The Buddy System. *Updating In Process*

68. What the Shield Couldn't Save

"Oh — Miss, I am quite fine, I—" she began quickly, clearly defaulting to habit.

"Come on," I interrupted gently. "There's more food than we know what to do with, and I'm fairly certain you haven't eaten yet." I softened my voice. "Please?"

She hesitated again, clearly torn.

"Well... if Miss is sure?" she asked finally.

"I'm sure," I said, nodding.

With a small, delighted squeak, she hopped up onto the chair beside me, feet dangling slightly. Like Mrs Weasley had done for us, I began to fill Trixie's plate as well — eggs, toast, a pancake that nearly dwarfed her hands.

Her eyes shone.

Azaleah, meanwhile, ate.

Really ate.

She finished her plate, paused, then quietly accepted a second helping of everything without protest or hesitation. Watching her appetite return felt like watching colour slowly seep back into a faded painting. Every bite she took loosened something tight in my chest. It was good to see her eating well — properly. I doubted Azkaban had ever concerned itself much with a prisoner's health or wellbeing.

Mrs Weasley watched her too, pretending not to, but missing nothing.

"So," she said lightly after a moment, sipping her tea, "what are you girls planning for today?"

I bit my lip, thinking. "Well... I need to get Azaleah some clothes," I said slowly, uncertainty creeping in. "But I'm not sure how or when—"

"Oh, Mrs Nott has already taken care of that," Mrs Weasley said briskly, waving a hand toward the utility room.

I blinked. "She has?"

Azaleah looked up sharply. "She did?" she echoed, disbelief clear in her voice.

"Oh yes, dear," Mrs Weasley replied warmly. "She had clothes delivered early this morning. Boxes and boxes of them." She smiled proudly. "I washed everything that was sent, of course. They're all folded and waiting for you."

Azaleah's fork stilled mid-air.

For a moment, she didn't speak at all — just stared, as if the idea of someone anticipating her needs without being asked was too much to process.

And in that quiet, crowded kitchen, surrounded by food and care and people who wanted nothing from her except her presence, something fragile but important seemed to settle a little deeper into place.

"Well, that's one less job to worry about," I said, smiling as a small knot of tension eased in my chest.

I turned toward Trixie, who sat very straight in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. "How are you finding the house?" I asked gently. "Were you able to find everything all right?"

"Oh yes, Miss," Trixie replied at once, nodding enthusiastically. "Your house is being very beautiful. Trixie likes it here very much."

There was such sincere delight in her voice that it made my smile widen. I studied her more closely then, really looking at her instead of just seeing her. She was a free elf — paid for her work, able to choose her own path, able to have a life outside of service — and yet something about the way she held herself spoke of old habits that hadn't quite loosened their grip.

"Where do you live, Trixie?" I asked carefully.

Her gaze dropped to her feet.

It was only then that I noticed what she was wearing properly — a threadbare, camel-coloured cardigan that had clearly seen better decades, stretched at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs. Beneath it, a kilt that looked as though it had been patched more than once, the fabric faded and thin.