Chapter 13: Between Silences, Laughter, and Expectations
The night in Munich carried a gentle coolness that invited retreat, and within the Festmann residence dinner remained an almost sacred ritual. The dining room did not display the cold opulence of Valyrian fortresses, yet it exuded solidity and tradition. Dark wooden walls bore ancient carvings, discreet symbols of prosperity earned through patience rather than ostentation.
At the head of the table sat Günther Festmann, the patriarch of the family. His hair, once a vivid blond, had nearly surrendered entirely to white, yet his green eyes remained sharp and alert, befitting a man who had survived political shifts, silent wars, and power realignments within the German magical world. Beside him sat Marta Festmann, his wife, with gentle features and a composed demeanor. Unlike the rest of the table, her brown-gray hair betrayed her origin outside the Festmann lineage—she had come from an old Bavarian family of herbologists, bringing with her a practical calm that balanced her husband's temperament.
Eckhart Festmann occupied his usual seat, freshly returned from work at Haus des Drachen. Traces of the day's fatigue still lingered on his face, but his eyes betrayed unease. Before him sat his three children.
The eldest, Kurt, already displayed the athletic build and restless confidence of his thirteen years, nearly fourteen. About to begin his third year at Durmstrang, he sat with a posture slightly too relaxed for his father's taste, his short blond hair neat, his green eyes attentive yet shadowed by quiet rebellion.
Beside him sat the twins, Hanna and Greta, eleven years old and identical at first glance: blond hair woven into careful braids, green eyes alert, their posture a mixture of excitement and discipline. In only a few weeks, they would begin their first year at Durmstrang, and the anticipation was impossible to conceal.
There was, however, an absence that never failed to make itself felt. Eckhart's wife, the children's mother, had passed away eight years earlier, the victim of a persistent magical illness for which no cure had been found. Her place at the table remained empty—not from neglect, but from silent respect. The family had learned to move forward, yet the memory never fully faded.
The soft clink of cutlery ceased when Eckhart finally broke the silence.
"Today at the shop was… different."
All eyes turned to him at once.
"Maeric Lhaerys was there," he continued, serving himself from the still-steaming stew. "And he wasn't alone."
Günther leaned slightly forward. "He brought his family?"
"Yes. Serena, Lyra… and even old Aelarion," Eckhart replied, his voice carrying an almost instinctive respect. "But most importantly, I finally met his children. Daemyr and Vaenyra."
The names seemed to settle over the table like an unseen weight.
Eckhart described the siblings carefully, choosing each word with intent. He spoke of Daemyr's restrained posture, of his attentive, deep gaze, as though he were always assessing more than he revealed. He spoke of Vaenyra with near reverence, emphasizing her silent presence—firm, unyielding.
"They have that look, Father," Eckhart said, meeting Günther's eyes. "As if they see through people. Daemyr is calm, observant… but there's something old about him. And Vaenyra… she didn't say a word, yet she commanded the room effortlessly."
Günther nodded slowly. "Our bond with the Lhaerys was the best decision this family ever made," he said. "Vassalage opened doors we would never have crossed alone. Circles of influence. Alliances with houses that once barely acknowledged us."
Eckhart agreed with a slight nod. "Trade. Political protection. Access. All of it came with that oath."
"And now they send their children to Hogwarts," Günther remarked. "Especially the heir."
"Exactly," Eckhart said. "Sending them to the Isles is not an innocent gesture. Maeric never acts without calculation. They are already known on the continent. Now they seek roots where they are still only distant rumors."
Kurt lifted his gaze from his plate, his voice edged with near-reckless honesty. "And do they trust us? We swore loyalty over ten years ago and have never even seen their true residence. We are vassals to a shadow."
Silence fell heavily.
Eckhart fixed his son with a firm stare. "We are vassals to a rising power, Kurt. And that is precisely why you must distinguish yourself at Durmstrang. You—and your sisters."
He turned to Hanna and Greta. "I want you to strive. To learn. To observe. At some point, closeness to the Lhaerys will be decisive."
The twins nodded almost in unison, obedient and attentive.
Kurt, however, merely shrugged and returned to his meal. The notion of owing loyalty to a family that barely allowed itself to be seen unsettled him, yet the weight of tradition—and his father's gaze—kept him silent.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows along the walls, as though the house itself were listening. At the Festmann table, between measured words and half-finished plates, it became clear that old alliances were not merely vows—they were inheritances imposed upon the next generation.
Dinner continued, but any hint of ease had dissolved, replaced by a quiet lesson in politics and heraldry. Günther Festmann, the patriarch, set his napkin carefully upon the table and regarded his grandchildren with a steady gaze. He knew that for the Festmanns, knowledge was not simply virtue—it was survival. In a world where oaths of vassalage carried tangible weight, ignorance meant disposability.
"We are not the only ones who have sworn loyalty to the Lhaerys," Günther began, his voice firm with calm authority. "There are other houses across the continent that Maeric Lhaerys has drawn into his orbit. Kurt, you should know this by now. Tell me—who are the Serabrakov?"
Kurt hesitated. It was only a second, but enough for Hanna and Greta to exchange a quick, almost conspiratorial glance. Before their brother could gather his thoughts, Hanna spoke, sitting straighter in her chair, her voice clear and confident.
"House Serabrakov is one of the oldest magical lineages in Russia, Grandfather. They emerged even before the Russian Ministry of Magic was fully established. They specialize in defensive magic, spiritual rituals, and protection against the Dark Arts. Silver is their symbolic and magical focus."
"And their crest?" Eckhart prompted, unable to hide his satisfaction.
Greta continued without missing a beat, as though the answer had long been memorized.
"The shield is broad and heavy, with a deep blue background, almost nocturnal. At its center stands a matte silver bear in a guarding stance, not attacking. Beneath one paw rests an oval mirror that reflects a different starry sky from the background. Above the bear, an inverted crescent moon symbolizes silent vigilance. The border is etched with Slavic runes that only appear under magical light."
Günther nodded slowly, pleased.
"Reserved. Honest. Poor diplomats," he added. "Feared by enemies. Respected by allies."
His gaze shifted back to Kurt.
"And the D'Aurelio of Italy? What can you tell me?"
Kurt opened his mouth, determined to answer, but Hanna was quicker.
"Brilliant alchemists and highly competent magical merchants," she said. "Politically sharp. Unsentimental. Always two steps ahead."
"Their crest," Greta added almost immediately, "has an obsidian-black background. At the center, an alchemical golden sun divided into concentric circles engraved with arcane formulas. At its core, a triangle containing an ever-watchful eye. Two golden flames rise from the base without touching the sun. Everything about it conveys absolute control."
Günther let out a brief sound of approval before continuing, a faintly provocative glint in his eyes.
"And the Isenford of Norway?"
"Specialists in runes and elemental magic," Greta answered at once. "Their shield is Nordic in shape, ice-white, with a translucent crystal wolf staring directly at the viewer. A frozen fissure runs through the shield, and above the wolf floats a single ancient rune whose meaning has been lost."
"Honorable, direct, and minimally involved in politics," Hanna added. "But merciless when betrayed."
The silence that followed was heavy. Eckhart rested his forearms on the table and looked at all three children, though his expectation was clearly directed at Kurt.
"Very well," he said. "Now answer this: what do all these houses—including ours—have in common in the eyes of the Lhaerys?"
Kurt looked away, jaw tight. The distant clatter of cutlery seemed louder than it should have been. The twins waited a few seconds, granting their brother one last silent opportunity. When it became clear he would not speak, Hanna drew a breath and answered, her voice low but firm.
"With the exception of the Serabrakov, who have always been isolated, all of them are families in ascent or ones that lacked sufficient prestige to advance socially. Including us, the Festmanns. The Lhaerys provided name, influence, and access. In return, we offer loyalty."
Greta nodded faintly. "They are the ceiling we lacked."
Eckhart closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, pride was evident as he looked at his daughters—and restrained disappointment as he regarded his eldest son.
"Exactly," he said. "Remember this. At Durmstrang, beyond it, in any hall across the continent. The magical world is changing. And we stand beside those who set its pace."
Before silence could settle completely, Kurt slowly placed his cutlery upon his plate. Something in his expression blended unease with a belated desire to prove himself.
"There are vassals older than us—and older than the Serabrakov, D'Aurelio, and Isenford," he said, his voice controlled yet firm enough to draw attention. "The Vharanor, for example. And the Qorynys."
The names echoed differently in the room. Günther raised an eyebrow, intrigued, while Eckhart turned his gaze upon his son with renewed appraisal.
Kurt chose to focus on the Vharanor, knowing little of the Qorynys beyond rumors of their unusual dealings with goblins.
"The Vharanor hold a special position," Kurt continued, now more confident. "They are long-standing vassals who adapted well. Lord Vharanor's eldest daughter, Rhaella, studies at Beauxbatons. They say she is gaining considerable influence among the French families."
Hanna and Greta exchanged a quick, attentive glance.
"The family's jewelry house," Kurt added, "is becoming a reference even beyond the continent. And Rhaella… well, they say she is extraordinarily charismatic. Popular. Some even claim her beauty is almost unnatural."
The remark lingered briefly in the air.
"Charisma is a form of power," Günther observed evenly. "And the Vharanor seem to wield it well."
Eckhart nodded slowly. "They are proof that the Lhaerys choose their vassals wisely. Different approaches. Same loyalty."
The brief moment eased the earlier tension, though it did not dispel it entirely.
Dinner continued in reflective silence, each member of the family absorbing, in their own way, the weight of words and choices bound to the Festmann name.
________________________________________
Elsewhere
While disciplined silence and calculated analysis shaped the Festmann dinner in Germany, the atmosphere on the other side of the continent could not have been more different.
In England, that same evening, the Prewetts were also dining.
The contrast between their table and the Festmanns' was immediate and striking.
The Prewett home, located on a quiet street outside London, was far from luxurious. No crests adorned the walls, no ceremonial hush governed the room. Instead, overlapping voices, spontaneous laughter, and the constant clatter of cutlery filled the space as someone invariably spoke too loudly.
They were a noisy family—and unapologetically affectionate.
Though they belonged to a secondary branch of the Prewett family, far removed from the wealth and prestige of the main line, there was a different kind of richness present. A genuine warmth, rare even among old pure-blood houses.
At the head of the table sat Arthur Prewett, a man of average height with broad shoulders and vivid red hair, already thinning at the crown. His face was dusted with freckles and marked by an easy smile that appeared even mid-complaint. He spoke with his hands, gesturing so animatedly he nearly tipped over his glass.
Beside him, Beatrice Prewett maintained what order she could amid the chaos. Her brown hair was pinned in a loose bun, a few strands escaping as she moved around the table serving more food. Her eyes were attentive and kind, the sort that noticed changes in mood before they were spoken.
Between them sat Margaret Prewett, leaning slightly forward, idly spinning her fork between her fingers. Uncharacteristically, she ate slowly, clearly distracted.
Arthur noticed first..
"You're far too quiet," he remarked, narrowing his eyes. "That's worrying."
Margaret looked up, startled at having been noticed.
"I'm not quiet," she replied. "I'm just… thinking."
Beatrice lifted an eyebrow.
"About what?"
Margaret hesitated, as though deciding whether the subject deserved sharing. Then she took a breath.
"Today, when we went to buy my Hogwarts uniforms… I met two new people."
Arthur leaned his elbows on the table.
"Future classmates?"
"Most likely," Margaret nodded. "They said they're starting Hogwarts this year as well."
She paused, choosing her words.
"Their surname is Lhaerys. Daemyr and Vaenyra."
Arthur frowned, trying to place the name.
"Doesn't sound British."
"Not at all," Margaret agreed. "They're… different."
Beatrice leaned forward, interested.
"Different how?"
"Their hair," Margaret replied immediately. "Silver. Not pale, not blond. Truly silver. And their eyes… violet."
Arthur let out a short laugh.
"That would explain why you're still thinking about them."
Margaret smiled but continued.
"Daemyr was very kind. Talked with us, joked. Said he just wanted to make friends at Hogwarts. He seemed… normal."
She paused unconsciously.
"But his sister… Vaenyra… she barely spoke. She watched everything. Not arrogant. Just… very aware."
Beatrice nodded slowly.
"Some people speak little because they learn early how to listen."
Arthur leaned back in his chair.
"And did you talk about Hogwarts?"
"Yes," Margaret said. "We ended up guessing which house they might be sorted into."
Arthur grinned.
"And?"
"I think Daemyr could be Gryffindor," she said. "He's confident, open. But Ravenclaw wouldn't surprise me either."
Beatrice looked at her daughter.
"And the sister?"
Margaret considered longer.
"Slytherin… or Ravenclaw," she answered at last. "She seems very self-aware. Always calculating, but with a trace of disdain."
The name surfaced again in Beatrice's mind, spoken almost unconsciously.
"Lhaerys…"
She frowned, searching her memory.
"I've heard that surname before."
Arthur turned to her at once.
"Where?"
"I can't say exactly," she replied. "But I remember they're a foreign magical family. European. Very private."
Margaret's eyes widened slightly.
"Are they pure-bloods?"
Beatrice shrugged.
"That's what people say. And they say the family is very old." She paused. "What's curious is that they've only been mentioned recently."
Arthur sighed.
"Old families tend to surface when it suits them."
Margaret tilted her head.
"They didn't seem fanatical," she said. "At least Daemyr didn't. He was polite to everyone."
Arthur chuckled softly.
"Blood status has never brought us anything but trouble."
"Nor does it define us," Beatrice added.
A brief silence followed, broken quickly as Arthur resumed eating.
"If they are fanatics," he said, "Hogwarts has a way of teaching humility."
Margaret smiled, energized.
"I think they'll attract attention. Everyone was staring today."
Beatrice watched her daughter knowingly.
"And you're curious."
"I am," Margaret admitted. "Very."
Arthur raised his glass.
"Then let's toast to new Hogwarts classmates."
They clinked their glasses, laughter returning as the usual noise reclaimed the table.
________________________________________
Two Weeks Later
August of 1892 crept forward slowly, heavy with heat and expectation. Two weeks had passed since the purchase of school supplies, and the Lhaerys residence seemed suspended in anticipation, as though everyone were waiting for something inevitable.
Daemyr entered his room with his body still warm. He had just returned from the far fields of the estate, where he had spent part of the afternoon with Sunfyre. The scent of wind, sun-heated stone, and something indefinable—almost metallic—still clung to his skin. He set his boots aside, opened the window, and let the evening air mix with that lingering trace of freedom.
There was something comforting about returning after being with him. A quiet balance. As though the world became more bearable.
Daemyr ran a hand through his hair and sat briefly on the edge of his bed, breathing deeply, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he said without hesitation.
The door opened to reveal Lyra. She studied her son for a moment before entering, as though she could sense, without words, where he had been. Her silver hair fell loose, and her light dress bore subtle signs of the day—simple and elegant at once.
"You were with him," she said, smiling faintly.
"I was," Daemyr replied. "Just for a while."
Lyra stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room was quiet, bathed in the fading light of dusk. Her gaze swept across the space, fully aware that it would soon stand empty for long months.
"It's strange to think that this routine will change," she said, sitting in the chair by the window. "You… Vaenyra… the house will feel different."
Daemyr leaned against the windowsill, looking out for a moment before answering.
"I'll miss it," he admitted. "All of it."
Lyra gestured for him to come closer. When he did, she gently cupped his face, as though still adjusting to how quickly he was growing.
"I know you're ready," she said, her tone both firm and tender. "But that doesn't make it easy for a mother."
A knot formed in Daemyr's chest. Without a word, he leaned forward and embraced her. Lyra returned the hug immediately, calm and steady, as if trying to memorize the moment. It was not a tight embrace, but one heavy with everything that needed no words.
"I am very proud of you," she whispered. "For who you are. Not for what others expect you to become."
When they pulled apart, silence lingered between them—comfortable and full. Lyra was the one to break it.
"I didn't come only to talk," she said, a restrained glimmer in her eyes.
Daemyr lifted his head, attentive.
"The wands," she continued. "Yours and Vaenyra's. They're ready."
The effect was immediate. Something deep within him stirred, a mixture of anticipation and recognition, as if an invisible piece were about to fall into place.
"Tomorrow," Lyra added as she rose to her feet, "Maeric will take you back to the workshop. This time, to collect them."
Daemyr nodded slowly, feeling the weight and significance of her words. It was not merely another step. It was the true beginning of something new in his life, something that started now but would last for years.
Lyra moved toward the door, then paused before leaving.
"Rest," she said, looking at him one last time. "You've had a long day."
When the door closed, Daemyr turned back to the window. The sky was darkening, painted in deep hues, and somewhere in the distance he could almost feel that familiar presence—patient, eternal.
Soon he closed his eyes, and in his dreams of dragons, he once again found himself facing his future—sweet, and yet bitter all the same.