Toska is the immense ache for nothing and everything all at once, an anguish from the bottom of the heart.
Where the Exiled Heiress to the fallen Russian Empire, Cyrazine Romanova, arrives at Hogwarts starting her sixth year, looking to appease her...
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The first sound was silence.
Cyrazine awoke before dawn, long before the castle stirred; long before even the ghosts began their drifting patrols through the dungeons. For a moment she lay still, half-buried beneath the heavy green velvet of her coverlet, eyes tracing the faint shimmer of the Black Lake through the windowpane. The light there was a kind of breathing; slow, liquid, alive. She sat up and reached for her robe, moving with the careful economy of someone who had long ago learned that grace was as much control as it was beauty.
The chill of the dungeon pressed against her skin, but she welcomed it. She had always liked the cold; it made her feel awake. Her trunk sat neatly at the foot of her bed, its brass hinges gleaming faintly. She opened it, releasing the faint scent of lavender and paper; sachets placed carefully between folded garments and books.
The interior was immaculate, every item folded or arranged with reverent precision: a small silver hand mirror from Beauxbatons, a bundle of her father's letters tied with grey ribbon, and — laid carefully upon a strip of white silk — her wand. Sycamore wood, unicorn hair core, 11 ¾ inches, unbending flexibility. The wand felt alive the moment her fingers brushed its handle, warm and restless, like something that had merely been waiting to be touched. When she lifted it, it caught the faint shimmer of the greenish light from the lake, as though it were tasting it.
"Dobroye utro," she whispered softly; Good morning. The air didn't echo her words, but the magic in the room seemed to hum faintly in response. She dressed with habitual care.
The Hogwarts uniform fit her well enough — though she had adjusted the sleeves and hems herself the previous night, the way she'd been taught in finishing school. Her cloak fell elegantly over her shoulders, and her Slytherin tie was knotted with the precision of a soldier's badge. Her hair, brushed and coiled into a French twist, glowed faintly in the morning light. When she finally looked in the mirror, she didn't smile. Instead, she studied herself the way one might study a portrait — not with vanity, but with curiosity. Who am I here? The exile, the heir, or the student? Her reflection didn't answer.
━━━━━━✧❂✧━━━━━━
The Slytherin common room was still half-asleep. Only the flicker of greenish light beneath the water and the lazy crackle of the fire suggested life. A few early risers whispered by the hearth, but their words were lost in the hum of the lake. The floor gleamed like oil, polished stone reflecting the sway of kelp beyond the glass. On the long table near the fire, a stack of parchment waited, sealed with wax.
