Warbot

  The morning of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match arrived with crisp wind and silver mist. Most of the school was buzzing with excitement over breakfast, but Harry sat across from Lynne at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, their plates half-full and untouched.

  "You're not going to the match?"

  Padma asked, passing them both on her way out.

  "Maybe later," Harry answered vaguely.

  Lynne said nothing. They had agreed to train together, and just as Harry thought, she was on board with helping him get stronger, he didn't mention strong like her but he was sure she understood.

  Lynne led him to a clearing on the edge of the school grounds, near the greenhouses, where the castle was out of view but the lake shimmered faintly in the distance. They traded a few spells at first mostly dodging and dueling.

  She then showed him a basic shielding charm, Protego. The way it was supposed to form a blueish-silver dome around the caster. It could block physical and magic attacks.

  "Keep your feet wider. Center your intent. You can't cast anything properly if you don't have a clear picture and will."

  Lynne said that having a correct stance centered the spell and stabilized it. Harry tried again. The charm fizzled.

  "The wand is only part of the spell. Everything else is based on intent, let it out from here."

  She pointed to his chest. He nodded, trying again. This time, the shield shimmered faintly, more a pulse than a barrier. She gave a tiny nod.

  "Better."

  He grinned. "Thanks."

  "Let's try it, shall we? A simple stinging jinx for now, what do you say?"

  Harry nodded nervously. He got into the correct stance and faced her. Her wand was already drawn and aimed at him.

  "Alright, 1, 2, 3."

  She fired the stinging hex and although he tried his best, his shield didn't work. A white light smashed against his shoulder and pain settled in as he was pushed back.

  "Well… protego is a difficult spell after all, let's try again."

  A few hours later he had tons of red marks all over his body, having failed to even block a single one of them. He didn't know what was missing yet or why it was not working out for him but Lynne said that he would eventually get it.

  Frustrated with himself he wanted to keep going despite the pain, he wanted to at least get it right once. Lynne only looked at the sun and checked the hour. Her calculating and cold look again plastered on her face.

  "Let's return for now, I want to research something for a bit tonight."

  Harry wanted to complain but they had been at it for quite some time, he was sure the Quidditch match was over already so they could probably escape the chaos of it. He would have to practice more on his own.

  "I have a healing salve in my trunk, let's go get it for the swollen hits."

  He sighed in response.

  That night, the castle rested in uneasy silence. The echoes of cheering students had long faded. Even Peeves was quiet, perhaps having grown tired of harassing students, or boredom.

  Sir Nicholas drifted lazily through the lower halls, humming an old funeral march and admiring the way the moonlight spilled through the high windows. It was a peaceful night. Most of the portraits dozed in their frames, and the students were tucked behind their house doors.

  Being a ghost was not like being dead, not entirely. There was no breath, no warmth, no heartbeat, but there was memory. Sometimes too much of it that forgetting some things was actually healthier.

  The world came to him muffled and cold, like he stood forever just outside a window he could never open. He drifted through walls and people alike, but neither gave way with welcome. The stone didn't flinch. The living didn't notice. He moved like a sigh no one remembered exhaling.

  He could speak. He could listen. He could remember what it felt like to feel. But he could not change. He could not taste the feasts he watched. Could not rest. Could not sleep. Time passed, and yet it didn't, because ghosts did not dream. He was not part of the living world. And yet, cruelly, he was not quite free of it. He was… unfinished.

  Unfinished, like the stroke that had nearly severed his head all those centuries ago. A botched execution, a misjudged blade, and now the source of eternal humiliation.

  "Nearly" Headless. Not enough to be whole. Not enough to be accepted.

  The Headless Hunt had refused him again last week. Their owl arrived at breakfast, how considerate. He didn't read it, but he knew the wording by heart. "Too much neck, not enough drama." Or some variation.

  Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, proud in life, proper in death, was once again too neat to ride with the beheaded fools who thought themselves kings of the afterlife. He had not died with dignity and he was not remembered with honor. So now, he drifted.

  Through halls that never changed. Through generations of students who sometimes passed right through him. Through silent corners where strange girls vanished behind tapestries at night, and left behind questions no one else seemed to ask.

  There were things happening at Hogwarts. Things that didn't belong to the living world, or the dead one either and Sir Nicholas, who could not sleep, who could not rest, was starting to wonder if watching was all he had left.

  He saw her again that night. A blonde girl wearing Ravenclaw robes. Gliding through the corridor below. No lantern moving through the darkness of the castle without making a sound. Not even the soft pad of footsteps on stone.

  He recognized her vaguely, miss Volant. The quiet one. The one with the strange metal arms. She didn't speak much but she was always watching. Always listening. He hovered, curious, and floated after her. She passed by the statue of Devlin the Daring without hesitation and approached a faded tapestry few students even noticed. Her fingers touched the stone, and a panel slid open. Sir Nicholas blinked.

  That passage hadn't been used since before his death. She didn't pause. She disappeared into the black tunnel, lit only for a second by the runes faintly glowing on her hands.

  Sir Nicholas lingered there in the air, unsettled.

  "Strange girl," he whispered to no one. "Very strange indeed."

  He wondered if he should report this, Dumbledore had asked all ghosts to patrol certain areas but he wasn't doing that at the moment, and they weren't in the forbidden zones of the Castle.

  In the end, he chose to ignore it, how bad could a first-year do after all? He was on his break as well. Humming back he drifted off without a second glance.

  The next morning, the Daily Prophet arrived in a flurry of wings and feathers. A large gray owl dropped a bundle directly into the middle of the Ravenclaw table. Terry Boot reached for it then froze.

  "Blimey. Look at this."

  Students leaned in. A bold headline took up nearly half the front page:

  "Avery Found Dead in Knockturn Alley, Retired Auror Suspected."

  Harry leaned closer, reading aloud.

  "'Former Death Eater Evan Avery was discovered dead early this morning behind Talon's Rest. Sources claim the scene was untouched except for Avery's body, no signs of struggle, no witnesses. His wand was broken and placed atop his chest. His death was caused by a severing charm to the throat, delivered with surgical precision."

  Hermione snatched the paper. "'The Auror Office has refused to comment, but an anonymous insider noted the execution mirrors methods used by Alastor Moody during the First Wizarding War. The only difference is a red butterfly painted on a nearby wall."

  Whispers ran through the Great Hall like wildfire. Harry's fingers curled around the edge of the paper. His heart was still pounding. The article made it sound horrible, what kind of madman would do such a thing in times of peace. Harry thought about what it meant to do something like that. To plan it. To go through with it. To not even leave a trace. Was that what his parents had to go through when fighting against them?

  He glanced sideways at Lynne. She, as usual, didn't react or blink even as she was hearing of the news, it seemed not much could spook her. She just took another sip from her glass. Harry said nothing and neither did Lynne.

  In the background several students and even some professors were bickering about it. A murderer on the loose was not something to be calm but also it seemed most students just found this normal, as if the news of an assassination was not too uncommon.

  Some students even acted excited as if this was just a murder mystery story that had no real impact on them at all, probably not associated with Death Eaters at all in the past or maybe just oblivious. There were some worried faces in Slytherin and Ravenclaw and perturbed faces all around at the gruesome aspect of it all.

  In the Ministry of Magic, Walden McNair crushed the Prophet in his gloved fist. The room was cold, deep beneath the main levels, where certain conversations could not be overheard. Iron lamps lined the stone walls, casting flickering shadows. A low table sat between them, its surface polished like obsidian. The air was heavy with unease.

  "This is an outrage! That lunatic is still hunting us down like beasts in the street."

  Across from him, Lucius Malfoy sat in a high-backed chair, calm and composed, but with a tightness in his mouth that betrayed unease. "If it is Moody, it's a liability we cannot ignore."

  McNair slammed his hand on the table. "He should be in Azkaban."

  Lucius's eyes narrowed slightly. "He has allies. And his reputation protects him. But these killings are becoming a pattern. If I can push a formal motion through the Wizengamot, perhaps we can get him detained under security suspicion."

  "We need more than suspicion," McNair growled. "We need action."

  "We need caution," Lucius replied. "And if these murders continue, public fear will do the work for us. Let them see Moody as a madman. Let them beg us to intervene. Avery is the first to be reported because he was found in Knockturn but we had 2 more missing, the same butterfly."

  A junior official knocked and entered. "Sir? Auror Moody has been spotted leaving St. Mungo's, he was there all night. Claims he's been dealing with... flea bites."

  Lucius raised an eyebrow and allowed a faint, disdainful smirk. "Charming."

  McNair said nothing. His fists clenched tighter. He had seen what Moody did to Rosier. To Wilkes. He remembered the screams. He hadn't slept well since the war and now, all the memories were coming back.

  "We will bring him in for questioning, if this isn't him then maybe we can at least lure the one behind this into a trap."

  With the plan set in motion both gentlemen gave a small nod and parted ways, they had ears to whisper into agreeing with them.

  Meanwhile, in a crooked house that stood alone on a hill outside of Cardiff, hidden beneath layers of enchantments, curses, and more than a dozen tripwire charms, Alastor Moody stirred his tea with a trembling hand.

  The sitting room was filled with old magical detectors, spinning spheres, rune-carved mirrors, softly humming artifacts. Most were cracked or flickering, but Moody didn't trust any one of them completely. A loaded crossbow leaned by the fireplace. His wand lay within easy reach, just next to a chipped tea cup.

  His magical eye spun in lazy, erratic circles, scanning everything. Even the shadows.

  He glanced at the Daily Prophet spread across his table, weighted at the corners by silver sickles.

  "Avery," he muttered. "Didn't think he'd die in bed, but I wasn't expecting this."

  His scarred face cracked into a smile.

  "Clean work. Precise. No witnesses."

  He sipped his tea.

  "Whoever you are, you've got style."

  He tapped his cup with one long, gnarled finger.

  "Finally. Someone's doing it right."

  A knock at his door made half the room light up in alarms. Moody didn't flinch. He waved them silent.

  "I should commend them," he muttered with a grin. "If they don't kill me first."

  Beyond the polished glow of Diagon, where lanterns flickered warm against polished glass, Knockturn simmered in a half-life of smoke, damp stone, and whispers. The air was colder here, not in temperature, but in trust. The cobblestones were uneven and dark with things that hadn't washed away in years. Broken signs dangled from rusted hooks, and doors opened only enough for coins and paranoia to pass through.

  The rain had come earlier. It hadn't cleaned the alley, just made the stench rise. Something metallic, something burnt, something sweet.

  Borgin & Burkes loomed at the far end like a dead tooth, its windows too dark to be glass, too old to reflect. The shadows that clung to its corners didn't drift, they hung like secrets, still and heavy.

  No children wandered here. No Ministry robes flashed past. Only those who had something to hide or business to finish.

  The street outside the old bookshop was quiet. He had come to sell artifacts that held no value to him anymore. Some were stolen. Since the end of the war, living was getting hard for him.

  He allowed himself a moment to wonder what could have been, if only the Dark Lord had triumphed. Musing, he didn't hear her. Travers was halfway through thinking on apparating when a shadow stepped behind him. No words, no warning.

  The binding curse took hold of his body, a glint of metal flickered at the edge of his vision, arms attached to a small girl cloaked in black. She moved in front of him then swung her right arm in an arc, wand lit up. He felt his throat burn. A wet sound, then silence. He collapsed, eyes wide, his final breath fluttering into nothing but choking sounds.

  She knelt beside the body, snapped his wand and placed it gently on his chest, then reached into her coat. A red butterfly cut from thin enchanted paper, impossibly detailed, fluttered in her palm for a moment before settling on his bloodstained collarbone.

  With a sharp crack, she was gone.

  The butterfly remained.

  SECOND MURDER IN KNOCKTURN – "CRIMSON WING" STRIKES AGAIN?

  By Cassandra Bell, Senior Magical Correspondent

  The body of former Death Eater Travers was discovered late last night outside an abandoned bookshop on the eastern edge of Knockturn Alley. Ministry officials have confirmed he was killed by a precise throat wound, his wand broken and placed on his chest in a manner identical to last week's murder of Evan Avery.

  A red butterfly made of conjured parchment and soaked through with blood was found resting on the victim's robes. Witnesses say no one saw the attack, nor heard a spell cast.

  The killings bear a disturbing resemblance to the so-called "Moody-style" executions from the last war, leading some to speculate that the infamous Auror may have trained a successor.

  "This is a serial killer in the making." said former Obliviator Carla McBride. "It's not vengeance. They are sending a message. The red butterfly is the signature. They want us to know it's them."

  Some have already begun referring to the unknown killer as The Crimson Wing. The Ministry has declined to comment on the growing theory that Alastor Moody may be connected to the events.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Harry folded the paper in half and pushed it aside.

  "That's the second one this month," he said under his breath.

  "Second?" Hermione asked.

  "Yeah. One last week too, Avery. They said he was found in knockturn as well. Same style."

  "You know… when I first learnt that I was joining a magical world I thought it would be less dangerous than this." said Hermione. She looked down the table. Lynne was gone.

  "Where did she go?"

  Harry blinked. He hadn't even noticed her leave. He wondered where she was disappearing into, for a brief second he thought of using the pocket watch and asking her about it but he didn't want to bother her if she was busy. He would have to find her later on.

  The Ravenclaw common room was hushed beneath the weight of the first snowfall. November was ending now and winter was settling in, the humid weather making one feel the cold in the bones.

  Outside the high windows, the towers of Hogwarts vanished into soft white. Inside, the fire cracked steadily, but it brought no warmth to Virgil. He sat slouched in a corner armchair, arms folded tight around himself, eyes fixed on the dancing flames like they might consume him. Maybe then, his memories would go away with him, but so far, they never did.

  The second death had been reported that morning. First Avery, now Travers. Two former death eaters and also once friends of his now deceased family. The same method of assassination, throat cut and wand broken. Neatly placed on their chest, just like before.

  Just like his parents.

  Virgil had been five when his world collapsed, his family gone. The world had been large and warm, full of laughter and in a blink of an eye, it was all red. He could still remember it vividly, he had walked into the winter garden barefoot, his mother's slippers by the garden door. Her body, lying on the floor, neck opened like a torn ribbon. Her wand broken down in two pieces.

  His vision was blurred by tears and his sobs were the only thing breaking the eerie silence. His father was down the hall, crumpled like a puppet with no strings, his elegant wand he always carried in the same state on his chest. His robes were scorched and his eyes stared past Virgil in panic, as if frozen while staring at a dementor.

  His uncle arrived just in time to grab him while he was having a panic attack. Screaming and crying for them to wake up, to come back, for his father to heal his wound like he always did, for her mother to give him a hug and tell him everything was fine.

  He was told he was lucky to survive, that his parents were fighting on the right side of the war, that the auror who had caused their death would eventually die by his uncle's hands, but all he wanted was to have them back. The Prophet reported it as a casualty of war, while the rest of the Wizarding world cheered for the ministry's approval of using the unforgivables on Death Eaters.

  He never spoke of it again, he mourned them every day and he couldn't separate the grief from the shame that followed the end of the war. His uncle never had his revenge, and his parents were convicted of terrorism against the magical nation.

  The Fowler family had followed Voldemort, believing in his cause, they had spent gold to fund his campaign, they had given their lives in the end, and it was all for nought. He had hated the war, it had taken everything from him and even now, the name Fowler was a weight that dragged behind him like a chain.

  His first year at Hogwarts he had been watched like a creature in a tank, some were sympathetic while others wore smug faces. Even among Ravenclaws, he was at first ostracized, he had to work really hard to not feel so dreadfully alone. Some of the other former death eaters' sons and daughters had tried warming up to him but he wasn't one of them. Their cause had destroyed his family.

  And now… someone was out there killing them again, he should have felt vindicated yet he didn't. He felt sick, more alone than ever as he couldn't share what he was feeling with anyone. Totally afraid that maybe the war had never ended at all, and that the ghosts of the past would never leave him.

  Gibbon had made a life out of not dying. No one would call it living, not really, but the rail yard offered shelter and he still had friends willing to lend him a helping hand. Sometimes a rust-eaten shipping container served as his den, layered with silencing charms and anti-muggle wards. If he had the luxury, he would add detection runes to feel safe.

  He'd stolen most of them… actually almost everything he had now was stolen. There was sometimes a mattress, sometimes a bed, he didn't want to stay in one place after all. The ministry never gave up hope of finding him, he was sure of this.

  His wand lay under the pillow, he had three cursed daggers inside a small bedside table as well. Two empty potion vials lay on the floor and one cracked mirror. Those were all of his possessions this time.

  Well…he had fear as well, he always had fear. He didn't sleep much, he didn't enjoy small pleasures anymore, he missed drinking but not since he saw a man with one eye in every alleyway shadow. The crazy auror wanted him, and the old crowd had scattered, his friends gone into hiding like him or not able to have him home openly.

  Recently, he had gone more paranoid, Avery was gone, Travers too. Word was, someone had started cleaning house, quietly and surgically. He heard rumors of two others, disappearing without a trace, a crimson butterfly in their place. It brought him back.

  He kept to his rules, never go out before dusk, never stay in one place more then six weeks, never open the door without checking for possible enemies. His favorite spell now being Homenum Revelio. He was still alive, that meant he was right, he was sure he would outlive everyone else, and oh how close he came to be wrong about that.

  It came like smoke, a fog that pierced the outer ward that blinked once, then collapsed like a punctured lung. Gibbon shot to his feet, wand drawn, chest pounding. He grabbed a vial of powdered pearl-root from the floor and threw it against the doorway. The glass exploded in a flash of light, blinding briefly but there was no response. No cry of pain or sound of struggle.

  He heard no footsteps and no voice, but he was aware enough when he heard a slight muffled metal sound, that was all he needed to act. He managed to dodge the initial curse barely, prepared to block anything else. He saw her step through the smoke like it belonged to her.

  A girl, no older than sixteen, wearing black that didn't shine in contrast with her gleaming arms, etched with faint, ancient runes. Her face was expressionless, her steps made no sound. He knew that look so he didn't bother to speak or threaten, he bolted straight away.

  Another curse missed his spine by inches, ducking behind a falling carriage. She followed without hesitation, her wand flicked. Steel fingers carved a path through the dark, she was faster and better and he knew that he wouldn't survive if she reached him.

  Gibbon shouted, blasting through the far wall with his favorite spell.

  "BOMBARDA!"

  The tunnel beyond hadn't been used in years and it had been sealed behind a wall at the yard to avoid accidents. He didn't look back, not when her spell singed his shoulder, not even when he heard her feet gaining, clearly now avoiding subtlety for speed. He managed to break through her wards and apparated. Blind, desperate and bleeding.

  He reappeared in a forest clearing three counties away. Collapsed, sobbing but alive. The wound on his shoulder burned and he clutched his teeth in pain, but he was breathing. He would make it out alive, he was sure of it. He also had seen her, the girl with metal arms, he could warn the others while escaping far away from this country.

  Once he healed himself as best he could, he apparated once more into one of the Alleyways in Knockturn, headed for the public post. He wrote every word he could remember, every detail and sent it by owl to the ones who would surely face her in the future. People who still remembered the war, people who understood what was at stake, who would prepare better than he could.

  With confidence renewed, he made his escape once more.

  The small girl stood alone in the rail yard, wand still raised. She knelt, staring at the spot where he had just vanished. She wouldn't leave a butterfly this time, it wasn't a kill, it was just a mistake. She had underestimated her opponent and she was sure there would be consequences from this failed attempt.

  The air still smelled like rust and dust. She waved her wand repairing the hole in the wall, leaving nothing but the faint shimmer of displaced magic and the blood trail he left behind. A thin, sharp breath left her lips in frustration and concern. Her first mistake. She knew his wounds were not enough to kill him, enough to mark him but that was not what she intended.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of a boot print leading towards the broken wall. She would have to remember every detail she could to find him again. She closed her eyes and went over what she did wrong. She hadn't calculated his reach soon enough, or the trajectory of where he was going, the panic that would lead him to instantly bolt away. She thought he would fight her instead.

  She should have adjusted for Apparition under duress, she couldn't possibly know where he had jumped now, she should have cut deeper, should have aimed higher. She had failed.

  In her coat, the butterfly remained unreleased. She did not place it, there was no message in failure. She slipped it back into the folded seam of her collar, fingers still vibrating with magic, her clothes stained with dirt. With a new objective in mind, she disappeared in a loud crack back to Hogsmead.

  Moving under a disillusionment charm she passed through the stone walls like a ghost, her movements without sound, stepping into Hogwarts once more. Not even the staircases noticed her. She moved back all the way to her dormitory, inside everyone was sleeping.

  She opened her trunk quietly and stepped inside, the extension charm making it possible to have her own room. She sat on her desk, her coat laid across the back of the chair, the lining still damp.

  She reached for her journal, a small book with blank pages, just like the one she had gifted Harry. She wrote nothing for several minutes, her mind going over her mission, pen hovering.

  Then finally:

  Subject: Gibbon. Outcome: failed. Status: Alive.

  Conclusion: Objective risk now exceeds containment parameters, primary mission compromised if detained.

  Secondary mission deprioritized, master.

  Target discretion advised

  No further operations until reassurance.

  Recalibration not necessary.

  Her words disappeared as soon as she finished writing. She closed the book and went back to the common room. In the morning she would sit beside Harry at breakfast as if nothing had happened, she would walk the halls like every other student, but she should not act again. Not until she was better prepared.

  Next time there may not be a second chance, if she failed, there would be no one left to protect him.

  The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long shadows across the study walls of Malfoy Manor. The windows were shuttered, the door warded ten times over. Only trusted men sat in the room, the atmosphere was gloomy and you could cut the tension with a butter knife.

  Lucius Malfoy stood at the mantle, hands behind his back, eyes on the flames as if they might burn the answers he needed into the stone.

  "She matches the description exactly." he said at last. "Metal arms, young, perfect posture and silent."

  McNair scoffed. "A child."

  "Gibbon disagrees." Lucius replied coolly. "And although paranoid, he is not one to lie."

  The man in question wasn't present, but his words lay open on the table in a cracked, hastily folded letter, scrawled with ink blotches and splattered with something that might have been blood. The letter explained in detail how she had tried to murder him, how quick she was, her appearance, he had been meticulous.

  Yaxley tapped the letter with one thick finger. "How do we know he isn't just rambling? Gibbon was always unstable."

  "Draco described her in one of his letters home, weeks ago." Lucius said. His son didn't know who she was, he just thought she was odd, cold, sharp and smart.

  "He had mentioned the arms and she is at the top in her year. I didn't think anything of it until now. She is at Hogwarts." He finished solemnly.

  "If she has anything to do with that crazy bitch Bellatrix she might have trained that monstrosity herself somehow!" McNair cursed under his breath. "She might be hunting us for betraying our lord!"

  Another man, face obscured by the shadows in the corner, spoke for the first time. "Why now? After all these years?"

  Everyone gave it a thought but the problem was, no one knew. Lucius gave a thin smile.

  "Regardless of her reasons, we got comfortable." No one argued.

  "I say we send someone." Nott Sr. said. "End her… it."

  Lucius' expression didn't change. "On school grounds? With Dumbledore watching? Not the best strategy."

  "We can't just do nothing!"

  "I'm not suggesting that." Lucius answered. He tapped the letter. "I'm suggesting we make her someone else's problem."

  "How?"

  Lucius walked slowly towards the table, pulling a chair for himself as if this were a leisurely game of chess. "She is strong, yes, dangerous. But she is inexperienced if she can't catch Gibbon. She is close to Harry Potter if my son is right. Very close. She might be biding her time with him if she was indeed in contact with the Lestrange family somehow."

  "If she were to… lash out, lose control, she would frighten the wrong crowd, publicly maybe, it would be reason enough to arrange her removal with the board. When she is out of Hogwarts we can handle her."

  Yaxley leaned forward. "You want to bait her somehow."

  "Yes, we use her to remove the boy-who-lived as well. It is the perfect plan."

  A silence fell again.

  Then one voice muttered. "But to be able to do that in Hogwarts, you would need someone in there."

  "Do I need to remind you gentlemen that we have people inside of Hogwarts already?"

  "My wife wants our son pulled from Hogwarts, says we can write to Durmstrang. This is very dangerous, Lucius. You have seen the corpses she left behind already."

  "She is not the only one." Another muttered. "Half the house is talking about it."

  McNair slammed a first on the table. "We survived the Dark Lord only to be picked off by a child."

  Lucius met his gaze. "That child may not be acting alone, someone trained her and if we are not careful, she'll finish what she started. We need to use what we can."

  "Would you use your own son for this, Lucius?" snapped Yaxley standing up.

  Lucius was almost ready to brandish his wand and curse the man when his wife stood abruptly and glared at Corban. This paused the angry man in his tracks and he sat down again.

  The blonde calmed himself down and breathed out. "We need time and subtlety, if she's provoked, she will show her true face. We just need to make sure none of ours is in real danger."

  Lucius smiled without warmth. "And then, even Dumbledore will have no choice."

  The Slytherin common room was quieter these days. It was not silent by any means, but the usual gloating, sneering confidence had faded. Even Crabbe and Goyle had stopped laughing quite so loudly.

  Draco pretended everything was fine, he had more important things to think about, like winning the House Cup, getting top marks in Potions, making his father's name proud. He was especially worried about mudbloods showing more talent. He was fine with Volant being top of his year, she was a pureblood witch after all, and Ravenclaws were usually ahead academically.

  She was an anomaly, something unusual, he should be able to best everyone else, but that was not how it turned out at all. Slytherin was not able to catch up with Ravenclaw at all, it was as if everyone in their house was a genius. The blonde girl rarely spoke and she was still gaining points as if she was stealing candy from a baby, he was sure the rest of her housemates were being tutored by her, there was no other explanation in his head.

  He would ask her about it if only she wouldn't have unnerved him so much. She never laughed, and when she looked at someone, it felt like she was measuring them, not as a person, but as a problem to solve. Because she was so unapproachable he began taunting her, mocking her family, it's what he knew what to do when things didn't go his way. A Malfoy would never back down.

  But that didn't give him any results either, she would just not take the bait and show no emotions.

  He cleared his head, trying to avoid thinking too much about it. He needed to focus to be able to come home for Christmas with good news to his father. He didn't feel particularly proud of complaining to him all the time.

  Draco ascended the stairs to the Great Hall ready to have breakfast and start his day with renewed purpose. As he sat down, owls started flying in, it was post day and sure enough he had a letter from home.

  The green-edged parchment folded sharply, written in elegant black ink with the Malfoy Crest printed proudly. The letter said many things, updates about Ministry issues, pureblood circle gossip, tips for impressing Professor Snape and reminders about keeping the Malfoy name out of trouble. But near the end a line stood out bolded and with clear intent of making it the last word.

  Avoid contact with Volant AT ALL COSTS.

  Stay polite, distant, do not ask questions. Stay safe.

  Draco read it three times. It was a clear warning and he could feel all of his father's seriousness on it.

  That evening, as he passed Volant near the dungeon stairs as she was going to Potions class, he didn't scoff or mutter anything. He didn't look at her metal arms or make a joke under his breath, he just walked past her. Quietly and quickly.

  She gave no signs of even stopping to glance at him but as he was moving away, he felt the her cold stare on his back.

  It all started small, a pause in the corridor when she walked past, a conversation that died mid-sentence as soon as she stepped into earshot. Students whispering just a little too loud, just enough to be heard.

  Harry noticed it before breakfast one morning, even though it was December and some students were cheering for the festivals that were fast approaching, Slytherin older students were not showing up at the Great Hall. Whenever he was walking to classes or going to the library with Lynne they would disappear from sight.

  One day, when they passed a group of sixth years by the courtyard stairs, they turned sharply, and avoided them specifically. The rumor mill was not catching up to anything major recently, so he was confused as to what happened.

  Until Harry caught a single word coming from another group one time. "Volant." That group shifted course instantly, avoiding her like she was contagious. He glanced at Lynne but she didn't slow down her pace, didn't look back, her eyes straight ahead, unchanged.

  What is going on Lynne?

  He saw a flicker of tension in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed just once at her side before going still again.

  I don't know exactly. She answered in his head.

  They kept walking, Harry's mind now far away from the potions class they were heading to. He managed to complete his work without making a mess or causing professor Snape to berate him. After classes they ran into Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini, but before they could even interact they moved away, this time not even bothering to say anything to Lynne. If he was being honest, a reserved Draco was even more unnerving.

  The library was quieter than usual, most students were already drifting into holiday mode, their essays half-finished, their minds full of snowball fights and hot chocolate. But Harry and Harmione were still at their corner table, parchment spread between stacks of transfiguration books. Lynne by their side said nothing while she watched them work. She had already finished what they were doing at that moment.

  Hermione scribbled furiously, lips moving as she quoted from memory. Harry, beside her, was frowning at his notes like they were written in Mermish.

  "You need to reference Gamp's fifth Law." she said without looking up.

  "I don't remember the first four to be honest." Harry muttered.

  Lynne took a second to look for the book on her satchel. She handed him the correct book which he took gratefully.

  "Be right back."

  Gracefully she left quickly leaving behind her things neatly organized. After a few minutes Harry turned to face Hermione with worry.

  "Have you seen how Slytherin's people are acting around Lynne?" he asked.

  Hermione considered it for a moment.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean… older students, they are avoiding her like they are afraid of her, as if she has the plague or something."

  Hermione frowned and tapped her quill against her lip, thinking.

  "Maybe it's after what happened with those Ravenclaw boys."

  "They deserved it." Harry replied instinctively, before he could stop himself.

  Hermione froze, her lips pursed. Harry knew that she didn't approve of the way Lynne had handled it, he felt she was still a bit naive to how bullies work, sometimes other people only understood violence and nothing else would get into their thick skulls. After a pause, Hermione composed herself.

  "It doesn't matter if they did, it wouldn't surprise me if rumors were spreading."

  Before Harry could answer, a soft click of footsteps made them look up. Lynne had come back, silent as usual. She picked up her book and a loose sheet of notes and sat down without a word, pulling her chair in smoothly, mechanical fingers adjusting her quill with practiced ease.

  She nodded at them and Harry hesitated, then grinned.

  "Any chance you know how to turn a quill into something useful? Writing with a pen would be way better."

  "I don't know what a pen is but…"

  She glanced at him, then at the quill in his hand. With a smirk and a slight flick of her wrist her wand was pulled upwards from out of nowhere. Following a quiet incantation the feather shimmered, folding and shrinking until it became a tiny paper cat, almost like an origami, curling on top of his ink pot as if it was a comfortable bed.

  Hermione and Harry gasped.

  "It will sadly not write things for you." she said giggling.

  "That's not in any of the standard texts, what's the incantation?" Said Hermione.

  Of course she was focused on the spell and learning, thought Harry.

  Lynne gave a small shrug. "It's a transfiguration anchored to visual memory. Intent based."

  Harry nudged the cat with his finger. "Looks pretty hard to me."

  She tilted her head, then reached for Hermione's quill.

  "Hey, wait, I need-" Hermione started but stopped as Lynne again spelled the object.

  This time, the feather turned into a paper fox, perfectly curled with its tail wrapped around its paws. The paper shimmered in the candlelight.

  Hermione stared. "Okay… I need you to teach me that, immediately."

  Lynne laughed, barely, but it was there. Thinking how rare those were, Harry decided to forget about the odd behavior of the Slytherins for now.

  The three of them worked late, books spread across the table like a makeshift fortress. Occasionally, Lynne would correct Harry's essays without saying a word, or help Hermione with her wand grip with subtle guidance. They didn't talk about the whispers or the stares, for the moment it didn't matter.

  Hermione laughed once when her fox charm tripped over Harry's cat, an unguarded and genuine laugh that made the moment one of Harry's best memories. Harry grinned, proud of his little paper monstrosity. Even Lynne let herself lean back in her chair, a faint curve at the corner of her lips.

  The lamps in the library burned low, snow tapped gently against the high windows and for a while, it felt like they were just three students doing homework as if nothing outside that table could touch them.

  Lynne didn't say much as they packed up, but when Harry brushed her shoulder on the way out, and Hermione looped her scarf and smiled back at them both, she paused.

  I will protect you both. He heard her voice clear in his mind as the pocket watch hummed.

  Harry didn't know why she had such determination or why she was thinking about that specifically, maybe the troll had affected her more than what she let on.

  I will protect you too!

  He answered while she catched up to them. She smiled at him and shook her head.