“Ah…visitors,” the menacing, whispery voice echoed in the nest as the giant spider clicked its mandibles together once more, the sharp fangs longer than his arm and glistening with venom. Eight large, bulbous eyes glittered with something Neville didn’t like one bit, as the humongous arachnid took another step forwards, arms the size of small trees moving with deadly slowness across the wet, silk covered floor.
Around them, the whole nest echoed with the chittering of hundreds of spiders, ranging from tarantulas the size of his palm to bear sized monsters who looked like they could rip his face off in a single bite. Ron made a small, involuntary noise and pressed closer. Neville tightened his grip on his wand until his knuckles went white. The nest itself thrummed underfoot, a living carpet of webbing and old bones that flexed as the giant spider took another slow step. Its front legs, thicker than trunks, sank into the silk with damp, sucking sounds. From deeper in the hollow came the chorus of smaller spiders, notes of scraping and chittering that rose and fell as one organism breathing.
“We have come as friends of Rubeus Hagrid,” Neville spoke first as the giant creature stopped a dozen paces away—entirely too short in his opinion. Something changed in the spider’s bearing at that, Hagrid’s name somehow dampening the killing instinct in the air as the whole swarm seemed to recognise the name.
“Ahh…Hagrid sent you then,” it hissed back, tilting its head in a manner that Neville’s did not like in the slightest, rotating it like a door knob being spun, “That…changes things.”
“Yeah He ha-” Ron began, but Neville stopped him instantly. Raising a palm in his friends direction, he looked the acromantula right in its face.
“Might we know your name, Hagrid’s friend?”
“Name…look at you, wizard. You ask for my name without giving your own.” The spider’s mandibles parted wider, not in threat but something that almost resembled dark amusement. A low vibration shuddered through its legs, and the web beneath them trembled like a plucked string in time with their escalating heartbeat.
Neville swallowed, but his voice held. “Neville Longbottom,” he declared, and besides him Ron let out a breath and stammered, “R–Ron Weasley.”
The spider leaned forward, its eight eyes blinking slowly in a ripple across its face. “Neville. Ron.” It hissed their names, as if tasting them. “I am Aragog.”
Ron’s knees nearly buckled at the alien sound, and the note of pride in the spider’s voice. “A–Aragog… right. Right. Lovely.”
Aragog’s mandibles flexed again, a deep creaking sound accompanied by the monstrous hissing. “Hagrid has spoken of you, foolish children who ran afoul of his three-headed dog, another creature that he reared from infancy.” Eight black eyes lowered to them. “He hatched me from an egg brought from far lands. Kept me warm. Fed me scraps. Whispered stories of the castle halls.” A cold pause. “He was small then.”
Neville tried to focus on that, on the image of Hagrid cradling something that could now crush a carriage. “He’s in Azkaban now,” he said quietly. “For something he didn’t do.”
The spider did not move, but the entire nest seemed to stiffen, as if every thread had tightened at once, reflecting the danger that reeked off the large acromantula.
“He is caged?” The voice dropped. Harsher. “For what crime?”
Ron’s voice cracked. “They think he opened the Chamber of Secrets again.”
Aragog’s body shifted, all eight legs changing angle, hair bristling up. Even the spiders around them paused, for once seeming scared of their patriarch.
“The Chamber…” Aragog whispered, taking a step forwards—and Neville unconsciously took one back, blood hammering in his ears. “I remember… little. Very little. I was only a couple winters old then. Soft shell, thin legs. I hid beneath blankets and the castle’s numerous dark corridors, feeding on mice and what leftovers Hagrid brought me. It was a good place. Warm. But then the castle… the castle turned heavy with darkness. A creature—something ancient—moved through the stone. Older than the walls, and unseen by all.”
The words came slower, as though pulled from deep memory, and Aragog continued his morbid, haunting tale, “It hunted with silence and the halls smelled of cold blood and iron earth. No one heard any screams or sounds, only sudden stillness. Young bodies stopped breathing. Creatures fled. Birds fell quiet. Even my kin—spiders in the corners, the rafters—they fled into cracks and holes. We feared the smell. Not of predator… but of death walking. We did not know what it was, only that its appetite was all-consuming, its nature death.”
Neville exhaled slowly. “That was the first opening.”
Aragog tilted his enormous head in what might once have been a nod. “Yes, I feld into the forest when I was caught by a wizard, and the creature disappeared.”
“Do you remember what it was?” Neville pressed. “Anything at all?”
The giant spider leaned closer. Its breath stank of rot and venom.
“We do not speak of it,” Aragog whispered. “We know of the eyes that bring death, and we fear it greatly. Even now, we tremor in our nest, unable to hunt like before, for that tremor has returned.”
Ron’s spine snapped straight, terror painting his face and Neville’s heart hammered once against his ribs. Even though they knew the answer already, the question still needed asking “Returned when?”
Aragog’s eight eyes focused on him. “The night when the shadows move, and death wakes. The forest grew still. The air tasted old again. My children refused to cross certain paths, shivering and crawling back into the nest. They felt the cold breath on the roots. A presence that eats magic from the air, leaves desolation behind.”
“Halloween,” Neville and Ro breathed in together, sharing a look, before refocusing on the monster before them.
Aragog’s limbs shifted again. “This creature is not prey. It is hunger given form. We avoid it.”
It was then that Neville noticed it. Over time, as Aragog had been speaking…the spiders had moved. The swarm was edging closer, and above them, acromantulas dangled from the trees, creeping down one hairsbreath at a time, legs shifting as if ready to strangle them.
Not in a rush, not yet—but their bodies were shifting forward across the web, slowly, like a tide creeping onto a shore. From palm sized bugs to haired giants that were bigger than bears, suddenly, he was aware of all of them, and the thousands of hungry eyes focused on the two lone wizards.
“Aragog,” Neville said, voice growing sharper, “We came for answers. That’s all. We are friends of Hagrid.”
“I care not for what you came, wizards. You may be friends of Hagrid, but that is no issue to me, “ Aragog twitched. “He trusted what he believed I could be. Not what I was.” The mandibles clicked together in a slow rhythm, a thoughtful cadence that filled the air like grinding stone. “But he is gone now. Gone into the cage of men. And with him… the promise.”
Neville’s stomach dropped, and Ron flinched. “Oh no. No, Neville, he’s not—”
“The promise,” Aragog repeated, almost tenderly, “that I would never harm him… or any he named as his own.”
Neville’s breath froze.
Aragog’s mandibles parted, and Neville saw a drop of venom collect on one, black and sizzling with decay.
“But you are not his.”
The nest erupted in noise—not an attack, not yet, but the unmistakable sound of a predator announcing the end of parley. The webs tightened underfoot as if the forest itself exhaled.
“We didn’t come to hurt anyone,” Neville said quickly, stepping slightly in front of Ron, aware of his friend’s fear, as well as his own climbing heartbeat “We’re only trying to help a friend who’s been—”
“You step into our brood’s heart,” Aragog hissed, cutting him off and taking another step forwards in time with his children, “speaking of help while your kind hunts mine.”
His massive form shifted, each leg digging into the silk. “There is hunger in these woods. Hunger that fell from the stone halls and crept into our roots. My children have starved for weeks, too afraid to hunt beyond the nest because the air tastes of death again,” Aragog whispered, leaning down until the stench of his breath washed over them, thick with rot and half-digested meat. “Because the thing born of old magic stalks the forest floor.”
The spiders around them twitched, huddled suddenly closer as if the memory alone made them frantic.
“And now,” he continued softly, “food has walked into our home.”
Neville tensed. “We are not food.”
“No,” Aragog agreed, “you are not. You are wizards.”
He tilted his head, two eyes narrowing, two others widening grotesquely. “You think yourselves above being hunted.”
Ron whispered, “Neville… he’s going to—”
“Yes,” Aragog rasped, mandibles splitting in a horrifying, deliberate smile. “I am.”
The nearest acromantulas surged forward an inch, no more—but it was enough to jolt Ron into a full-body flinch. That seemed to be the spark for the wick, and the first spider came from the right, a blur of black legs. Neville shouted, “Confringo!” and the blast tore it in half, splattering the web with dark ichor as the two spiders behind it also turned into smears on the ground. Ron screamed, the sound swallowed by the swarm’s rising chitter.
“Neville—NEVILLE—”
“I SEE THEM! Lacero!” Neville roared back, cutting another two to pieces. Two more acromantulas leapt from the trees, and Ron threw up a shield so violently it cracked the branches above them, throwing the creatures off. A leg slammed into the barrier with a sickening crunch, and acid hissed against the dome.
Neville moved with frightening efficiency, something raw slipping through him—fear sharpened into cold instinct along with anger that had been simmering inside ever since Hermione.
No, from even before, he thought as his body moved on its own, and he slashed his wand downward. “Lacero!” A slicing arc of silver shredded a spider’s forelegs; the creature crumpled with a wet series of snaps along with half a dozen around him, his magic carving the creature like cake.
Rage poured through his wand, the phoenix feather singing in tune with his emotions as anger bubbling from last year burst forth at once. Another dropped from above, and Ron screamed and ducked as it hit the web beside them. Neville blasted it point-blank with a Bombarda so strong the spider’s carapace shattered like brittle ceramic, and the ground beneath heaved, revealing the destroyed eggs in the earth.
“MOVE!” Neville barked, grabbing Ron by the sleeve and dragging him left as the ground broke and webs strangled the creatures in droves. The next moment, spiders poured from the pit, hundreds, maybe thousands—bodies slick and shining, jaws snapping, the web vibrating like a storm-struck drum. Mandibles clacked, legs moved, and shrikes split the air.
And in the center of it all, Aragog just watched them quietly.
Ron gagged. “Neville—we’re dying—”
“No,” Neville said, though his lungs were burning. “Not here.”
The spiders closed in around them, a thick wall of black. Ron’s shield flickered, shrinking under the blow of multiple bodies slamming into it as cracks spread further, the spiders crawling onto each other in rush to bury them.
“Neville!” Ron cried, voice shrill with panic.
Neville felt the moment—sharp, terrible—when hesitation meant death, and his thoughts screamed at him to do what his heart said.
He shoved Ron backwards behind a jut of root, raised his wand skyward, and screamed:
“Kata Pyr”
The world ignited.
White fire burst outward, a violent sun blooming from Neville’s wand before dropping down like magma from a volcano. It burned hot enough that Neville’s vision went white, the flames blooming outwards and falling in sheets of burning death. The nearest spiders shrieked in agony as their bodies ignited; legs curled inward, smoke billowing from their joints, while the rest of the swarm frenzied backwards. The web caught in sheets of flame, racing toward the pit.
By his side, Ron shielded his face, screaming his name as the shield around them disappeared. But it was of no issue, for Neville stood resolute, magic pouring into his wand as his eyes glittered with satisfaction
Aragog recoiled from the flames as dozens of his children burnt before him, the spreading wave of white flames striking him across his grotesque face. One of the large lenses ruptured, spraying black ichor; another boiled inside its socket. The giant spider shrieked—a sound so sharp it shredded the night, and Neville felt satisfaction bloom in his heart at the sound.
“Neville, stop! STOP!” Ron shouted a moment later, voice cracking, a hand reaching up to shake his shoulder. Turning back, Neville looked down at the redhead, wondering why his friend said so, before his knees buckled, and the flames stopped. As his breath shortened and Neville felt sweat bead his forehead, the fire carved a path through the nest, turning the silk into collapsing sheets of ash.
The swarm broke. Panic rippled through them—spiders fled, scattering up trees, into holes, anywhere away from the light.
Ron grabbed Neville by the shoulders as he swayed. “We have to go! Neville—we HAVE to go!”
Neville collapsed to his knees, the aftermath of the spell ripping the strength from his bones. His head spun; his wand hand trembled uncontrollably. He had never performed magic on this scale before, so sudden and violent. Nodding as his legs shook, Neville leaned onto Ron as they hobbled away, leaving the spiders to scuttle away from the smoke and fire that still burned across their nest. Looking back, the last thing he saw of Aragog was the giant spider rearing back, half-blind, mandibles clicking in pain and rage, firelight flickering across his ruined face.
Ron dragged him bodily from the burning nest, half-running, half-stumbling through the trees.
Behind them, the forest heaved with smoke, flame, and the shrieking panic of a thousand fleeing spiders.
Neville heard one last thing before darkness swam at the edges of his vision.
Ron screamed his name as his legs finally gave out, and something picking him off the ground.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Night fell over Kástro Mávros like a velvet shroud, settling into the stone corridors until even the torches burned quieter. Harry pushed open the carved doors of the eastern library, and the scent of old parchment and dragonhide bindings greeted them like an old, persistent ghost. He had missed this place, he realised with a quiet fondness borne of finding silent places where they could hide unseen, and do whatever they wanted. As Persephoen fell into step by his right, Harry walked inside the cavernous structure, the braziers burning brighter at their entrance.
The room was enormous—a cathedral of shelves rising in twisting spirals, lit only by floating witchlights that pulsed a faint, intelligent blue. The ceiling disappeared into shadow, an illusion much like the Great Hall pulsing above them, showing the shifting galaxeus above.
Persephone walked in behind him, rubbing her arms as the colder air of the library washed over her. “Arcturus doesn’t heat this place properly,” she muttered, voice soft in the stillness, still tired from the day’s training.
“I am sure this is also meant to train us somehow,” Harry replied dryly, looking down at the bandage on his forearm, courtesy of Cassioepeia.
They shared a brief, tired smile before splitting in opposite directions through the labyrinth of shelves. Harry approached the History section first, tapping on the runes to sift through thousands of years of books in mere moments, the shelves shifting and rearranging to provide him with the range of years he had selected—from twenty years before the founding of Hogwarts, to a hundred years after Salazar’s death.
“Salazar’s Descent,” he whispered, picking up a half-cracked book off the shelf, looking at the faded, nearly invisible silver lettering on the binding, before looking at the rest of them, ‘Need something more…something that talks of his Chamber’
Five minutes later, he approached their table, silently thanking Miraya under his breath as he saw coffee and snacks appear on the table. Persephone was already seated, browsing through a book larger than her torso. “Start with the genealogies,” she said, her voice echoing quietly. “I’ll take the magical bestiaries.”
Harry grunted an acknowledgement, opening the first grimoire of the four.
The ink inside was dark and fresh, preserved by runes that hummed faintly on his senses even now. Names spiraled across the page—Salazar’s line traced backwards through Byzantine warlocks, Moorish serpent-priests, and druids who worshipped the deep earth. There were even whispers of him possessing the blood of Cernunnos, through a demigod sired ages ago.
“He wasn’t just a Parselmouth,” Harry murmured, scanning the illuminated text. “He was a geomancer of foremost skill, coming from the mountainous Celtic regions. His clan could make stones breathe.”
Persephone glanced up. “Stone… breathe?”
Harry turned the book toward her, tapping a stylized drawing of an ancient temple. “Salazar’s family didn’t just carve rooms. They could shape living space—caverns that listen, that hold memory. Wards woven through roots and granite. It is said that none could match him at warding and inlaying any kind of stone with magic.”
She frowned slightly. “Our Common room?”
“And possibly others,” Harry said, “The magic on them has stood eternal throughout the centuries. Even the wards of Hogwarts had demanded maintenance, but not those on the Commons, especially with all the enchantments laid into the walls.”
“Could be true,” Persephone nodded, before frowning down at the table, “so the Chamber must definitely be a rock-woven structure…maybe it is the mountains beyond the forest?”
“That would mean the creature would need to cross the whole forest, and then enter teh castle by coming through the meadows,” he pointed out, “No one would miss it for so long, especially once the attacks started.”
“True,” she nodded, and returned to her bestiary, the illustrations shifting in slow, serpentine motions. She traced a finger down the column of names, and shifted pages, perusing through the creatures known to petrify victims, or had any kind of serpentine trait.
“Here. The Basilisk of Salazar Slytherin,” he read aloud after a few moments. “Salazar Slytherin was reputed in his latter years to have wrought a dread creature from the disquiet that dwelt within his soul. A master of serpents and of the shadowed arts of death, he bent his craft upon beasts and men alike, fashioning abominations that served his darkened curiosities. Of these, none was more whispered of than the great Basilisk attributed to his ha-.”
“A Basilisk?” Persephone interrupted him, leaning forwards to stare at the passage, “But then why is no one dead?”
“Do I look like I have read this book before?” he rolled his eyes, earning a pinch on his shoulder for that. Rolling his eyes at her again, he shook his head and focused back on the text, “Traces of its passage linger still in forgotten histories: the vanishing of a northward band of Viking mages, the sudden stilling of Roman cohorts that marched upon Avalon, whole encampments swallowed ere any alarm was raised. Salazar was cunning in the burial of his works, yet even he could not wholly scour the taint left upon the land, nor quiet the fear driven deep into the creatures that fled his grounds for many leagues about.”
“I have trod every rood of his estates, and the holdings of his kin besides, seeking some remnant or sign of his monstrous craft, yet naught have I uncovered that grants certain knowledge. Hogwarts and its hidden chambers lie sealed to me, for Godric and Rowena hold firm against my enquiries and deem my warnings the ramblings of one overzealous. Yet I know what my sight beheld: the Chamber is sealed, the beast is unseen, but the heir of that line may yet rouse it, and the wards wrought of his hand endure still. Thus I set down this counsel: the marked line must be hewn away ere calamity wakes anew, for so long as the blood persists, so too does the key to Slytherin’s dread design.”
Harry pushed closer. “Marked… like heirs?”
“Or chosen successors,” she said, and leaned over to read further. “This says it must have lived seventy years by now.”
Harry blinked. “Do basilisks live for longer than that?”
Persephone flipped to the next page, before shutting the book and returning to hers. “Well, python can go about three decades in captivity, so I am sure the basilisk could do it too. No one has actually bred one for that long.”
“But a thousand years?”
“Seems impossible, but who knows what magic can do,” Persephone worried her lip, before looking down at the serpentine crest emblazoned on the page depicting Slytherin’s family tree, “Especially one wrought by the hands of Salazar Slytherin.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Evening stretched across the Greengrass estate in long strokes of gold and violet, settling upon a manor carved into the hillside like a temple raised in honour of sunlight. The carriage from Kástro Mávros rolled to a dignified halt before the pale marble steps, the Blacks descending into air scented with cypress, cold thyme, and something faintly sweet—flowering vines climbing the southern pillars.
For Harry the contrast hit immediately—esepcially since now he was able to view the entirety of the manor and the estate. Castle Black was carved from shadow: dark stone pulled from the heart of Cycladic cliffs, obsidian veins running through solemn halls where light was swallowed rather than reflected. Greengrass Manor, by contrast, was sunlight given form. White marble, sandstone courtyards, bronze-inlaid columns painted in faint sea-worn blues and greens. Wide terraces and open archways; domed ceilings painted with celestial maps; gardens that bled inward through entire wings. It was warmth shaping stone, not dominance.
A different kind of old magic.
Persephone’s fingers brushed Harry’s sleeve as they stepped forward together. At the foot of the steps stood Lord Artemis Greengrass—tall, composed, his robes the colour of deep wine—and Daphne, poised beside him in a gown of forest green embroidered with olive branches and water motifs older than most families at court.
“Lord Black. Lady Black.” Artemis inclined his head with the precise courtesy of old houses. “Your presence honours our house.”
Arcturus returned the nod, measured and cool. Cassiopeia followed with that quietly dangerous smile she reserved for situations she deemed entertaining. “And punctual. A rarity.”
Harry and Persephone bowed in tandem. Daphne’s eyes flicked over them, sharp and appraising; a hint of warmth broke through her practised mask when it fell on Persephone’s shoulder. Artemis rested a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and, with that private authority that came from navigating Lords and men alike, said, “Daphne. See they want for nothing. Keep them close; this evening bears certain obligations.”
“I shall, Father.” Daphne nodded softly, “Please follow me, Heir Potter, Heiress Potter.”
Arcturus and Cassiopeia lingered only long enough for formalities. A steward met them; they fell into polite conversation with Artemis and withdrew down a side gallery. They did so deliberately—no oversight, only the courtesies of two great houses speaking in low tones. As the adults slowly walked away, Daphne offered her arm to him.
“Come,” she said, nodding towards the corridor to their left. “This way is quieter. Fewer nobles to conduct minor inquiries.”
“What are they going to enquire about?” Harry snorted under his breath, adjusting his arm so that Daphne would be more comfortable, “That whether Arcturus is serving us boiled eyes for breakfast?”
“Or whether you have yet learnt the Cruciatus or not,” Daphne half-smiled, and Harry was one again struck by that warmth in his body. Ignoring it as Persephone chuckled next to him, Harry turned his head, flicking his eyes in Daphne’s direction, and his sister nodded at the unspoken words.
They had not gone twenty paces more, when a clear, authoritative voice cut the air. “Ah, now this is unexpected.”
From the adjoining corridor Amelia Bones advanced—robes dark as garnet rather than her usual scarlet, posture straight as a spear. Susan followed one step behind, eyes flicking between the faces she once knew as friends and the older, guarded expressions they now wore.
“Lady Bones,” Daphne greeted with the exact civility the situation demanded, and they both followed a moment later, perfectly synchronised.
Amelia’s inspection was swift, assessing, though not unkind. “I had not expected House Black to make an appearance this evening,” she observed. “Surprising, given current tensions.”
Persephone answered with careful courtesy. “We came at the Greengrass invitation, Lady Bones.”
Amelia’s gaze sharpened. “Of course,” she nodded, eyes pausing on the dual crests on their robes, Potter and Black insignias both telling of their heritage, as well as guardianship to any who might raise eyes. “I hope your stay with the Lord Black and his…famed sister has been pleasant so far.”
Harry felt the prickle of the question’s implication and cut in before Persephone could, his voice level. “It has been. We have been taught many things.”
Amelia allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod. “That is good to hear. I was troubled when I saw the papers and the condition of Hogwarts after you came back—despicable behaviour.”
Susan’s face went the colour of an overripe apple. The memory of the sorting flashed, the instant and irrevocable manner in which she had been kind to two unknowing first-years once and then, at word of their name, became a step away from hostile.
Harry’s tone was quiet, but it had an edge that did not need sharpening, as he too remembered that night, “Susan helped us a lot, Lady Bones, in acclimatizing to the world we now live in.”
“I wasn’t aware you were friends with the Potters, Susan,” Amelia raised an eyebrow, smiling at her niece, and Harry smiled sharply as he saw Susan duck her head.
“Pardon me for the confusion, Lady Bones,” he shook his head, “I meant on the train from London to Hogsmeade. After that, we did not really get the time to connect as before.”
“Oh.”
Susan’s mouth tightened. “I—I didn’t know, not then. It was—”
Persephone’s reply was neither accusation nor balm. It was simply true. “It's alright Susan, we did not know either.”
Amelia watched that exchange with a surgeon’s calm for a moment more, then inclined her head. “You both present yourselves with admirable restraint,” she said. “It bodes well for the future.” The compliment was measured, and the meaning was not lost on any of them. That Amelia understood her heiress’ faults only spoke more of what she was talking about.
She turned to Susan. “Come, niece. Lord Travers waits, and has a poor habit of sulking when not addressed directly.”
Susan nodded at her aunt, the shame on her face partly washing away as she took a breath. Turning towards them, she offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod and was gone, drawn away by Amelia’s firm hand.
Daphne gave them both a smirk and rolled her eyes in the departing duo’s direction, “That could have gone worse,” she murmured.
“Can’t everything?” Harry asked, and they moved on. The manor’s interior unfolded as a catalogue of Greengrass taste: marble polished to a warm glow, columns inlaid with bronze reliefs of sailors and laurel and horses in motion, vaulted ceilings painted with faint star-domes. Suits of armour stood at intervals, not as grim sentinels but as ceremonial guardians—Aegean helms, curved greaves—less menacing than the heavier, rune-scorched blacks that lined Castle Black’s halls. Inside, greenery threaded through the stone: climbing jasmine, potted olives, indoor courtyards where bronze fountains whispered and the air smelled of lemon and salt. Lanterns were charmed with a daylight spell; the whole house glowed as though perpetually in late afternoon.
Castle Black’s language was storm and cliff and grim darkness that swallowed emotions with severity; Greengrass spoke in sunlit terraces and sea-borne motifs, like the warm midday Sun in the spring. Where the Blacks layered Celtic patience over Greek severity, the Greengrasses wore their Hellenic roots openly—columns, laurel, choruses carved into friezes.
A few minutes of idle talk and slow walking later, they rounded a corridor and ran into Astoria, breathless and delighted in a gown the colour of dawn. She flung herself at Persephone with a hug so eager it left the younger girl laughing despite herself. Harry ruffled Astoria’s hair, earning a mock glare and a bright retort.
“You’re here!” Astoria cried, eyes shining. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Persephone squeezed her hand. “Where else would we be? Your letter practically commanded us to come.”
Daphne’s expression softened in the presence of such brightness. Astoria, full of honest curiosity, let her words tumble out. “You seem less…quiet, Daphne.
The sentence landed like stone, and instantly, the corridor turned a little less bright. Daphne’s face flickered and Persephone’s fingers tightened around Astoria’s wrist.
Harry stepped forward then, voice low. “She will be furious we let her miss a ball,” he said, and the words were as much a promise as much as a joke, as he tried to think of how the bubbly girl would have broken the tension by now.
Daphne’s mouth tilted; a small, grounding smile took her by surprise. “She would,” she whispered. “And she will be shouting at us when she wakes.”
Astoria swallowed and, with the concrete hope only children can carry, linked her arm through Persephone’s. “Come, mother built me a new terrarium,” she smiled, eyes sparkling. “Want to see?”
Astoria’s grip tightened around Persephone's arm as she tugged them down the next corridor, but Harry lingered a half-step behind. Daphne paused too, glancing back at him—just long enough that he caught the flicker of something unguarded in her eyes before she schooled it away again.
The manor shifted around them as they walked, sunlight charms deepening toward a softer amber, as though the estate itself were preparing for night. Music drifted faintly from a far hall—strings tuning, a harp’s crystalline notes rising and fading.
“Preparations have begun,” Daphne murmured, nodding toward a set of distant bronze double doors. Servants carried enchanted lanterns past them, their light warm and sea-blue, wicks blooming into brightness the moment they crossed the threshold.
Astoria barely noticed. She pulled Persephone into a sunken alcove where a wide terrarium glowed under charmed moonlight. Miniature olive trees bent over winding stone paths, and tiny luminescent salamanders skittered across the sand.
“It’s beautiful,” Persephone whispered, leaning close.
Astoria beamed. “Mother said it should feel like home. Like summer.”
Something in the words made Daphne still, and Harry watched her shoulder rise and fall on a tight breath before she mastered herself again. Tracey’s name hovered in the air like an unspoken ghost.
Harry reached out instinctively, brushing his fingers lightly across Daphne’s hand before he even realised it—not holding, not comforting, just present.
“We’ll fix this,” he said quietly, like how Persephone had said to him once upon a time, “All of it.”
Daphne shut her eyes for one heartbeat, then opened them again, steady, a ghost of a smile on her face, “I know.”
The manor lights dimmed suddenly, shifting toward a deep golden hue as a bell chimed somewhere overhead—three slow, melodic notes. Daphne straightened at once.
“That’s the first call,” she said. “Guests will begin gathering in the atrium. We should return before someone decides to come searching.”
Astoria made a small sound of protest, then softened, resting her head against Persephone’s arm for a moment longer before letting go. “You’ll sit with me later?”
“Of course,” Persephone promised.
They stepped back into the corridor. Soft music drifted stronger now, the distant swell of violins, murmurs of arriving guests, laughter threading through like early stars in a dusk sky. The marble underfoot warmed as lanterns along the walls bloomed to life in cascading rows, guiding them toward the heart of the celebration.
Daphne walked between them—Harry on one side, Persephone on the other—and for a brief moment, the three moved in perfect step, shadows sweeping long behind them as they headed toward the amber-lit hall.