The Great Hall gleamed with morning.
The enchanted ceiling was pale gold, scattered with lazy white clouds drifting across a sky so clear it almost looked painted. The smell of breakfast — syrup, toast, cinnamon — still lingered as students laughed over half-finished plates, the tension of the last few weeks finally dissolving into something bright and unburdened.
At the Ravenclaw table, Shya sat between Talora, Padma, Lisa, their heads bent together in animated chatter, the boys with Mandy, and Luna, across from them.
It was the first truly peaceful breakfast they'd had all year. Roman and Cassian had traded their usual stoic composure for quiet smiles. Cassian was actually laughing — a low, rare sound that turned a few heads — while Roman mock-scolded him for stealing a third croissant.
The enchanted ceiling above them was a soft watercolor of dawn clouds, and around the Great Hall, laughter rippled like music — groups of younger students darting between tables, some already racing toward the doors, robes billowing as they shouted plans for the first real day of freedom in months.
Upper years lounged against pillars, talking about summer trips and Hogsmeade sweets; a few daring couples disappeared through side corridors to steal a moment alone. The castle — their home — was breathing again.
Shya exhaled, shoulders easing for what felt like the first time in ages. "It's strange," she said, smiling faintly. "It's finally quiet, but not empty quiet."
"Peaceful quiet," Luna murmured dreamily, spooning jam onto toast. "Like the castle's humming to itself again."
Talora nodded. "Feels... lighter, doesn't it?"
"Maybe we should actually enjoy a morning for once," Lisa said, leaning on her elbow. "What do we even do when we're not solving ancient mysteries?"
"Sleep," Mandy said instantly, and everyone laughed.
Padma grinned. "Or we could go outside. I heard the greenhouses are open again."
Shya tapped her fork against her plate thoughtfully. "Let's do both — brunch, nap, sunshine. In that order."
The group laughed again, softer this time, their voices blending with the sound of footsteps and the chatter echoing through the hall — a symphony of ordinary life.
None of them noticed when the tall doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.
Conversation stilled. A hush swept over the tables as sunlight spilled into the room, catching the gold trim of the banners overhead. Professor McGonagall, standing near the dais, turned first — and then her expression softened.
In the doorway stood a tall man and woman, both impeccably dressed but visibly searching the hall with the unmistakable desperation of parents who had waited too long to see their child safe.
Shya blinked once, disbelieving.
Then her breath caught.
"...Mum? Dad?"
Hardev Singh Gill smiled — that same mischievous, lopsided smile she'd inherited — before crossing the floor in long, purposeful strides. Her mother Renu followed quickly after, elegant and composed but unable to hide the tears in her eyes.
Shya barely managed to stand before her father swept her up in a tight hug, the kind that squeezed every bit of breath from her lungs. For a moment, all the noise in the hall vanished — there was just the warmth of his coat, his aftershave, and the faint tremor in his voice.
"You're really all right," he murmured, his hand at the back of her head. "You're really all right."
Her mother reached them a heartbeat later, wrapping both of them in her arms. "You scared us," Renu said softly, her voice trembling despite her steady tone. "We saw the letter — and we thought—"
Shya shook her head quickly. "I'm fine, Mum. I promise. It's over."
Her mother pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "You stood your ground," she said, pride shimmering beneath the tears. "You fought back with your mind, not your fists. That's what we Gills do. Truth, courage, and never bowing to fear."
Hardev gave a breathless laugh, still holding onto her shoulder. "Not backing down from a challenge, hmm? You've done the family proud."
Shya smiled through a sudden lump in her throat. "You mean you're not mad I didn't tell you about the giant snake?"
That broke the tension. Hardev laughed — full and unrestrained, head tilted back — the sound so normal, so familiar, it made Shya's chest ache. "You helped beat a magical monster puth, I think I can forgive one secret."
Professor Flitwick approached then, bowing politely. "Mr. and Mrs. Gill! What an honour to have you here. Your daughter has been one of my finest — thoughtful, resourceful, and quite unflappable."
Renu smiled warmly. "She's always been that way. Even as a child, if something frightened her, she'd take it apart until it made sense."
Hardev winked at Flitwick. "Inherited from her old man."
Dumbledore stepped forward then, his presence serene. "Mr. and Mrs. Gill, welcome. You've raised a remarkable young witch — brave, but wise enough to know when to ask questions."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Hardev said, sincerity softening his usual playful tone. He glanced around the enchanted ceiling, the moving portraits, the flickering torches. "You've got quite the place here. Any chance of a tour?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I suspect your daughter would be far better suited to that task."
Shya grinned, glancing up at him. "Oh, I've got plenty to show you."
Renu chuckled. "Just don't go near any secret chambers."
The Great Hall still hummed with energy after the Gills' arrival — laughter, whispers, the faint shimmer of floating candles overhead.
Professor Flitwick was still chatting animatedly with Hardev and Renu near the Ravenclaw table when the great oak doors opened again.
This time, the light that spilled through was silver — soft, cool, like moonlight breaking through morning mist.
Ryan Stone Livanthos and Carrie-Anne Livanthos paused at the threshold. Their presence alone quieted the room; even the portraits seemed to lean closer.
Ryan, broad and composed in a slate-blue suit, looked like he'd stepped out of an international boardroom and into a dream he wasn't sure he understood. His eyes — sharp, assessing, always moving — softened only when they landed on his daughter.
Carrie-Anne, in sage silk that shimmered faintly under candlelight, carried herself with quiet grace — but her composure broke the instant she saw Talora.
"Talora!"
The sound cut through the noise like a bell.
Before anyone could blink, Talora was running — the heavy marble floor echoing her footsteps until she collided into her mother's arms.
Carrie-Anne held her like she might vanish again. "Oh, sweetheart — we saw the news, the reports — we thought—"
Her words dissolved into a tremulous laugh.
Ryan reached them, drawing both of them into his arms. For a moment, the hall fell away; there was only the sound of breathing, of a father's hand trembling against his daughter's back.
"You could've died," he murmured, voice breaking. "You nearly did."
Talora pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I didn't. I'm right here."
Carrie-Anne's fingers brushed her cheek, as though memorizing the feel of her. "You're not supposed to be saving the world yet, darling. You're twelve."
Ryan let out a small, shaky chuckle. "And already outdoing us both."
Talora smiled faintly. "It wasn't just me. Everyone helped."
Professor Flitwick stepped forward then, eyes bright beneath his spectacles. "Mr. and Mrs. Livanthos," he said warmly. "It's an honour. Your daughter has been one of my finest students — clever, compassionate, and as precise with her wand as any seventh-year."
Ryan shook his hand with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Professor. She talks about your classes constantly."
Carrie-Anne nodded through misty eyes. "She said you make magic sound like art."
Flitwick's smile turned fond. "Because, in the right hands, it is."
Professor Sprout joined them, voice gentle but steady. "You should be proud. Hogwarts is safer because of her work this year."
Ryan exhaled. "We already were. But it means more to hear it from you."
Carrie-Anne finally glanced around the hall — the floating candles, the shifting constellations in the enchanted ceiling, the whispering portraits that bowed their heads as they passed. "It's beautiful," she said quietly. "It feels alive."
Talora nodded. "It is. You just have to listen."
Carrie-Anne turned back to her, smiling softly. "You've grown so much."
Talora's voice trembled slightly. "It's been… a long year. But I'm still me."
Ryan cupped her shoulder, eyes shining. "You always will be, Tally."
Then, from the far side of the hall, a bright voice rang out:
"Livanthos! Finally!"
Hardev Gill's grin was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Thought you got lost in one of the staircases!"
Carrie-Anne laughed through her tears. "Oh, there they are," she murmured. "Of course they'd be here already."
By the time she said it, Shya was already halfway across the hall, her black uniform jacket fluttering as she ran.
"About time!" she called, grabbing Talora's hand the second she reached her. "You're making us look dramatic."
Talora rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling. "You love the drama."
"Only when I'm in control of it."
Their laughter broke the last of the tension in the hall — that rare, pure sound of normalcy after months of fear.
The two families met near the Ravenclaw table, as if pulled together by gravity.
Renu and Carrie-Anne hugged first — the familiar, relieved embrace of women who had weathered PTA meetings, family trips, and years of late-night phone calls about their daughters' latest schemes.
"Carrie, I swear you look the same as you did in Singapore," Renu said, smiling.
"And you," Carrie shot back warmly, "still refuse to age. What's your secret?"
"Good lighting," Renu said, deadpan.
Hardev laughed. "And denial. Don't forget that part."
Ryan grinned, shaking his head. "Still causing chaos together, I see."
"Always," Renu said proudly.
Shya and Talora exchanged matching smirks — the exact same ones they'd had since they were five, when they'd first met at summer camp and spent an entire day arguing over who got the last paintbrush before deciding to share it.
Ryan looked at the two girls — standing there in their custom Ravenclaw uniforms, shoulders brushing, eyes gleaming with mischief and maturity both — and felt something in him finally unclench. "You two really haven't changed."
"Not enough to worry you," Talora said, grinning.
Hardev laughed. "Famous last words."
For a while, it was all warmth and laughter. The parents fell easily into old rhythms — Renu and Carrie-Anne talking with Professor Sprout about magical plants, Ryan and Hardev in a lively debate with Flitwick about magical theory versus engineering precision.
Even the portraits nearby seemed to lean in, smiling faintly at the sound of joy restored to the hall.
At last, Carrie-Anne turned to her daughter. "Show us around, sweetheart. Before your father tries to reverse-engineer the ceiling."
Ryan, inspecting the floating candles, didn't deny it. "They're not actually burning. That's extraordinary. I could make a fortune figuring this out."
"Dad," Talora groaned affectionately, tugging his sleeve. "Come on. Before you start trying to patent it."
Hardev laughed. "Now that I'd invest in."
As the laughter rippled again, Renu leaned toward Carrie-Anne. "They'll be fine," she said softly, watching the girls disappear through the doors. "They always are."
Carrie-Anne nodded. "I know. But I don't think I'll stop holding my breath for a while."
"None of us will," Renu murmured. "But that's motherhood — half pride, half terror."
The two mothers shared a knowing look — one born from love, worry, and shared miracles.
And somewhere above them, the enchanted ceiling brightened, as though the castle itself approved.
The castle had never felt so open.
The enchanted corridors shimmered faintly in the sunlight streaming through the tall stained-glass windows. Suits of armor stood at attention again — some even humming tunelessly to themselves — while the portraits gossiped happily from their frames.
Everywhere they passed, laughter echoed: students exploring the castle freely for the first time in months, voices full of the bright ease of survival.
Shya walked between her parents through it all, feeling lighter with each step.
Her father was in his element — eyes wide, smile tugging at his mouth as he pointed out every moving staircase, every shifting portrait, every glowing candelabra.
"This place," Hardev said with an incredulous laugh, "defies all logic. I love it."
Renu arched an elegant brow. "You loved when our espresso machine overflowed because you tried to fix it with pliers."
"That's because I succeeded," he said proudly. "And I didn't flood the kitchen—"
"You flooded the pantry."
Shya laughed, the sound bright and effortless. "You two haven't changed."
Renu glanced at her daughter, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Neither have you, apparently. Your father's curiosity and my stubbornness. No wonder your professors can't keep up."
Shya smiled. "Wait until you see the Astronomy Tower."
"Ah," Hardev said, rubbing his hands together. "Now that's what I was waiting for."
They climbed the spiraling stairs, their footsteps echoing softly against the ancient stone. As they reached the top, the door opened onto a wide circular terrace of white marble, framed by slender arches that looked out over the endless sweep of green hills and the silver mirror of the lake below.
The air was crisp, the wind carrying the scent of summer grass and the faint hum of distant wards.
Rows of telescopes stood like silent sentinels, their brass fittings gleaming under the sun.
Renu drew in a sharp breath. "It's beautiful."
"It's home," Shya said softly. "At night, it's even better."
Her father circled one of the telescopes, bending slightly to peer through the viewfinder. "So these are the magical ones, hmm? What's the difference?"
Shya grinned. "For starters — they see farther. Much farther. Try this one."
He leaned down again, peering into the lens — and froze.
"What on earth—"
"Or off it," Shya said proudly. "You're seeing Jupiter. But not just the planet — the storm. The big red one. You can see the lightning inside it."
Hardev blinked, pulling back. His grin was boyish now. "That's… that's incredible. Better than any observatory lens I've used."
Renu moved closer, curious. "May I?"
Shya adjusted the focus and guided her mother's hands to the polished brass. "Go ahead. Hold it steady."
Renu bent forward, eyes widening. "You can see the colors," she whispered. "I can see them moving."
Shya smiled — a quiet, proud, almost private smile. "Magic doesn't replace science," she said softly. "It just… lets you see a little further."
Hardev looked at his daughter — the wind tugging at her hair, her eyes bright with light from another world — and for the first time that day, he was silent. Truly silent.
Renu watched him, then smiled knowingly. "She's you when you get an idea," she said gently.
Hardev chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe. But she's braver. I would've needed a user manual before touching that telescope."
Shya laughed, leaning against the marble railing. "I'm just curious. You said curiosity keeps the world spinning."
Her father joined her at the railing, his expression softening. "It does. But you're doing more than that, princess. You're making sure it keeps spinning right."
For a heartbeat, the three of them stood together in silence — the kind that needed no words. The breeze caught the edge of Shya's robes, the sunlight catching the faint gleam of her earrings — pink diamond studs and a glimmering chain of white gold.
Renu brushed a strand of hair from her daughter's face. "You've grown so much, Shya. But don't lose this — this joy. This wonder."
Shya nodded. "I won't. I promise."
The last traces of starlight still shimmered faintly across the enchanted ceiling of the Astronomy Tower, a cascade of violet fading into morning gold.
Hardev Gill stood at the railing, peering through one of the great telescopes, whistling low under his breath.
"This thing could see the rings of Saturn like it's next door," he said in pure awe. "Muggle scopes don't come close. You're telling me this is student-grade equipment?"
Shya grinned. "More or less. The lenses are self-correcting, and the enchantments adjust for atmospheric distortion."
Then, with a small, teasing lift of her eyebrow: "Want me to show you something cooler?"
Her father turned, eyes bright. "Cooler than a self-correcting telescope? I'd like to see you try."
Renu chuckled softly, crossing her arms. "Oh, she will. You know she's been waiting for you to ask."
Shya's grin sharpened. "Come on then. Let's head down to the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall said I could use it today."
The Classroom of Precision
The room was empty and gleaming when they entered, sunlight filtering through diamond-paned windows and glinting off rows of brass instruments.
Shya moved like she belonged there — her wand already in hand, her steps light but focused.
Hardev and Renu stood near the doorway, watching as she cleared a small section of the front desk.
"This was our big end-of-year project," Shya began, tone shifting automatically into that crisp confidence of someone explaining something she loved.
"Living-to-inanimate transfiguration — the restoration phase. You're not just changing the object's form, but undoing a transformation while keeping the original structure intact. It's the hardest type — too much force, and you destroy the core. Too little, and it stays halfway."
Her father tilted his head, smiling. "So… you're unbreaking magic."
Shya beamed. "Exactly."
Renu arched an eyebrow. "And you've mastered this?"
Her daughter only grinned, stepping forward. "Watch."
From a covered cage on the table, she released a small golden beetle that crawled forward, its wings catching the light.
She pointed her wand delicately — no theatrics, no wasted motion. Her voice was calm, commanding.
"Reverto in statu pristino."
A pulse of blue-white light shimmered around the beetle — and then, with a sound like a sigh, it folded in on itself, reshaping into a perfect brass button engraved with tiny runic lines.
The air held still.
Renu leaned forward, stunned. "It's… beautiful."
Hardev let out a low whistle. "You transformed life into matter without destroying the core energy field. That's — that's not just science, that's art."
Shya smiled — small, proud, trying to hide the way her hands trembled faintly from the focus it took. "Now comes the reversal."
She lifted her wand again, gentler this time.
"Reanima."
The button trembled, shimmered — and the beetle burst back into being, wings unfolding as if waking from a dream. It scurried across the table, unharmed.
Renu's hand flew to her mouth. "Shya…"
Her daughter laughed quietly. "Don't worry, it's fine. I practiced a hundred times before showing you."
Hardev shook his head slowly, still staring at the beetle. "I still can't wrap my head around that."
"Magic and physics are cousins," Shya said simply. "They just grew up speaking different languages."
Her father's laughter filled the room — warm, awed. "You're incredible, you know that?"
Renu stepped closer, resting her hand on Shya's shoulder. "She's a Gill," she said softly. "We don't just meet expectations. We rewrite them."
Shya flushed — not embarrassed, but glowing. "Guess I got that from both of you."
Hardev slipped an arm around his wife, smiling at his daughter with that rare softness reserved only for her. "You didn't just learn magic, puth" he said quietly. "You understood it. And that's far rarer than any spell."
For a long moment, they simply stood there — the three of them in that sunlit classroom, the air faintly humming with the residue of Shya's spell.
It wasn't about the transformation anymore — it was about what it meant. Precision. Power. Heart.
And when they finally left, the beetle watched them go from the table, wings flickering like gold dust — a small, shining witness to a family's pride.
The sunlight outside was bright and clean when the Livanthos family stepped into Greenhouse Three.
The air shimmered with humidity and the perfume of strange, living things — vines that pulsed faintly with light, flowers that exhaled gold dust, leaves that turned to follow movement like curious eyes.
Ryan paused just inside the door, adjusting his tie. "Well," he said dryly, "this makes our garden back home look rather boring."
Carrie-Anne gave a soft laugh, her hand brushing over a vine that coiled gently toward her. "I can't believe you work in this every day."
Talora smiled, brushing her fingertips along the plant's edge. "Not every day — just Herbology twice a week. Potions more often. But the Greenhouses are my favorite place to think."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "You think here? I'd be too busy dodging the plants that try to eat me."
"Oh, that's just Greenhouse Five," Talora said, grinning. "This one's safe. Mostly."
Her mother let out a faint laugh, shaking her head. "Mostly?"
"Depending on the mood of the Devil's Snare," Talora said matter-of-factly. "But I've learned to calm it."
Carrie-Anne blinked. "You what?"
Instead of answering, Talora knelt beside a large tangle of shadowy vines nestled under a canopy of glowing blossoms. The plant stirred, its tendrils twitching as though sensing her.
"See?" she murmured. "It reacts to fear or force. But it listens to rhythm."
She began humming — low and slow, almost a lullaby.
The vines shivered, then stilled, their movements relaxing until they lay flat again, curling inward like a cat returning to rest.
Carrie-Anne covered her mouth, eyes wide.
Ryan stared. "You just… sang a carnivorous plant to sleep."
Talora looked up at him, smiling softly. "Music helps magic. I learned that this year."
"You didn't learn that," Carrie-Anne said, voice thick with pride. "You discovered it."
Talora shrugged lightly. "Maybe both."
They lingered in the shimmering light of the greenhouse for a few moments longer, the air full of green scent and quiet awe, before Talora led them toward the Potions dungeon — where light dimmed to cool stone and the hum of magic thickened.
The familiar tang of iron and herbs hung in the air as she opened the door. Glass vials lined the walls, glowing faintly with iridescent liquid; cauldrons simmered over gentle blue flames.
Professor Snape's classroom had never looked so peaceful.
Ryan hesitated at the threshold. "I feel like walking in here might break something."
"It's fine," Talora said, with the confidence of someone who belonged. She crossed to the center workstation, tying her hair back and pulling on a pair of dragonhide gloves. "This was our final brewing exercise. I wanted to show you my version."
Carrie-Anne smiled faintly. "Of course you did."
"The goal," Talora said as she lit a small flame beneath a silver cauldron, "was to create a Restoration Draught. It restores magical equilibrium after exposure to cursed energy — kind of like detoxifying the aura."
Her parents exchanged a glance — half proud, half lost.
She smirked. "Think of it as a magical immune booster. Just… harder."
She moved with fluid precision — sprinkling powdered asphodel, stirring counterclockwise three times, then tracing a rune of balance over the rim with her wand. Each motion was careful but natural, every flick of her wrist graceful, like she was painting instead of mixing volatile substances.
The surface of the potion shimmered — at first dull blue, then brightened slowly to a vivid, pearlescent green.
When it stilled, the reflection showed all three of their faces — clear and whole.
Carrie-Anne stepped forward, wonder softening her features. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "It's alive."
Talora smiled. "That's the point. Potions aren't just chemistry — they're relationships. The ingredients don't obey you. You persuade them."
Ryan gave a small, stunned laugh. "And here I thought I was good at negotiations."
She glanced up at him, eyes gleaming. "Guess I inherited that part."
Her father chuckled, emotion catching in his throat. "You inherited all the best parts, Tally."
Carrie-Anne placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder — steady, proud. "You've always been like this," she said softly. "You don't conquer the world around you. You understand it."
Talora exhaled, her voice a whisper. "That's what magic feels like to me."
They stood together in the soft light — a quiet triangle of warmth amid shelves of glass and silver, the air thick with herbs, heat, and something wordless but sacred: pride.
And as they left the dungeons for the sunlit path that led toward the Quidditch pitch, where laughter and voices drifted faintly from the distance, Talora reached back to switch off the flame.
The potion glowed for a heartbeat longer, then settled — balanced, luminous, whole.
Just like her.
The path to the Quidditch Pitch shimmered in late spring sunlight, grass bending under the faint hum of warding runes.
"Are you certain they're here?" Andromeda asked, her tone indulgent.
"Positive," Cassian replied, adjusting his sleeves with the confidence of someone who'd done this a hundred times. "If I were them, I'd be showing off."
Roman smirked. "And if I know Shya, she's already making her dad try to fly."
Ted Tonks chuckled. "I like her already."
They rounded the final turn — and sure enough, the pitch opened before them like a sunlit amphitheater, golden hoops towering in the distance.
And there they were: Shya and Talora, each astride a school broom, gliding in slow, graceful loops over the center of the Quidditch Pitch. Sunlight caught in their hair as they hovered, laughing, the sound carrying easily across the open air.
On the ground, Hardev Gill shaded his eyes, watching with unabashed awe.
"She's flying!" he shouted, grinning wide. "My daughter's flying!"
Beside him, Ryan Livanthos gave a low whistle. "And looking far too comfortable doing it. This is definitely more fun than Arya and Tristan's toy brooms."
Hardev barked a laugh. "Those barely got off the floor! What's that — a one-meter limit?"
Renu shot him a look, half horrified, half exasperated. "One meter is plenty, thank you. Those toy brooms didn't risk my heart rate."
Carrie-Anne nodded fervently, clasping her hands tighter. "Yes, these—these are not toys! They're actual flying sticks!"
Ryan chuckled. "That's what makes them better."
"Or worse," Carrie-Anne muttered.
Up above, the girls were clearly enjoying themselves far too much. They leaned into a synchronized dip, sweeping low over the grass before pulling up again in perfect unison — laughter spilling behind them like music.
"Show-offs," Renu murmured, but her smile betrayed her pride.
Moments later, both girls arced down together, touching down with a smooth, practiced landing that sent up a small puff of dust.
"See?" Shya said, her hair tousled by the wind, cheeks flushed and glowing. "Totally safe."
Her father gaped. "Safe? You were twenty feet in the air!"
"Twenty-five," Talora corrected cheerfully, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Carrie-Anne let out a strangled noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Do not say things like that when your mother is watching."
Renu pressed a hand to her heart. "good God, I am never getting used to this."
The girls only grinned wider — the sparkle in their eyes matching the sunlight above.
The laughter still echoed when more voices carried across the field.
"Don't start without us!" Mandy yelled, sprinting down the slope with a broom in one hand and a grin so wide it could have outshone the sun. Lisa and Padma followed close behind, skirts fluttering, the three of them a blur of blue and silver.
Shya turned, hands on her hips. "You lot took your time!"
"Had to convince Flitwick we weren't about to crash into a tower again," Padma said primly, though her smile gave her away.
Lisa grinned. "We're here now. Time to show the parents how it's done."
Carrie-Anne blinked — and then recognition lit her face. "Oh! You three! From Talora's birthday! You stayed up all night making friendship bracelets and raiding the pantry for sweets."
Mandy laughed, half-embarrassed. "Guilty, ma'am."
Lisa raised a hand. "That was me. Totally worth it."
Renu smiled warmly. "So you're the infamous trio I've heard about. You look much better rested this time."
Padma smirked. "We've matured."
"Barely," Shya teased, dodging as Lisa lightly swung her broom at her leg.
The Quidditch pitch gleamed under the late-morning sun, the air alive with the sound of laughter and wind. Six brooms darted through the sky — Shya, Talora, Lisa, Mandy, Padma, and Luna, their laughter echoing between the stands.
On the ground, the Gills and Livanthoses watched with proud smiles. The sound of approaching footsteps made them turn. A new group was walking onto the pitch: Cassian Black and Roman Nott, followed by their families.
A brief, quiet moment of assessment passed between the adults. Hardev Gill's expression was politely neutral, while Ryan Livanthos offered a cautious, friendly smile.
It was Talora who broke the stillness, guiding her broom down to land smoothly. "They're here!" she said, her voice bright with anticipation. She moved quickly to her parents' side.
Seeing his cue, Cassian stepped forward with natural poise. "Mr. and Mrs. Livanthos, Mr. and Mrs. Gill," he began, his tone respectful. "May I introduce my aunt and uncle, Andromeda and Ted Tonks, and my cousin, Tonks."
"And these are my parents, Adrian and Eugenia Nott," Roman added, his own demeanor more relaxed but no less polite.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you all," Ted Tonks said, his voice warm and genuine, easily filling the space. "We've heard a lot about your daughters."
"And we've heard much about your son," Carrie-Anne Livanthos replied, her smile warming as she looked at Roman. "It's lovely to put faces to the names."
"The feeling is mutual," Andromeda Tonks said, her tone cooler but not unfriendly. Her gaze was observant, taking in the scene.
Shya had landed beside her father. "Dad, this is Cassian and Roman," she said, her voice quieter than Talora's, a simple statement of fact.
"A pleasure," Hardev said, his voice quiet and measured. He offered a firm, brief handshake to Ted and a respectful nod to the others. He was a man who spoke little with strangers, but his eyes were kind.
"The castle give you any trouble on the way down?" Ryan Livanthos asked, finding a safe, common topic.
Ted laughed. "One of the staircases had some strong opinions on the most scenic route."
"That's the castle for you," Shya said, a faint smile touching her lips as she stood beside her quietly observant father.