"Our field of dreams, engulfed in fire
Your arson's match your somber eyes
And I'll still see it until I die
You're the loss of my life"
Hushed glances and heavy silences, half-lit corridors and glimmering reflections. The world hums with ancient ex...
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Hogwarts, 1979 Valentine's Day
The castle had a way of adjusting its silence.
Kione noticed it most in the early hours, when the corridors breathed in soft drafts of mist from the lake and the stone walls seemed to stretch into themselves like an animal waking from sleep. Valentine's Day brought a different kind of hush-one spun not from cold or quiet, but from a strange, expectant stillness. The kind that lingered in corners, behind heart-shaped garlands and enchanted rose petals that fluttered down from bewitched ceilings. As though something was supposed to happen. As though someone was supposed to say something.
She didn't care for the decorations. Not for the floating cherubs or the blush-colored ribbons that trailed behind suits of armor. Even the sweets delivered by owls at breakfast-wrapped in pink foil and tagged with teasing initials-felt like a performance.
Kione stirred her tea slowly, the spoon gliding in careful, even circles. Beside her, Mavis was mid-rant about the absolutely uncalled-for chaos of Gryffindor Tower that morning.
"One of the seventh-years let in a flock of paper cranes that sing sonnets when they land. Sonnets, Kione. Edgar tried to catch one with his toast and it bit him."
"I see," Kione murmured, still stirring.
"You don't. You're too zen about it," Mavis huffed. "You're the sort who receives quiet little cards written in beautiful script with no return address. Probably with pressed flowers inside. The poetic kind."
Kione lifted her eyes, faint amusement playing at her mouth. "That sounds suspiciously specific."
"Because it's real," Mavis said. "You have a stack of them in your drawer, I'm sure. Mysterious admirers who gift you poems and petals like they've read too much Tennyson. Gryffindors, probably."
Kione blinked. "Why Gryffindors?"
"Because they're dramatic and ill-advised and always fall for the unreadable girl who walks the line between devastating and unattainable." Mavis paused, then added, "They're masochists, really."
Kione smiled without showing teeth. "You say that like I'm responsible for their suffering."
"You're not. But you don't help either."
She let the comment hang. The sun had broken across the stained-glass windows behind them, spilling soft, rosy light over the Ravenclaw table. It caught in the steam curling from her tea, in the glint of her silver spoon. She stilled it.
"Someone's going to mention it eventually," Mavis said, more gently now.
Kione didn't look up. "Mention what?"
Mavis gave her a look. "You know what. The engagement."
And there it was.
Kione set the spoon down beside her plate. Her expression didn't shift, but something in her posture tightened-like the subtle pinch of cold at the edge of a glove.
