death Eaters are exactly as we left them, as if frozen in a grotesque tableau waiting for our return.

"It is done, my Lord," Father announces, pride evident in his voice as he guides me forward. "The threat has been eliminated."

Voldemort rises from his seat, gliding toward us with that unnatural movement that makes my skin crawl. His red eyes gleam in the firelight as he studies us, probing for weakness, for hesitation, for any sign that we might not be fully committed to his cause.

"Well done," he says, his voice a cold caress that slides down my spine like ice water. "Very well done indeed."

The assembled Death Eaters murmur their approval, a ripple of black robes and silver masks nodding in unison. I stand perfectly still, not daring to move, not daring to show even a flicker of the hollowness expanding inside me.

"You have proven yourselves worthy to join our ranks. The purity of blood, the strength of conviction, and now... the willingness to act. To cleanse our world of those who would threaten it."

I focus on my breathing—steady, controlled, betraying nothing of the screaming void where my conscience used to be. Beside me, Draco stands equally rigid, his face a careful mask that mirrors my own.

"Your left arms," Voldemort commands.

We extend them in unison, pushing up our sleeves to reveal unmarked skin.

For the last time.

Voldemort draws his wand—thirteen and a half inches of yew that has ended more lives than I can comprehend. He places the tip against my forearm first, the wood unnaturally cold against my skin.

"Morsmordre Incarnatum," he whispers in that soft hiss.

Pain erupts through my arm, white-hot and searing, racing up from my wrist to my shoulder and then spreading like poison through my entire body. It's worse than anything my father has ever inflicted—worse even than the day he burned my face.

This pain reaches beyond physical sensation, seeping into my very soul, marking it as surely as my skin.

I don't scream. I won't give them the satisfaction.

When it finally subsides, the Dark Mark stares up at me from my own flesh—a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth, black against my skin, pulsing slightly with a life of its own. The snake writhes, settling into its permanent home in my flesh.

Draco receives his mark next, his jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding as he endures the same agony. When it's done, we stand side by side, newly branded, forever changed.

"Welcome," Voldemort says,"to the ranks of those who will shape the future. This is merely the beginning of your service to me, to our cause. There will be more tests, more opportunities to prove your loyalty."

Tests. Opportunities.

More death, he means. More blood on our hands.

"You've done well for your first task," Voldemort continues, addressing the entire gathering now. "But greater challenges await. Greater rewards for those who prove their loyalty to me."

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Notes:

They're death eaters now. Any theories on how this will affect life at Hogwarts?

As always, thank you being here and reading, it's much appreciated!

Next upload will be two chapters on Thursday November 13th

Chapter 12: Perfection in All Aspects

Notes:

Slight warning for for child abuse in the form of overtraining

Happy Thursday! This is going to be a longer chapter, sorry in advance.

"There is one more task to complete tonight," Father says, his eyes sweeping over Draco and I. The Dark Mark on my arm pulses with unnatural heat, as if responding to his voice.

My legs feel like lead, my mind still reeling from what we've done, but I straighten my spine and nod.

"Yes, Father."

He leads us from the drawing room, down a long corridor. The walls here are bare stone rather than adorned with portraits—this is the training wing, where generations of Embers have honed their bodies to match their magical prowess. Weapons line the walls—not decorative like those in the main hall, but worn from use, practical and deadly.

Draco and I exchange a glance before removing our tactical gear, revealing the simple black t-shirts and shorts underneath. The Mark stands out starkly against our pale skin, an obscene brand that seems to writhe in the torchlight.

"Your initiation is just the beginning," Father says, circling us like a predator. "The Dark Lord requires perfection in all aspects. Mental. Magical. Physical." He flicks his wand, and a series of metal rings rise from the floor, positioning themselves at various heights around the room. "You will start with isometric holds."

I stare at him in disbelief. We've just committed murder. We're exhausted, shell-shocked.

And now he wants us to... Exercise?

"Now, Zuko." His voice drops to that dangerous register I know too well. "Unless you'd prefer a more... motivating form of instruction."

I move into position, muscle memory taking over as I assume the first stance—arms extended, knees bent at precisely ninety degrees, core engaged. Beside me, Draco mirrors my position, his face set in grim determination.

"Hold," Father commands.

The burn starts almost immediately, muscles trembling as we maintain perfect stillness. This is a familiar torture—I've been doing these exercises since I was old enough to stand. But tonight, with the Mark fresh on my arm and a man's blood still metaphorically wet on my hands, the pain feels like penance.

"Lower," Father instructs after what feels like eternity.

We sink deeper into our stances, thighs screaming in protest. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down into my eyes. I blink it away, focusing on a spot on the wall, on anything except the memory of the scientist's eyes widening in that final moment of comprehension.

"Deeper," Father demands, and we obey.

My legs tremble violently now, muscles pushed to their limits. Father walks between us, occasionally adjusting our form with sharp jabs of his wand that feel like electric shocks against my skin.

"The body must be as disciplined as the mind," he lectures, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Pain is weakness leaving the body. Embrace it."

After what must be twenty minutes but feels like hours, he finally allows us to release the stance. I nearly collapse, legs giving out beneath me as I gasp for breath. Draco fares no better, bracing himself against the wall as he struggles to remain upright.

"Pathetic," Father sneers. "Again. This time with proper form."

And so it begins—a brutal regimen designed to test our physical limits.

"Now, the rings," Father commands, gesturing to the metal circles suspended around the room.

I drag myself toward the nearest one, jumping to grasp it with both hands. My arms immediately protest, shoulders burning as I pull my body upward until my chin clears the ring.

"Hold," Father orders.

I freeze, body suspended in mid-pull-up, every muscle screaming. Beside me, Draco maintains the same position, his face contorted with effort, veins standing out on his forearms. The Dark Mark pulses against his skin, matching rhythm with mine as if they're communicating.

"Slower," Father commands, and we begin to lower ourselves with excruciating deliberation, fighting gravity inch by inch.

When we reach the bottom, there's no relief—only the next command, the next position, the next test of endurance.

We move through exercises I haven't done since summer training: explosive jumps that send us flying toward ceiling-mounted rings, only to hold ourselves suspended on trembling arms; weighted squats with enchanted bars that grow heavier with each repetition; sprints across the chamber floor while dodging hexes Father sends flying at our feet.

"Faster," he barks as I barely avoid a stinging hex. "The Dark Lord has no use for sluggish servants."

Hours blur together in a haze of pain and sweat. My t-shirt clings to me, soaked through. Draco looks no better, his pale hair darkened with perspiration, face flushed with exertion. Neither of us speaks—we have no breath to waste on words. Besides, what is there to say? We've crossed a line tonight that can never be uncrossed.

"Balance work," Father announces, waving his wand to conjure a series of narrow beams that rise from the floor at varying heights. "Twenty minutes. Any falls reset the clock."

My legs feel like they're made of jelly as I mount the lowest beam, arms extended for balance. The wood is enchanted to shift subtly beneath our feet, requiring constant micro-adjustments to maintain position. It's an exercise in control, in focus—qualities Father has been drilling into me since before I could speak.

"Your mind must be steel," he says, circling us as we struggle to maintain our positions. "Your body, its perfect instrument. Nothing else matters."

Nothing else matters.

Not the life we just took. Not the Dark Mark burning on our arms. Not the fact that we've just sold our souls to a monster who will demand more blood, more death, more pieces of whatever humanity we have left.

I focus on my breathing, on the burning in my calves, on anything except those thoughts.

"The Dark Lord does not tolerate weakness," Father continues, his voice taking on the cadence of a lecture I've heard a hundred times before. "Physical. Mental. Magical. All must be at its best, at all times.”

The beams shift again beneath our feet, and I nearly lose my balance. My thighs scream in protest as I adjust, forcing my trembling muscles to obey.

"Again!" Father barks as Draco finally falls, his exhaustion winning out over discipline. "From the beginning. Both of you."

We continue through the night, moving from one brutal exercise to the next. Father's voice grows hoarse from shouting commands, but he never relents. The windows of the training room begin to lighten with the first hint of dawn, but still we push on—jumping, holding, balancing, fighting.

My body has moved beyond pain into something else entirely—a strange numbness where individual sensations blur together into one overwhelming symphony of agony. The fresh Dark Mark pulses on my arm with each elevated heartbeat, as if it's feeding on my exhaustion.

"Spar," Father commands as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows across the training mats. "No magic. Prove your worth."

Draco and I face each other, both of us swaying slightly with fatigue. His gray eyes meet mine, reflecting the same hollow emptiness I feel. Without speaking, we assume fighting stances. There's no energy left for hesitation. I dodge his first strike, my muscles responding on instinct rather than conscious thought. My counterattack is slower than usual but still finds its mark. Draco grunts as my fist connects with his ribs, we're both running on fumes.

"Pathetic," Father sneers, circling us like a vulture. "The Dark Lord expects killers, not children playing at combat."

Killers.

That's what we are now. What we've become. I falter, and Draco's leg sweeps mine from under me. I hit the mat hard, the impact jarring through my already battered body.

"Up!" Father demands. "Again!"

We continue trading blows that grow increasingly desperate as our bodies reach their absolute limits. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging and blurring my vision. My lungs burn with each ragged breath. Draco's movements have become jerky, uncoordinated. When I can no longer lift my arms to block his strikes, when Draco can barely remain standing, Father finally calls a halt. The sun has fully risen now, streaming through the high windows to illuminate our broken forms.

"Enough," he says, his voice devoid of approval or disappointment—just cold assessment. "You'll continue training tomorrow. For now, clean yourselves up. The suite in the east wing has been prepared for you."

He leaves without another word. Draco and I stand swaying on our feet, too exhausted to speak, too broken to move immediately.

"Come on," I finally manage, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Before he changes his mind."

We stumble from the training room, supporting each other when necessary, our soaked bodies leaving wet footprints across the ancient stone floors. The east wing is mercifully close—Father's one small kindness… If it can be called that.

The suite doors swing open at our approach. Inside, a spacious sitting room gives way to a bedroom with two large four-poster beds. A fire already burns in the grate, and a house elf has left steaming towels and what looks like healing salve on a side table.

"Shower," Draco grunts.

I nod, collapsing onto one of the plush armchairs while Draco drags himself to the bathroom.

The sound of water hitting tile reaches me, and I close my eyes, just for a moment. My muscles scream, the Dark Mark on my arm pulsing with unnatural heat.

I should be feeling something more—grief, horror, guilt—but there's nothing but a vast emptiness inside me. When Draco emerges minutes later, hair dripping and eyes hollow, I barely find the strength to stand.

The hot water does little to wash away what we've done, but it rinses the sweat from my skin, the physical evidence of our ordeal. I don't look at my reflection in the mirror. I can't face the person I've become.

"Here," Draco mutters when I return, tossing me a jar of salve. He applies it to his own bruises, wincing as the ointment sinks into battered muscles.

I follow suit, the cooling sensation offering momentary relief that feels almost obscene. We don't speak—what is there to say?

We've killed a man.

We bear the Dark Mark.

We're Death Eaters now.

The beds call to us with gravitational force. I stumble toward mine, legs barely supporting my weight. The sheets are cool against my skin as I collapse onto the mattress, not bothering with the covers. Beside me, Draco's bed creaks as he does the same.

"Zuko," he whispers into the silence, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "We're—"

"Don't," I cut him off. I can't hear it said aloud. Not yet. "Just... don't."

He falls silent. The ceiling above me blurs as my eyelids grow heavy. Sleep rushes up to claim me, and I surrender to it gratefully, too drained to fight, too tired even for nightmares.

My last conscious thought is that I should feel something—anything—about the life we took. But there's only emptiness, a vast void where my soul used to be.

Maybe that's the point.

Maybe that's what makes a good Death Eater.

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I wake to darkness and disorientation, my body a catalog of pain. For a moment, I can't remember where I am or why every muscle screams in protest. Then it all comes rushing back—the scientist's face, the Dark Mark burning into my flesh.

The clock on the mantle reads just past midnight. We've slept nearly eighteen hours, yet I feel no more rested than when I collapsed.

Draco's breathing is deep and even from the other bed, his face half-buried in the pillow, one arm hanging limply over the edge of the mattress. The Dark Mark stands out starkly against his pale skin, a grotesque reminder of what we've become.

I should wake him. We need to eat, to replenish what Father burned from us yesterday. Surviving another day of training will require fuel.

My muscles protest as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body.

"Draco," I rasp, my voice hoarse from sleep, "Wake up."

He stirs with a low groan as consciousness returns. His eyes, when they finally open, hold the same hollow emptiness I feel inside.

"What time is it?" he mumbles, wincing as he pushes himself upright.

"Midnight. We've been out for almost a day." I force myself to stand, legs trembling beneath me. "We need to eat something before Father comes back."

Draco nods, understanding the urgency. My father's idea of mercy is allowing us these few hours of rest.

It won't last.

I call for a house elf, who appears with a soft pop, eyes downcast as they always are in my father's house. "Bring us food and water. Something substantial."

"Yes, young master.”

Draco stumbles to the bathroom, and I hear water running. I follow, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the fog of exhaustion. The face that stares back at me from the mirror is a stranger's—hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken, skin pale beneath my scar.

The Dark Mark peeks out from beneath my sleeve, the snake seeming to writhe when I look at it directly.

By the time we return to the bedroom, the house elf has delivered a feast—roast chicken, potatoes, bread, fruit, and pitchers of both water and pumpkin juice. My stomach clenches at the sight, a reminder that I haven't eaten since before... before we killed a man.

"Eat," I tell Draco, who looks as reluctant as I feel. "They won't go easy on us today."

We force the food down methodically, barely tasting it, our bodies demanding nourishment even as our minds rebel against the normality of eating. The water is a blessing, soothing my parched throat and clearing some of the fog from my head.

"Do you think—" Draco begins, then stops himself.

I know what he's asking without him finishing.

Do I think we'll ever feel normal again?

Do I think we can return to Hogwarts and pretend nothing has changed?

Do I think we'll ever wash the blood from our hands?

"No," I answer, "I don't."

As we finish, the door swings open without warning. Father stands at the threshold, already dressed in training clothes, his golden eyes sweeping over us.

"Good. You're awake." He steps into the room, and I instinctively straighten my spine against the protest of my muscles. “Finish Quickly, we resume in twenty minutes.“

Twenty minutes. 

I drag my battered body to standing. Draco looks just as wrecked as I feel, dark circles under his eyes even after our extended sleep. We dress in silence, pulling on the training clothes laid out for us.

"Ready?" I ask, though it's a meaningless question. Ready or not, we have no choice.

Draco gives a curt nod, his face setting into that familiar Malfoy mask of indifference. We follow Father down the corridor to the training room, each step sending fresh waves of pain through muscles that haven't had proper time to recover.

"Begin with laps," Father instructs as we enter. "Twenty around the perimeter. No stopping."

The training room has expanded since yesterday, the walls seeming to stretch outward to create a track that circles the entire space. I don't question the magic

Questioning Father has never ended well for me. 

The first lap isn't terrible. By the fifth, my lungs are burning. By the tenth, each breath feels like inhaling fire, my legs moving through sheer stubborn will rather than any remaining strength.

Father watches from the center of the room, occasionally barking corrections about our form. "Higher knees, Zuko! Straighten your back, Draco! Pathetic—pick up the pace!"

Draco stumbles on the fourteenth lap, nearly going down before I grab his arm, hauling him upright without breaking stride. Father notices—he notices everything—but says nothing, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.

"Don't," I mutter under my breath, "Don't give him a reason."

Draco nods, finding some last reserve of energy to straighten his posture and quicken his pace.

"Three more," Father announces as we stagger past him. "Push through the pain. Embrace it."

When we finally stumble to a halt, I bend doubled over, hands braced on my knees, gasping for air that refuses to fill my lungs. Draco doesn't even manage that much grace—he collapses to his knees, head hanging as he struggles to breathe.

"Planks," Father announces without giving us time to recover. "Three minutes. Begin."

I drop to the floor, assuming the position—forearms flat on the mat, body straight as a board from head to heels. Beside me, Draco does the same, his arms already trembling. The burn starts immediately, core muscles screaming in protest after yesterday's abuse.

"Time does not stop for weakness," Father says, circling us like a predator. "The Dark Lord expects his servants to perform regardless of circumstance."

I focus on my breathing, trying to find that place inside where pain becomes irrelevant.

Hour after hour, Father drives us through one brutal exercise after another. Weighted squats until our legs give out. Pull-ups until our shoulders seize. Sprints across the chamber while dodging hexes he flings at our heels.

"Again!" he barks when Draco collapses during our third set of burpees.

I help Draco to his feet, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. The Dark Mark on his arm pulses in time with mine, both seeming to feed on our suffering.

"Mountain climbers," Father commands. "Five minutes, no stopping."

We drop to position, arms shaking as we begin the motion—bringing knees to chest in rapid succession, core muscles screaming in protest. I focus on counting, on breathing, on anything except the hollow emptiness inside me where guilt should be.

My arms give out at minute four. I crash to the mat, chest heaving, unable to push myself back up.

"Pathetic," Father sneers, towering over me. "Is this what the Ember legacy has come to? A son who can't even complete basic training?"

I try to rise, my muscles refusing to cooperate. Father's boot connects with my ribs sending pain lancing through my side.

"Get. Up."

I drag myself to my hands and knees, vision blurring with sweat and exhaustion.

Across the mat, Draco has stopped as well, watching with hollow eyes as Father circles me.

"Stand, Zuko." Father commands, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I know too well. "Or I'll give you a more permanent reminder of what happens to those who disappoint me."

My hand instinctively moves toward my scar. The motion doesn't go unnoticed.

"Yes," Father says softly. "You remember. Good."

I force myself upright, legs threatening to buckle beneath me. My ribs throb in time with my shallow breaths, but I keep my face blank.

Show no weakness.

Show no pain.

These lessons have been beaten into me since childhood.

"Swords. Show me what you've learned."

The Dao blades feel impossibly heavy in my trembling hands. Draco can barely lift his Broadsword, his arms shaking. We face each other, both knowing what's expected.

"Begin."

Our movements are sluggish, uncoordinated—nothing like the deadly precision we displayed in London. Metal scrapes against metal, the sound jarring in the cavernous room. Father circles us, occasionally striking with his wand when our form displeases him. The sting of his hexes barely registers among the symphony of pain already playing through my body.

"Pathetic," he spits after a particularly clumsy exchange. "The muggle would still be alive if this was your best effort."

The scientist's eyes widening in that final moment, the way his body crumpled to the floor, the blood that seemed black in the dim light of his study.

I falter, and Draco's blade slips past my guard, drawing a thin line of blood across my forearm. The cut stings, but the pain is distant, almost belonging to someone else.

"Again," Father demands. "Until you get it right."

We continue until I can no longer distinguish between sweat and blood, until Draco's face is just a pale blur across from me, until the swords feel fused to our hands. Only when we can barely stand, when our strikes have become little more than feeble gestures, does Father finally call a halt.

"Enough," he says, his voice cold with disappointment. "Clean yourselves up. The carriage will arrive in thirty minutes to take you back to Hogwarts. Do not disappoint me.”

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Notes:

Our boys aren't doing so hot at the moment.

How do we think it'll be going back to Hogwarts?

Chapter 13: Exactly what I am

Notes:

Back at school after that whirlwind, our guys are having a rough time

Next upload will be November 23rd

I am a ghost watching the world through glass. 

Breakfast clatters around me—forks scraping plates, voices rising and falling like tides—but none of it touches me. None of it feels real.

The Mark pulses beneath my sleeve, a constant reminder of what I've become, what I've done. The scientist's eyes haunt me, that moment of realization before we—

Beside me, Draco looks equally hollow, the shadows beneath his eyes matching mine. Neither of us has spoken much since our return.

What is there to say? We've crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. Taken something that can't be returned.

"You should eat something," I mutter, nudging his plate closer without looking at him.

He makes a noncommittal sound, lifting a piece of toast only to set it down again. “You too.” His fingers tremble slightly.

The Great Hall churns with life around us—students laughing, gossiping, complaining about assignments. Their voices are meaningless static.

How can they be so normal? So untouched? Their greatest worry is a Transfiguration essay while my hands still feel sticky with blood no amount of scrubbing will remove.

"Did you start Lupin's essay?" Dracos silver eyes flick to my still untouched plate.

"No. Didn't really have time between murder and torture."

Draco flinches at my bluntness, eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Zuko—"

"What's your happiest memory, Draco?" I cut him off, "What would you use for a Patronus now?"

Whatever memories might have worked before Friday are tainted now, corrupted by what we've become. The Mark seems to pulse in agreement, a parasite feeding on my darkening thoughts.

Druk shifts against me, his tiny body radiating warmth against my neck. At least he still trusts me, still sees something in me worth loving. 

I'm not sure I deserve it anymore.

"Your tea's getting cold," Draco observes, his voice flat.

I glance down at the forgotten cup. Steam no longer rises from its surface. I lift it anyway, the liquid bitter and lukewarm against my tongue.

Across the hall, I catch a flash of dark curls and blue robes. Katara sits at the Ravenclaw table, head bent close to Hermione's as they pour over some text, Yue tucked between them next to Crookshanks.

My chest aches at the sight of her—so untouched by darkness, so alive. I look away before she can catch me staring. Before she can see what I've become.

"Bloody hell," Draco mutters, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. "Incoming."

I follow his gaze to see Potter and Weasley making their way toward our table, weaving between students with determined expressions. Potter's glasses catch the morning light, flashing like warning signals.

I straighten, shoulders squaring despite the protest of muscles still recovering. The Mark on my arm pulses once, sharp and hot, as if responding to the approaching threat.

Durk moves to my shoulders, taking a defensive stance. Crimson eyes narrowed on Potter.

"Ember. Malfoy." Potter's voice carries that particular blend of self-righteousness and disdain that makes my teeth grind. "Surprised to see you back so soon. Family emergency over already?"

"It’s none of your business," I snap, my patience instantly evaporating. "Fuck off, Potter."

Potter's eyes widen slightly behind his glasses, clearly not expecting such immediate hostility.

"What's your problem?" Weasley steps forward, his freckled face flushing with indignation. "We were just asking—"

"You weren't 'just asking' anything," I snarl, rising to my feet. My body screams in protest, muscles still raw, but rage gives me strength. "You came over here to stick your self-righteous nose where it doesn't belong. Like you always do."

Druk hisses at Potter, his scales rising with the threat of flames.

Potter's jaw tightens, "We have every right to question suspicious behavior. You two disappear all weekend with some vague excuse, then show up looking like—"

"Like what?" I step closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Go on, Potter. Tell me what I look like."

He falters, green eyes darting between Draco and me. "Like you haven't slept. Like you've been tortured—"

"And that's your business because?" Draco interjects.

"Because people who sneak around and come back looking haunted are usually up to something," Weasley retorts, his ears reddening. "Usually something that involves You-Know-Who."

The Mark burns on my arm at the indirect mention, and I nearly flinch. 

Nearly. 

"Listen carefully because I'm only saying this once," I growl, leaning forward until I'm inches from Potter's face. "My life is none of your fucking business. What I do, where I go, who I see—None of it concerns you. So take your hero complex and your pathetic sidekick and get the hell away from me before I show you exactly what I learned this weekend."

For a split second, I see genuine fear in Potter's eyes. Good. He should be afraid.

"Is that a threat, Ember?" Potter recovers quickly, hand moving subtly toward his wand pocket.

I laugh, the sound hollow, "No, Potter. That's a promise. The next time you come sniffing around my business, you'll regret it."

Drunk huffs a small plume of flames emphasizing my words.

"You think you're so tough," Weasley sneers, stepping forward. "But we know what you are. Both of you. Just a couple of Death Eater wannabes playing at being dangerous."

My vision goes red at the edges. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

"Get the fuck away from our table," I snarl, "I don't have the patience for your self-righteous bullshit today."

Potter's eyes widen behind his glasses. Weasley flushes red, freckles disappearing against the rising color.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Weasley demands, stepping closer.

"A pair of privileged, judgmental pricks." I snap, "Who strut around this castle playing the hero."

The Mark burns beneath my sleeve, pulsing in time with my fury. I lean closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in Potter's green eyes, close enough that he steps back again.

"You think you understand evil because of what happened when you were a baby? You know nothing.”

"Zuko," Draco warns quietly beside me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Potter challenges.

"It means, fuck off."

Weasley's face contorts with indignation. "You can't talk to us like that! Who do you think—"

"I said FUCK OFF!"

My voice echoes across the Great Hall, silencing nearby conversations. The fire I've been suppressing since our return flares in my veins, and I feel my fingertips growing hot.

Dangerous.

"Go back to your perfect little lives and leave us the hell alone."

Potter's eyes narrow, "What did you do this weekend, Ember?" he asks quietly. "What exactly was this 'family emergency'?"

For one terrible moment, I think he knows. That somehow, impossibly, he can see through my sleeve to the brand beneath, can see the blood still staining my hands.

"None of your fucking business," I hiss, barely controlling the urge to grab him by his perfect Gryffindor tie and show him exactly what the Dark Lord's newest recruit is capable of.

“Zuko?” A soft cautious voice comes from beside Draco.

I whirl on them, “WHAT!?” Then freeze in my fury, meeting crystal blue eyes. Full of fear. Afraid. Of me.

Katara.

My fury dies in my throat like a snuffed candle.

She stands in her Ravenclaw robes, blue eyes wide with genuine fear. Not wariness, not suspicion, but actual terror of what I might do to her.

I'm towering over her, hands clenched into fists, fury that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the poison eating away at my soul. She sees a Death Eater. She sees a killer.

She sees exactly what I am.

"I—" I start, then stop, the words dying in my throat.

What can I possibly say? That I'm sorry for terrifying her? That the rage burning through my veins isn't meant for her? That I'm not the monster I've become?

But I am. The Mark proves it. The blood on my hands proves it.

Druk purrs an apology towards Katara, his scales settling and his wings folding back into a calmer stance.

"Katara," I whisper, my voice cracking on her name. The fight drains out of me all at once, leaving behind only hollow exhaustion. "I didn't mean—"

She shakes her head, backing away another step.

The fear in her blue eyes cuts deeper than any blade, more brutal than any of Father's punishments. This is what I've done. This is what I've become. Someone who makes good people afraid.

"Stay away from her," Potter snarls, moving protectively in front of Katara. He’s holding his wand, fingers wrapped around it with white-knuckled intensity.

I want to explain that I would never hurt her, that even in my darkest moments she remains untouchable in my mind. But the words won't come. How can I make her understand that she's the only light left in my world when I'm drowning in darkness?

"Zuko," Draco's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "We should go."

He's right. Every eye in the Great Hall is on us now. Conversations stopped mid-sentence as students crane their necks to witness the spectacle.

McGonagall has risen from the staff table, her lips pressed into a thin line as she strides toward us. I take one last look at Katara, memorizing the fear in her eyes, the way she's pressed herself against Hermione for comfort.

This is what I deserve. This is what someone like me inspires in someone like her.

"Mr. Ember!" McGonagall's sharp voice cracks like a whip. "My office. Now."

I don't argue. Can't argue. The words have been burned out of me by the sight of Katara's terror. I follow McGonagall from the Great Hall, leaving behind the whispers and stares, leaving behind any hope I might have had of redemption. The Mark pulses beneath my sleeve, a constant reminder of what I am now. What I'll always be.

A monster.

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Notes:

I love the way Zuko and Draco look out for one another. Also, Harry and Ron are more than a little annoying. Very nosy Griffyndors, living up to the rep.

How do we think Katara and Hermione will react to the guys after this?

Next upload will be two chapters on Sunday November 23rd

Chapter 14: Perfect Torture

Notes:

No warnings for this one.

Back again with our sad guys. This is a shorter chapter.

By the time I drag myself to Defense Against the Dark Arts, I'm moving purely on autopilot. My body feels leaden, disconnected from my will. I take my usual seat beside Draco, not meeting his eyes or anyone else's.

The classroom fills around me, voices and movement that seem to belong to another world entirely. Lupin sweeps into the classroom. I barely register his presence, my mind still trapped in the scientist's study, replaying the moment when my blade sliced through flesh. The memory loops endlessly, a perfect torture.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Lupin says, "I trust you all had a productive weekend."

A few students murmur responses. I remain silent, staring at the blank parchment before me. Druk settles against my neck, purring his warmth into my skin.

"Today we'll be discussing the practical applications of the Patronus Charm," Lupin continues, "but first, I'd like to collect your drafts for your essays on your happiest memory."

The rustle of parchment fills the room as students reach into their bags.

I don't move.

Neither does Draco.

The essay. The one assigned before everything changed. Before I became someone—something—else entirely. The one neither of us can finish, because we can't even start it. About happiness and good times that don't exist for us.

"Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy," Lupin's voice sharpens slightly as he approaches our desk. "Your essays, please."

I look up slowly, meeting his gaze. Something in my eyes makes him pause, his expression shifting from expectation to concern.

"I don't have it." 

"Neither do I," Draco adds, his tone equally flat.

Lupin studies us both, his head tilting slightly as if seeing something beyond our physical forms. "I see. And may I ask why?"

"Family emergency." I offer with no further explanation.

"The entire weekend?" Lupin presses, his eyes never leaving mine. "You couldn't find even an hour to start the assignment?"

An hour. 

Between the killing and the torture and the branding, we should have carved out an hour for homework. How absurd. 

"No, sir," I say instead. "We couldn't."

The class has gone silent, all eyes on us. I can feel Katara's gaze burning into the back of my neck, but I don't turn. Can't turn. The memory of her fear in the Great Hall is still too raw.

"Very well," Lupin says after a long moment. "See me after class. Both of you." He moves away, continuing to collect essays from the rest of the students. 

Druk curls tighter around my shoulders, nuzzling into my neck in that comforting way. Today, the comfort doesn't register.

Beside me, Draco exhales slowly, his quill still untouched on the desk. "Happiest memory," he mutters under his breath, "What a fucking joke."

I should feel something—anxiety about the pending conversation, embarrassment over failing to complete the assignment, concern about losing house points. But there's nothing. Just the hollow void where emotions used to be. My quill remains untouched beside my blank parchment.

Draco is equally disengaged, his eyes glazed and distant. Occasionally, his hand drifts to his left forearm, fingers pressing against the sleeve as if checking that the Mark is still hidden.

Mine pulses with phantom heat, a constant reminder of what my bloodline has made me. Druk doesn't give up his attempts to comfort this stupor out of me. Unfortunately it’s not having the intended effect.

When the bell finally rings, the classroom empties. Potter and Weasley linger at the door until Lupin gives them a pointed look, and even then they leave reluctantly, glancing back at Katara and Hermione with protective concern. Neither girl meet my eyes as they pass, their gazes fixed firmly ahead, their shoulders stiff, as if bracing against a storm.

Lupin waits until the last student leaves, closing the door with a flick of his wand before turning to face us. His expression is unreadable as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest.

"I understand you both had a... family emergency this weekend," he begins carefully. 

I say nothing. Beside me, Draco stares at a point just over Lupin's shoulder, his face a perfect blank.

"However," Lupin continues, moving to pull a chair across from our desk, "I find myself concerned. Not about the missed assignment—that can be made up—but about you both."

He sits, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, bringing himself to our eye level rather than looming over us. The gesture would seem kind if I could still feel such things.

"What's going on?" he asks simply.

"Nothing, Professor." My voice drops to that dangerous register. A warning.

Lupin's eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "Mr. Ember, I've been teaching long enough to recognize when a student is more than just tired."

I shrug, the movement sending a dull throb of pain through muscles still raw, "We had a difficult weekend."

"So I gather." Lupin shifts his gaze to Draco, who remains stubbornly silent. "Mr. Malfoy? Anything to add?"

Draco shakes his head once.

Lupin sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. "The Patronus Charm," he says after a moment, changing tactics, "requires more than just magical skill. It requires emotional fortitude. A connection to joy so powerful it can drive back darkness."

I almost laugh at the irony. Joy. As if such a thing still exists for us.

"Tell me," Lupin continues, his voice softening, "what memory would you use, Mr. Ember? What moment of happiness would you draw upon to cast your Patronus?"

I search my mind for something—anything—that hasn't been tainted by what I've become. My childhood? Poisoned by Father's cruelty. My mother? The thought of her only conjures images of her dead eyes, faded with fear as she called for me with her last breath. My years at Hogwarts? Overshadowed by the legacy I've now fully embraced.

"I don't know," I answer finally, the words scraping my throat like broken glass. "I can't think of one."

Lupin's eyes soften with something that might be pity, and I have to look away. I can't bear it—not from him, not from anyone.

"Surely there must be something," he presses gently. "A childhood memory, perhaps? A moment with family or friends that brought you joy?"

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "My childhood isn't exactly a treasure trove of happy memories, Professor."

"What about you, Mr. Malfoy?" Lupin shifts his attention to Draco, "Your happiest memory?"

Draco stares at his hands for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet I barely hear him. "I used to have one," he murmurs. "Flying with my mother when I was a child. Before..."

He doesn't elaborate on what "before" means, but I understand. Before the Dark Lord's return. Before our fathers dragged us into a war we never chose.

Before we became killers.

"And now?" Lupin asks, his voice gentle but persistent.

Draco's jaw tightens. He remains silent.

Lupin leans back, studying us both with eyes that see too much. "That's concerning," he says finally. "Not just academically, but personally. Everyone should have at least one memory that brings them joy—something to hold onto when darkness closes in."

"Maybe some people don't get that luxury," I reply, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Maybe some of us are born into darkness."

"No one is born into darkness, Mr. Ember," Lupin says, "Darkness is a choice."

I think of Friday night, of the scientist's face, of the choice I made when I drew my blades. Was it really a choice when the alternative was death?

"With all due respect, Professor," I say, my voice carefully controlled, "you don't know anything about my life or my choices."

"Perhaps not the specifics," he concedes, “But I understand loyalty, and how it can be sometimes difficult to uphold, when the price is too high.”

I say nothing.

“By Friday, I want something from both of you. Do not let yourselves fall behind. You’re both brilliant. Use it.”

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Notes:

Lupin is kind in his way. Zuko and Draco are in a lot of pain.

Chapter 15: A Moment that didn't Hurt

Night has fallen outside the tall windows, darkness pressing against the glass. My muscles ache, but the pain is almost welcome—a physical distraction from the hollow emptiness inside. The Mark pulses occasionally beneath my sleeve, a parasite feeding on my darkest thoughts.

"This is useless," Draco mutters, shoving his Patronus essay aside. "How am I supposed to write about happiness when I can't even remember what it feels like?"

I grunt in agreement, staring blankly at my own half-hearted attempt. The parchment is mostly empty, save for a few crossed-out sentences that felt like lies even as I wrote them. We shift gears, diving into the analytical notes of Astronomy.

The library doors creak open, and the quiet murmur of approaching voices breaks our isolation. I tense immediately, recognizing Potter's self-important tone even before I see him. Draco's shoulders stiffen beside me, his quill freezing mid-word.

"Honestly, Ron, you should have seen Snape's face when my potion turned the exact shade of lilac," Hermione's voice carries through the stacks, bright with academic pride.

"Brilliant as always," Weasley responds, his adoration painfully obvious even from a distance.

They round the corner into our section, a tight group of four—Potter and Weasley flanking Katara and Hermione like personal guards. Their laughter dies instantly when they spot us, the atmosphere shifting from casual warmth to frigid tension in the space of a heartbeat.

"Oh," Potter says flatly. "They're here."

I keep my eyes fixed on my parchment, refusing to acknowledge them. The quill in my hand threatens to snap under the pressure of my grip.

"Let's sit somewhere else," Weasley suggests loudly. "The air's a bit foul over here."

"Ronald," Hermione hisses.

I feel Katara's gaze on me, but I don't look up. The memory of her fear in the Great Hall is still too raw, too damning.

They settle at a table across the aisle, close enough that their conversation carries easily to us. Potter immediately launches into some tedious Quidditch anecdote, his voice pitched just loud enough to be irritating. Weasley responds with excessive enthusiasm, both of them clearly performing for the girls' benefit.

"And then the Snitch just appeared, right there by my ear," Potter recounts, gesturing dramatically. "Fastest catch I’ve ever managed!”

Weasley guffaws so loudly that Madam Pince shoots him a venomous glare from her desk.

I grit my teeth, focusing on the parchment before me. The words blur together, meaningless symbols that can't distract me from the hollowness inside.

Draco's quill scratches furiously beside me, though I suspect he's just making random marks to appear busy.

A shadow falls across our table.

I look up, startled, to find Katara standing there. Her face is unreadable, her blue eyes carefully avoiding mine as she sets two small vials on the table between Draco and me. The glass containers are filled with a familiar glowing blue liquid.

"For the pain," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn't wait for a response, turning immediately to walk back to her table sliding back into her seat beside Hermione, who gives her a small, approving smile.

I stare at the vial, stunned into silence. 

"Katara, what was that?" Potter demands, his voice carrying even with his attempt at a whisper. "Why are you helping them?"

Draco and I exchange a look of mutual confusion before examining the vials before us. The liquid inside glows faintly, a deeper blue than the hangover remedy. I recognize the scent when I uncork it—willow bark and something sweeter, with an undertone of dittany.

"Do we trust it?" Draco murmurs.

I glance at Katara, who's deliberately not looking our way, her head bent over her textbook.

"Yes," I decide, though I couldn't explain why. "We do."

We drink simultaneously, the liquid cool and soothing as it slides down my throat. The effect is almost immediate—a gentle warmth spreading through my limbs, easing the deep ache of muscles overtaxed. The persistent throb in my ribs fades to a dull, manageable discomfort.

"Bloody hell," Draco whispers, straightening slightly as the potion works through his system. "That's... impressive."

“He yelled at you this morning, he doesn’t deser—”

"It's nothing, Harry," Katara replies, "Just something for a potions experiment."

"Didn't look like nothing," Weasley argues, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. "Looked like you were passing them healing potions. Since when do you—"

"Ronald, that's enough," Hermione cuts him off, "We came here to study for Arithmancy, remember? The test is tomorrow, and you haven't even started the practice problems."

"But they're—"

"Studying, just like we are," Hermione interrupts, pushing a heavy textbook toward him. "Now, these logarithmic properties won't memorize themselves."

I catch Hermione's eye for just a moment before she looks away.

Whatever drove her to shut down Potter and Weasley's interrogation, I'm grateful for it. The potion works its way through my system, soothing muscles that have been screaming since Father's training session.

A small weight shifts in my bag. Before I can react, Druk wriggles free, launching himself into the air with a delighted chirp that turns heads throughout the library.

"Druk, no!" I hiss, reaching for him, but he's already airborne, a golden streak against the dim library lighting. He circles once above our table, wings outstretched, before darting straight toward the Gryffindor table.

"What the—" Potter starts, jerking backward as my familiar lands directly in front of Katara, his tiny claws skittering across their parchment.

Druk chirps happily, rubbing his scaled head against Katara's hand. For a moment, she seems frozen in surprise, then her expression softens. She reaches out, petting his head and scratching behind a horn.

"Hello there," she murmurs, a small smile playing at her lips. "I was wondering where you'd been hiding."

Hermione leans closer, "His coloring is extraordinary," she observes, offering her own hand for Druk to inspect. "I've never seen a miniature dragon with such vibrant gold scales."

Druk preens under the attention, stretching his wings to their full span.

The traitor.

When he's with me, he's all shy chirps and hiding in my bag, but put him near Katara and suddenly he's performing like he's at a show.

"Get that thing away from them," Weasley snaps, glaring in my direction. "Probably carrying Dark magic or something equally heinous.”

"He's not a 'thing'," I snap, rising to my feet as rage boils through me again. "His name is Druk."

Weasley's face flushes crimson. "Whatever it is, keep it away from—"

A flash of movement interrupts him as Yue emerges from Katara's bag, leaping onto the table with feline grace. Her mismatched eyes—one blue, one moonlight—lock onto Druk immediately. My familiar chirps with unmistakable joy, wings fluttering excitedly as he scurries across the parchment toward her.

They meet in the middle of the table, Druk nuzzling against Yue's fluffy black fur while she purrs loud enough for me to hear from across the aisle. The cat's tail wraps protectively around my dragon, drawing him closer.

Katara laughs softly, her fingers gently stroking Druk's scales. The sound of her laughter makes something in my chest twist painfully.

"We missed you this weekend, didn't we, Yue?"

Hermione leans forward, cautiously extending her hand. "May I?" she asks, glancing at me.

I nod stiffly, unable to form words. Druk preens under her touch, stretching his wings while Yue watches with what can only be described as feline pride.

"He's remarkable," Hermione murmurs, examining the gold patterns along his scales. "The coloration is unlike anything I've read about. How long have you had him?"

Before I can answer, Potter cuts in, his voice sharp with suspicion. "I wouldn't touch it if I were you, Hermione. Who knows what dark enchantments are on it."

Yue's ears flatten against her head, her mismatched eyes narrowing dangerously. A low, threatening growl comes from her throat as she positions herself between Druk and Potter, fur standing on end.

"Harry!" Katara admonishes, her hand protectively covering both familiars. "That's completely uncalled for. Druk is just a dragon."

"A dragon belonging to him," Weasley points out, jabbing a finger in my direction. "After what happened this morning—"

Yue hisses again, louder this time, her tail lashing angrily. The sound menacing for a cat her size, echoing through the library with an almost magical resonance.

Potter and Weasley both flinch backward, eyes widening.

"Merlin's beard," Weasley mutters, "that cat's possessed or something."

"She's protective." Katara corrects him.

Yue isn't finished. She takes a deliberate step toward Weasley, ears flattened against her head, another threatening hiss.

The message couldn't be clearer if she'd spoken it aloud: insult her friend again, and there will be consequences.

"I think," Hermione says, fighting to keep a smile off her face, "that Yue doesn't appreciate you insulting her friend."

Potter's mouth falls open slightly. "But it's Ember's—"

"Familiar," Katara finishes for him, her voice gentle but firm as she strokes Yue's fur, trying to calm her. "And familiars choose their own, Harry. They see things differently than we do."

Druk chirps softly, nudging Yue with his head until she reluctantly settles back down, though her eyes remain fixed on Weasley with unmistakable warning.

The moment stretches for just a heartbeat longer before Druk decides the tension has lasted long enough. With a mischievous chirp, he nips playfully at Yue's ear and launches himself into the air, wings beating frantically as he circles above the table. Yue's mismatched eyes track him, her body coiling like a spring before she pounces upward, missing him by inches as he darts away.

"Oh no," Katara laughs, her face lighting up "There they go again."

Druk swoops low, taunting Yue with his proximity before zooming away as her paws swipe at him. The little traitor is showing off, performing elaborate aerial maneuvers. He dives between stacks of books, Yue in hot pursuit, her black form a blur as she leaps from table to chair to shelf.

"They're going to knock something over." Hermione says, but she's laughing too, her eyes bright with delight as Druk circles back, hovering just out of Yue's reach.

Yue crouches, her tail twitching in concentration before she launches herself upward in a spectacular leap that nearly connects. Druk chirps in alarm, barrel-rolling away at the last second. He zooms back toward our table, landing on my shoulder for just long enough to chirp smugly in my ear before taking off again.

"Show-off," I mutter, my lips twitching in almost a smile.

Katara and Hermione’s laughter fills the library, musical and uninhibited as Druk and Yue continue their game. Yue skids across a parchment, sending it fluttering to the floor as she chases after my familiar.

Hermione is doubled over now, shoulders shaking with silent giggles as Druk performs an elaborate loop-de-loop that has Yue spinning in confused circles.

I can't take my eyes off Katara.

Her blue eyes track the familiars' antics, sparkling with joy, her smile wide and unguarded. She looks... alive. Radiant. 

Everything I'm not. 

Beside me, Draco hasn't moved, but I can feel the shift in his attention. When I glance at him, his eyes are fixed on Hermione, watching as she laughs at the familiars' game.

His expression is neutral, but I know him too well to miss the longing that flickers across his features when Hermione tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear, her face flushed with delight.

The familiars' chase brings them skidding across our table, scattering quills and nearly upending an inkwell.

Yue jumps into my arms, nuzzling and cuddling into me.

I freeze, completely stunned as the small black cat settles in my arms, her warm body vibrating with purrs against my chest. I instinctively cradle her, though my mind can't process what's happening.

Yue—Katara's familiar—is willingly touching me, nuzzling into me as if I'm not tainted by darkness, as if my hands aren't stained with blood.

"I... what?" I stammer, looking up to find Katara staring at us with an expression of equal shock.

Druk circles triumphantly before landing on my shoulder, chirping with obvious satisfaction.

"She's never done that before," Katara says softly, rising from her seat and approaching our table. "Not with anyone but me."

Potter and Weasley gape in horror, as if watching their friend walk willingly into a dragon's lair. Hermione follows Katara, her eyes darting between Draco and me.

"May I?" Katara asks, gesturing to the chair across from me.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Yue stretches in my arms, kneading my chest with tiny paws before settling more comfortably. Her mismatched eyes regard me with feline approval.

Druk chirps again, hopping from my shoulder to nestle beside Yue, their bodies curled together.

"They really missed each other," Katara says, watching our familiars with a small smile. "Yue was inconsolable all weekend."

A moment of awkward silence stretches between us. I can feel Potter and Weasley's glares burning into the back of my head, but I focus only on Katara, on the way her fingers nervously tap against the table's edge.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, the words escaping before I can stop them. "About this morning. I didn't mean to—" I stop, unsure how to finish.

Didn't mean to what? Terrify her? Reveal the monster I've become?

"It wasn't fair of me to yell at you." I stammer, "It wasn't you that…" I take a deep breath, "The weekend was rough… and I—I wasn't—I'm not handling it well."

My gold eyes flick to Draco's silver ones. He nods almost imperceptibly, encouraging me to continue.

"It's not an excuse… but… I am sorry."

She bites her lip, crystalline eyes studying me. "It's okay. You were upset." 

Upset doesn't begin to cover the howling void inside me. The constant burn of the Mark beneath my sleeve. The memory of a man's life ending by my hand.

"Still, it wasn't fair, or okay. You were just trying to help and I—"

"You weren't okay." She says softly, "You're still not."

I shrug, feeling exposed under her alarmingly accurate observation, "I'm a little more okay…now... with your potion…"

"Did the potion help?" she asks, changing the subject. "I modified it from the hangover remedy—added more dittany for pain, and a touch of valerian root.”

"It helped immensely," Yue continues purring in my arms. "Thank you."

Draco clears his throat beside me. "Yes, thank you. Whatever you added for muscle fatigue... it worked rather well."

A faint blush colors her cheeks as she tucks a dark curl behind her ear. "I'm glad. I wasn't sure if the proportions were right. I was experimenting with the formula."

"It was perfect," I murmur, unable to look away from her face.

The Mark pulses beneath my sleeve, a reminder of what I am now. Yue's warmth against my chest feels like absolution I don't deserve.

Hermione moves closer,  "I'm glad it helped," she says, her voice warm, "You both looked... Well, not yourselves."

Not ourselves. As if we'd simply had a bad night's sleep rather than committed murder and received the Dark Mark.

I notice Draco's posture shift subtly as Hermione settles into the chair beside him. He straightens, his shoulders pulling back in that way he has when he's trying not to appear affected by her presence. 

"Are you working on Lupin's essay?" Hermione asks, nodding toward our mostly blank parchments.

"Attempting to," Draco responds, "Not making much progress, I'm afraid."

"The Patronus one or the boggart one?" she presses, leaning forward slightly.

"Both," I admit. "We missed most of the class discussion today, our focus was..."

“Limited.” Draco finishes for me.

Hermione glances at Katara, some unspoken communication passing between them before she reaches into her bag.

"I took detailed notes," she says, pulling out several sheets of parchment covered in her neat, precise handwriting. "You both seemed... distracted in Potions this morning. And… every other class. I thought these might help."

She slides the notes across the table, each class we barely made it through, carefully annotated with detailed bullet points. Her fingers brushing against Draco's as he reaches for them.

The contact lasts only a second, but I don't miss the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as he accepts the offering.

“You’re welcome to hang on to them to share, I have my own copies.” Hermione says as her soft brown eyes scan over Draco's scattered parchment.

"Thank you," Draco says, his voice dropping to something softer "That's... unexpected."

"But appreciated," I add quickly, not wanting her kindness to go unacknowledged.

“Yes… appreciated.” Draco takes a deep breath, “Thanks, Granger.”

"Hermione," she corrects him softly.

"Hermione…" he repeats, his eyes flicking down to his parchment to begin copying the notes.

Katara shifts in her seat, looking between our mostly blank parchments. She bites her lower lip, her eyes flickering to mine before darting away again.

"Are you... having trouble with the essay?" she asks quietly, her voice gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. "The happiest memory part?"

I freeze, Yue still purring contentedly in my arms. The question dangerously close to things I cannot explain.

How do I tell her that happiness feels like a foreign language I once knew but have forgotten? That every memory bright enough to power a Patronus has been corrupted by the Mark on my arm?

"You could say that." I finally manage.

Hermione leans forward, her expression softening. "The boggart essay is challenging for everyone," she offers switching the subject. "Having to confront your greatest fear, even just theoretically..."

"It's personal," Katara finishes for her. "And difficult to share with others."  

The kindness in her eyes makes something twist painfully in my chest.  I don't deserve it—not after what I've done, what I've become. 

"What would your boggart be?" I whisper.

Katara's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't flinch away. "Death Eaters," she answers simply. "Like the ones who killed my mother."

The Mark burns beneath my sleeve, as if responding to her words. I fight the urge to cover it with my hand, to hide the evidence of what I now am—exactly what she fears most.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words woefully inadequate. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's okay," she says, though we both know it isn't. "What about you?"

"My father," I admit, the confession burning my throat like firewhiskey. "Always my father."

Draco stiffens, “Yeah… mine too.” He whispers.

We don't speak of these things—not aloud, not where others might hear. But something about Katara's quiet presence pulls truths from places I keep carefully guarded. Hermione’s gentle support seems to soften Draco’s usual defenses as well.

“What made him your greatest fear?” Kataras crystal blue eyes watch Druk And Yue cuddle in my lap.

I shiver, the memory of my fathers flames licking across my face, the searing pain, the scent of my skin, muscle, and sinew burning, all while he reminds me it’s my fault. Teaching me in his lessons of suffering and pain. Taking everything from me, my mother, my freedom, my agency. Leaving nothing behind but a hollow shell. Molding me into a monster who never deserved a moment of soft—-

“Zuko!” Draco's voice snaps me out of my spiral.

My hands flicker with small flames, both familiars having abandoned my lap in favor of the less fiery tabletop.

"Shit," I breathe, quickly clenching my fists to snuff out the flames.

The familiar burn of suppressed magic tingles through my fingertips as I fight for control. Both Katara and Hermione stare at me with wide eyes, while Draco shifts closer, ready to act if necessary.

"Sorry," I mutter, flexing my fingers to ensure the fire is completely gone. "Sometimes my magic responds to... memories."

Katara's gaze drops to my hands, then back to my face. "Your father hurt you."

It's not a question. The scar across my face is evidence enough, but somehow hearing her say it aloud makes it feel more real. More damning.

I nod stiffly.

"Mine too," Draco says quietly, his eyes fixed on Hermione's notes. "Different methods, same result."

Hermione's expression shifts, her analytical mind clearly processing this new information. "Is that why you both looked so... exhausted? After your family emergency?"

I can feel Katara watching me, waiting for an answer I can't give. We spent the weekend being tortured by our fathers after committing murder. The exhaustion comes not just from physical abuse but from crossing a line that's left us fundamentally changed.

"Something like that," I manage, my voice hoarse.

Yue creeps back toward me cautiously, her mismatched eyes assessing whether I'm safe to approach. When she determines the danger has passed, she hops back into my lap with a soft mrow, Druk following immediately after. Their trust feels undeserved but desperately needed.

"The boggart essay," Katara says after a moment, clearly trying to redirect the conversation to safer ground. "You could write about how fear shapes us. How confronting it—or being unable to—affects who we become."

Fear has shaped every moment of my existence. Fear of my father's wrath, fear of disappointing him, fear of becoming exactly what he wants me to be. And now, fear of what I've already become.

"That's... actually helpful," Draco admits, glancing up at Hermione. "Thank you."

"What about the Patronus essay?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer. "Any suggestions for those of us who can't find a happy memory?"

Katara exchanges a look with Hermione before leaning forward slightly. "Maybe start smaller," she suggests. "Not your happiest memory, but just... a moment that didn't hurt. Something neutral that you can build from."

I search my mind desperately. The bar is so impossibly low, yet I struggle to clear it. I shake my head, my jaw clenched against the tingle of fire itching at my palms again. My fire begging to burn away the pain that constantly thrums in my chest.

My fists start to smoke, whisps of white coming from between my clenched fingers.

Small, dark copper hands cover both of mine.

I freeze.

Katara's fingers press gently against my smoking fists, her touch impossibly cool against the heat building beneath my skin. The fire dies instantly, snuffed out by her unexpected contact.

For a moment, I can't breathe, can't think—her touch anchoring me to reality in a way nothing else has.

"Breathe," she whispers, her blue eyes never leaving mine. "Just breathe."

I obey, drawing a ragged breath that feels like the first in days. The oxygen floods my lungs, letting me truly breathe for the first time since Friday. Since the scientist. Since the Mark.

"That's it," she encourages, her voice soft. "In and out."

Her hands remain on mine, cool and steady. I should pull away. I should protect her from touching something as tainted as I am. But I can't bring myself to break this connection—the first gentle human contact I've had since... I don’t know when.

"Better?" she asks softly, her blue eyes holding mine without fear.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Her hands remain on mine for a heartbeat longer—one perfect, suspended moment where the Mark doesn't burn, where the scientist's face doesn't haunt me, where I almost feel human again. Then she withdraws, tucking a dark curl behind her ear as she settles back in her chair.

"Sorry," my voice barely audible. "I don't usually lose control like that."

"It's okay," Katara says. Nothing about me is okay anymore. "Your magic is just responding to strong emotions. Elemental magic often does."

Draco clears his throat, "Perhaps we should focus on the boggart essay first," he suggests. "Seems more straightforward than trying to manufacture happiness."

I recognize the lifeline he's throwing me and grab it gratefully. "Good idea."

Hermione leans forward, pushing her own essay closer to us. "I've been thinking about what Professor Lupin said about facing our fears," she says, her voice taking on that academic enthusiasm she can never quite suppress. "It's not just about confronting the thing itself, but understanding why we fear it."

"The why is easy," I mutter, stroking Yue's fur as she settles more comfortably in my lap. "It's the facing part that's difficult."

"Sometimes understanding helps with the facing," Katara offers quietly. "At least, that's what I'm writing about. How recognizing the source of fear gives us power over it."

I think of my father's face, of the cruel twist of his mouth before he burned me. I understand perfectly why I fear him—his unpredictable rage, his calculated cruelty, his ability to hurt not just my body but my soul. Understanding hasn't diminished the fear; it's only confirmed how right I am to be afraid.

Katara's hands rest on mine again, “Zuko."

Draco clears his throat, his eyes look meaningfully toward the other table, where Potter and Weasley stand glaring in our direction. Their faces are contorted with identical expressions of outrage and suspicion.

"Your fan club doesn't look happy," Draco murmurs to both girls.

Katara sighs but doesn't immediately withdraw her hands from mine. "They're just protective."

"They're possessive," I correct her, "There's a difference."

She pulls away, and I feel the loss of her touch. My hands are still warm where hers covered them, the memory of contact lingering on my skin.

"What's going on here?" Potter demands, planting himself directly behind Katara's chair. His hand comes to rest possessively on her shoulder, and I have to forcibly suppress the urge to knock it away.

"Studying, Harry," Hermione answers smoothly before any of us can respond. "We were comparing notes for Lupin's essays."

Weasley places himself behind her, his eyes on the notes Draco is holding. Clearly written in Hermione’s neat scribe.

"With them?" Weasley's face contorts with disgust, his freckles standing out starkly against his flushed skin. "After what happened this morning?"

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley."

I turn to see Professor Snape standing at the end of our aisle. His eyes sweep over our unusual gathering, lingering for a moment on how close Katara sits to me, on Hermione leaning toward Draco.

"Professor Snape," Potter says, straightening immediately. "We were just—"

"Disturbing the peace of my students, it seems," Snape interrupts, his voice barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the entire space. "Five points from Gryffindor for harassing students who are clearly attempting to study."

Weasley's mouth falls open in outrage. "But they—"

"Another five points, Mr. Weasley," Snape cuts in smoothly. "Care to make it an even twenty?"

Potter's hand tightens on Katara's shoulder, his knuckles whitening. "Come on," he mutters to her. "Let's go."

"Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy," Snape continues, "My office. Now."

I exchange a quick look with Draco, whose face has gone blank. Yue makes a disgruntled noise as I gently lift her from my lap, setting her on the table beside Druk. The tiny dragon chirps questioningly, his small head tilting in confusion.

"Go with Yue for a bit," I tell him softly, stroking his scales one last time. "I'll see you later."

Druk hesitates, looking between me and Katara before reluctantly hopping toward her. Yue follows, both familiars watching as Draco and I gather our things.

"Thank you," I murmur to Katara as I stand, not quite meeting her eyes. "For the notes. And the potion."

She nods, that small furrow between her brows. "You're welcome," she replies, her voice so soft I barely hear it.

"Today, Mr. Ember," Snape calls from the end of the aisle, his patience clearly waning.

I turn away, following Draco toward the exit. The weight of Katara's gaze burns between my shoulder blades, but I don't look back. The brief moment of connection we shared feels like a stolen treasure I don't deserve to keep.

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The walk to Snape's office is silent, the dungeons growing colder with each step. The Mark pulses beneath my sleeve, as if responding to the proximity of another who bears it.

Draco's face is a careful mask of indifference, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands that hasn't fully subsided despite Katara's potion. The familiar scent of preserved specimens and potion ingredients washes over me as we enter.

Snape gestures for us to sit in the straight-backed chairs before his desk.

"Professor McGonagall has informed me of your... outburst this morning, Mr. Ember," Snape begins, his voice dangerously soft as he takes his seat. "Professor Lupin reports you both failed to complete your assignments. Professor Flitwick notes you were entirely absent during his lesson despite being physically present. Professor Sprout claims neither of you could identify a plant you mastered in second year."

I stare at the floor, saying nothing. What defense could I possibly offer? That I'm too busy reliving a murder to pay attention in Herbology?

"Nothing to say?" Snape presses, leaning forward. "No excuses for why two of my most capable students are suddenly performing below even Longbottom's abysmal standards?"

"We were tired, sir," Draco offers, his voice carefully neutral. "The weekend was... demanding."

Snape's lip curls. "Demanding. Yes, I imagine it was." His eyes flick to our left arms, though our Marks remain hidden beneath our sleeves. "Nevertheless, your performance today has been noted by every professor you encountered. Your... condition... is obvious to anyone with eyes."

"Yes, sir," Draco mumbles beside me.

"I understand what occurred this weekend," Snape says, his voice dropping even lower. "More than you might think. But you cannot allow it to affect you so... visibly. The Dark Lord expects discretion. He expects his servants to maintain appearances, to move through the world undetected. You are failing spectacularly at this most basic requirement."

"We're trying," I mutter, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"Trying is insufficient," Snape snaps, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You must succeed. The consequences of failure extend far beyond poor marks or house points."

I know this. We both do. Failure means death—not just for us, but potentially for those around us. The weight of it presses down on my chest until I can barely breathe.

Snape sighs. "You cannot allow yourselves to be consumed by what happened this weekend. The Dark Lord expects his servants to function regardless of what he asks of them," he continues. "To compartmentalize. To split oneself, if necessary."

"Split oneself?" I repeat.

Snape's eyes narrow slightly. "Yes, Mr. Ember. Create divisions within your mind. The part that serves the Dark Lord. The part that attends classes. The part that interacts with... friends." His lip curls slightly at the last word, his gaze flicking meaningfully toward the door, toward the library where Katara and Hermione remain.

"How?" Draco asks.

“It is not easy, Mr. Malfoy, but it is necessary. You must put certain things away, within your mind, tuck them into… boxes. Be who you need to be where you need to be that person, for who needs that version of you.” He holds both our eyes a moment, “Do you understand?”

"Boxes," I repeat, the concept clicking into place. "Separate compartments for separate roles."

Snape nods, "Precisely. When you're in this castle, when you're sitting in class or interacting with... certain individuals, you must be fully present in that moment. The other parts—what happened this weekend, what will happen in the future—must be sealed away. Not forgotten, but contained."

I glance at Draco, seeing understanding dawn on his face as well. "Like Occlumency," he murmurs.

"A crude comparison, but functionally similar," Snape agrees. "Though this is not about keeping others out, but keeping parts of yourself... manageable."

Compartmentalization.

It's not a foreign concept—I've been doing it my whole life to survive my father. Separating the part that feels pain from the part that must endure it. The part that wants to scream from the part that must remain silent. 

"When you're in Potions," Snape continues, "you are only a student brewing ingredients. When you're flying, you are only a seeker tracking the snitch. When you're with... friends, you are only a classmate sharing notes."

"And the other parts?" I ask, my voice steadier than before.

"Locked away until required." Snape's dark eyes hold mine, "This is how we survive, Mr. Ember. This is how we endure." 

Not just advice from professor to student, but survivor to survivor. I wonder what boxes Snape himself has constructed in his mind, what horrors he's sealed away to function day after day.

"It won't be easy," Snape warns, "But it is necessary. The alternative is... unacceptable."

"It sounds impossible." I admit.

"It is not," Snape says firmly. "It is survival."

He rises from his desk, moving to a shelf where dozens of potion vials gleam in the dim light. He selects two small bottles filled with a deep purple liquid that seems to swirl with its own inner light.

"Dreamless Sleep," he explains, placing one before each of us. "Take it tonight. You need rest—true rest—before you can begin properly compartmentalizing."

I pocket the vial, the glass cool against my fingers. "Thank you, sir."

"Do not thank me," Snape replies, his voice hardening again. "Simply do better. The Dark Lord's patience is not infinite, nor is mine."

"Yes, sir," Draco and I murmur in unison.

"Now go," Snape dismisses us with a wave of his hand. "And remember what I've said. Split yourselves. It's the only way to survive what's coming.”

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Notes:

Druk being the cutest and most literal wingman there ever was, is such a fun thing to play with.

What do we think of Harry and Ron's reactions? More importantly, what do we think Katara and Hermione are thinking about our sad boys?

Thank you for being here and reading <3

Next upload will be two chapters on Wednesday December 3rd

Chapter 16: Familial Obligations

Notes:

Happy Wednesday! Getting back into it, this is a heavier chapter, but it's on the shorter side.

Content warning for child abuse in the form of manipulation and some physical abuse. Warning for animal death. As well as brief descriptions of murder and maiming.

I've become a clockwork soldier, ticking between lives.

Monday through Friday, I'm Zuko Ember, Slytherin student. I brew potions with hands that no longer shake. I answer questions in Transfiguration with a voice that sounds convincingly like my own. I take notes, complete assignments, and even manage the occasional sardonic comment that makes Draco's lips twitch with something resembling amusement.

On weekends, I'm someone else entirely. Something else.

A killer.

The transition becomes smoother with each passing week. Friday evenings, Draco and I report to the front steps where a carriage awaits, Thestrals pawing impatiently at the ground. I used to wonder how many students could see them. Now I wonder how many have caused the deaths that make them visible.

Snape's advice about compartmentalization has become my salvation. I build boxes in my mind—sturdy, impenetrable containers where I lock away the parts of myself that cannot coexist. The student stays at Hogwarts when the assassin travels to Ember Estate. The killer remains behind when I return to classes on Monday morning.

It works. Mostly.

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"Your form is improving," Father says during our sixth weekend away.

I move through combat stances with the Dao blades. Draco works nearby with his Broadsword, his movements gaining fluidity with each session.

The weekend training has transformed our bodies. My shoulders have broadened, muscles hardening beneath pale skin that rarely sees sunlight. Draco's aristocratic frame has filled out similarly—less student, more weapon.

Father's approval should mean something, but I feel nothing.

Just another observation to acknowledge and file away. Sweat soaks through my shirt as I dodge another hex, feeling its heat singe the air inches from my face. Across the room, Draco grunts as he's not quite fast enough, Lucius' stinging hex catching him in the shoulder.

"Again," Father commands, and I obey without hesitation.

It's not just physical. Each weekend brings new mental trials as well.

"Legilimens," Father hisses, his wand aimed between my eyes.

I feel the intrusion immediately—a serrated blade trying to carve its way into my thoughts. I've learned to create barriers, mental walls that match the compartments already dividing my mind. I show him only what I want him to see: dedication to training, satisfaction in missions completed, emptiness where emotion should be.

He pushes harder, searching for weakness, for the parts of me I've hidden away. I focus on my breathing, on the mental architecture I've constructed. The barriers hold.

"Better," he admits when he finally withdraws, leaving me gasping but unbroken. "But not perfect."

The attack comes without warning, brutal and invasive. I feel him tearing through my memories, hunting for weakness. Katara's face flashes before me—her smile, her fear in the Great Hall, her cool hands covering mine in the library.

No. Not her.

I push back instinctively, shoving the memory into one of Snape's boxes, slamming the lid shut.

Father withdraws, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "Interesting," he murmurs.

My stomach turns to ice. "She's nothing," I lie. "Just a potions partner."

"Then you won't mind if I—"

"She's useful," I interrupt, knowing I've made a tactical error. "For maintaining appearances at school. Dumbledore's watching us."

Crucio follows Legilimency. Always. The pain is beyond description—every nerve ending screaming in simultaneous agony, my body convulsing against the training mat.

I've learned not to scream.

Screaming wastes energy I need to endure.

Draco receives the same treatment from Lucius. I hear his breathing afterward—controlled, measured, the sound of someone who has mastered their own suffering.

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Between training sessions come the missions. Always at night. Always in the dark.

The first time we killed a family, I vomited for hours afterward. Draco couldn't stop shaking.

It was a muggle household—father, mother, two children, and a dog. Voldemort himself gave the order, his lipless mouth curving into something like pleasure as he described their supposed crime: harboring a squib who had witnessed Death Eater activities.

"No survivors," he'd instructed, those red eyes gleaming in the firelight. "No witnesses. No trace."

The house was ordinary. Suburban. A child's bicycle lay abandoned in the front yard, training wheels still attached. Christmas lights hung from the eaves though it was only September. We slipped in through the back door, silent as shadows in our tactical black.

The dog—some kind of retriever mix—came first, tail wagging in friendly greeting until Draco's blade sliced its throat. The animal didn't even have time to whimper.

I remember the children's room most clearly. Stars painted on the ceiling. Stuffed animals arranged neatly on twin beds. The little girl woke as I entered, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Are you a monster?" she whispered, staring at my scar.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. 

"Yes," Draco answered for me, his voice flat and empty. "We are."

We've become more efficient since then. Clinical. The boxes in my mind grow sturdier with each mission, the compartmentalization more complete.

I no longer vomit. I no longer hesitate. I simply execute.

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Tonight's target is a wizard household—a half-blood family suspected of sympathizing with the Order of the Phoenix. No concrete evidence, just suspicion.

It's enough for a death sentence.

"Three adults, two children," Father informs us as we prepare. "The grandmother is visiting. All are to be eliminated."

I nod, strapping the Dao blades to my back. Draco checks his Broadsword, testing the edge with his thumb. Our tactical gear absorbs light, making us living shadows.

"The Dark Lord wishes to send a message with this one," Lucius adds, his platinum hair gleaming in the dim light of the preparation room. "Make it... memorable. Give them a show."

Memorable.

Not clean, not merciful. My stomach turns, but I push the feeling into its designated box. Not now. Not here.

We apparate to a wooded area near the target, the displacement of air the only sound in the quiet night. The house sits alone at the end of a long drive, warm light spilling from windows that seem to mock the darkness of our purpose.

I dismantle the wards, my fingers tracing patterns I've now memorized through repetition. The magical barriers dissolve like mist, leaving the house vulnerable. Exposed. The family inside remains oblivious, their dinner conversation drifting through an open window—mundane discussions of work and school that will never see completion.

"Remember," I whisper as we approach the back entrance, "make it memorable."

Draco nods, his face a perfect mask of emptiness. We've become experts at this—the silent entry, the coordinated movements, the efficient elimination. But tonight requires something different. Something that will send a message.

Give them a show.

The words echo in my mind as we slip through the kitchen door. The house smells of roast chicken and fresh bread, a domestic scene we're about to shatter forever. I draw my Dao blades as we move toward the dining room. The family doesn't notice us at first—father at the head of the table, mother passing a bowl of potatoes, grandmother helping the younger child cut his meat, teenage daughter laughing at something her mother said. Five lives about to end.

"Who—" the father begins, the first to spot us standing in the doorway. His wand is across the room, resting on a side table. Too far to reach.

I don't give him time to finish. My blades find their mark, one across his throat, the other plunging into his chest. Draco moves simultaneously, his Broadsword arcing through the air to silence the mother's scream before it fully forms.

Give them a show.

The grandmother reacts, shoving the children behind her as she rises. "Run!" she shouts, her hands already forming the gestures of ancient magic.

I feel something crack inside me—not hesitation, but anger. White-hot rage that has been building since the Mark was burned into my arm.

The fire comes without conscious thought, erupting from my fingertips even as I hold the Dao blades. Blue-white flames that dance along the steel before launching toward the grandmother. She tries to counter with her own magic—water summoned from somewhere in the house—but my fire overwhelms it, turning the defensive spray to steam before engulfing her. She doesn't scream—there isn't time.

The teenage girl tries to flee, pulling her younger brother toward a hallway.

"Don't let them escape," I snarl towards Draco.

Draco hesitates for a fraction of a second before pursuing them. I turn my attention to the room itself, to the "show" we're meant to create. The flames spread from my hands to the furniture, the curtains, the family photos lining the mantelpiece. Glass shatters from the heat, wood blackens and splits.

I feed the flames, my anger finding release in the destructive element that has always answered my call. I move through the house, trailing fire in my wake. Each room becomes a pyre, the flames devouring everything in their path. The kitchen ignites with particular ferocity, gas lines feeding the inferno. The destruction feels... good. Release. Freedom from the boxes I've constructed so carefully.

Children's screams cut off abruptly from the back garden.

"It's done," I say, stepping out of the burning house and into the crisp night air.

"Impressive," Father says, stepping forward to inspect our work. The flames cast strange shadows across his features, making him look more demon than man. "The Dark Lord will be pleased with your... creativity."

Draco emerges from the shadows of the garden, his Broadsword gleaming crimson in the firelight. His pale face is spattered with blood, his expression blank and empty as he takes his place beside me.

Lucius approaches his son, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that might appear paternal if not for the cruel twist of his mouth.

"You've exceeded expectations," Lucius drawls, his cold eyes sweeping over the inferno that was once a family home. "Both of you. The message will be unmistakable."

Father circles us, ”Your control of the fire was particularly noteworthy, Zuko. Blue flames... a rare manifestation. The Dark Lord will be most interested."

I should feel something—pride at his approval, disgust at myself, grief for the lives we've taken. But there's nothing. Just a vast emptiness where my emotions should be. I've become too good at compartmentalizing, at sealing away the parts of myself that can't bear what I've become.

"The neighbors will see," I observe, my voice flat.

"Let them," Father replies, his smile cruel in the dancing light. "That's the point of a message, after all. For it to be seen."

Father and Lucius cast the dark mark above the orange flames. We stand for a moment longer, four dark silhouettes against the blazing backdrop of destruction.

The perfect family portrait.

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The Dark Lord awaits in the drawing room, his serpentine form draped across what was once my mother's favorite chair. Death Eaters line the walls, masked faces turning toward us as we enter.

"It is done, my Lord," Father announces, bowing deeply. "The message has been delivered. Spectacularly."

Those red eyes find mine, boring into me with inhuman intensity. "Show me," he commands.

I don't resist as he invades my mind, tearing through the mental barriers to witness the night's events. I feel him lingering on certain moments—the grandmother's desperate attempt to save the children, the fire erupting from my hands, the screams of the children.

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"You've done well," Father says as we prepare to return to Hogwarts the next day. "The Dark Lord is considering your initiation into the inner circle. Both of you."

Words that should inspire fear or pride elicit nothing. I nod, acknowledging the information without processing its implications. Beside me, Draco is equally detached, as we gather our school things. 

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The castle looms ahead, its silhouette black against the pre-dawn sky. I don't remember the journey—just disconnected fragments. Draco's profile, sharp as a blade in the darkness. The rhythmic sound of the Thestrals' hooves. The weight of Dao blades, still warm from use, now shrunk and hidden in my trunk. We enter through a side door, the halls empty at this hour. Our footsteps echo against stone, marking our return from places no student should ever go. 

I don't sleep. I lie in bed, staring at the canopy above me, watching shadows shift as night becomes morning. My body feels distant, disconnected—a vessel I'm observing rather than inhabiting. Beside me, Druk's tiny form remains curled on my pillow, breathing softly. I reach out to touch him, needing to feel something real, but my hand stops halfway. Blood under my fingernails.

I thought I'd scrubbed it all away.

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Chapter 17: A Flicker of Feeling

Over another week, classes pass. Days blur. I speak when spoken to. I complete assignments. I eat without tasting. Kill without feeling. Time becomes meaningless, measured only by the movement between lessons, between meals, between the blades of my Dao, between breaths that feel increasingly unnecessary.

"Zuko?"

Something small and warm presses against my hand. I blink, the world coming into sharp focus. The Great Hall materializes around me. Morning light streaming through high windows. The clatter of silverware, students' voices rising and falling in waves of conversation.

Druk chirps happily, nuzzling my palm. I stare at him, confused by his presence, then lift my gaze to find Katara standing beside me, her blue eyes watching me closely.

"He missed you," she says softly, nodding toward Druk as he scampers up my arm to perch on my shoulder. "Wouldn't stop pestering Yue and Crookshanks all weekend."

I open my mouth, but words feel foreign, stuck somewhere between thought and voice.

How long has it been since I've spoken? Hours? Days?

"Monday," she adds, as if reading my confusion. "It's Monday morning."

Monday. Another weekend is over. The killer is locked away, the student returned. I should feel relief, but there's nothing—just the hollow space where emotions used to live.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice rough from disuse. "For taking care of him."

Katara shifts her weight, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. "He's good company," she says, a small smile touching her lips. "Actually, I wondered if we could join you," Katara gestures to where Hermione stands a few steps behind her, holding a small basket. "If that's alright?"

I blink, trying to process her request through the fog still clinging to my mind. Katara wants to sit with us? Voluntarily?

"I... sure,"

Katara slides onto the bench across from me. Hermione follows, settling beside her with a small, tentative smile. She reaches into her basket and pulls out several freshly baked muffins, their warm scent cutting through the general breakfast aromas.

Druk moves down my arm, eyeing the muffins.

"We stopped by the kitchens this morning," Hermione explains, "The house elves were quite generous."

Draco stares at the offering like it might explode, his expression a mixture of confusion and—something that might be pleasure if his face remembered how to show it.

"Thank you," he says stiffly, but his fingers linger when they brush against Hermione's as he accepts his plate.

The warmth of Katara's smile does something strange to me—a flicker of sensation where numbness has reigned for weeks. It's uncomfortable, almost painful, like blood returning to a limb that's fallen asleep.

Yue hops up next to Druk, I watch as they overtly sneak some of the bacon from my plate. They manage to tear the piece into almost equal halves, devouring their hunt.

I watch Hermione sort through her books. Her small delicate tan hands that have never had to end a life, as she opens her notes and slides them toward Draco. Crookshanks stirs in her bag, his yellow eyes blinking affectionately towards Draco as he yawns wide.

"I thought these might help with the Transfiguration essay," Hermione says. "McGonagall's requirements were a bit vague, but I found some references that clarify her expectations."

Draco leans forward, his eyes scanning the precise handwriting. "This is... comprehensive," he says, genuine appreciation coloring his voice.

"Hermione's quite thorough," Katara replies with an affectionate glance at her friend. "I've learned to take advantage of it."

I watch them interact, feeling strangely detached yet present. Katara's animated gestures as she explains a particular theory. Hermione's methodical organization as she arranges her notes for Draco.

The subtle shift in Draco's posture—shoulders relaxing incrementally, the permanent furrow between his brows easing just slightly. Druk and Yue sneak off, in search of dropped food along the floor. Crookshanks lazily follows behind them, his trot much slower as he watches for any extra dropped food.

"You should eat something," Katara says, turning her attention to me. "You haven't touched your breakfast."

I look down at my untouched plate, then at the muffin Hermione provided. Food has been merely fuel lately, consumed without thought or taste. I pick up the muffin, taking a small bite to appease her. Flavor floods my mouth—cinnamon, apple, crystalized brown sugar—startlingly vivid after weeks of tasting nothing.

"It's good," I say, the words inadequate.

"We're really excited about Hogsmeade this weekend," Katara says, her eyes brightening as she takes a bite of her own muffin. "I've been waiting to visit Tomes and Scrolls since they got that new shipment of water magic texts."

I blink at her, trying to process her words through the fog in my mind. "Hogsmeade?"

"This Saturday," Hermione adds, looking between Draco and me with a slight furrow in her brow. "The first trip of the term. Surely you haven't forgotten?"

Draco pauses on a sip of coffee, "This Saturday? The first Hogsmeade weekend is this Saturday?"

How much time has passed? The weekends have blurred together, marked only by missions and training, by blood and fire. The weekdays are no better—a gray haze of classes and assignments completed on autopilot.

"Yes, this Saturday," Katara confirms, her smile faltering slightly as she studies my expression. "They announced it at dinner last week. Professor McGonagall posted the sign-up sheets in all the common rooms."

"I... didn't realize it was already time for Hogsmeade visits," I admit, "What month is it?"

Hermione and Katara exchange a concerned glance that makes my skin crawl with discomfort.

"It's October, Zuko," Katara says gently, as if speaking to someone very ill or very fragile. "Mid-October."

October.

We've been at Hogwarts for nearly three months. Three months of weekday pretense and weekend atrocities. Three months of slipping between student and killer. Three months of... nothing. Just emptiness and fog and blood that never quite washes away.

"Right," I manage, forcing my face into what I hope resembles a normal expression. "Of course. October."

"Are you alright?" Katara asks, leaning forward slightly, her blue eyes searching mine. "You seem... disoriented."

I grasp for an excuse, something plausible. "Just tired. Been focusing on assignments too much, I guess. Losing track of time."

"You both have seemed rather... preoccupied lately," Hermione observes, her analytical gaze shifting between Draco and me. "Especially on Mondays."

There's something in her tone, a probing curiosity, that sets my nerves on edge. How much has she noticed?

I force myself to straighten, shaking the fog from my mind. "Preoccupied is one way to put it," I say, attempting a smile that feels foreign on my face. "Just adjusting to the sixth year workload. The professors aren't exactly going easy on us."

Draco nods beside me, his posture shifting subtly as he pulls himself back to the present. "Advanced coursework is more demanding than anticipated," he adds smoothly, sipping his coffee with deliberate casualness.

Hermione's eyes narrow slightly, "You both disappear nearly every weekend. It's more than just coursework."

"Family obligations," I reply, "My father has... expectations."

"As does mine," Draco adds, "Pureblood traditions don't observe school schedules, unfortunately."

"It's fine," I insist calmly. "Really. Just takes some adjustment."

Katara's expression softens, though I can see she doesn't fully believe us. There's concern in those blue eyes, a gentle probing that threatens to crack the walls I've built around myself.

"If you ever need help with anything..." she begins.

"We appreciate the concern," I cut in, softly. I lean forward slightly, letting a hint of warmth enter my voice. "Though I'm more interested in hearing about these water magic texts you're so excited about."

(Note to self: Don't forget to look up shop names in hogsmeade later)

The change in topic catches her off guard. A faint blush colors her cheeks.

"Oh! Well, they're supposedly ancient Southern Water Tribe manuscripts that detail healing techniques lost to modern magical practice," she explains, her enthusiasm gradually overtaking her concern. "Water-based magic that works differently from standard healing charms. Elemental magic fascinates me."

I find myself genuinely listening, watching the animation in her face as she describes the texts. Something stirs in my chest—a faint echo of feeling breaking through the numbness. I catch Draco watching me, then glancing at Hermione with a similar calculation in his eyes.

"I'd be interested to visit Tomes and Scrolls with you," I say, my voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. "If my company is welcome?"

A blush creeps across her cheeks, faint but unmistakable. "You would?"

"Absolutely. Maybe we could get a butterbeer afterward? My treat."

Draco follows my lead. "Granger," he drawls, a new warmth to his tone, "I've heard you're quite knowledgeable about ancient runes. There's a collection at Scrivenshaft's I've been meaning to examine."

Hermione's eyebrows rise in genuine surprise. "You're interested in ancient runes?"

"More than you might think," Draco replies, a hint of genuine interest breaking through, "My mother's family has some texts I've been translating. Perhaps you could... offer some insight?"

The slight flush that rises to Hermione's cheeks mirrors Katara's, and I realize what Draco is doing—what we're both doing. Using charm as camouflage, flirtation as distraction. And strangely, it doesn't feel entirely forced.

"I hear they've got a new shipment of tea at Madam Puddifoot's," I say, leaning closer to Katara. "Something about jasmine infused with moonflower. Supposed to enhance magical intuition."

"Really?" Katara's eyes light up with genuine interest. "I've been experimenting with herbal infusions in my potions. The properties of jasmine combined with moonflower could create fascinating resonance patterns."

"I thought you might be interested. Your healing potion had notes of jasmine, didn't it? I noticed it when—"

"When you were pretending not to need it?" she finishes, a teasing smile playing at her lips.

I feel something unfamiliar tug at the corners of my mouth—a genuine smile, small but real. "I wasn't pretending. I was... reluctantly acknowledging its necessity."

Beside me, Draco snorts softly. "That's a diplomatic way of saying you were being stubborn."

"Says the one who insisted he could fly with a dislocated shoulder," I counter, the banter feeling rusty but right.

Hermione's eyebrows shoot up. "You flew with a dislocated shoulder?"

"It was barely dislocated," Draco protests, amusedly "More of an... inconvenient positioning."

"He couldn't lift his arm above his head for three days," I inform Hermione, "But he insisted on finishing Quidditch practice."

"Malfoys don't quit," Draco lifts his chin, "Besides, Granger, I've seen you in the library with a fever so high you were practically hallucinating, insisting you needed to finish your Arithmancy calculations."

"That was completely different," Hermione protests, though a blush creeps up her neck. "Those calculations were time-sensitive."

"Of course they were," Draco drawls, his voice softening to something that might almost be fondness. "Just as my shoulder was merely inconveniently positioned."

I watch them, fascinated by this delicate dance unfolding between Draco and Hermione. There's something there—a tentative connection building despite years of antagonism. I recognize it because I feel something similar stirring in my own chest when Katara laughs, the sound musical and genuine.

"I've always wondered about water-based magic. Fire comes naturally to me, but water..." I flex my fingers, remembering the blue white flames I’d conjured, “I’d be delighted to see what you’d suggest from Tomes and Scrolls.”

"I'd enjoy that," Katara says, tucking a curl behind her ear in an impossibly endearing way. "Though I warn you, I could spend hours browsing their collection."

"Hours sound perfect," my voice drops to an almost teasing tone. "I've got nowhere else to be."

This Saturday belongs to Zuko the student, not Zuko the Death Eater. Not Zuko the killer.

“Perhaps we could make it a proper outing," Draco suggests, his fingers tracing the edge of Hermione’s notes with deliberate slowness. "The four of us. Unless you'd prefer Potter's company, Granger?"

The subtle challenge in his voice makes Hermione's cheeks flush deeper. "Harry and Ron will likely spend the entire day at Zonko's and the Quidditch supply shop," she admits, rolling her eyes fondly. "Some actual intellectual conversation would be a welcome change."

"Intellectual conversation," Draco repeats, his lips curving into something dangerously close to a genuine smile. "I believe I can manage that. Though I can't promise I won't try to convert you to my interpretation of Bathilda Bagshot's theories on transfiguration matrices."

Hermione's eyes widen with delighted surprise. "You've read her extended thesis? The one published only in academic journals?"

"Cover to cover," Draco admits, "Her analysis of the elemental conversion principles is particularly compelling."

"Oh! I've been arguing that exact point with Professor McGonagall for weeks!" Hermione exclaims, leaning forward eagerly. "No one else seems to understand the significance of—"

"The quantum relationship between elemental states during partial transfiguration," Draco finishes for her, his eyes lighting up with genuine intellectual passion.

I watch them fall into animated discussion, Draco's usual drawl transforming into enthusiastic debate. The change in him is remarkable—for a moment, he's just a brilliant student engaging with an intellectual equal, the darkness of our weekends nowhere to be found in his animated gestures.

Druk and Yue return. Druk wrapping himself around my shoulders, nuzzling contentedly now that his belly is full. Yue curls into Katara’s bag, purring loudly. Crookshanks hops up a moment later, moving to curl between Draco and Hermione.

I feel something unfamiliar stirring inside me—a strange lightness that doesn't belong in the darkness I've cultivated. Watching Draco and Hermione discuss transfiguration theories with genuine enthusiasm makes me wonder if Snape's compartmentalization has worked too well.

The student part of me is emerging more fully, responding to Katara's presence with an eagerness that should frighten me. But in this moment, I don't want to be frightened. I want to feel this—Whatever this is.

"What about you?" Katara asks, drawing my attention back to her. "Any particular academic interests beyond setting things on fire?" There's a teasing lilt to her voice that makes my chest tighten pleasantly.

"Contrary to popular belief, my talents extend beyond pyrotechnics. I'm actually quite interested in defensive magic theory. The interplay between intent and outcome."

Katara's eyes light up. "That's fascinating! I've been researching similar concepts for healing—how intention shapes the efficacy of water-based remedies."

"Two sides of the same coin," I murmur. "Protection and healing."

"Destruction and creation," she counters softly.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. She sees more than I want her to, yet somehow, I don't mind.

Druk chirps happily from my shoulder, breaking the moment as he launches himself toward Katara's bag. The tiny dragon disappears inside, and seconds later, contented purring emerges from the leather satchel.

"Traitor," I mutter fondly.

Katara laughs, the sound making something warm unfurl in my chest. "He's just following his heart."

"Following his heart straight into mischief," I reply, smiling easily at her soft blue eyes. "He's developing quite the reputation as a troublemaker."

"Takes after his person, then," she teases.

I chuckle, the sound real rather than forced.

Draco glances at me, momentary surprise flickering across his features before he returns to his animated debate with Hermione. I can't remember the last time either of us laughed genuinely. Before the Mark, certainly.

Before the scientist and his wide, terrified eyes.

I push the memory away, focusing instead on Katara's smile, on the way her fingers absently trace the runes on her book's spine, on the blue of her eyes that reminds me of clearer skies than I deserve to see.

"What the bloody hell is this?"

Potter and Weasley approach our table, their faces darkening with each step. Potter's eyes are fixed on Katara, narrowing when they shift to me. Weasley's complexion has taken on that particular shade of red that signals an imminent explosion.

Potter plants himself beside Katara with unmistakable possessiveness. "We've been looking everywhere for you two."

"We're studying, Harry," Hermione says, her voice cooling several degrees as she straightens,. "As you can see."

"With them?" Weasley spits, glaring at me with undisguised hostility. "After everything they've—"

"After everything they've what, Ron?" Katara interrupts, her blue eyes flashing, "Helped us with potions? Shared notes? Had a civil conversation?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Weasley hisses, his freckles disappearing against his flushed skin. "They disappear every weekend, come back looking like—"

"Like what?" I cut in, my voice dangerously soft.

“Like you’re training for war.” Potter says, an edge to his voice, “Don’t think we haven’t noticed. How you’ve both gained muscle. You’re both obviously doing some kind of training. For Voldemort.”

Katara flinches at the use of the Dark Lords name.

Something ugly and feral unfurls itself in my chest, wanting to smash Potter’s face in for doing that to her. I feel the Mark burn beneath my sleeve.

The killer in me—the part I've tried so desperately to lock away during school hours—strains against its mental cage, bearing its fangs. My vision narrows, focusing on Potter's throat, cataloging the quickest way to silence him permanently.

I clench my fists under the table, forcing myself to breathe.

Compartmentalize. Be the student, not the killer.

"Training for war?" I repeat, injecting a hint of amusement into my voice that I don't feel. "Is that what you think we're doing?"

"We know you are," Weasley snarls, stepping closer. "Sneaking off every weekend, coming back looking like you've been through hell."

"If you must know," I say with deliberate casualness, "we've been training. But not for whatever conspiracy you've concocted in your heroic little mind."

Potter's eyes narrow. "Then what exactly are you training for?"

I exchange a glance with Draco, who gives me the slightest nod. We need to give them something—a partial truth to mask the deeper lie.

"Physical conditioning." I say simply. "Self-defense, without magic. My father insists on maintaining family traditions."

"Bullshit," Weasley spits.

"Actually," Draco drawls, leaning back with practiced nonchalance, "it's quite demanding. Wandless combat techniques passed down through generations. The Ember and Malfoy families have rather... exacting standards."

"Prove it." Potter challenges, his green eyes hard behind his glasses.

The killer growls from its cage inside my chest—a cold, calculating hunger, starving for blood, knowing exactly how to get it. They want proof? I could show them exactly what I've learned. How easily I could end them both before they even reached for their wands.

I feel Katara's eyes on me, concerned and watchful. The memory of her fear in the Great Hall rises unbidden—how she looked at me like I was a monster.

Because I am.

But I don't want her to see that part of me. Not here. Not now.

I rise from my seat, keeping my posture deliberately casual. “It’s not something to flaunt like some show pony, Potter. If I were to show you, you wouldn’t be conscious long enough to see much anyway.”

Potter's hand twitches toward his wand. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a statement of fact," I counter, keeping my voice level. "The kind of combat training we learn isn't meant for public display."

Draco stands beside me, his posture relaxed but ready—a coiled snake appearing at rest.

"You know, maybe you should show us these combat skills," Weasley challenges, stepping closer. "Might be educational for everyone to see what you're really capable of."

I feel the killer inside me stirring, eager to be unleashed. One quick movement and I could have him on the ground, gasping for air. One more and he'd never breathe again.

"I don't think that would end well for you," I say instead, my voice deceptively calm.

Draco snorts beside me, his eyes flicking dismissively over Potter and Weasley. "Not even worth the effort."

"Is that right?" Potter's hand inches closer to his wand. "Because from where I'm standing, you're just a couple of cowards hiding behind your daddy's reputation."

The Mark burns beneath my sleeve, responding to my rising anger. I clench my jaw, fighting to keep the fire from igniting in my palms.

"Harry, that's enough!" Katara stands abruptly, her blue eyes flashing with anger. "We were having a perfectly civil conversation before you two stormed over here."

Hermione rises beside her, "Ron, this protective act is getting old. We appreciate your concern, but you don't get to dictate who we talk to."

"But Hermione," Weasley splutters, "they're obviously—"

"Obviously what?" Hermione challenges, her voice rising slightly. "Sharing notes? Having breakfast? The horror!"

"You don't understand what they're capable of," Potter insists, his green eyes hard behind his glasses.

"And you do?" Hermione counters. "Based on what evidence, exactly? Your personal dislike isn't proof of anything, Harry."

Draco leans back against the edge of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, ready to strike if necessary. "Your concern is touching, Potter, but as they have pointed out, they're quite capable of making their own decisions."

"Stay out of this, Malfoy," Potter snaps.

"Or what?" I ask softly, letting just a hint of the darkness inside me color my voice.

"We're just looking out for you," Potter insists, turning his attention back to Katara, reaching for her arm. "You don't understand what they're—"

"I understand perfectly well that I can make my own decisions about who I spend time with," Katara cuts him off, stepping away from his touch. "I'm not your property, Harry."

I watch this unfold fascinated by the way Katara and Hermione stand their ground. There's something unexpectedly powerful about witnessing them defend their own choices—defend us. 

Defend killers.

"You don't know what they do when they disappear," Potter argues, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "You don't know what they're becoming."

The words hit too close to home. He knows. Somehow Potter knows—or suspects—more than he should.

"What we're becoming," I repeat, my voice dangerously soft, "is late for Potions. Which, unless I'm mistaken," I turn to Katara and Hermione, “you should be heading to as well?” I gather my bag, Druk wrapping himself around my shoulders, chirping softly at Katara, “We’ll walk you.”

Weasley steps forward to argue “But—”

“You and Harry have Herbology.” Hermione stops his words, “And I didn’t stay up late helping you both with those essays for you turn them in late. Go on. Both of you.”

Draco can’t hold in his snort. Turning his face away as his shoulders shake with held in laughter at the two being scolded like children.

Hermione’s lips twitch with a suppressed smile, as she keeps her serious expression directed at the other two Gryffindors.

Potter and Weasley finally leave, stomping away with resentful glances thrown over their shoulders. Satisfaction unfurling in my chest as we walk toward the dungeons, Katara and Hermione falling into step beside us.

"Sorry about them," Hermione sighs, shifting her books in her arms. "They mean well, they're just..."

"Overprotective to the point of suffocation?" Draco suggests in a dry tone.

Katara laughs, "Something like that."

The walk to Potions passes in comfortable conversation. Hermione and Draco resume their debate about transfiguration theories while Katara moves closer to me, her voice dropping to a more intimate level.

"Are you really okay?" she asks, those blue eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "You seem... different today."

I consider my answer carefully. The compartmentalization Snape taught us has become second nature, but the lines feel blurred this morning. The student and the killer are bleeding into each other in ways that should terrify me.

"I'm better," I finally say, settling on a half-truth. "The weekends are... difficult. But I'm working through it."

She studies me for a moment longer before nodding, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "Well, if you ever need someone to talk to..."

"I know where to find you," I finish, allowing a small smile. "Thank you."

We reach the Potions classroom just as Snape sweeps in from his office, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him. Katara and I take our place at a table near the front, while Draco and Hermione settle at the station beside ours.

"Today, you will be brewing Veritaserum." Snape’s dark eyes scan the room, lingering briefly on each pair. "A complex potion that requires absolute precision. The instructions are on the board. You have until the end of class. Begin."

I gather our ingredients while Katara prepares the cauldron, falling into the easy rhythm we've developed. There's something soothing about the methodical nature of potion-making—measuring, cutting, stirring. It requires just enough focus to keep my mind from wandering to darker places.

"Clockwise three times, then counter-clockwise once," Katara murmurs, reading from the board as I stir. "Now add the powdered moonstone, but slowly."

I follow her instructions, watching as the potion shifts from clear to pale silver. Beside us, Draco and Hermione work with similar efficiency, their heads bent close together over their cauldron. I catch snippets of their conversation—technical terms interspersed with what sounds suspiciously like banter.

"No, that's too much hellebore," Hermione whispers urgently. "It needs to be exactly three grams."

"I know how to measure, Granger," Draco replies, "I've been brewing since before I could walk."

"Then you should know better than to eyeball it, Draco." she gives him a small smile, followed by a roll of those soft brown eyes Draco can’t seem to look away from.

"The clockwise stir needs to be gentler," Katara murmurs, her hand covering mine to guide the stirring rod. "Like this."

Her touch is cool against my skin, as the potion shifts to the perfect silvery blue. I'm acutely aware of her proximity, the subtle jasmine scent of her hair, the way her brow furrows in concentration. For a moment, I'm just a student brewing a potion with his partner—the killer locked away in his cage, the Mark beneath my sleeve momentarily forgotten.

"Perfect," she whispers, a note of genuine satisfaction in her voice. "The clarity is exactly as described in the text."

I feel a flicker of pride at her approval, though I know I don't deserve it. The student part of me—the part that still cares about things like Potions grades and a girl's smile—savors the moment.

"Bottle your samples and place them on my desk," Snape instructs as the bell rings.

Students begin packing up, the room filling with the scraping of chairs and clinking of vials. I carefully decant our potion into the required flask, watching the liquid catch the light. Truth serum. There's a certain irony in brewing something designed to reveal what I work so hard to conceal.

"Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy. A word before you leave." Snape drawls not looking up from his notes.

My stomach tightens. I exchange a quick glance with Draco, who's just finished bottling his potion with Hermione. His expression mirrors my own momentary unease before his features smooth into practiced neutrality.

"We'll wait for you," Katara offers, her eyes moving between Snape and me with curiosity.

"No need," I reply, keeping my voice casual. "It's probably about our missed assignments from last week. Go ahead—we'll see you at lunch."

She hesitates, searching my face. "If you're sure..."

"Positive," I manage a small smile that I hope looks genuine. "Good luck with Bins’ essay."

Hermione tugs gently at Katara's sleeve. "Come on, we don't want to be late.“

They leave reluctantly, Katara glancing back once before the door closes behind them, leaving just Draco and me standing before Snape's desk. "My office," He says curtly, turning on his heel.

We follow him in silence. Snape waits until the door closes before speaking. "The Headmaster has been asking questions about your weekend absences."

My stomach drops. "What kind of questions?"

"The kind that suggest he's not entirely convinced by the 'family obligation' excuse." Snape's voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the warning underneath. "He's particularly interested in why both of you seem to require the same weekends away."

Draco shifts beside me. "What did you tell him?"

"That pureblood traditions often coincide with astronomical events, necessitating your simultaneous absences." Snape's lip curls slightly. "He seemed to accept this explanation, for now."

"For now," I repeat, understanding the implication. We're drawing too much attention.

"Which brings me to this weekend." Snape pulls out a small scroll from his robes, “You’ll be attending your class trip to Hogsmeade. But make no mistake, this is no vacation. The Dark Lord requires you to maintain the appearance of ordinary students," Snape says, unrolling the small scroll on his desk.

“What exactly does that mean?"

"It means," Snape continues, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "that you will attend the Hogsmeade visit like any other student. You will shop. You will drink butterbeer. You will laugh at inane jokes and participate in frivolous conversation."

Draco shifts beside me. "And?"

Snape's eyes narrow. "And you will complete a task while doing so."

My blood runs cold, the cage holding the killer rattles excitedly. "A task? In Hogsmeade? With the entire school watching?"

"Precisely because the entire school will be watching," Snape slides the small scroll across his desk. "The Dark Lord wishes to test your... discretion."

Draco leans closer to read over my shoulder. An address—a location on the outskirts of Hogsmeade— A photo and a name I don't recognize.

"Who is he?"

"A researcher," Snape replies, his face betraying nothing. "Working on protective enchantments that the Dark Lord finds... inconvenient."

Another life to end. The hollowness inside me expands, threatening to consume what little remains.

"The location is isolated enough," Snape continues. "A small cottage beyond the village. You are to eliminate the target between three and four in the afternoon, when most students will be occupied in the shops or pubs."

"And then?" Draco asks.

"Then you return to the Three Broomsticks and establish your presence there. Order butterbeers. Be seen. Create memories in the minds of witnesses."

"What about the body?" I ask.

"No magic," Snape says coldly. "The death must appear natural. An unfortunate accident."

My mind is already racing, calculating angles and approaches, escape routes and alibis. The killer in me stretches and awakens, eager for the hunt.

"This is also why your... social connections may prove useful," Snape adds, his gaze lingering on us. "The Granger girl and the Raine girl provide excellent cover. No one would suspect students engaged in a romantic outing, of anything nefarious."

My stomach turns at his words. Using Katara as cover for murder. The compartments in my mind strain against each other, the student recoiling from what the killer must do.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Notes:

They have a date with the gals! And murder plans.

What do we think of the flirting? It's pretty cute, and was fun to play with and write.
I have fun with the Harry and Ron bashing too, tee hee.

How do we think the date will go? How do we think the 'assignment' will go?

Thank you for being here and reading <3
Next upload will be two chapters on Saturday December 13th

Chapter 18: Hogsmeade

Notes:

Right back into it, time for a double date with our suave guys and brainy gals

Saturday arrives at what feels like a breakneck speed.

Today I'll be both student and killer—not separated by days but by mere hours. The compartments Snape taught us to build will be tested like never before.

"Ready for this?" Draco asks, entering my room without knocking, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

"As I'll ever be," I mutter.

We dress, avoiding our school uniforms or anything that might draw attention. I pull on black jeans and a dark red button-up shirt, rolling the sleeves carefully. The fabric feels strange against my skin after so many weeks in either school robes or tactical gear. Draco opts for dark green slacks and a black button-up, the colors subtly nodding to our house without screaming Slytherin.

"Casual enough?" he asks, adjusting his cuffs meticulously.

I nod, pulling my hair back into a loose low ponytail, letting a few pieces fall around my face. "Perfect for a day of shopping and murder."

The gallows humor falls flat between us, but it's better than acknowledging the sick feeling churning in my stomach. I shuffle around in my trunk, retrieving the shrunken Dao blades I've kept hidden since our last mission. They fit easily into an inner pocket of my jacket, the weight familiar and damning against my chest.

Draco does the same with his Broadsword, the weapon reduced to the size of a letter opener and concealed in a special sheath at his ankle. We've become experts at hiding death in plain sight.

"Remember," he says quietly as we prepare to leave, "between three and four. Then straight to the Three Broomsticks."

"I know the plan," I reply, checking my reflection one last time. Druk wraps himself around my shoulders, nuzzling into my jaw. The face that stares back looks almost normal—Even with the scar, I’m just a student ready for a day in the village, not a killer preparing for his next victim. The compartmentalization is working.

For now.

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The Great Hall is buzzing with excited chatter when we arrive, students dressed in their weekend clothes eagerly discussing plans for the day. My eyes automatically scan the room, finding Katara and Hermione at the Ravenclaw table.

I stop short, momentarily caught off guard by the sight of them. They've abandoned their school uniforms too, but it's the colors that make me stare.

Katara wears a soft blue sweater that matches her eyes perfectly, her dark curls cascading freely down her back instead of the practical braid she usually wears for classes.

Beside her, Hermione has chosen a deep purple sweater that brings warmth to her tan complexion, her curly brown hair looking soft under the morning light.

I take a deep breath and nudge Draco with my elbow. "Come on," I murmur. "Time to be charming."

He gives me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "As if that's a challenge."

I feel the weight of the Dao blades against my chest with every step, a constant reminder of what's to come later. But for now, I'm just Zuko the student, interested in a girl and her books on water magic.

"Good morning," I say, my voice soft as we reach them. "You both look... nice."

The word is painfully inadequate. Katara looks radiant, the blue sweater making her eyes impossibly bright. She glances up, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"Morning," she replies, tucking a curl behind her ear. "You clean up well yourself."

Draco slides onto the bench beside Hermione. "That shade of purple suits you, Granger," he says, his usual drawl transformed into something warmer, more genuine. "Brings out the gold in your eyes."

Hermione blinks in surprise, her cheeks flushing. "Thank you, Draco. That's... unexpectedly observant of you."

"I observe many things," he replies, leaning slightly closer. "Particularly things of value."

I have to force myself not to roll my eyes at his line, but it seems to work. Hermione's blush deepens as she busies herself with her tea.

Druk chirps excitedly and launches himself from my shoulder. He circles above the girls' heads, performing elaborate aerial maneuvers that draw their attention upward.

"Show-off," I mutter fondly as he dives and spins.

Katara laughs, “He's just excited," she says, reaching up as Druk swoops close enough for her to stroke his scales.

A soft mewling comes from Katara's bag, and seconds later, Yue pokes her head out, mismatched eyes tracking Druk's movements.

"Where's Crookshanks?" Draco asks, his silver eyes flicking to Hermione's empty bag.

She shrugs, "Probably in a sunny windowsill somewhere. Yue played with him all night last night, wore the poor guy out. He was a good sport about it though. He was gone this morning when I met up with Katara, seeking alone time, as he does after Yue's enthusiasm."

At the mention of her name, Yue leaps onto the table, her black tail twitching in anticipation. Druk chirps a challenge, diving close enough to brush her ear before zooming away. Yue pounces after him, knocking over an empty goblet in her pursuit.

"And they're off," Hermione laughs, quickly rescuing her books from the path of the playful chase.

The familiars dart between us, under the table, around our feet. Yue skids on the stone floor, spinning in a circle before launching herself at Druk again. He barrel-rolls away at the last second, chittering.

Druk zooms under the table, Yue in hot pursuit. I feel the brush of fur against my ankles, followed by the unmistakable sensation of tiny claws using my leg as a launch pad. Hermione yelps as Yue ricochets off her knee, while Draco barely manages to save his cup of tea from disaster.

"Sorry!" Katara apologizes, trying and failing to look stern as Yue emerges from under the table, only to dart between our feet in another attempt to catch the elusive dragon.

Druk chirps gleefully, clearly enjoying this game of cat-and-dragon. He swoops low, hovering just out of Yue's reach before darting away at the last second. The tiny black cat skids across the stone floor, colliding with Draco's dragon-hide boots.

"Your familiar has expensive taste," Draco observes dryly, his lips twitch with suppressed amusement.

Hermione's laugh is bright and genuine—as Druk performs an elaborate spiral around her head before diving back toward the floor. "They're worse than children!"

I nod in agreement, watching as Yue pounces on Druk, who chirps in mock distress before wriggling free and zooming back to my shoulder.

"Though significantly more entertaining." I chuckle, scratching behind a horn.

Katara reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine as she reclaims Yue. The contact sends a jolt through me—something warm and alive cutting through the hollowness.

"I hope you're still up for Tomes and Scrolls," she says, settling Yue into her lap where the cat curls contentedly. "I wasn't exaggerating about spending hours there."

"Hours with you sounds perfect," I reply, allowing a hint of flirtation to color my voice. The words come more naturally than they should, the student part of me pushing forward while the killer retreats to his cage. "Though I might need sustenance to keep up with your academic enthusiasm."

Her cheeks flush, a smile playing at her lips. "I suppose we could make time for tea. Or butterbeer."

"Definitely butterbeer," I say, leaning closer "Around three-thirty? After we've browsed the bookshops?"

Draco catches my eye briefly—acknowledgment of the timing.

"Three-thirty sounds perfect," Katara agrees with that soft endearing smile, “What about you two?" she asks, turning to Hermione and Draco.

Hermione glances up from where she and Draco have been huddled over a piece of parchment—a list of bookshops and their specialties, from what I can glimpse.

"Draco's promised to show me the restricted section at Tomes and Scrolls," she says, her eyes bright with academic excitement. "Apparently, his family name grants access to some of the rarer texts."

"Perks of being a Malfoy," Draco drawls, "Though I'm more interested in your thoughts on the runic translations we discussed. Your theory about the elemental correspondences is... intriguing."

"Only intriguing?" Hermione challenges, raising an eyebrow.

"Potentially revolutionary," he amends, his lips curving into a genuine smile. "Though I'd need more convincing over a proper drink. Three-thirty at the Three Broomsticks sounds ideal."

I watch them, fascinated by this transformation. The darkness that haunts us both seems momentarily dimmed in the presence of these two brilliant witches. Who, for reasons I can't fathom, have chosen to spend their day with us.

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Filch herds us toward the castle entrance with his usual scowl, checking names against his list with suspicious eyes. The excitement is palpable as students gather in clusters, chattering about which shops they'll visit first.

Yue swishes around our feet, eager to spend her day wandering the castle grounds without the interruption of the student body. She trills towards Druk who swoops down to her immediately.

“Traitor,” I murmur fondly.

“Stay out of trouble,” Katara raises a brow towards the fluffy black cat. Yue meets her eyes with a slow blink.

Druk looks at me, his chin tilted in an almost defiant way.

“You heard her.” I smile at him.

Then they’re off, chasing each other around the corner, the suspicious sounds of a suit of armor falling over coming from their direction.

"First years, stay together!" McGonagall calls over the noise. "Older students, remember the rules—back by sunset, no wandering beyond the village boundaries."

Draco and I exchange a glance at her last instruction. The cottage where our target waits lies just beyond those boundaries. Another compartment to navigate, another lie to maintain.

As we join the procession down the path toward Hogsmeade, I deliberately slow my pace, Draco matching me step for step. The crowd surges ahead, eager to reach the village, creating the perfect opportunity for a more private conversation. Katara and Hermione fall into step beside us, seemingly content with our unhurried pace.

"In no rush to reach Zonko's?" Katara asks, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I have more refined interests than dungbombs and hiccup sweets," I reply, allowing a small smile to soften my words. "Besides, the view is better back here."

Her cheeks flush at the implication, and she tucks a curl behind her ear—that nervous gesture I find inexplicably endearing.

"What sort of texts were you hoping for at Tomes and Scrolls?" she asks, changing the subject.

"The ancient water magic section, obviously," I answer, drifting closer to her as we walk. "Though I'm more interested in your perspective than the books themselves."

"My perspective?" She glances up at me, curiosity brightening her eyes.

"You understand water in a way most wizards don't," I explain, "It's... impressive."

Beside us, Draco has engaged Hermione in what appears to be an animated debate about translation methods for ancient runes. I catch fragments of their conversation—something about contextual versus literal interpretations—but my attention remains fixed on Katara.

"Fire comes naturally to you," she observes. "I've seen you in class—even when you're trying to hide it."

I stiffen slightly, wondering how much she's noticed. The moments when my control slips, when flames dance at my fingertips.

"Fire is temperamental," I admit, flexing my fingers unconsciously. "Harder to contain than most elements."

"Like its wielder?" There's a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Exactly like its wielder," I agree, drawn closer to her as we navigate a narrow section of the path. The Dao blades press against my chest, a cold reminder of what awaits later, but for now, I push that back into its cage.

"Water being used for healing," I muse, "The opposite of what I can do with fire."

"Not opposite," she corrects, her expression turning thoughtful. "Complementary. Fire can cauterize wounds, sterilize tools. It destroys infection and creates warmth when healing requires it."

Her understanding of my element—seeing the healing potential in what most view as purely destructive— "I've never thought of it that way," I admit.

We drift closer together as the path narrows, our shoulders brushing. Each point of contact sends a pleasant warmth through me that has nothing to do with my inner fire. Behind us, I hear Hermione's laugh—bright and surprised—at something Draco said.

"Cold?" I ask, noticing a slight shiver pass through Katara as a breeze stirs the fallen leaves.

"A little," she admits. "I should have brought a heavier sweater."

I offer my arm. "I run hot," I explain with a small smile. "Side effect of the fire affinity."

She hesitates only a moment before slipping her arm through mine, her cheeks flushed in an endearing shade of red.

The warmth of her arm through mine sends a jolt of awareness through my body. She fits perfectly against me, her small frame making me feel protective despite knowing she's more than capable of handling herself. Draco seems to have followed my lead, offering his arm to Hermione who accepts with a slightly flustered smile.

"Better?" I ask, unable to keep the softness from my voice as Katara presses closer to my side.

"Much," she admits, looking up at me with those impossibly blue eyes. "You weren't kidding about running hot."

I chuckle, "One of the few perks of a Firebender."

"And the drawbacks?" she asks, her curiosity evident.

"Besides the occasional spontaneous combustion when annoyed?" I deadpan, earning a musical laugh that makes my chest tighten pleasantly. "Mainly just the constant struggle not to set things on fire when emotional."

"That explains a lot about Potions class last month," she teases, her shoulder brushing against my bicep as we navigate around a puddle. "I've never seen cauldron water actually boil without flame before."

I wince at the memory. "Snape was particularly vicious that day."

She squeezes my arm gently, and I'm struck by how delicate her hand looks against my sleeve. The contrast between us is stark—her small, graceful form against my much larger, battle-hardened frame.

When did I become so aware of her physical presence? When did the cage holding the student start leaking into areas it shouldn't?

"Your control is impressive," she says, breaking into my thoughts. "Most wizards with elemental affinities can barely manage basic spells without a wand."

"Years of practice," I reply, carefully omitting that those years were filled with my father's brutal training sessions. "Fire demands respect."

Ahead of us, Hogsmeade comes into view, its thatched cottages and shop fronts decorated with autumn garlands and floating pumpkins for the upcoming Halloween celebrations. Students scatter in various directions, eager to reach their favorite destinations.

"So," I say, leaning down slightly so my words are just for her, "shall we start with Tomes and Scrolls? Or would you prefer Honeydukes first?"

"Sweets before books," she replies with a grin that transforms her entire face. "I’m craving some crystalized pineapple."

"Crystallized pineapple?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's an unexpectedly sophisticated choice."

"I contain multitudes," she quips, her eyes sparkling, "What's your poison?"

"Fire whiskey chocolates," I admit, then quickly add, "For the taste, not the alcohol content."

Her laugh warms something in me that I thought had died weeks ago. "Of course. The fire affinity extends to candy.”

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Notes:

Okay, I couldn't resisst giving them more of a moment to get some more firting and bonding in

I love using Zuko's warmth as a flirtation tactic

I love that Katara matches his flirtation too, tee hee

Chapter 19: Sweets and Scarves

Notes:

Ooo time for the actual date

Honeydukes is a riot of color and scent as we push through the door, the bell jingling merrily above us. The shop is packed with students, their excited voices create a buzzing backdrop to the magical displays of sweets.

"It's always like walking into a dream," Katara murmurs, her eyes wide as she takes in the towering shelves of confections.

I watch her face light up, finding more fascination in her expressions than in any of the magical treats surrounding us. The way her eyes widen, the small soft smile—it's oddly captivating.

I gently guide her through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back. The contact sends a pleasant warmth up my arm. We navigate to a quieter corner where glass jars of colorful candies line the walls from floor to ceiling. I spot Draco and Hermione already there, heads bent close together as they examine a display of color-changing bonbons.

"These are new," I say, pointing to a display labeled 'Elemental Elixirs: Taste the Magic.' Small, jewel-like candies shimmer in various colors—ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green, and amber gold.

"Fire, water, earth, and air," Katara reads from the small placard. "Each candy supposedly tastes like the essence of its element."

I raise an eyebrow. "How exactly does fire taste?"

"Only one way to find out," she challenges, a playful glint in her eyes.

Before I can stop myself, I'm plucking a ruby-red candy from the display and holding it between my fingers. "Care to try?"

She blinks, surprised by my boldness. "You want me to...?"

"Unless you're afraid," I tease, holding the candy closer to her lips.

A blush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. Instead, she leans forward slightly, her eyes never leaving mine as she parts her lips. My breath catches as I gently place the candy on her tongue, my fingertips brushing against her lower lip.

"Oh!" Her eyes widen in delight. "It's... cinnamon and chili. It's wonderful."

The genuine pleasure on her face does something strange to my chest—a tightening that's almost painful but in the best possible way.

"My turn," I say, voice dropping lower.

She selects a sapphire-blue candy, “Water next?"

I lean down, maintaining eye contact as she places the candy on my tongue. The sweetness blooms immediately—cool mint with hints of blueberry.

"Try the earth one next," I suggest, selecting an emerald candy.

This time, I don't wait for her to lean forward. Instead, I step closer, eliminating the space between us.

"Open," I command softly.

Her lips part obediently, and I place the candy on her tongue, deliberately letting my finger linger against her bottom lip. The blush that spreads across her cheeks is intoxicating.

"Earthy," she breathes after a moment.

"My turn," I say again, watching as she selects the amber candy with slightly trembling fingers.

When she offers it to me, I capture not just the candy but the tip of her finger between my lips, maintaining eye contact as I do. Her sharp intake of breath is audible even in the crowded shop.

"Tastes like freedom," I murmur, releasing her finger.

Across the aisle, I catch Draco employing similar tactics with Hermione. He's holding a chocolate truffle to her lips, his silver eyes intense as she takes a delicate bite. The flush on her cheeks matches Katara's.

"These are fascinating," Draco drawls, his voice carrying that aristocratic tone that somehow sounds more charming than arrogant today.

"The spellwork is quite advanced," Hermione agrees, clearly trying to maintain her academic composure despite the flush spreading down her neck. "It involves memory extraction similar to Pensieve technology, but modified to—"

"To engage the taste receptors rather than visual cortex," Draco finishes for her, moving impossibly closer. "Brilliant, isn't it? Almost as brilliant as the witch explaining it."

I suppress a smirk as Hermione's academic explanation dissolves into flustered silence.

Draco's always been smooth, but he's pulling out all the stops today.

"We should get some to take back," I suggest to Katara, placing a hand at the small of her back to guide her toward the counter. The contact sends warmth spreading through my palm. "Which was your favorite?"

"The fire candy," she admits, glancing up at me through her lashes. "It reminds me of you."

I smile down at her, “I enjoyed the water one… for similar reasons.”

I make a quick detour, getting her a large bag of the crystalized pineapple and a variety pack of the elemental candies.

Draco gets Hermione two different boxes of chocolate truffles, his hand never leaving the small of her back.

As we exit Honeydukes, purchases tucked safely away in our bags, I’m reluctant to remove my hand from the small of Katara's back. The connection grounds me, provides a tether to being just Zuko the student. Not the other version of myself waiting in its cage.

"We should check out Gladrags next," I suggest, nodding toward the clothing shop across the street. "I hear they've got new winter cloaks with advanced warming charms."

"Perfect for someone who doesn't naturally run as hot as a furnace," Katara teases, pressing slightly closer to my side as a crisp breeze swirls fallen leaves around our feet.

I chuckle, "You'd be surprised how useful a good warming charm can be, even for fire types."

Draco raises an eyebrow at me, a silent question in his eyes. I give him an almost imperceptible nod. We have time. Our... appointment... isn't for hours yet. For now, we can just be students enjoying a day in the village.

Gladrags welcomes us with a burst of warm air scented with cinnamon and cloves. Enchanted mannequins pose dramatically, their outfits changing every few minutes to showcase the latest wizarding fashion. One particularly flamboyant display features color-shifting scarves that ripple through the spectrum as they twirl around an invisible neck.

"Those are lovely," Hermione murmurs, reaching out to touch one that's currently shimmering between deep purple and midnight blue.

Draco moves behind her, so close his chest nearly touches her back. "It matches your eyes," he says, his voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "The way they shift in different light."

I watch Hermione's cheeks flush pink, her hand stilling on the fabric as she turns to face him.

"My eyes are just brown," she protests weakly.

"Just brown?" Draco scoffs gently, reaching past her to lift the scarf. "They're amber in sunlight, honey by candlelight, and dark chocolate when you're concentrating on a particularly challenging text." He drapes the scarf around her neck. "Nothing 'just' about them."

Hermione stands frozen, her lips parted in surprise as Draco adjusts the scarf, his knuckles brushing against her collarbone. The scarf settles into a deep emerald that does indeed complement her eyes perfectly.

“Lets go check out those cloaks,” Katara says to me while smiling at Hermione, sliding away to give her friend a moment alone with Draco.

I follow Katara to the back of the shop where several racks of winter cloaks hang in neat rows, organized by color and enchantment level. She runs her fingers along the fabric of a deep blue one, admiring the silver fastenings shaped like crescent moons.

"This one's beautiful," she murmurs, pulling it from the rack.

I watch as she holds it against herself, the rich blue making her eyes seem even more vibrant. She's so small next to the full-length cloak, the hem pooling on the floor around her feet. Something protective stirs in me at the sight.

"Try it on," I suggest.

She slips it around her shoulders, and I step behind her, gently adjusting the fabric so it drapes properly. My hands linger at her shoulders, feeling how delicate her frame is beneath my palms. The cloak engulfs her completely, making her look even smaller than usual.

"It's a bit big," she says with a self-conscious laugh, disappearing further into the voluminous fabric.

"Just a bit?" I tease, unable to hold back a genuine smile. "You look like you're being swallowed by an indigo sea monster."

She playfully swats at my arm, but her eyes sparkle with amusement. "Not all of us can be walking mountains like you, Zuko."

I chuckle, circling her to examine the cloak more fully. "Here, let me help." I adjust the collar, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her neck. "Though I have to say, there's something endearing about how tiny you are."

Her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. "I'm not tiny. I'm perfectly average-sized."

"Average for what? A house elf?" I continue teasing, enjoying the way her blush deepens. I reach for another cloak—this one a rich burgundy with gold thread woven through the fabric. "Try this one. It might not drown you quite as thoroughly."

She narrows her eyes at me but allows me to drape the new cloak around her shoulders, replacing the blue one. 

"Better," I murmur, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. "Though still enormous on you."

"They're meant to be oversized," she protests, but her smile betrays her amusement.

"Oversized, yes. Big enough to house a family of nifflers? Probably not the designer's intention." I reach for a third cloak, this one emerald green with silver serpent clasps—unmistakably Slytherin in its styling.

"I am not wearing Slytherin colors." she giggles.

"Afraid you might like it?" I challenge, holding the cloak open invitingly. "Green would look stunning with your complexion."

She rolls her eyes, that smile widening. “I’m not afraid of anything.” She hesitates, fingers running along the embroidered silver serpents.

Curiosity wins out as she allows me to drape the emerald fabric around her shoulders. The effect is immediate and striking—the deep green brings out flecks of teal in her blue eyes.

"I hate that this looks so good," she smiles, turning to examine her reflection. Her fingers trace the silver fastenings as she pulls the cloak tighter around herself, a small, reluctant smile playing at her lips.

"Slytherin green suits you, even though you're a Ravenclaw." I murmur, adjusting the hood so it frames her face perfectly. "Though I'd never admit that to anyone else."

She nestles deeper into the fabric, a contented sigh escaping her as the warming charms activate fully.

"It's so warm," she whispers, eyes closing briefly as she burrows into the soft material, her nose nuzzling against the high collar in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I didn't expect it to feel this... comfortable."

The sight of her wrapped in my house colors, looking so content and small, stirs something possessive in me that I shouldn't allow.

"Careful," I tease, my voice dropping to a low murmur as I step closer, "I might get jealous of a cloak."

Her eyes blink open, meeting mine with surprise. "Jealous? Of fabric?"

"Absolutely." I lean in, close enough that I can see the individual lashes framing those blue eyes. "I can't have you preferring enchanted wool to me when it comes to keeping warm." My fingers brush against the cloak's collar, deliberately grazing the skin of her neck. "I run much hotter than any charm."

Her breath catches, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "Is that so?"

"Undoubtedly." I allow a hint of fire bending to warm my fingertips as they trace the edge of the cloak, just enough for her to feel the difference. "Warming charms fade. I don't."

The blush spreads down her neck as she tries to maintain composure. "That's... quite a claim."

"One I'd be happy to prove." I step even closer, my chest nearly touching hers. "Perhaps during the next Hogsmeade weekend? When the snow starts falling?"

She looks up at me through her lashes, the hood of the cloak casting shadows that make her eyes seem even more luminous. "I might hold you to that."

"Please do." The words come out rough, laced with a hunger I shouldn't feel.

Not today, not when death waits in my pocket, scheduled for later this afternoon.

"Are you two done flirting over cloaks?" Draco's drawl breaks the moment, amusement evident as he approaches with Hermione beside him.

I roll my eyes at Draco's interruption, "We were discussing the thermal properties of enchanted fabric," I say, not taking my eyes off Katara. "Very academic."

"Clearly," Draco smirks, eyeing the emerald cloak still wrapped around Katara's shoulders. "I see you're converting her to Slytherin colors. Well done."

Katara giggles as she begins to unfasten the cloak, but I place my hand over hers, stopping her.

"Wait. It looks perfect on you." I reach for the price tag hanging from the sleeve, examining it briefly before making a decision. "Consider it yours."

"Zuko, no," she protests, eyes widening as I help her out of the heavy emerald fabric. "It's too expensive. I couldn't possibly—"

"You can and you will," I say firmly, already heading toward the counter with the cloak draped over my arm. "Consider it my contribution to inter-house unity."

I hear Draco chuckle behind me. "Seems we had the same idea." When I glance back, he's holding the color-shifting scarf that now glows a deep emerald green. "Nothing says Slytherin appreciation like proper accessorizing."

Hermione's cheeks flush crimson, "Draco, you really don't need to—"

"I insist," he says, his voice soft, "As I said, it brings out the gold in your eyes."

I suppress a smile as I place the cloak on the counter.

"This is ridiculous," Katara murmurs, standing beside me as the shopkeeper begins wrapping the cloak in silver paper. "You don't need to buy me things."

"Need? No. Want? Absolutely." I lean closer, lowering my voice. "Besides, I can't have you freezing during our next Hogsmeade visit. What kind of gentleman would I be?"

"The kind who doesn't spend a small fortune on a girl he barely knows," she replies with a warm smile.

"I'd say I know you better than most." I hand over the galleons, ignoring Katara's attempt to see the price. "And I'd like to know you better still."

The shopkeeper hands me the wrapped package, I tuck it into my bag before offering Katara my arm again.

"Shall we?"

Draco completes his purchase of the scarf, which the shopkeeper wraps in elegant purple paper that shifts colors like the scarf itself.

Hermione accepts it with a shy smile, her fingers brushing against his as she takes the package, tucking it into her own bag.

Katara slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, her touch light, "Where to next?" she asks, looking up at me with those impossibly blue eyes.

"Scrivenshaft's?" I suggest, nodding toward the quill shop across the street. "I could use some new ink."

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We make our way through a few more shops, the banter feeling warm and natural as we exchange small bits of information about ourselves.

Katara loves to swim, her brother taught her when they were young. I tell her about my Uncle, and his near unhealthy obsession with tea.

Hermione shares stories of growing up in muggle schools, detailing gym days when they’d play with colorful parachutes and do choreographed dances.

Draco shares a story of when he and I would race on our brooms when we were far too young, one particular race ending with us stuck in a bush of bramble.

The girls giggle and laugh, brightening what's going to be a dark day in the approaching hours.

"What do you say we grab some lunch?" I suggest, checking my watch. It's just past noon, plenty of time before our... other appointment. "I'm starving after all this shopping. Then we can hit Tomes and Scrolls."

"I could definitely eat," Katara agrees, "Any preferences?"

Draco exchanges a subtle glance with me. "Something warm. Perhaps the Three Broomsticks?"

"Actually," Hermione interjects, "there's a small café just down the lane that makes the most amazing hot chocolate. Perfect for a chilly day like this."

"Hot chocolate sounds heavenly," Katara says, her eyes brightening. "With cinnamon, if they have it."

"They do," Hermione assures her. "And they add just a hint of chili powder if you ask—gives it the perfect warming kick."

"Spicy hot chocolate?" I raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress my interest. "That sounds appealing."

"It's perfect for someone with a fire affinity," Katara teases, nudging me with her elbow. "You'll probably ask for extra chili."

"Know me so well already, do you?"

"You're not as mysterious as you think," she replies, a playful glint in her eyes as she tugs me toward the café.

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Notes:

Our boys pulling out all the stops, the date is going well, so far ;)

Thank you for being here and reading <3
Next upload will be two chapters on Tuesday December 23rd

Notes:

Any comments / theories / feedback are greatly appreciated <3