Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August 2015, Tinworth

Summer in England felt different from the one in the western Mediterranean. Not that Aquila disliked the climate there, but England was colder and more humid. Pair that with the sea breeze on the outskirts of Tinworth—it was perfect. He didn’t need to feel overheated during the only time he could relax without worrying too much about school assignments. Even this heavy book on alchemy felt enjoyable to read now.

He reminded himself to savour his day here while it lasted. The day needed to be absolutely perfect, with no interruptions whatsoever. He thought wryly, Let me read in peace, thank you.

“Aquila! Killa!! Help me!”

Brilliant. What a way to jinx myself

His dear friend and host for this vacation ran towards him, clearly panicking. Her plaid apron was stained with—Merlin knows what—odd-coloured spots around the front, and her boots were wet with some orangeish-coloured fluid now covered in sea sand. Aquila sighed. He could only hope it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“Victoire! What are you doing now?” he asked, standing up for a better look. Upon closer inspection, the strange spots on her apron were melting and burning. He was familiar enough with this kind of mishap that her messy appearance didn’t concern him much.

“I’m done, I’m done! That was my last cauldron!” she wailed, stomping her feet on the ground as she tried to shake off the sand.

“Calm down. Tell me clearly what happened,” Aquila said, reluctantly storing his books and belongings into his bag. He walked over to Victoire, who was clearly dealing with a potion mishap. Thankfully, she didn’t appear to be injured—at least not physically.

“I tried to brew a potion, but then my cauldron melted! Just a week before the new semester starts! Maman and Papa won’t let me get a new one,” she complained, still stomping around. Aquila could only roll his eyes.

“Then you shouldn’t have risked it in the first place,” he said dryly.

“Hmph!” She puffed her cheeks and glared at him furiously. For a moment, he thought he smelled something burning.

“Well! Mr—”

“All right! Dear Miss Victoire, let’s clean up this mess together,” he interrupted before she could unleash her inner Veela. It wasn’t often that she messed up a potion, especially since it was one of her best subjects. Given who her mother was, it made sense. He could only assume she had attempted to brew something she wasn’t supposed to in the confines of her bedroom—though most of the potions he could think of fell into that category.

At his words, Victoire seemed to calm down, her expression softening. She looked down at her now even messier shoes, covered in a mix of sand and potion residue. “Sorry, I got carried away,” she whispered.

“It’s fine. Let’s go back and see what we can do.”

After ensuring nothing was left behind, they walked together in silence. It was a short walk but required climbing a hill to reach the house. As they approached, Aquila noticed a thick orangish smoke wafting from Victoire’s window.

“What? You’re not burning your entire room, are you?” he asked, gripping her shoulder in disbelief. If anything happened to the house, it would be beyond their control. Facing another enraged Veela was definitely not on his summer holiday bingo card. They unconsciously quickened their pace, though Victoire still avoided eye contact.

“Ahem, no… I don’t think letting the fire out is the problem. It’s the opposite, actually,” she muttered.

Great. So she blew up her room, Aquila thought, sighing.

“I just hope you realise the consequences before deciding to do whatever it is you’ve done,” he hissed as they entered the house. Thankfully, Victoire had remembered to seal her room’s door, preventing the smoke from spreading inside. After ensuring the rest of the house seemed fine, they climbed through her bedroom window.

“Are you sure this smoke is safe to inhale?” he asked rhetorically. The room was filled with a hazy cloud that smelled faintly of burnt lavender and peppermint. It was oddly soothing. The most concerning part, however, was the puddle of metal in the middle of the room that had once been a cauldron. Bubbling red-orangish fluid oozed around it. Luckily, Victoire had moved the furniture to the sides before brewing, so most of the room—aside from the carpet and flooring—looked unharmed.

“Really, Vic? A Calming Draught right before your fourth year? You’re not Aunt Hermione. Honestly, this wasn’t even a skill issue! It’s just impossible to brew safely without magic,” Aquila groaned. His complaint felt justified. Even if it was a moderately difficult potion, no one in their right mind would attempt to brew it in their bedroom, underage and unable to use magic to stabilise the concoction.

Still, as a good friend, he helped her clean up the remnants of the cooled potion.

While Aquila grumbled over the proper steps for brewing a Calming Draught, Victoire stayed silent, opening the other window to let more smoke out. “Finished now?” she asked just as he was mid-sentence, explaining how essential magic was—even ambient magic in the air—to help stabilise volatile concoctions during the transfer process into a vial. Aquila sighed, realising he’d gotten carried away again. The room was almost back to its normal state without him even noticing.

“You could brew this in your second year without any issues. The only difference here is I had to adjust the fire without magic, and then this happened instead. It’s not my fault this house doesn’t have a ward to hide underage magic,” Victoire spluttered defensively. She continued before Aquila could open his mouth to respond—or more likely, to scold her.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all your lectures on how magic and potions work. I should’ve reread the basics before trying to brew it. My bad,” she huffed, folding her arms. The room lapsed into an awkward silence, and Aquila decided it was probably for the best to avoid any more arguments. He grudgingly admitted to himself that she had a point.

Aquila considered himself a potion enthusiast—others called him a prodigy—and anything to do with potions excited him. He’d successfully brewed several moderate to advanced potions, including the Calming Draught, at his own home. Of course, his house was an old wizarding one, equipped with wards to prevent the Ministry of Magic from detecting underage magic. Any magical activity was instead reported directly to the master of the house—his father, who thankfully supported his hobby.

Fleur and Bill, on the other hand, had decided their home wouldn’t have such wards. With three underage witches and wizards—Victoire, Dominique, and Louise—it was a wise precaution to prevent reckless magic and avoid disasters. Aquila could only imagine the chaos if the three of them had free rein, though he didn’t voice his thoughts.

He sighed, sympathy replacing his frustration. He understood how frustrating it was to be unable to experiment with potions when time allowed. Looking at Victoire’s failed concoction, it was clear she’d been on the right track—minus the disaster. Aquila had to admit she was creative to even attempt this level of brewing.

“What were you doing to adjust the fire, anyway?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Well, the wind’s so strong here, I was afraid it might cause the fire to spread to the furniture. So, I added some fire protection potion and maybe… maybe just a little wartcap powder. But by the time I realised it, isolating the fire caused the concoction to overheat and melt the cauldron,” Victoire admitted, sighing as she poked at the hardened puddle of metal on the floor.

Judging by the state of the cauldron, it was far more than “just a little” wartcap powder. For what felt like the seventh time in the past hour, Aquila rolled his eyes at her self-defence.

“Brilliant. A fine opportunity to learn new things,” he said dryly.

After a few futile attempts at scraping the residue off the floor, Victoire gave up. She covered the mess with a new carpet and shoved the ruined one into the bottom of her wardrobe. At last, the room looked back to normal. No one would guess there’d been a fire hazard only an hour earlier.

“Ugh, you don’t understand, Killa. Remember when I said the brooms at Hogwarts were ancient? Well, the potion equipment is even worse. My friend used a school cauldron after hers exploded, and all her potions turned rusty or darkened every time! I swear they’ve never replaced them since the school’s founding,” Victoire complained.

Translation: Victoire’s ego couldn’t bear the disgrace of using the school cauldrons, and her imaginary “friend” was just a cover for her refusal to even look at them. Aquila doubted Hogwarts had such low standards for their equipment.

“Hmm, I can see why you’d want to avoid them,” Aquila replied diplomatically. It was true—Beauxbatons’ cauldrons were always of the best quality. However, acquiring one required a tedious administrative process. Besides, there was always something comforting about having one reliable cauldron of his own, and his just so happened to be the same brand as the school’s.

Victoire seemed satisfied with his response. “So, what are you going to do now?” Aquila asked, pointing at the ruined cauldrons piled in the corner. Her sudden grin set off alarm bells in his head.

“You’re coming with me to Diagon Alley, of course. I need a new one as soon as possible,” she declared.

Aquila sat frozen in disbelief as she grabbed her outing robes, humming happily. She made it sound like a perfectly reasonable idea.

“Are you mental ? Has the smoke addled your brain? I absolutely cannot go there! My father would never allow it, and I’m not about to cause even more chaos than we’ve already had!” he snapped.

That was his bottom line. Even though part of him liked the idea of going, the risk wasn’t worth it. What if his father found out? Would anyone recognise him? His father had worked hard to ensure Aquila’s face wasn’t known to the public, even when he’d won potioneering competitions. Showing up there could undo all that effort, dragging them back into public scrutiny.

“Hey! Overthinking bun!” Victoire called, snapping him out of his spiralling thoughts. “Please, just this once! Aren’t you at least a little curious about Diagon Alley? The place where our parents bought their school supplies? I’ll even treat you to ice cream,” she added with a sparkle in her eyes, as though ice cream could bribe him into going.

“I promise we’ll only go to the potion supply shop, then the ice cream parlour, and come straight back. Easy peasy!” she insisted.

Is it really that simple? Aquila wondered. If it was, why hadn’t he been there already? Besides, was it normal for a 16-year-old and a 14-year-old to go unsupervised to the largest shopping district in Britain?

Anyway, it wasn’t like Aquila could truly remember what it felt like to be chased by the public. As far as he knew, he’d grown up just fine. It was all his dad’s words that kept him cautious. Without any news about the Potters, the public would lose interest in them, wouldn’t they?

Victoire kept chattering, saying something about how everything would be fine. But the thought didn’t sit right with him. What actually prevented him from going to Diagon Alley, anyway? His dad wasn’t even that strict anymore about going out in public here. Was he really going to let this opportunity slip away? They’d be back in France in two days.

His mind drifted to his father’s complicated expression whenever people around them mentioned Britain, Hogwarts, or his teenage years. It must have been hard for him to cut all ties and start fresh in a foreign country. But they’d been doing well ever since. If Aquila got recognised in public, it would drag up old wounds, wounds his dad had worked so hard to heal.

But what about himself?

Every summer they came here, but he’d yet to visit many places besides the Weasleys and Blacks. He was curious. Was that wrong? What if Victoire was right? A short trip wouldn’t cause any harm, would it?

“You’re doing that,” Victoire said suddenly, grabbing his fingers. Aquila realised with a start that he’d been pinching his nails the whole time. Oh no. That was unsanitary.

“I’m really sorry for pushing you,” Victoire said softly, her expression genuinely apologetic. “If you’re really uncomfortable, you can stay here. Just help me cover up later, okay?” Her reassuring smile was maddening, given she’d just thrown him into a full-blown internal crisis. Aquila still had a sour taste in his mouth. Why was he hesitating so much? Couldn’t he just be a good friend and go with her?

The only one he’d be upset with was himself—for not having enough courage when the opportunity was staring him in the face.

He looked down at his reddened hands, then at the ground. It was now or never.

“Just this once,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “But promise me we’ll get everything done as quickly as possible.”

Victoire’s amused expression practically screamed, If you faint later, I’m not retrieving your body, but he was too tired to argue.

“Are we going or not?” he said firmly.

“Okay, okay! Promise!” she replied. They linked pinkies—a ritual they’d developed for any scheme their parents wouldn’t approve of. Aquila had never imagined going along with something this nerve-wracking before.

With that settled, they headed downstairs to the living room, where the fireplace was. A sinking feeling settled in Aquila’s stomach. This wouldn’t be as safe as Victoire made it sound.

“Are we using Floo? What if your parents check the connection?” he asked, the dread building again. This was an absolutely terrible idea.

“It’s fine! If they ask, I’ll just say you were too boring to hang out with, reading tomes all day, so I went to visit Uncle Fred and George. They’d be on board if I explain the situation!” she said brightly.

The walk to the living room felt endless. Perhaps this was the universe warning him to back out. But Victoire held his wrist firmly, as if sensing his urge to flee—which, to be fair, he very much wanted to do.

“Ugh, don’t involve other people! Especially Uncle Fred and George. I’ll never have a peaceful day again if they find out,” Aquila groaned. Even amidst the chaos of his thoughts, he knew involving the eccentric twins would be a disaster.

“Calm down. It’s just a backup plan, okay?” Victoire said with a grin.

They didn’t speak much after that. Aquila grabbed his outing robe and his tote bag, charmed with an extension spell, just in case. He paused by the small mirror beside the fireplace.

It’s okay. The reflection doesn’t look like him at all. What am I even worrying about?

“That’s enough,” Victoire said, reaching for the Floo powder jar. She adjusted it carefully, making sure the reduced amount wouldn’t be too obvious.

“Take this. Remember: it’s Diagon Alley . Say it clearly, and don’t barge into some random fireplace,” she warned.

Aquila snorted internally and grabbed a handful of powder. “You know I travel by Floo more often than you.”

She glared at him. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. International. I’ll wait for you there.”

With a clear voice, Victoire called, “Diagon Alley!” The fireplace erupted in green flames for a brief moment, then the living room fell silent.

Aquila hesitated. Was it his turn now? He glanced at the mirror again.

Still doesn’t look like him. But that’s what I’m known for, isn’t it?

The crackling of the woodfire pulled him back to reality. Maybe that’s Victoire’s way of projecting her irritation, he thought wryly.

Brace yourself, Aquila. Just this once.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the fireplace, tossed the Floo powder, and muttered, “Diagon Alley.”

…

Travelling through a Floo connection might have been uncomfortable at first, but Aquila had gotten used to it over the years. What he still hated, though, were the dirty fireplaces. Ugh. Getting covered in dust and soot was the worst, especially when there wasn’t a wizard of age around to help with the cleanup.

As soon as he felt his feet touch solid ground, he cautiously observed his surroundings, ensuring no one suspicious was nearby. Fortunately, this fireplace was well-maintained—clearly used more for transportation than as an actual hearth.

“Hey! Over here!” Victoire’s voice called from the corner of the room. She was speaking with a senior wizard whose crooked back bent him nearly in half.

“This is Tom, the owner of this bar, the Leaky Cauldron. Tom, this is my friend from France, Hadrian,” Victoire said, gesturing at him.

Tom stepped forward eagerly, extending a hand with a slightly unsettling smile. “What an honour to meet you! Little Miss Weasley here has told me a bit about your story.”

Aquila gave Victoire a quick glance. It seemed like this Tom could be trusted to keep their arrival today discreet.

“Nice to meet you too, Tom. If you don’t mind, just call me Rian,” Aquila replied, shaking his hand politely.

Tom and Victoire exchanged a few more words before the innkeeper led them to the back of the bar. They stopped at a red brick wall that appeared to be a dead end. Tom tapped a few of the bricks with his wand, the rhythm deliberate. Slowly, the wall began to shift. A small hole appeared, growing wider and taller until it formed a large archway. Aquila had to admit, it was impressive—but certainly more work than the entryway to Place Cachée.

“C’mon, Kil—Rian!” Victoire corrected herself, grabbing his wrist and tugging him forward. She waved cheerily at Tom as the man disappeared behind the wall, which gradually returned to its original state.

“Thanks, Tom! See you later!” she called over her shoulder.

As they stepped into the main road, Aquila’s first proper look at Diagon Alley left him momentarily speechless. Cobblestone streets stretched before him, flanked by rows of colourful, crooked buildings. He stuck close to Victoire, wary of getting swept into the crowd gathering in front of a Quidditch shop. They continued deeper into the alley, where the streets widened and split into several branching paths lined with speciality stores.

The marble façade of Gringotts towered majestically over the centre of the alley. Around it, the shops competed for attention with their whimsical signs, colourful displays, and enticing smells—sweet pumpkin pastries and freshly baked bread wafted from the nearby cafes. The street was especially crowded, likely due to the fast-approaching school season. Several lines stretched out from school supply shops, but the largest was in front of an old store with a “Clearance Sale” sign floating above it. Predictably, Victoire headed straight for it.

“Oh, shoot! Please let me get one, just one,” she muttered under her breath. Most of the crowd appeared to be young wizards—likely Hogwarts first-years—queuing with their families.

Aquila’s attention drifted to the family standing directly in front of them. The parents, a couple who seemed distinctly Muggle, looked around with wide-eyed curiosity. It was always fascinating to see Muggles adapt to a world so completely at odds with their logic. Their daughter, meanwhile, excitedly pointed out the items they still needed for school.

“This is going to take forever. Are you sure we’ll get back in time?” Aquila asked, anxiety creeping into his voice. They’d been standing there for several minutes, but the line had barely moved.

“Don’t worry! Our parents won’t be back until dinner. Mum and Dad usually help cook at Granny’s house. Your dad will surely tag along with them. Dominique said she’s having a sleepover and won’t return until tomorrow,” Victoire reassured him.

At least one concern was eased. Why hadn’t he asked about that earlier?

“What if I check the other stores? It won’t take long—just ten minutes,” Victoire proposed, clearly angling for him to hold her place in the queue.

Aquila grimaced. Besides dirty fireplaces, he hated standing around in crowded, hot alleys. But he couldn’t think of a better solution.

“Whatever. Just don’t take too long, okay?”

“Oh, Killa, you’re the bestest!” she exclaimed, beaming.

Before he could respond, she darted off into another part of the alley. Now he was left alone, in an unfamiliar place. Fantastic.

Aquila’s grumbling thoughts were interrupted by the family ahead of him.

“I still can’t believe there’s a store that sells this kind of thing,” the father said in awe, holding up a bag that clinked faintly. It seemed to contain a beginner’s potion kit. The parents looked proudly at their daughter as she excitedly described the other items she still needed for school.

“We’re so proud of you, Emily. Let’s take a family portrait with your new school uniform, okay?” the mother said, clapping her husband and daughter’s free hands together. Her laughter was bright and infectious, and Aquila found himself smiling faintly despite his own discomfort.

The line inched forward, but not by much. The heat was getting to Aquila, and he shifted uncomfortably, wishing he were anywhere else.

“He’s proud of me too,” he murmured under his breath, almost without realising it. The thought was meant to stay private, but it lingered, unspoken in his chest.

The line moved again, and Aquila noticed the young witch, Emily, sneaking glances at him. He gave her a small, polite smile, but it caught the attention of her mother, who turned towards him with a warm expression.

“Hello, are you also a Hogwarts student? Our Emily is just about to study there. She’s the first one in our family,” the woman greeted him, gently nudging her daughter forward.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Emily Clarke,” the girl introduced herself shyly.

Aquila stiffened slightly, feeling the weight of the awkwardness settle over him. Still, he smiled and replied, “Hello, Emily, Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. You can call me Hadrian. No, I’m not a Hogwarts student; I go to Beauxbatons—"

“Beauxbatons? The one in France?!” Emily gasped, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

Her father apologised and scolded her lightly for interrupting, but Aquila waved it off with a reassuring smile. “That’s right. I’m in my sixth year now,” he said, trying to keep the conversation pleasant. Emily seemed to take this as an invitation, her confidence bolstered as she fired off more questions.

“So, uh, Hadrian, is it the same as here?” she asked curiously.

Aquila paused. Perfect question, he thought dryly, because I’m curious too. This was, after all, his first time here. He answered awkwardly, “This is actually my first time in Diagon Alley as well. But we have a similar place called Place Cachée in France. It has the same sort of atmosphere, so it’s not all that different.”

The Clarkes hummed in unison at his explanation. Mrs Clarke smiled warmly and complimented him. “Your English is excellent! You’d never guess you weren’t a native speaker.”

Aquila flushed slightly, feeling a pang of guilt for assuming they were Muggles earlier. Then again, they were Muggles. Still, their easy assumptions about him seemed harmless. They were genuinely kind people.

“Thank you, Mrs Clarke. My family’s actually from Wiltshire, but we moved, and I grew up in France. I’m glad to know I haven’t lost my mother tongue,” he said politely.

Mrs Clarke’s face turned red as she apologised profusely for making assumptions, but Aquila reassured her it was no trouble. Before the awkwardness could dissipate, Emily blurted out a question that made his stomach twist.

“Does your family know the Potters? I read that Harry Potter’s family is also from Wiltshire.”

Merde.

Did he talk too much? Of course, he did. Good job, Aquila. Now, how was he supposed to answer that without exposing himself?

“Aha… I don’t really know much about them, sorry,” he said, managing a casual tone. “It just happens we come from the same place.” It wasn’t a lie—he didn’t know much about the extended Potter family beyond his dad and grandparents. All that was left in Wiltshire were ruins.

Mr Clarke looked puzzled and asked who Harry Potter was. Emily launched into an enthusiastic explanation, detailing how Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort. The story was so well-rehearsed it sounded like she’d memorised it straight from a book.

“Wow, so he’s kind of a hero in this world? What’s he doing now?” her father asked, intrigued.

“No one knows! He almost disappeared after graduating from Hogwarts. His personal life is so private,” Emily replied, sounding a bit disappointed.

“Oh my,” Mrs Clarke said softly. “He’s been battling with death since such a young age. No wonder he’d want a quieter life now that the threat’s gone. Good for him. Hopefully, he’s living happily now.”

Aquila blinked, startled by the comment. It felt strange hearing such sentiment from Muggles—but he couldn’t disagree. His dad had been through so much, yet he always wore a mask of strength for him. A pang of guilt settled in Aquila’s chest. If I get recognised here… I don’t even want to think about it.

He edged out of the conversation as the family shifted to discussing the wizarding world. Hopefully, they won’t notice me again.

“Hey, your face is affecting the weather here,” Victoire’s voice cut in suddenly, breaking his thoughts. She appeared out of nowhere, looking uncharacteristically empty-handed.

“This school semester is crazy. I can’t find a single cauldron anywhere! Hmph, Potage’s is my last chance,” she complained, clearly frustrated. Aquila rolled his eyes but kept his thoughts to himself. She’s the crazy one for blowing up her cauldron during summer break.

He stayed silent, letting her vent, but his sense of unease prickled again. Emily was glancing at them—at him —and this time, he was sure there’d be no dodging her next question.

“Hmm, since you left me before, now it’s my turn to explore. What if we meet at the ice cream parlour in an hour?” Aquila suggested quickly, casting a pointed glance towards the family. His eyes signalled his urgency, but Victoire seemed utterly unfazed. Frustrated, he leaned in and whispered, “They’re talking about Harry Potter.”

Victoire hummed in understanding, but to his dismay, a mischievous grin spread across her face.

“Of course! See the store with the teal tent in front? That’s Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. Go explore, and I’ll meet you there—my treat!” she said brightly.

Aquila groaned inwardly. He was definitely going to regret this.

Noticing Emily about to ask him something, he acted quickly. “It was really nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. You too, Emily. I’m sure you’re going to have a fantastic experience this year. And if you have any questions, my friend here is the best person to ask—she’s a star student at Hogwarts!”

Before they could respond, he waved and turned away, effectively passing the responsibility to Victoire.

Nothing could beat the sweet relief of escaping an awkward situation. But as he walked away, the weight of his decision hit him like a brick. Now he was alone in a completely unfamiliar environment, where someone might actually recognise him.

Brilliant. Very much helpful for my anxiety, he thought sarcastically, his nerves starting to bubble up again.

To distract himself, Aquila wandered aimlessly for several minutes, letting the colourful storefronts and bustling crowd blur around him. Then, something caught his attention—a local apothecary.

An apothecary? Here?

His heart lifted. He had always loved learning about a region’s culture and needs through its potions, and the apothecary was the perfect place for that. Without hesitation, he stepped inside, his worries momentarily forgotten.

The familiar sights and smells of potion ingredients washed over him like a comforting wave. Ah, finally, something I am familiar with.

…

I might have gone overboard with this… Aquila thought, staring at his now overly stuffed bag. But honestly, who could restrain themselves when faced with so many new and rare ingredients? The apothecary carried a variety of local supplies and potions that were either unavailable or difficult to find in France. Naturally, he bought as much as he could manage. Now, his enchanted tote felt like it was ready to burst.

After spending nearly thirty minutes in the apothecary, he reluctantly pulled himself away and wandered across the street to a bookstore. Why he thought this was a good idea was beyond him—he’d lost count of how many times that thought had crossed his mind today. The shop was packed with Hogwarts students, the narrow aisles cluttered with books stacked haphazardly. Organisation clearly wasn’t a priority here anymore.

By the time Aquila fought his way back out of the bookstore, dishevelled and mildly irritated, he was nearly swept away by a group of what he assumed were Hogwarts students. They were heading towards the Quidditch supply store, where an already large, noisy crowd had gathered outside. Since the store was directly on the path to the ice cream parlour, he figured he might as well see what all the fuss was about.

Aquila wouldn’t call himself a Quidditch enthusiast, but he did enjoy flying. It had always been one of the few activities that truly bonded him with his dad. For his dad, however, flying was more than a casual pastime—he was a skilled and obsessed Quidditch player. As far back as Aquila could remember, they’d never missed a single Quidditch World Cup, despite the hassle of using glamour charms and sitting in private boxes to avoid attention.

His dad had done everything to spark his interest in the sport: gifting him top-of-the-line equipment for birthdays and Christmas, enrolling him in a local children’s team, and more. Despite his father’s enthusiasm, Aquila couldn’t quite share the same passion. He much preferred the quiet comfort of studying. Still, he loved watching tournaments and had become thoroughly knowledgeable about Quidditch (thanks to his dad’s relentless coaching attempts, which never succeeded in getting him on a school team).

“I hear it’s even faster than the Firebolt Supreme,” a young boy whispered to his friend, pointing at a broomstick in the display window.

No way.

Curiosity piqued, Aquila moved closer. The broomstick on display gleamed with a sleek black-and-gold finish, polished to perfection. Its quality was apparent even from a glance. A sign beneath the display read: Moonchasers by Nimbus . Unfortunately, the crowd made it impossible to see any additional details.

Huh. Mine still looks better, he thought smugly. But a strange sense of familiarity tugged at him, though he couldn’t place why.

He continued to eavesdrop on the nearby children, whose excitement was palpable.

“Huh, they’re so secretive!” one of the kids said, rejoining his friends after coming out of the shop.

“Is it about the price? Did you actually ask how much it costs?” the tallest of the group asked, pulling his robes tighter as if bracing himself for an outrageous answer.

“Of course I asked! But they’re so secretive because some parts are customisable. The price varies depending on what you choose. Even then, I kept pushing, and the saleswoman still wouldn’t tell me unless I placed an order! Can you believe that? As if I couldn’t afford it! So I bought their most expensive cleaning kit just to show her!” he finished dramatically.

Aquila smirked at the theatrical delivery, though the other two boys seemed less impressed.

“Oliver, you totally fell for their marketing strategy,” one of them said flatly. “Anyway, it’s not like we could afford it either. You spent four years saving for a Comet—ugh! Don’t hit me! It’s still a decent broom, isn’t it?”

The banter between the boys was amusing, but Aquila’s focus shifted back to the broom. Moonchasers by Nimbus, he mused. Something about it still felt oddly familiar, like a memory just out of reach. He made a mental note to ask his dad about it later.

“Rich people do love exclusivity, huh? Concealing the price and all that,” the shortest boy chimed in.

“Speaking of rich, I heard someone’s already bought one. And no, it’s not the national team!”

A silence followed, heavy with curiosity.

“Haha, there are loads of rich people. How could we possibly know who it is?” the tall one said dismissively.

“We know him,” Oliver added, his voice dripping with mystery.

“You’re joking! Not him, right?”

Oh my god. Aquila’s first visit to Diagon Alley, and he was already catching wind of some juicy gossip. He pretended to examine the shop’s display intently, but his ears were firmly tuned to their conversation. This was getting interesting.

“I got a glimpse of their commission board. Malfoy’s father placed an order just yesterday. He even specifically requested his son’s initials to be engraved on the handle!” Oliver declared with relish.

Another stunned silence.

“Bloody hell, he’s already got a Nimbus 4002, and he doesn’t even use it at school! Is his father shitting gold?!” the tall boy whispered, equal parts terrified and amazed.

“He’s just mocking the other houses at this point. Is he aiming for the national team? Well, I’d be more surprised if he wasn’t.”

“I will never understand rich people,” the shortest muttered, shaking his head.

The group continued voicing their opinions on this mysterious Malfoy, reaching some unspoken agreement before finally walking away from the store.

What an enigma, Aquila thought, his curiosity thoroughly piqued. He didn’t even know who this Malfoy was, yet he already felt oddly intrigued. From what he’d overheard, this person seemed exceptional at Quidditch. Not to mention, he was using a broomstick that supposedly rivalled Aquila’s own. The idea of meeting him sparked a flicker of competitive interest.

Wait—there’s a Malfoy junior around? Everyone knew of the Malfoys. They were a prominent wizarding family, infamous for their allegiance to the Dark Lord before discreetly switching sides during the Second Wizarding War. From what he’d heard, their current heir had been his dad’s age and attended Hogwarts with him. Perhaps this younger Malfoy was his child?

If I’d gone to Hogwarts, would we have been acquainted? Aquila mused. It’d be cool, coming from kind of opposing families.

As the crowd dispersed, Aquila took the opportunity to approach the Moonchasers display for a closer look. It was undoubtedly an impressive broomstick—sleek, polished, and shimmering with a black-and-gold finish. Yet, in his entirely unbiased opinion, his broom was still prettier.

A small sign beneath the display caught his eye:

Moonchasers, a bespoke creation meticulously tailored to the specifications of its destined rider. With speed and reliability like never before, one could effortlessly slice through the night sky with the grace of a shooting star.

Nimbus in Exclusive Collaboration with Sirius Black

Moonchasers

Moonchasers? The name struck a chord. A strange, sinking feeling settled in his stomach. His eyes darted back to the broom—the colour scheme, the detailing, the name.

No wonder it feels familiar. The red-and-gold colour scheme, the intricate design, the name itself! Who doesn’t know about Moonchasers?! At least in our family…

“Merlin, this old married couple is so shameless,” Aquila muttered under his breath, his cheeks burning faintly at the thought.

He scanned the area. The other onlookers admired the broom with awe, entirely unsuspecting of the hidden implications behind its design. Aquila shook his head in disbelief. I have no words.

Suddenly, a pang of pity stirred in him for this young master Malfoy. If the broom truly reflected its creator’s signature flair, the poor boy would have to carry the weight of that legacy everywhere he went.

There was no way Aquila could spend more time in the Quidditch crowd, so he made his way toward the ice cream parlour where he and Victoire had agreed to meet. Unfortunately, there was no sign of her. Glancing towards Potage’s, he didn’t see her there either. Hopefully, she’s already inside, getting her new cauldron, he thought.

He was just about to head inside for a seat when something caught his eye—a sight so alarming that his body tensed, and panic began to cloud his thoughts.

Is that… Dad?!

No. It couldn’t be.

But his heart didn’t listen. The boy, who looked to be around his age, had distinct platinum-blond hair and wore silver-framed aviator glasses—decidedly not the old-fashioned round ones his dad used to wear. Yet the messy texture of his hair and the sharp features of his face—it was all unmistakably Dad’s. If not for the hair colour, Aquila, his own child, might have mistaken him for Harry Potter himself.

Did Dad have any unknown relatives in England? The thought seemed absurd, but it wasn’t entirely impossible. The Potters were an old family. Maybe there were cousins somewhere, and surely that infamous, ridiculously hard-to-tame messy hair was something only the Potters could claim. A family curse, perhaps.

Thank Merlin I was spared that hair, Aquila thought with a pang of relief.

He was grateful for his sleek, straight hair, which was effortlessly neat and the complete opposite of his father’s. But it also caused him trouble—a rather silly kind. With his dark hair and lack of resemblance to his father, Aquila had spent more time than he liked to admit staring at mirrors, trying to find some semblance of Harry Potter in himself. There never was.

The British press had obsessed over Harry Potter’s personal life for years, and his sudden disappearance from the spotlight after the war had only fuelled their desperation. Imagine their frustration when he reappeared a year later—with a child, no less.

It had been a massive scandal, apparently.

Dad once told him how they were stalked everywhere in Britain. The Weasley and Black-Lupin households, where his father often stayed, received a barrage of howlers demanding explanations about Harry’s disappearance and the sudden news of a child. Neither Dad nor his closest friends could step outside without being tailed by relentless reporters.

Thankfully, a few months later, Dad discovered his grandparents’ property in France, and they relocated there. At first, it was just a way for Dad to start fresh and lay low until the frenzy in Britain died down. But Aquila had grown up happily in France, as long as he could remember.

Yet, they’d underestimated the British press’s obsession with Harry Potter. Aquila still remembered the fallout from one particular incident. During a holiday at the Weasleys, he’d scraped his knee in a broom race and needed to visit St. Mungo’s. His dad, distracted by worry, had forgotten to use glamour charms. The result? A journalist on duty at St. Mungo’s had spotted them, creating a massive headline.

The ensuing chaos was ridiculous. The press had the audacity to question Aquila’s legitimacy, speculating that someone might have deceived Harry into accepting him as his son simply because they didn’t look alike. Aquila had been nine years old at the time. He’d learned about this through his own research—no one would have willingly told him such things.

The past felt like a mess every time Aquila thought about it. And that incident had been a literal disaster. His dad, furious, had punched a reporter who’d tried to grab Aquila. Aquila didn’t know the finer details of what had happened afterward, but several news firms mysteriously went bankrupt, and Sirius Black had successfully lobbied for stricter privacy protection laws in journalism, which were now part of wizarding law.

There had been plans to return to Britain before Aquila reached Hogwarts age, but the incident at St. Mungo’s had derailed everything. They’d stayed in France, and Aquila had attended Beauxbatons instead. The British public had been less than pleased. Somehow, Aquila had been framed as an antagonist, accused of forcing their saviour to live abroad rather than in his home country.

Thanks to the new laws, the public criticism wasn’t as loud as it used to be, but the whispers still lingered. It was uncomfortable, and it was why they continued to limit their movements in Britain and always wore glamour charms in public.

As Aquila stood frozen, staring at the blond-haired boy, the memories churned uneasily in his chest. It’s not Dad, he reassured himself. It can’t be.

But he couldn’t shake the unsettling familiarity.

Aquila’s gaze followed the boy as he walked alone, exuding a quiet confidence, before entering a clothing store just opposite the ice cream parlour. Judging by his polished appearance, he clearly came from a well-off family.

He glanced towards the cauldron shop again. Still no sign of Victoire. Well, making a new friend wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“I could use a new robe,” he muttered to himself. It wasn’t entirely untrue—the dorm master had mentioned a banquet for this year’s Yule celebration, and he hadn’t prepared anything yet. What a coincidence!

An image flashed in his mind: a certain boy staring at him in disbelief after last year’s Yule Ball, refusing to even speak to him. Still hating my perfectly tailored robes, huh? Aquila smirked. He’d gone through the trouble of getting on a boutique waitlist for those robes. Just wait until this year, he thought. I’ll definitely get my revenge.

But now wasn’t the time for that. He shook his head, returning to the present. Focus. Dad’s teenage doppelgänger is an exaggeration, but still… One random encounter can’t possibly trigger a butterfly effect, right?

With that thought, he found himself stepping into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

The shop was quiet, with only a handful of customers scattered about. Aquila’s nerves settled slightly when he realised neither the shopkeeper nor the mysterious boy were anywhere in sight. Good. I’m not ready to face him yet.

“Oh dear! I’m sorry—have you been waiting long?” A woman in soft purple robes approached, her tone warm and apologetic.

“Not at all, Madam,” Aquila replied smoothly. “I’m looking for formal ball robes. May I see your collection?”

Thank Merlin for my friends back home dragging me on endless shopping sprees. At least he knew how to handle himself in situations like these without embarrassing himself.

“Of course! Please follow me to the lounge, Mr…?”

“Hadrian, Madam. Just Hadrian.”

With a polite nod, Madam Malkin guided him to a lounge deeper inside the store. The space felt expansive, with racks of garments ranging from standard school uniforms to high-quality formalwear. It wasn’t couture, but Aquila was certain he could find something here that worked. At least it’s not the same monotonous style everyone back home wears.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr Hadrian. The catalogue will arrive shortly, and if you need anything, just ring the bell on the table.” She excused herself gracefully, leaving Aquila alone in the quiet room.

Except he wasn’t alone.

The mysterious boy sat at a table near the window, gazing out at the bustling street of Diagon Alley. Aquila hesitated. It’d be awkward to suddenly greet him now, wouldn’t it? Instead, he chose a table not too far away but far enough to avoid seeming conspicuous.

As soon as he sat down, a catalogue floated over from the bookshelf, accompanied by a tray of tea and snacks. The soft clatter startled the boy, who seemed lost in his thoughts. Their eyes met for a brief second before the boy nodded respectfully. Ugh. Those eyes give me chills.

For the next three minutes, the silence between them felt almost oppressive. Aquila flipped through the catalogue absently, not really absorbing anything. Then, to his surprise, the boy stood and walked over, settling into the chair opposite him. A floating cup and plate of snacks followed closely behind.

“Hi, a new face? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” the boy said with a smile, gesturing politely for permission to sit. Aquila returned the smile, nodding in response.

“My name is Norma, by the way.”

“Oh, hi. I’m Aquila—”

Aquila froze mid-sentence, inwardly groaning. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Why on earth did I use that name here?! He resisted the urge to slap a hand over his mouth, panic creeping in as he scrambled to recover.

It took everything in Aquila to keep his expression neutral and his attitude composed. Just go with it, he thought. No harm in chatting, right?

Still, the more he looked at Norma, the more unsettling the resemblance to Dad became—especially Dad during his teenage years at Hogwarts, judging by the old photos. Norma’s bright, messy hair was tied into a half-bun, and behind his silver-framed glasses, Aquila noticed a faint greenish tint in his silvery eyes. That glimmer wasn’t natural. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Aquila knew better. It was unmistakably a glamour.

Sensing the tension between them, Norma carried the conversation forward effortlessly.

“Oh, The Eagle , isn’t it?” he said with a playful grin, popping a biscuit into his mouth.

“Yeah, and you’re The Carpenter, ” Aquila replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. The tension began to ease as they chatted. Norma seemed laid-back, and for the first time in a while, Aquila thought it might not be such a bad idea to make a new friend.

“Haha, right. It’s a family tradition from my grandmother’s side,” Norma said lightly. “Loads of my friends thought my name had something to do with rules, or that it was just a girl’s name. But at least they got over it after we had Astronomy.”

Aquila chuckled, relaxing more. “Fortunately, Astronomy is popular among my friends too. Though, I suspect my dad picked ‘Aquila’ hoping I’d become a Quidditch player. Turns out, it’s not really my thing.” He shrugged but then stiffened slightly. Why do I keep oversharing today? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d let his guard down so quickly.

“Wow, Quidditch? I play for my house team. Best sport there is, but yeah, I get it’s not for everyone,” Norma said, his voice dipping briefly before picking up again cheerfully. “By the way, you’ve got a slight French accent. Are you at Beauxbatons?”

“Yes, I’m in my sixth year,” Aquila said, nodding.

Norma’s eyes lit up. “What a coincidence! Me too! As you might guess, I’m at Hogwarts.” He clapped his hands lightly on the table and reached for his teacup.

“I’m learning French—it’s another family tradition. Funny enough, though, my Gran and Dad never take me to France. They prefer French-speaking countries in the northern hemisphere,” Norma continued smoothly, switching to French.

Aquila blinked in surprise but quickly replied in kind. “You’re really good. Some people might mistake you for a local.”

Norma laughed. “That’s rich, coming from a native speaker.”

“First of all,” Aquila countered, “I’m not a native French speaker. My dad’s from England, but we moved when I was a baby. Second, I’m looking for a formal robe—I want to stand out from the rest of my friends.”

Norma raised an eyebrow. “I hear the French really know how to do social gatherings. Witch Weekly’s sales always go crazy during the season.”

Aquila laughed. “We do, actually. Not just private parties, either. Our academy takes school events very seriously. This is for one of those.” He gestured at the catalogue. “You know, Yule traditions.”

Norma groaned. “You wouldn’t believe how bland ours are. We have dinner, then either get sent home or wander the castle corridors trying not to get caught by Peeves.”

Aquila stifled a laugh. Norma’s genuine disappointment was oddly amusing. Do all Hogwarts students love badmouthing their school? he wondered.

Their conversation was interrupted when Madam Malkin entered the lounge, several black robes floating behind her.

“Please wait a moment, Mr Hadrian. Have you settled on your choice?” she asked.

Aquila shook his head, glancing back at the catalogue. With a polite smile, Madam Malkin turned her attention to Norma.

“My dear Norma, look at how much you’ve grown this year! I’ve put my best work into this robe—fit for a proud Quidditch team captain, indeed.”

Norma inspected the robes carefully before giving a satisfied nod. “Thanks so much, Madam. As always, I can count on you.” The robes wrapped themselves neatly in shimmering paper and settled on the table.

Norma and Madam Malkin exchanged a few more words about something Aquila didn’t quite catch. Choosing to give them privacy, he focused instead on flipping through the catalogue, letting his thoughts wander over the selection.

After a while, a light tap on his shoulder startled him. He turned to see Norma smiling warmly. “It was really nice to meet you, Aquila. I hope we can see each other again someday,” Norma said with a wink.

Before Aquila could fully process his reaction, they’d agreed to exchange letters once the school term began. With that, Norma waved and walked out of the lounge, leaving Aquila alone to contemplate their strange but oddly pleasant encounter.

Just as he was starting to feel the silence again, Madam Malkin approached. “Have you found anything interesting, Mr Hadrian?”

“Ah, everything seems wonderful, Madam,” Aquila said politely, carefully choosing his words. “But I do have something specific in mind. Would it be possible to order a custom-made piece instead of selecting from the catalogue?”

He spoke slowly, wary of offending her. Some Parisian boutiques prided themselves on couture, but he was in London now—a stranger in unfamiliar territory.

To his relief, Madam Malkin’s polite smile didn’t falter. “Of course, dear. Let’s see what we can create together for your order.”

A sudden whistle snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Your look could kill, you know,” a girl announced, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Her hands were laden with bags filled with random Muggle household items.

“They’re cursed,” she added nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather. She shoved the bags into his hands without a second thought, then led the way toward one of the quieter cafés at the end of the block. Unlike the bustling shops, this café catered to patrons with deeper Gringotts vaults—a small but exclusive clientele. She, of course, was among them.

“Young Lady Black, Young Master Malfoy, a pleasure to have you both here. I believe there’s a Floo reservation at four?” a waiter greeted them with a courteous smile as they approached the entrance.

“Right,” she replied breezily. “Since there’s some time left, let’s have some snacks. Put this one on his tab,” she added with a grin, pointing at him. Her smile sharpened ever so slightly as she continued, “You made me wait fifteen minutes. Repay my precious time with sweets.”

The waiter’s polite smile didn’t waver as he looked to him for confirmation. With a resigned nod, he agreed, and the waiter guided them to their usual table—her favourite one, with a balcony view.

Once seated, they placed their order, which was mostly hers. The waiter retreated, leaving them alone.

“Now, spill,” she demanded, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. “What has our Hogwarts Prince stomping around Diagon Alley with such an unpleasant look?”

“It’s nothing, Elle. I just encountered something unexpected along the way.”

“Oh, cut the crap. I know something ‘unexpected’ wouldn’t shake you—”

“Your vocabulary is expanding impressively, young lady,” he interrupted, offering a pointed smile.

She narrowed her eyes. “Coward. Don’t use my father to threaten me. I’m a perfectly healthy teenager, unlike you,” she hissed, though the thinly veiled threat clearly worked. She dropped the subject, and he deftly redirected the conversation to her latest purchases and current project. Soon, the topic of his mood was entirely forgotten.

Their order arrived shortly after. While she indulged in a full afternoon tea set, he kept it simple with a steaming hot chocolate and an expertly made treacle tart. The combination never failed to soothe him.

As he took a bite, the tension from earlier began to dissipate. The image of the person who had unsettled his thoughts all day faded with each sip of chocolate and bite of tart.

Chapter Text

After confirming his purchase and delivery details, Aquila left the store in high spirits. Madam Malkin truly was a gem, and he had complete faith in her work for the Yule Ball. After all, he was serious about it this year—especially since his best friend had hated his last ensemble so much that he refused to speak to him for the rest of the semester.

Reaching the ice cream parlour, Aquila spotted Victoire already seated inside.

“There you are!” she called, gesturing for him to sit across from her. Beneath the table sat a sizable cauldron, presumably her new purchase. “Perfect timing! I just sat down. Come on, I’m treating you to ice cream—or a sundae, your pick.”

They both opted for large sundaes, and the cool sweetness was especially satisfying after the hot, tiring day. Maybe the heat’s making it taste even better, Aquila thought, savouring a spoonful.

“So,” Victoire began, grinning, “where did you run off to earlier? Not too bad, I suppose?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know I couldn’t skip the apothecary. Spent most of my time there. The bookstore was a nightmare—I couldn’t even get past the first shelf. Then finally, Madam Malkin’s.”

“Of course, you went to the apothecary. Nerd,” she teased. “But a clothing store? Don’t get me wrong, Madam Malkin’s is the best. Still, knowing your wardrobe, I don’t think you’re in desperate need of her collection.”

Aquila shrugged. “I need something fresh. Everyone’s robes come from the same handful of tailors these days. Besides, I want to stand out at this year’s Yule Ball.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Regis.” Victoire smirked. “Just forget him. He’s the one who couldn’t appreciate beauty. Maybe it’s time you found a new best friend.”

“Ugh, shut up. Don’t bring him up now,” Aquila groaned.

Victoire’s grin widened as she continued to poke fun at his friendships. Unfortunately, she knew far too much about his social circle. With her mother, Tante Fleur, maintaining ties with France’s wizarding community, there was no escaping her knowledge.

Desperate to change the subject, Aquila asked something that had been bothering him all day. “Anyway, does Sirius have a project I don’t know about?”

Victoire’s expression immediately soured. “Ugh. So… you saw the Moonchasers , right? No way you weren’t dragged by the crowd near the Quidditch shop.”

She took three spoonfuls of sundae in quick succession before continuing. “Uncle Sirius is the largest investor in Nimbus now, so they offered him a joint project to design a broom that could rival the Firebolt.”

She paused to take another bite, but before Aquila could react, she scowled. “The official line is that it’s called Moonchasers because it’s efficient, tailored to the rider’s preferences, and fast enough to keep up with the moon. But we know the real reason for the name. Honestly, I can’t decide whether to be disgusted or impressed by your granddad’s boldness.”

Aquila winced slightly. He’d been roped into calling Sirius and Remus his “grandparents,” though he still wasn’t sure how it happened. Sirius, in particular, was the embodiment of over-the-top romantic gestures. Together, Sirius and Remus were infamous for their sappy public displays of affection, which regularly made the gossip columns.

“It’s such a good broom,” Victoire admitted. “I bet the national team will be using it soon. Honestly, I pity them—or anyone innocent enough to buy it.”

“Someone other than the national team already placed an order. I heard it’s someone from the Malfoy family,” Aquila said.

Victoire’s expression shifted dramatically from disdain to exasperation in seconds. “Malfoy? It has to be Norma. Merlin, he’s basically a broom collector at this point. He’s not even allowed to use professional brooms in school tournaments, and it’s not like any other house has beaten Hufflepuff since he joined their team. He probably bought it just to annoy Sirius!”

Aquila blinked in surprise. Norma? His new acquaintance? He hadn’t expected to connect the dots so quickly.

Thinking back, it all clicked. Norma practically hinted at his identity earlier, Aquila thought, internally facepalming. An astronomy-related name? That’s classic Black family pride.

After a moment, it seemed obvious. Other than Sirius, the only Black family member still closely tied to the Malfoys was Narcissa, who’d married Lucius Malfoy. Of course it’s him, Aquila thought, shaking his head at how slow he’d been to realise it.

But something about what Victoire said piqued Aquila’s curiosity.

“To annoy Sirius? Why would he want to do that?” he asked.

Victoire took a deep breath, clearly gearing up for a full explanation. “Well, personally, Norma’s not bad. Everyone calls him the Hogwarts Prince. Aside from his family being literal aristocrats, he’s one of the top students in his year. Oh, by the way, you’re in the same year as him. Last year, he even set the record for the youngest Quidditch team captain ever. And! He somehow still manages to rank first in overall academic performance.”

She paused for a breath, scooped up more ice cream, and continued. “As for his relationship with Sirius… you probably know they’re related, right? Rumour has it he’s a half-blood, and other things about his… absent mother, but nobody really knows for sure. The Malfoys keep everything ridiculously private. The point is, Estelle suddenly developed a crush on him last year, and now they’re often seen together—”

Aquila nearly choked on his sundae. “ Estelle? That Estelle? Our Estelle?!”

Noticing his wide-eyed expression, Victoire burst out laughing. “Shocking, isn’t it? No one saw this coming. Poor Sirius. I heard Remus has to confiscate all his owls to prevent him from sending howlers to the Malfoys and school.”

Aquila managed to recover enough to voice his thoughts. “Knowing her, I don’t think it’s as simple as having a crush,” he said carefully. Estelle was as passionate as her father and often had a hidden agenda. There had to be more to this than a sudden infatuation.

“Exactly,” Victoire agreed. “Sirius absolutely loathes Norma, but he can’t say no to his beloved daughter. So, naturally, he just blames Norma for everything. And that’s probably why Norma’s so keen on annoying him.”

She shook her head slowly, a small grin tugging at her lips. “If it ever turned out to be true, and they got engaged, I wonder how the Black ancestors would react. Sirius has already turned everything upside-down, after all.”

Aquila couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The image of the composed boy from earlier paired with his fiery ‘aunt’ was almost too much. “There’s a possibility. But for Sirius’s sanity, I don’t think they should…”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished their sundaes. On their way back to the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron, Victoire sighed dramatically, complaining about how much the cauldron had cost her. She even vowed, albeit begrudgingly, not to brew any more potions for the rest of the holiday.

Aquila scoffed but made a mental note to get her an advanced potion kit for Christmas. She might grumble about it, but he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.

The rest of the day went smoothly, thank goodness. By the time Aquila and Victoire returned, their parents hadn’t yet come back from the Burrow. They used the precious quiet to clean up and conduct a second inspection to ensure nothing was amiss after Victoire’s potion mishap.

Dinner time eventually arrived—and with it, the rest of the family.

“Hey, Sis! Killa!” Louis was the first to emerge from the fireplace, balancing a tray of mashed potatoes and gravy. “Have you two blown up the house yet?”

“Not today, Lu,” Aquila replied honestly. It was the truth, after all.

Louis glanced at them, clearly disappointed. “Huh. Shame. I thought leaving you two alone might end in disaster. Then we could finally convince Maman and Daddy to put up an anti-magic-detection ward.”

“The protection is there for a reason, dear,” a sweet voice interjected as Fleur stepped gracefully out of the fireplace. She looked like an older version of Victoire, with her shining blonde hair and radiant blue eyes. Smiling warmly, she cupped Victoire’s face and hugged Aquila.

“Of course, Maman,” Victoire chirped. “We’ve just been doing our homework and some pre-reading together.”

Fleur glanced around the room, her eyes sparkling with amused suspicion. Aquila could have sworn she knew something had happened. “Well,” she said lightly, “whatever you’ve been up to, at least the house is still standing.” She patted both of their heads affectionately before heading to the dining room to prepare dinner.

Bill arrived next, exchanging greetings and joining Fleur. Harry followed shortly after, balancing trays of steaming food.

“Hey, Aquila, Victoire! How was your day?” he asked warmly.

“Great, Uncle Harry!” Victoire beamed. “Killa’s been a massive help with my potions homework.”

Harry chuckled, glancing at Aquila with pride. “I’m not surprised. He’s always been brilliant with potions.”

The three of them joined the others in the dining room, where Fleur, Bill, and Louis were already setting the table. The tantalising smell of roasted beef and vegetables filled the air, mingling with the sweeter scents of treacle tart and apple pie waiting for dessert. Aquila attempted to snitch a piece of pie but was quickly shooed away by his father.

Once everyone was seated, the feast began. The dinner was lively, with Bill, Fleur, and Harry enthusiastically discussing the arrival of Moonchasers . Sirius had been heavily involved in its development, and now both the English and Hungarian national Quidditch teams were requesting test drives. Aquila caught Victoire’s eye, both of them feigning surprise as they nodded along.

The conversation soon shifted to Bill and Fleur’s upcoming trip to Egypt in the spring for Bill’s work.

“Not fair! I want to go too,” Victoire whined, pouting dramatically.

“You’ll join us during the summer holidays, dear,” Bill reassured her. “But promise us you’ll start preparing for your O.W.L.s more seriously.”

“Speaking of O.W.L.s,” Fleur said, her tone light but curious as she handed out slices of tart and pie, “how are your plans for the E.C.E.S., Killa?”

Aquila paused as the attention turned to him. The Examen de Compétences en Sorcellerie (E.C.E.S.) was the Beauxbatons equivalent of the N.E.W.T.s. Students selected their subjects during their sixth year based on their Tests de Connaissances Sorciers Ordinaires (T.C.S.O.) scores—or, for a select few, their career aspirations. Not to brag, but he’d earned twelve Remarquable scores (the equivalent of Outstanding) on his tests last year. That gave him the freedom to pursue almost any course he wanted.

“I’m taking potions, herbology, care of magical creatures, defence, runes, arithmancy, astrology, and electives in alchemy and business,” he said matter-of-factly.

There was a brief, stunned silence as Bill and Victoire nearly choked on their desserts. His father grimaced as though physically pained.

“See, I don’t know where I’m going wrong raising him,” Harry said with a laugh, patting Aquila’s shoulder. “But either way, I trust his decisions. I was worried he was pushing himself too hard, but looking at it now, he’s more than capable. He’s earned it.”

Fleur looked genuinely impressed. “That’s wonderful, Aquila. I can see why you chose those courses.”

“Thanks, Tante,” Aquila replied, smiling. “Still, I’m a little disappointed I couldn’t beat your record.”

Fleur Delacour was a living legend in Beauxbatons’ recent history. She had graduated with Remarquable in all twelve subjects plus three electives, securing her place on Beauxbatons’ Wall of Fame alongside figures like Nicolas Flamel and Michel de Nostredame. She was an idol to every student there. Aquila vividly remembered the jealous looks his classmates had given him when he returned after his first Christmas holiday with a signed potion notebook and a photo of them together.

“Don’t be, Aquila. You’re excellent,” Harry reassured him, handing over another slice of tart—a gesture Aquila would never, under any circumstances, refuse.

“Thanks so much, Dad!” Aquila said, tucking into the tart with delight.

His father had always been supportive, the kind of cool parent his peers often envied. According to Charlotte and Regis, some students at Beauxbatons had even tried matchmaking their own parents with him. With his wealth, singleness, and—objectively speaking—good looks, the Harry Potter was undeniably appealing. But he never seemed interested in dating, always throwing himself into work, travelling, or helping Aquila tend to their priceless greenhouse during school breaks.

“Barely one subject,” Fleur said modestly, “and I didn’t have to compete internationally the same year as my exams.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Killa? Think of your future children! Look at Louis and me—and don’t forget poor Dominique. The pressure is unbearable,” Victoire lamented dramatically, pointing at both her parents.

The room erupted in laughter, save for Louis, who nodded solemnly in agreement with his sister. Dinner continued with lighthearted chatter.

After everyone had finished, it was Aquila and Victoire’s turn to clean up. The adults lingered at the table, chatting until it was time for Aquila and his father to head home.

“It’s been lovely having you here, Aquila. Thanks for all your help,” Victoire said, hugging him tightly.

“Same, Vic. I hope we can visit more often.”

When she finally released him, Bill stepped forward and pulled Aquila into a warm bear hug. “Thanks for helping Vic, Killa. Send our regards to Henri and Apolline.”

“Of course, Uncle. See you soon! Bye, Louis, Tante Fleur! Please send Dominique my best wishes for her first year.” Fleur kissed him on both cheeks before handing him a neatly wrapped pan of apple pie—since Father had already devoured the treacle tart. Louis waved cheerfully from behind her.

“After you, son,” father said, stepping aside to let Aquila go first. Aquila grabbed a handful of Floo powder, grateful that no one had noticed its reduced amount. He stepped into the fireplace, waving one last time at the Weasleys before speaking clearly.

“Number 12 Grimmauld Place!”

A light knock came from the ebony door. Knowing exactly who it would be, Aquila rushed to toss the last of his clothes into his trunk, desperately trying to cover the potion ingredients he’d bought in Diagon Alley.

Brilliant. Of all trips, why did I decide to use this hopelessly small trunk? He cursed his earlier decision. His usual summer trunk was bulky but practically bottomless. He often complained about its size, but right now, he’d trade anything to have it back. Anything —as long as it didn’t raise his father’s suspicions.

He grimaced, hurriedly shoving aside most of his clothes—anything he could live without in France—and carefully tucked the potion supplies into the trunk. It was a tight fit, but it would have to do. The discarded clothes and other miscellaneous items were hastily stuffed into the darkest corner of the walk-in closet. Hopefully no one finds them before we leave.

“Hey, Killa. You ready yet? The others are waiting downstairs,” Harry called from the hallway, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room.

“Just a moment!” Aquila called back, his tone far calmer than he felt. Muttering a quick Disillusionment Charm over the pile in the closet, he opened the door. Sure enough, his father was standing there, dressed in his formal robes, eyebrows raised.

“What took you so long?” Harry teased, peering playfully past Aquila into the room.

Aquila shrugged nonchalantly, desperately willing himself to appear calm. Act normal. Nothing to see here. He knew his father respected his privacy—a value Sirius often grumbled Harry hadn’t grown up with. Still, Harry’s trust only made Aquila’s hidden secret feel heavier. He purposefully kept his expression relaxed, hoping it would be enough.

“Sorry, Dad. The pre-reading material for next semester was just too interesting. I lost track of time,” Aquila said with a yawn. It wasn’t a complete lie. He had spent the past few nights buried in books—ones he’d been too busy to read earlier. He’d finally been able to choose subjects he was genuinely excited about, which had kept him up late more than once.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, Aquila. You got a vacation, and you’re still glued to your books?”

“Well, the library here’s too good to pass up,” Aquila shot back with a grin. “But tomorrow, how about we go outside? Rene sent me a letter saying the weather’s perfect for flying.”

Harry’s expression instantly brightened. “Good to know you haven’t forgotten you own a broom. I was starting to think the poor thing was gathering dust in the corner of your room.”

Aquila laughed, sidestepping just in time to avoid his father’s hand reaching to ruffle his hair. Close call.

As they started down the hall together, Aquila couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Harry trusted him implicitly and often said that communication was the cornerstone of a strong relationship. Aquila rarely kept anything from him, which only made this particular secret more difficult to stomach.

One lie leads to another, a voice nagged at the back of his mind. But he pushed the thought away. It’s not forever. I’ll tell him about my little adventure later—when the time’s right.

“Ahem.”

A voice suddenly interrupted them. Aquila peeked past the door to see the source. His ten-year-old uncle, Remi, stood on the staircase, arms crossed and shooting them a judgmental look.

“Daddy won’t let me have any cookies until everyone’s in the kitchen,” the boy announced with an exaggerated huff.

“Sorry, Rem. We’ll be down in a moment,” Harry said, grimacing as he motioned for Aquila to follow.

Satisfied, Remi gave them one last dramatic glance before bolting downstairs. Aquila exchanged an amused glance with Harry before trailing behind.

They arrived in the modern, open-plan kitchen shortly after. Aquila glanced around, taking in the space he’d grown fond of over the years. Harry had once explained to him that Sirius loathed anything tied to the Black family. Initially, Sirius had wanted to demolish the entire house, but he’d decided the best revenge was to live well and flaunt his defiance at his ancestors’ legacy.

The kitchen was part of that vision. The old townhouse at 12 Grimmauld Place had been stripped down and modernised. Sirius had thrown out countless artefacts steeped in dark magic and hired curse-breakers from around the world to cleanse the property. He’d even gone as far as to repair the infamous Black family tapestry, adding himself, Remus, the Tonks family, and a few other disowned relatives. The act had driven Walburga’s portrait into a rage so fierce it triggered the house’s protective magic, destroying half the building in the process. Sirius had been delighted—it only sped up his renovations.

At the counter, Sirius was busy preparing something when Harry joined him. Not wanting to get caught up in their conversation, Aquila glanced at the other side of the room. His aunt, Estelle, lounged by the window with Remi, who happily munched on his cookies. Aquila took a seat beside her, noting the muggle phone she held intently in her hands.

“Look—Daddy’s new project,” Estelle said, holding up the phone, which displayed a webpage about tarot readings for muggles. “I’m still trying to figure out the mechanism for the latest model, so I’m practising on older ones.” She gestured at a few more phones scattered on the table.

Aquila smirked. One of Sirius’s hobbies-turned-careers was modifying muggle devices to function in magical environments. Over the years, he had obtained patents and collaborated with the ICW to ensure the Statute of Secrecy was upheld. His work had become a symbol of progress, even swaying some of the more stubborn old coot of the wizarding world.

“I don’t understand why they release a new one every year,” Sirius grumbled loudly from the kitchen. “They all look the same.”

“It’s no different from broomsticks, is it?” Harry shot back, smirking.

Sirius turned to him, feigning offence. “Broomsticks always improve. You don’t realise it because you’ve never touched anything other than that Firebolt. It’s ruined your perspective.”

“Right, because buying a Firebolt for a thirteen-year-old was so reasonable,” Harry replied dryly.

“And as if you didn’t buy one for a ten-year-old,” Sirius countered.

Their back-and-forth escalated until Estelle shook her head, muttering, “Don’t bother listening to them. Age has finally caught up with those two.”

“Dada hasn’t even come yet,” Remi chimed in, looking up from his plate. “How long are they going to keep this up?”

Aquila silently agreed. Remus was the only person who could rein in the two childlike adults, and his absence was already being felt. Bored, he turned to Estelle. “Can I try one of the phones?”

She nodded, barely glancing up as she focused on her own. Aquila reached for one of the modified devices, intrigued. Thanks to Aunt Hermione’s lessons, he had a decent understanding of muggle technology. Still, he knew how challenging it was to get anything electronic working in such a magic-heavy area.

The phone operated surprisingly smoothly, though it glitched slightly when he tried to connect to the internet. Impressive, he thought, considering that Grimmauld Place was practically a nexus of ancestral Black magic. In a less magic-dense environment, the phone would likely work perfectly.

“I need to improve my runes. Spellwork can only go so far,” Estelle sighed, frowning slightly at her phone.

Aquila stifled a laugh. Her comment was so casual, yet he could already imagine ministry officials losing sleep if they heard it. What she described as a “hassle” was the kind of breakthrough others spent their entire careers trying to achieve.

“It’s cool, honestly—how far muggles can go without magic,” Aquila remarked, engrossed in a muggle game that didn’t require an internet connection. Unsurprisingly, it worked perfectly.

Estelle beamed at his statement. “Right? They can even send messages in seconds with this thing!” She held up the phone triumphantly.

“Owls are cool too!” Remi chimed in, frowning slightly. “It takes too much work to make these things work in magical places anyway. The communication book’s already better.”

“Sure, owls are great,” Estelle said, ruffling Remi’s wavy black hair. “But wouldn’t we get extra points for understanding their technology too?”

Remi pouted, mumbling a reluctant agreement. The youngest Lupin-Black was deeply attached to magical creatures, a fact everyone in the family knew. His prized possession was the latest revised edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them , signed by Rolf and Luna Scamander. It had been a gift from Harry for his fourth birthday, and Remus and Sirius had only coaxed him away from it with promises of future trips to see the creatures in real life. The book was now worn and crumpled, filled with Remi’s enthusiastic annotations of his encounters with various beasts—always carefully monitored to ensure none of them belonged to the XXX category or higher.

Watching the siblings interact, Aquila couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Estelle, the transfiguration prodigy, and Remi, with his endless fascination for anything magical that breathed, couldn’t be more different. Yet they always supported each other in ways Aquila couldn’t help but admire.

He glanced away, suppressing the thought. He didn’t even know his other parent, and his father never showed any interest in dating. It would be awkward to suddenly ask for a sibling, wouldn’t it? Besides, he was at an age where friends occupied most of his time. It wasn’t as much of a problem anymore—or so he told himself.

Remi had finished his cookies and was now turning the other phones on and off randomly. Estelle quickly hid the parts she needed, letting him fiddle with the rest. They were all absorbed in their respective activities when Aquila noticed something wasn’t right.

The kitchen had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Aquila glanced toward the counter where his father and Sirius stood, their voices low. His father looked tense, his posture stiff, while Sirius seemed to be trying to calm him. It wasn’t a good sign. Sirius rarely went serious —and when he did, it was never good news.

Did they find out about my trip to Diagon Alley? Is it enough to make Dad this upset? How could they know? Was I spotted by a reporter? Is there—

A large cookie was suddenly shoved into his mouth, snapping him out of his spiralling thoughts. Aquila blinked at Remi, who grinned impishly. Before he could react, the green flames of the fireplace flared to life, and a figure stepped out.

“Dada!” Remi cried, running to Remus, who scooped him up with a warm smile.

“Hi, dear. How’s your day?”

Before Remus could glance in their direction, Estelle discreetly handed Aquila a handkerchief and whispered, “Use this for now.”

Aquila quickly realised what she meant, wiping his hands and trying to compose himself.

“Great! I finished my homework. Sis and Killa helped me,” Remi said proudly. Remus waved at them before heading toward the kitchen, still holding his youngest.

Aquila’s attention shifted back to the adults as he rubbed his hands clean, ears straining to catch the conversation.

“How was the meeting?” Sirius asked, pulling his husband into a brief but nervous embrace.

“As usual,” Remus replied with a sigh, sharing a quick kiss. “Just preparations for the new semester and other odds and ends…”

“Remus, are they really—?” Harry’s voice cut through, sharp and insistent.

Remus avoided his gaze, his expression tightening. “So, you’ve heard,” he said quietly, setting down Remi, who began whining in protest.

“Estelle, can you help Aquila get ready? We need to be at the Ministry by two. Take Remi with you,” Remus instructed, his tone brisk.

Remi grumbled but eventually followed, mollified by Sirius’s promise of a new book. Aquila glanced at his father, who gave him a small nod. It was clear the adults needed time to themselves.

As they walked away, Aquila’s thoughts churned. So, it’s not about me. Right?

“C’mon, Fokky’s bringing your lunch upstairs,” Remus said, ushering them toward the door. Just before it closed completely, Aquila heard Harry half-shouting:

“Are they mad? Maybe I should knock on their office to remind them what happened the last time they held those bloody—”

The door shut firmly, likely sealed with a spell.

Estelle whistled. “Wow. It’s true what they say—the rage of a patient person is terrifying.”

Aquila rolled his eyes. “Don’t sound so impressed! Do you even know what it’s about?”

Both Estelle and Remi shrugged in unison.

“Ugh, I’m starving,” Remi grumbled, stomping his feet. His sister scolded him for devouring half a jar of cookies earlier, to which he indignantly replied that cookies didn’t count as a proper meal. Nevertheless, they made their way upstairs to Aquila’s room.

The guest suite on the second floor had been Aquila’s during his stay. Now, with him and Harry leaving today, the room was nearly empty. A new addition—a small table by the window—was where the house-elf Fokky had set their lunch.

“Master Sirius instructed Fokky to remind Young Lady Estelle to eat her vegetables,” the elf said as he finished arranging the plates. “More spices, just as you like it.”

Estelle muttered a faint complaint but still mumbled, “Thank you.” Remi squealed in delight at the sight of food and immediately sat down.

“I often get homesick at Hogwarts because the food’s so bland,” Estelle said as she eagerly helped herself to the meal, discreetly pushing vegetables to the side of her plate while her brother added them back. “I have to request extra spices from the kitchen every week just to make it tolerable.”

Aquila nodded in agreement. Sirius’s adventurous cooking style was one of the few things that had elevated British cuisine to meet his tastes. Honestly, how did an empire once spanning the globe fail to bring back any spices? Even the wizarding community had been trading for centuries before the Muggles invented their calendars, yet their food hadn’t improved.

“So,” Estelle began, smirking as she picked at her food. “Guess who I saw in Diagon Alley two days ago?”

Aquila nearly spat his beans onto Remi’s plate as her words registered.

“Gross!” Remi grumbled, glaring at him. Aquila barely noticed, his mind racing. Did she see me?

Estelle’s smirk widened. “I was going to say I saw Victoire running around Diagon Alley all on her own, but your reaction just confirmed my suspicion.” Her victorious smile made Aquila’s stomach drop.

He glanced desperately between her and Remi, silently pleading with her to understand what he wasn’t saying. She can’t tell anyone. Not more people. Please.

“What?” Remi asked nonchalantly, stabbing a piece of chicken popcorn with minimal enthusiasm. “Sister might keep secrets from Daddy and Dada, but not from me.” He chewed thoughtfully before adding, “Bit disappointed, though. We had a bet you’d sneak out to Diagon Alley last year when Harry left you here for work.”

Aquila stared at him, momentarily speechless. He had completely forgotten that his youngest uncle was, without question, the scariest of the Lupin-Blacks.

“Don’t bully him too much, Remi. He’ll lose confidence,” Estelle finally chimed in, though her timing was far from helpful. “So, what did you find there?”

With two eager interrogators staring him down, Aquila had no choice but to recount his trip. Of course, he left out certain details—particularly anything involving the boy disturbingly similar to his father. He made sure to mention his potion supplies, though, and secured a promise from them to keep the clothes he’d hidden in exchange for some of those supplies.

“You’ve finally broken out of your shell! I’m so proud of you, nephew,” Remi declared dramatically, dabbing at an imaginary tear as Estelle burst into laughter. Aquila felt his face flush with embarrassment. Brilliant. More blackmail material for them.

“Don’t worry, Killa,” Estelle managed between giggles. “We’re 100% on your side. We’ll keep your clothes in perfect condition.”

Once she calmed down, she added, “Honestly, you couldn’t have picked a worse time. I can’t even set foot in Diagon Alley because of Daddy’s latest project.”

Aquila suddenly remembered Victoire’s cryptic comments about Estelle’s “affair.” Time to retaliate.

“And what about you?” he asked, smirking. “I heard you’re involved in a rather scandalous affair.”

Estelle immediately choked on her broccoli. Without looking up, Remi slid a glass of water toward her while continuing to sort his food by colour.

“Wow,” she muttered after a quick sip, her tone somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “The power of gossip. You’ve already heard about it.”

Her response was disappointing, but Aquila’s curiosity deepened when Remi’s expression shifted to one of barely concealed dread. Aquila also noticed Estelle’s hair darken ever so slightly. Interesting.

“Well,” she began, slumping into her chair as she stirred her bowl mindlessly, “I’m not really with him. It’s just… convenient. He needs someone to fend off his persistent followers, and I… I need to prove I’m not some pathetic woman after she left me like that.”

Remi shot Aquila with an accusatory glare. “Thanks. I really needed to hear this again,” he muttered, focusing intently on his plate.

Aquila ignored him, too intrigued by Estelle’s confession. “You still haven’t moved on? She’s older than you, already graduated years ago! Of course she refused your courtship.”

He knew this would stir things up, but her situation still baffled him. Estelle had been hopelessly in love with her senior, Seraphina Fawley, for years. She had followed her around, even confessed publicly at Seraphina’s graduation. Despite Seraphina’s clear boundaries and polite rejection, Estelle had stubbornly pursued her until last summer. Now, she was suddenly in a so-called revenge phase.

“Honestly, Estelle. Fawley, then Malfoy?” Aquila shook his head, mimicking Sirius’s signature exasperation.

“Sister can be a dummy sometimes, but she deserves only the best. At least the Malfoy family can fund her ridiculously expensive hobbies,” Remi said suddenly, his tone as dry as ever. Estelle shot him a glare.

“Just focus on your plate, Remirius ,” she retorted.

“We find it mutually beneficial,” Estelle continued breezily, ignoring him. “I get to make dearest Seraphina jealous, and Norma gets to ward off his crazy fans. Win-win!”

Aquila stared at her, incredulous. Despite being hailed as a genius, she’s still just a teenager—or maybe this is another case of love completely overriding reason. He doubted this scheme would make Seraphina jealous. If anything, it might even relieve her.

“Do you actually plan to continue this relationship?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” Estelle replied, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Sera sent me a letter saying that if my feelings persist after my O.W.L.s, she might consider a date. And if I manage at least nine O’s, then it’s set. Naturally, I’m taking twelve subjects this year.”

Aquila couldn’t tell if Seraphina was trying to motivate or discourage her. He suspected it was a bit of both.

“She also knows my thing with Norma is just for show, obviously. I still send her letters every week, and—”

“Sister, please don’t take after Daddy too much. It’s unhealthy,” Remi interjected, finishing his meal and proudly displaying his clean plate to Fokky. The house-elf, pleased, gave him a nod of approval and brought out the desserts. No one was allowed dessert at this table until Remi finished his main course, a rule enforced to curb his tendency to skip meals.

Estelle ignored her brother’s remark and turned back to Aquila. “Don’t give me that look, Killa. Not everyone can have a noble heir chasing after them. If you pity me, maybe you should give that boy a chance. I bet he’s having this exact conversation with his own cousins.”

Aquila snapped, “What, Regis? How many times do I have to say we’re just friends ? Best friends, yes, but nothing more. Unlike you, I’m not about to risk that just because I—”

He stopped himself, realising he was rambling. After taking a steadying sip of his drink, he continued more calmly. “Your brain developed too fast, Estelle. I’ve barely reached the age of courtship, and I want to focus on my education. You should too, with your O.W.L.s coming up.”

Estelle only laughed, her mischievous grin uncannily resembling Sirius’s. “Oh, my brain’s doing just fine, thank you. Did you know one of our great-great-great-grandparents married at eighteen and eleven?”

“Ew, not in front of my dessert!” Remi gagged dramatically, clutching his tiramisu like a lifeline. Estelle winked at him, while Aquila rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out in mock disgust.

Lunch passed quickly after that, punctuated by Estelle’s relentless teasing. Aquila’s watch read ten past two, yet there was still no sign of the adults downstairs preparing to leave.

Typical, Aquila thought, sinking back in his chair. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s not ending anytime soon.

“Remi, can you check with your Dada about when we’re leaving? It’s almost time,” Aquila asked, holding out a chocolate bar he’d set aside for moments like this. Remi’s eyes lit up as he snatched the treat, giving a thumbs-up before darting out of the room.

“Daddy’s going to have a sugar rush to deal with later,” Estelle commented, her tone amused as the door clicked shut behind her brother.

“Hm, I’ll make it up to him,” Aquila replied with a small shrug.

Estelle stretched out on the couch, shifting the conversation. “So, what exactly were you doing in Diagon Alley? Did Sirius or Remus go with you?”

Aquila blinked, realising he hadn’t thought to ask earlier if anyone else had seen him. “No one knows about me, right?”

“Relax. Neither of them has a clue,” she assured him casually, lying back with her arms behind her head. “I needed some things for a project, and it just so happened Norma was getting new robes. So, we went together.”

Aquila tensed at her words. Norma was with Estelle two days ago? He swallowed hard. This world feels scarily small.

“Um, that Norma…” Aquila hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think I might have met him.”

Estelle bolted upright in an instant, her previously deep-brown hair shifting to jet black and her eyes glowing with an intense brightness.

“You met him?!” she exclaimed, her sudden excitement catching Aquila off guard. Her metamorphmagus abilities reacting so strongly was never a good sign.

Before he could respond, she fired off another question, barely giving him time to think. “What did you think of him?”

Aquila hesitated, uncomfortable under her eager gaze. “Well, he seemed… friendly. He approached me first, and we agreed to exchange letters when the semester starts.”

Estelle’s grin widened, her eyes now a vivid blue, narrowing mischievously. “He approached you first? Ah, no wonder.”

She didn’t stop there, continuing to bombard him with questions about Norma—questions Aquila couldn’t possibly answer based on their brief encounter. The rapid interrogation made him squirm, his discomfort growing. Why is she so suspiciously interested in my opinion of him? She’s not trying to set me up for something again… is she?

“Uh, Estelle,” Aquila began hesitantly, his unease bubbling over, “by any chance, are you—”

The door swung open, revealing three adults and Remi perched on Sirius’s back. Sirius raised an eyebrow at his eldest. “Estelle, what did you do to Aquila this time?”

Estelle quickly defended herself, her hair shifting back to her usual appearance—a carbon copy of Remus, but with Sirius’s striking grey eyes. “He’s leaving soon! I was just asking about the Niffler’s Fancy seedling he got last summer!”

Sirius snorted but didn’t press further, shifting Remi higher on his back as his father walked straight toward Aquila, ignoring the siblings’ bickering. “I’m really sorry about earlier,” Harry said, his tone apologetic. “Something came up, and I let my emotions get the better of me. Are you ready to go?”

Aquila felt a wave of relief wash over him. So, it wasn’t about me after all.

“Has it been resolved?” he asked, though he didn’t expect a real answer.

Harry shrugged, scanning the room for their luggage. “Not entirely. There’s nothing I can do right now, but I’ll owl an old friend when we’re home.”

“Hm. Have you eaten, Dad?”

“Not yet. Remus packed me something to take along. Let’s head out before we’re late,” his father said, levitating their luggage with a flick of his wand. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to carry.

“I’m sorry for cutting the family lunch short, Pads,” Harry apologised to Sirius, who waved him off. “I’ll make it up to you soon.”

Sirius muttered something reassuring before Harry turned to Estelle and Remi. “I hope you both have a great school term. Estelle, remember the exams aren’t worth your health—make sure you eat and sleep properly. And Remi, no more trying to floo directly to our house from here, all right? Send an owl, and I’ll arrange your travel.”

“Okay, Harry! I’m aiming to beat Aunt Hermione’s record on O.W.L.s—and Aquila’s too,” Estelle said brightly, her competitive streak shining through. Sirius grimaced, looking half proud and half concerned. Harry patted his shoulder sympathetically, while Remi busied himself tugging Sirius’s hair with a speed that suggested the chocolate had already kicked in.

The boy chirped in happily, “yes, Harry. And I’ll let you know if Daddy starts behaving badly.” Sirius muttered something about Harry spoiling Remi too much, joking he’d soon be getting three owls a day—or phone calls, now that Remi had learned how to use one.

“Bye, Estelle. Bye, Remi. See you next summer,” Aquila said, waving before hugging Sirius—Remi still clinging to his back like a koala.

As his father stepped out of the room, Sirius called, “Harry, can I borrow Aquila for a moment?”

His father paused, his expression thoughtful. “Don’t be too long.” With that, he gestured for Estelle to take Remi out of the room.

Once they were gone, Sirius placed both hands on Aquila’s shoulders, his tone softening. “Earlier must have been a bit overwhelming for you, Killa. Thank you for being so understanding. Your dad will explain everything later, I’m sure.”

Sirius’s usual playful demeanour was tempered by genuine affection. Despite his eccentricities, he always put his family first, especially anything concerning his father. Aquila felt a wave of gratitude for everything Sirius had done for them.

“It’s confidential,” Sirius continued, his voice lower now. “But I think you should hear this first. Do you know about the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Who doesn’t?” Aquila blurted, his voice louder than he intended. The tournament where Voldemort regained his body? Where his father faced him in a deadly duel and barely survived? Of course, I know!

Sirius grimaced at Aquila’s reaction. “Yeah… that tournament. Well, the ICW has been planning something similar, but with more schools involved and—supposedly—safer challenges. It’s meant to fit better with the wizarding education curriculum. There’s been a lot of lobbying to make it work, but it’s still based on the old Triwizard blueprint.”

He paused, watching Aquila’s reaction closely.

“They’re saying it’ll be more like the Muggle Olympics rather than a deadly contest among its participants,” Sirius continued.

“So… you don’t want me to participate?” Aquila finally asked after taking a moment to process the information.

Sirius immediately shook his head, crouching slightly to meet Aquila’s eyes. “Let’s be honest—I know full well that telling a teenager what to do is the quickest way to make sure they do the opposite,” he said with a laugh. “But that’s not why I’m telling you. It’s because the tournament will be held at Beauxbatons this year.”

Aquila froze, feeling as though he’d been doused in ice water. Brilliant . As if spending my entire life avoiding public scrutiny wasn’t enough, now my school is going to be under the spotlight for this tournament? Not just the British media, either— everyone.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” Sirius said, his tone gentler now. “I’ll personally ensure the committee sticks to their promises about reintroducing this event safely. And if any flies—reporters or otherwise—start bothering you, let me know. Your grandfather still has some sway.”

He winked and laughed, his usual playful demeanour back in place. It was oddly reassuring.

Aquila smiled and hugged him tightly. “Thanks. That means a lot. If they give me trouble, please blow up their office.”

Sirius grinned. “Anything for you, dear. Now, let’s head downstairs.”

They rejoined the others in the family room, where everyone was already waiting.

“All set?” Harry asked, scanning their luggage to ensure nothing had been left behind. Aquila nodded before stepping over to Remus for a hug.

“Thanks for having us, Remus. Will we see you soon?”

Remus ruffled Aquila’s hair, smiling warmly. “Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing you at Beauxbatons.”

Harry remained quiet, but his earlier agitation seemed to have eased. After a round of goodbyes, he gestured for Aquila to head to the fireplace.

With a handful of Floo powder, Aquila stepped into the green flames. In a moment, the cosy Lupin-Black family room vanished, replaced by the polished lounge of the Department of Magical Transportation, where their private international Portkey awaited.

“Hah, one problem solved, now onto another,” Sirius sighed, leaning into his husband’s embrace for comfort. “At least Harry can handle talking to Killa about this. But the other twin…”

Remus pressed a brief kiss to Sirius’s temple, his voice calm but thoughtful. “I think it’s inevitable now. They’re teenagers, Pads. We can’t keep them in the dark forever. Norma is one of our best students—if not the best. It would be strange not to send him to compete.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, and he pulled Remus closer. “Moony, I might actually invoke this damn house name of ours. They’d better make bloody sure this tournament doesn’t leave so much as a scratch on any of the competitors.”

“That’s the spirit, Pads,” Remus murmured with a small smile, resting his head on Sirius’s shoulder.

For now, another peaceful evening settled over the Lupin-Black household.

Chapter Text

People said this place was sinister, tainted by the darkest sins the wizarding world had ever known.

Perhaps they were right. The carefully tended blooms lining the path couldn’t mask the manor’s imposing aura. As Norma pushed open the heavy, creaking door, the sound echoed, unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent house. The hallway seemed alive with its eerie atmosphere, every step scrutinised by the countless ancestral portraits hanging along the walls. Great-great-aunt Matilda, ever critical, sneered at his glasses. Meanwhile, Nicholas Malfoy, one of the many distant relatives immortalised here, murmured disdainfully to his neighbour about how poorly dressed the modern generation was.

Sonley, the house-elf, appeared at his side, apologising profusely for the manor’s supposed disarray. She fretted over not having time to prepare for his arrival. Norma shook his head lightly. “It’s fine, Sonley,” he said, his tone calm and polite. The manor felt as welcoming as ever to him. The judgments of long-dead ancestors were far less significant than the living, breathing people who still called this place home. And silencing charms worked wonders against overzealous portraits.

Sonley led him down the long corridor to a room at the end, announcing his arrival before allowing him to enter.

“Good evening, Grandmother,” Norma greeted as he stepped into the opulent parlour, its warmth a sharp contrast to the cold formality of the rest of the house. The light from a chandelier danced across polished surfaces and the delicate china of her favourite tea set. His grandmother sat gracefully, her every movement exuding elegance. Age had left its mark on her, but it only seemed to heighten her regal aura.

“Ah! My dear star,” she said warmly, setting down her cup and gesturing for him to come closer. Her affectionate tone softened the lingering grimness he’d carried from the manor’s halls. “What brings you here, dear?”

“Why would I need a reason to visit my beloved grans?” he teased, feigning a tearful expression.

She rose to embrace him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Careful! That took me half a tin of Sleekeazy!” he protested, pulling back slightly, but it was too late. Her hand came away slick with oil, her expression shifting into mild disapproval.

With a resigned sigh, she cast a cleaning spell and gestured for him to sit. “Come here, darling. It’s not healthy to use that balm so often. Let me brush your hair properly.”

Norma couldn’t help but grin as he took the seat. He loved these moments when she fussed over him. Complying without argument, he let her run a cleaning spell through his hair, which promptly turned into a chaotic mess. She sighed dramatically, summoning a selection of hair-care products with a flick of her wand.

As she hummed and began brushing, her hands gentle but firm, Norma relaxed into the rhythm. She muttered complaints as she worked, battling stubborn strands that refused to settle. His hair had been a long-standing source of frustration for her. Despite countless experiments with various remedies, only Sleekeazy seemed to tame it—a solution she disapproved of but begrudgingly allowed for formal occasions. Still, whenever they had the rare chance to spend time together, she took it upon herself to tend to his hair, an act that felt more like care than vanity.

“Where’s Grandfather? I didn’t see him on my way here,” Norma asked, his voice soft.

“He went to visit Lord Rosier and his family earlier this morning. They’ve come all the way from France. You know of them, don’t you?” she replied, her tone light as she continued brushing. “Despite… our past, our families remain closely tied. Your father will be thrilled to see Ethan again—they were inseparable as children. And if I remember correctly, the Rosiers have a daughter around your age. Perhaps you’ll meet her soon.”

Norma hummed noncommittally, his thoughts wandering. Another high-society connection to navigate. The Rosier name carried its own weight, and he could already imagine the veiled expectations that might accompany an introduction to their daughter. But for now, he focused on the present—the soothing feeling of his grandmother brushing his hair and the rare peace within the manor’s walls.

To be fair, almost every pure-blooded family in Britain seemed to be related in one way or another. The Rosiers, however, were particularly close to the Malfoys, as they were Norma’s great-grandmother’s family by blood. His grandfather always kept in contact with them, despite their tarnished reputation. It wasn’t lost on anyone that Evan Rosier, a notorious Death Eater, had been among their ranks and rumoured to hold a high position. After Evan’s death, the rest of the Rosier family had quietly moved back to France, distancing themselves from Britain and its infamy.

The thought of the Rosiers reminded Norma of someone else he’d met recently—someone also from France. And just like that, his mood darkened. He pushed the thought aside with practised ease, focusing on the present.

“I’ll speak to Father about meeting them, Grandmother,” he replied smoothly.

She hummed approvingly. “Good, dear. And how have you been? How was your day?”

“Hmmm.” Norma feigned a moment of thought, though the answer had already formed in his mind. “I went to Diagon Alley to pick up new robes. Father’s still away on his rotation, so I’ve had little else to do.” He winced as her brush caught on a stubborn tangle, but before he could continue, she interjected.

“With Estelle?” she asked, her tone knowing.

Norma sighed inwardly, masking it with a light laugh. He knew exactly where this conversation was heading. “We’re not together, Grandmother. She’s a friend. She helps me with a few things, and I occasionally humour her whims. That’s all. So, please don’t get any ideas.”

His grandmother’s chuckle was soft but full of amusement. “Of course not, dear. Though she’s a lovely young lady, I must admit it hardly seems worth the trouble—not when I’d have to endure my dear cousin’s endless complaints about how you’d ‘stolen his daughter’s innocence.’ He’s already sent me a foot-long letter about it.”

Norma couldn’t help but sneer at the absurdity. The thought of Sirius Black calling Estelle “innocent” was laughable.

“And what upset you during this little trip?” his grandmother asked, her intuition sharp as ever. She knew Norma never visited unannounced without reason—a habit that had earned him more than a few scoldings from the portrait of Brutus Malfoy.

Norma hesitated, his tone measured as he replied, “Apparently, the entirety of Diagon Alley knows that Father bought me a broom. And not just any broom—the one Sirius developed.”

His grandmother paused, her hands still for a moment before resuming their gentle rhythm. “Ah,” she murmured. That single sound carried understanding, though she offered no further comment. If she knew anything about this, she wasn’t letting on.

“What do you think, Grandmother?” he asked cautiously. “Did he do it because of our recent argument?”

A sigh escaped her, and he could feel a slight tension in her touch as her fingers brushed through his hair. “He mentioned wanting to make up for missing your last Quidditch match. But that’s all I know, dear.”

Norma frowned. “He rarely comes to my matches anyway.”

Her hands softened, the brushing turning almost soothing. “I’m sorry on his behalf, Norma. Your father is deeply committed to his work. And you know how often he’s called away for urgent cases.”

He nodded, though his thoughts were less forgiving. Does it always have to come before everything else?

“But did it really have to be another broom?” Norma muttered, the frustration slipping through despite himself.

His grandmother tilted her head, amusement creeping back into her voice. “And what would you have preferred instead?”

Norma hesitated before mumbling shyly, “A broom.”

She laughed, the sound warm and full of affection, and gave his hair one final stroke before setting the brush down. “Ah, my dear boy. You Malfoys are incorrigible.”

Norma smiled faintly despite himself. His grandmother always knew how to ease his mood, even when his thoughts lingered on the gaps in his relationship with his father.

“Come now,” she said, her tone brisk as she set her hands on his shoulders. “Let’s go and find something to distract you. Perhaps we can see if Sonley has prepared your favourite tea.”

…

The soft pop of the fireplace marked Norma’s arrival back at the London apartment he shared with his father. The place wasn’t as grand as Malfoy Manor, but it had its own understated luxury. The marble floors gleamed under the warm glow of enchanted chandeliers, and the silk curtains, enchanted to shift colours with the day’s light, swayed gently. It was a far cry from the cold, imposing grandeur of the manor. Here, everything was functional yet elegant, a reflection of his father’s practical tastes.

Norma climbed the curved staircase to his room, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. Draco wouldn’t be home yet; his rotations at St. Mungo’s often stretched late. The work kept him busy—too busy, some might say—but Norma understood. His father had thrown himself into his career, specialising in curse-induced disorders and traumas caused by cursed objects. It was a field that demanded precision and patience, traits Draco possessed in abundance.

His own room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of parchment as a draft from the window stirred his notes. On his bed lay his half-packed trunk for Hogwarts. Norma approached it, smoothing a crease in his neatly folded Hufflepuff robes before placing a few more items inside. Potion ingredients, quills, and carefully stacked books followed. Packing was second nature by now, the routine calming. Each item slotted into place like a piece of a puzzle, and he relished the quiet order of it.

As he reached for a bundle of parchment, the distinct whoosh of the Floo echoed from the sitting room below. Norma paused, heart skipping just slightly at the sound of familiar footsteps. He finished tucking the parchment away and headed downstairs.

Draco was by the fireplace, brushing soot from his tailored robes. His hair, slightly dishevelled, framed his face in loose strands, and the lines at the corners of his eyes hinted at the weight of his day. Yet, as he noticed Norma, his expression softened.

“You’re home early, Father,” Norma greeted, his tone polite but warm.

“I managed to close a case earlier than expected,” Draco replied, straightening his sleeves. “Thought I’d make it back in time for dinner.”

Norma’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “Let me guess—”

“Your favourite,” Draco interrupted, holding up a charmed takeout bag. “Lamb biryani and butter chicken.”

The faintest flicker of genuine warmth spread through Norma’s chest. “You’re trying to win me over.”

“I do,” Draco said, his voice dry but tinged with affection. He turned towards the dining room. “Come on. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Norma followed, settling into his usual chair at the sleek, polished table. Draco removed the food from the bag, and soon the air was filled with the rich aroma of spices. They ate quietly for a few minutes before Draco broke the silence.

“You’ve done exceptionally well, Norma,” he began, his voice carrying a note of pride. “First in your year, again. I don’t know how you balance academics with Quidditch, let alone your other responsibilities.”

Norma looked up from his plate, surprised but pleased. Compliments like this, though rare, always felt genuine. “Thank you. I just try to manage my time well.”

Draco shook his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Manage your time? You’re taking on enough work for three students, and yet somehow you’re still the youngest captain Hogwarts has had in decades. Honestly, what were they thinking, letting a fifth-year lead a team? It’s irresponsible.”

Norma chuckled softly, swirling his spoon in the biryani. “I think they’re desperate for a Hufflepuff win. I can’t blame them.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something gentler. “Just don’t overdo it, Norma. You’ve proven enough already. Your health isn’t worth risking, even for Quidditch.” He paused, his gaze flickering briefly to his plate before he added slowly, “I’ll… try my best to attend one of your matches this year.”

The room grew quiet. Draco’s words, though tentative, hung heavily in the air. Norma stayed silent, his expression neutral, but his thoughts were far from the dining table.

He studied Draco more intently than ever. The resemblance was striking—Norma could see traces of his father’s boyhood pictures in the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head. Yet, his mind wandered to the boy he’d encountered in Diagon Alley, who bore Draco’s features so vividly it had been almost unsettling. The sharp angles of the face, the refined grace—it was all there, save for the black hair. That boy had inherited everything, as if he were a reflection of Draco himself.

Norma felt a pang of jealousy. He glanced at his own hands, then at the faint reflection in the glass cabinet behind Draco. Aside from his pale blond hair, there was little about him that mirrored his father or their lineage. Even his eyes had needed constant glamour spells to match the silver-grey his father had passed down. It was a small, bitter truth that gnawed at him in quiet moments like these.

You might not need to come at all, Father, he thought, his mind briefly touching on something else entirely—something that made the promise seem inconsequential in comparison.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Norma said finally, forcing a lightness into his voice as he met his father’s gaze. Draco nodded, his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile.

They finished their meal, the dishes vanishing into the air with a flick of Draco’s wand. He rested a hand briefly on Norma’s shoulder as they stood. “Get some rest. You’ve got a big year ahead.”

Norma nodded, his smile faint. “I will. Thanks for dinner.”

Draco lingered for a moment before retreating to his study, his footsteps soft against the marble floor.

Norma returned to his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. The familiar warmth of the space greeted him, but his gaze landed immediately on the open trunk at the foot of his bed. Its contents, neatly arranged, were a stark contrast to the swirl of thoughts pressing at the edges of his mind.

I’m sorry, Father. He leaned back against the door, his eyes fixed on the approval letter tucked discreetly beneath a stack of parchment. The tampered seal gleamed faintly in the lamplight. I love you. I really do. But sometimes… I just don’t understand us. I don’t understand you.

His fingers brushed the trunk’s lid, hesitating before closing it gently. There was no turning back now. His father avoided France with an intensity Norma couldn’t explain, and he knew Draco would never sign the letter himself.

But Norma wanted this—no, needed it.

With a soft sigh, he turned towards his desk, the quiet resolve settling over him like a second skin. His carefully crafted mask slipped back into place, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface.

One step forward, he thought, glancing at the packed trunk. I’ll figure out the rest later.

The room remained silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the enchanted windows.

…

The Great Hall buzzed with the familiar hum of excitement and chatter, the high vaulted ceiling enchanted to mirror the starlit sky outside. Norma sat at the Hufflepuff table, his posture as impeccable as ever. His robes, neatly pressed, bore the golden accents of his house and the discreet badge of a Quidditch captain pinned over his heart. His expression was perfectly polite, his smile faint but warm as he clapped for each new student sorted into Hufflepuff.

“Another one for us,” Caius Ashridge, his best friend, whispered beside him. Caius lounged in his seat in a way that would earn a frown from any professor paying attention, his dark hair slightly askew. He nudged Norma with his elbow. “Think this one will be any good on a broom?”

Norma allowed himself a soft chuckle. “I’m sure they’ll be brilliant. First-years always are—at tripping over their own feet.”

Caius grinned, clearly satisfied. “There’s the Norma I know. For a moment, I thought the Great Hall was graced with the reincarnation of Helga Hufflepuff herself.”

Norma glanced sideways at his friend, his carefully maintained mask slipping just a fraction. “You’re lucky I like you,” he murmured, clapping again for a wide-eyed boy who had just joined their table.

Outwardly, Norma appeared the perfect picture of a model student. His applause was measured, his smiles encouraging. Every move was deliberate, practiced—part of the persona he carried so naturally now. But as another nervous first-year approached the Sorting Hat, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The memory came unbidden, a moment from just a few days ago. The morning after dinner with his father, Norma had descended the staircase of their London apartment, still groggy from sleep. To his surprise, Draco was waiting for him in the family room, standing stiffly by the armchair, a long, wrapped package in his hands.

“Good morning,” Draco had greeted, his tone casual but with a flicker of something more beneath it. “I thought you might want this before you left.”

Norma had blinked, trying to clear his head. “What is it?”

Draco stepped forward, offering the package. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Norma’s face as he took it. Unwrapping it slowly, Norma had uncovered a broomstick—sleek, polished, and unmistakably bespoke. The wood gleamed with a deep mahogany finish, accented by subtle gold etching of his initials near the handle.

“Moonchasers, it's the latest model from Nimbus. You like their broom the most, right?” Draco had said quietly, almost hesitantly. “I know Hogwarts doesn’t allow professional brooms for matches now, but I thought—well, for practice or after-school games, perhaps.”

Norma’s breath had caught in his throat. It wasn’t the broom itself—though it was undeniably beautiful, every detail whispering of expert craftsmanship—but the gesture. His father had thought of this, had gone out of his way to ensure it would be ready before the term began.

“Thank you,” Norma had managed, his voice steadier than he felt. “It’s… incredible.”

Draco’s lips had twitched into the faintest of smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Norma had packed the broom carefully that evening, even though he knew he couldn’t use it during official games. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment; it was a reminder that his father, in his own quiet way, cared. Now it was safely tucked under his bed in the dormitory, and the memory of Draco’s gesture lingered, warming him more than he cared to admit.

“Norma.” Caius’s voice pulled him back to the present.

“Hm?” Norma turned, his expression unchanging, though inwardly he cursed himself for drifting.

“You’ve been clapping for that same kid for at least twenty seconds,” Caius teased, nodding towards the newly sorted student who had already taken their seat.

Norma blinked, then gave a small laugh, letting his mask slip just enough to placate his friend. “Just showing house pride, Caius.”

“Sure, that’s it,” Caius said, leaning closer. His voice dropped conspiratorially. “You know, you’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”

Norma’s smile froze, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. He shook his head lightly, returning his attention to the Sorting Hat as the next name was called.

Not mysterious, just careful, he thought to himself. His outward composure was flawless, but inside, he felt the weight of the broom under his bed, the approval letter hidden in his trunk, and the unspoken questions about his father that still lingered in his mind.

Another round of applause rippled through the hall, and Norma joined in, his clapping as polite and restrained as ever.

As the last student was sorted and joined their house table, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat at the head table. The Great Hall quietened almost instantly, the murmurs and rustling giving way to the commanding presence of Hogwarts’ headmistress. Her sharp gaze swept across the room, and her tone, though measured, carried the authority that ensured every student listened.

“Before we begin tonight’s banquet,” she began, “I have an important announcement for our sixth and seventh-year students regarding the upcoming International Wizarding Tournament.”

The air grew charged with anticipation, though Norma noticed a shift in the atmosphere among the older students, though it wasn’t nearly as hectic as when it was announced for the first time last year. But still, xcitement rippled through some, while others exchanged uneasy glances.

The shadow of the last Triwizard Tournament hung faintly in the air, unspoken but present. Whispers drifted from the Gryffindor table, and Norma caught a few students stealing glances at Anya Diggory, a sixth-year Gryffindor and a distant relative of Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff champion who had lost his life during the ill-fated event.

Anya’s expression was unreadable, her hands folded neatly on the table as her gaze remained fixed on McGonagall. The flicker of unease in her dark eyes, though brief, didn’t escape Norma’s notice.

“As many of you are aware, this event marks a momentous occasion for magical education worldwide,” McGonagall continued, her tone steady but with an undercurrent of seriousness. “The tournament is not merely a test of magical skill but a demonstration of the values we hold dear: courage, intellect, and determination.”

Norma maintained his polite interest, his eyes fixed on the headmistress. Years of practice allowed him to present the perfect expression of respectful attention, though her next words sent a jolt through him.

“Only students above the age of sixteen and above whose parents have explicitly approved their participation may submit their forms for consideration. Consent from your guardians is absolutely critical.” Her gaze lingered pointedly on the older students, and for a moment, Norma thought she might see right through him.

He forced himself to nod slightly, as though in agreement, while his heart thudded beneath the layers of his composure. The approval letter tucked neatly into his bag burned in his thoughts, a constant weight that refused to leave him.

“There will be a selection process overseen by the heads of houses,” McGonagall continued. “If you wish to be considered, submit your forms to either the Head Boy or Head Girl no later than midnight. The chosen Hogwarts representative will be announced tomorrow morning.”

A wave of whispers broke out among the sixth and seventh-years. Caius leaned in again, his grin as wide as ever. “Well, we all know who’ll get picked. Should I start polishing your crown now, Prince Norma?”

Norma gave a faint laugh, brushing off the comment with a light shake of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But Caius wasn’t the only one. A few other sixth and seventh-years at the Hufflepuff table were already throwing him glances, some nudging each other and whispering. Norma kept his smile steady, though his stomach churned.

Further down the Gryffindor table, Anya Diggory leaned towards a friend, whispering something that went unheard by the rest of the Hall. Though her features betrayed nothing, the tension in her posture mirrored the unease that flickered in the eyes of others who knew the history too well.

After the feast ended, students began filing out of the hall, and Norma joined the flow of sixth and seventh-years headed for the Head Girl, Lyra Selwyn. The Slytherin stood near the entrance to the staircases leading to the dungeons, her sharp gaze and poised demeanour as cutting as ever. She accepted the occasional form with an approving nod, her presence alone ensuring no one dared dawdle or submit without care.

When Norma reached her, Lyra’s lips curved into an amused smile. “Ah, of course,” she said lightly, her voice tinged with dry humour. “The Hogwarts Prince joins the fun. I suppose it would hardly be a tournament without you, would it?”

Norma inclined his head, the picture of composed humility. “Just doing my part.”

She took the parchment from his hand, scanning it briefly before tucking it into the growing stack of forms. “Good luck,” she added, her tone playful but genuine. “Though I doubt you’ll need it.”

As Norma stepped aside, a few of his yearmates clapped him on the shoulder or offered words of encouragement. “You’ve got this, Norma,” one of them said. “You’re a shoe-in.”

“Don’t forget about us when you’re famous!” another teased.

He responded with practiced ease, a faint chuckle and a nod of gratitude, but inside, his thoughts twisted into knots.

They have so much faith in me, he thought, watching as Lyra collected another form. And I wonder if I’ve earned any of it.

The headmistress’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. Parental consent is absolutely critical. For a moment, his carefully constructed composure had nearly faltered, but years of training had steadied him.

As he turned to head for the common room, his outward expression remained flawless—Hufflepuff’s captain, the model student, the dependable leader.

But deep down, he felt the weight of his choice, heavier than ever.

…

Life at Hogwarts had settled into a steady rhythm over the past two days, even with the looming shadow of the International Wizarding Tournament. Norma had spent most of his time trying to keep his composure intact, especially after the announcement of the delegation. Unsurprisingly, he’d been chosen as one of the champions, securing the second-highest score in the selection process. Caius had celebrated like they’d already won, thumping Norma on the back and declaring it “destiny.”

Norma, of course, had played along. It was easier to smile and accept the praise than to let his nerves show. Still, he couldn’t shake the memory of his brief encounter with Professor Lupin yesterday morning. The professor had pulled him aside, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

“Norma,” Professor Lupin had said softly, his voice filled with concern. “Did your father truly approve your participation?”

Norma’s heart had stopped, but years of practice allowed him to maintain his mask. “Of course, Professor,” he’d replied smoothly. “He’s very supportive.”

Professor Lupin’s eyes had lingered on him, as though searching for something beneath the surface. Finally, he sighed. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to come to me,” he said, his tone gentle but weighted with meaning.

Norma had nodded and offered a polite smile, but guilt gnawed at him. ‘If only you knew,’ he’d thought bitterly.

Now, as he sat in the Great Hall for breakfast, the atmosphere around him was bright and cheerful. Caius was holding court at the Hufflepuff table, enthusiastically outlining his grand strategy to defeat the other schools in the tournament. A group of younger students sat wide-eyed, hanging on his every word.

“We’ll start with psychological warfare,” Caius declared, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The French? Easy. They’re weak to flattery. I’ll tell them they’re the most elegant duelists I’ve ever seen, and they’ll lower their wands in pride. The Durmstrang lot? Brute force. I’ll arm-wrestle their biggest bloke before the first task, and that’ll scare the rest into submission.”

“Arm-wrestle?” Norma asked, raising a brow. “What if the ‘biggest bloke’ snaps your arm like a twig?”

“That’s where you come in, Prince Norma!” Caius said, grinning. “You’ll be standing behind me, looking all regal and intimidating. If I lose, you can challenge him to a duel. It’s a foolproof plan.”

Norma chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “Remind me again how you made it onto the delegation?”

“Charm, my friend,” Caius replied, tossing a wink at one of the younger students. “Pure charm.”

The table erupted into laughter, and even Norma found himself relaxing in the lively atmosphere. His best friend was indeed a genius in charm. The subject, it is. For a brief moment, the weight of the tournament and his own deception felt distant.

Then the owls arrived.

The flurry of wings and the rustle of feathers overhead were part of Hogwarts’ daily routine, and Norma barely glanced up until a sleek black owl descended directly in front of him. His heart sank instantly.

The owl carried a single letter. With a distinct red envelope. A howler.

The cheerful buzz at the table died almost instantly, replaced by a tense hush. The younger students exchanged wide-eyed looks, while Caius stared at the letter with open disbelief.

“What’s that?” someone whispered.

“Is it because he came second instead of first?” another student murmured.

Norma’s hands trembled as the owl released the howler onto the table. Smoke began to curl from its edges, black and ominous. His throat felt tight, his polished composure threatening to crack.

“Norma,” Caius whispered urgently, “open it. If you don’t, it’ll explode.”

But Norma couldn’t bring himself to do it—not here, not in front of the entire school. The weight of every pair of eyes in the Great Hall was unbearable. Without a word, he grabbed the letter and bolted from the table, ignoring Caius’s protests and the murmurs that followed him.

“Did you see that?”

“What could he have done to get a howler?”

“Malfoy doesn’t make mistakes…”

Norma barely heard them as he sprinted towards the doors, his grip tight on the smoking envelope. He pushed through the heavy wooden doors, desperate to make it to the open grounds before it detonated. But he didn’t make it far.

The howler exploded in his hands, sending a sharp sting across his palms. He stumbled back, wincing in pain, as the parchment disintegrated into fiery ash.

Then came the voice.

“Norma Eltanin Malfoy.”

The voice paused, trembling with an emotion Norma couldn’t name. Cold and detached, it wasn’t the sharp anger he’d anticipated, nor the scathing tone he’d braced for. It was worse.

“Nous devons parler.”
(We need to have a talk.)

French. A language rarely used between him and his father except on formal family occasions or moments of great significance. The shift from their usual English only made the message feel heavier, more deliberate. The weight of it struck him like a physical blow, the cold tone threading through every syllable.

The words hung in the air, echoing long after the howler’s remnants had vanished. Norma stood frozen, his mind blank. The rarity of the language felt like a deliberate choice, as though his father had wanted to strip away any barriers, any layers of formality, to ensure there was no misunderstanding.

What have I done?

His chest tightened as memories flooded in—of Draco’s rare smiles, his quiet attempts at rebuilding their relationship over the years, the broom he’d given him just days ago.

Norma felt the sting of tears but blinked them back furiously. Pull yourself together, he thought. You knew this would happen.

“Norma.”

The calm, steady voice of Professor Lupin broke through his daze. He turned to see the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor standing a few steps away, his expression a mix of understanding and quiet concern.

“Come with me,” Professor Lupin said gently. “Your father is waiting for you in my office.”

Norma swallowed hard, his throat dry, and nodded. He followed Professor Lupin silently, his legs feeling heavier with every step.