Change of Heart

The Banquet's Echoes

The banquet had drawn to a gradual close, leaving contented bellies and cheerful smiles in its wake. As Dumbledore's voice resonated, the Great Hall echoed with his instructions for the prefects to guide the students to their respective dormitories. Amid the flurry of excited conversations and bustling feet, I found myself extracted from the stream of Gryffindors by an unexpected embrace.

"Little fire-cracker, how are you feeling?" Rosalind's voice trembled as she held me close, a mixture of concern and sisterly affection evident in her words. The cacophony of the room seemed to hush as her warm presence enveloped me. A gentle push, and her hands migrated from my shoulders to my forehead, a gentle touch that evoked memories of childhood.

"You're quite warm! Is there a fever brewing? Perhaps a visit to Miss Pomfrey is in order," her words danced with a touch of maternal worry, a thread connecting the tender moment with the bustling world around us.

I gently removed her hand from my forehead, a small smile playing on my lips. "I'm perfectly fine, sister. No cold to worry about, and you're well aware of how much I despise that nickname. Let's not broadcast it down the corridors, shall we? Don't want to give anyone the wrong impression."

"I know you're afraid to tell mother. That's why you're getting all snappy," she said, her gaze shifting from my tie back to meet mine.

"Whatever, I'm not scared. What can they do? Drag me out," I said, crossing my arms in a feeble attempt to appear confident. However, the facade couldn't hide the unease that stirred within me, and I struggled to divert my attention from my sister's piercing gaze.

She let out a chuckle at my faux bravado, though the mirth and teasing that typically danced in her eyes were conspicuously absent. Instead, her gaze traversed the length of my new tie, the silk of my robe, and the crimson hue of my jumper that glowed in the torchlight. What I detected within those depths was not laughter, but a mixture of disappointment and something that resembled mild disdain. My heart sank even further, an icy grip clutching my insides, as I struggled to suppress the sting of hurt at my sister's unexpected reaction.

"Go back to your group before you get lost or something, I don't know where the Gryffindor common room is," she said, slapping arm before darting towards the long line of Slytherins making their way down the stairs. I sighed, already missing my sister's presence, and joined the long line of Gryffindors filing up the stairs behind some sixth years talking about Quidditch.

The mass of students suddenly ground to a halt as we reached the top of the stairs, and I seized the opportunity to maneuver through the crowd toward the Prefect positioned at the pinnacle. "Password," a dulcet voice demanded, originating from a painting just behind the crimson-haired young man. My gaze fixed upon a substantial woman clad in a flowing white gown. A diadem crafted from berries and floral stems adorned her regal head, impeccably securing her voluminous chestnut tresses in place. With her left hand, she cradled a half-filled wine glass, while her right hand held a cluster of grapes plucked from a wooden stool. Behind her, a marble metropolis perched atop a towering cliff, its azure waters shimmering below. An uncanny sense of recognition stirred within me as I regarded the edifices and grand temples that populated this ethereal cityscape, evoking memories of something I'd encountered in my reading.

"Caput Draconis," the prefect promptly responded. Without delay, the painting swung open, unveiling a capacious common room adorned with snug armchairs and sofas clustered around a crackling fireplace. Positioned to the right, near the entrance, a substantial bulletin board teemed with club announcements, a meticulously detailed calendar, school bulletins, and even a collection of missing posters. An all-encompassing rouge tint enveloped the room, where nearly every element, from the draperies to the brickwork housing the roaring blaze, was imbued with the warm hue. The curtains, slightly parted, revealed an exquisite vista of the moon reigning high in the nocturnal heavens, casting its gentle glow across the Black Lake and the Quidditch pitch below. Just above the fireplace, a substantial banner proudly displayed the image of a formidable lion in mid-roar, a symbol of power and courage. Adjacent to the hearth, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase bowed under the weight of its literary treasures.