The storm had not stopped for three days.
Snow hammered the castle in sheets—white, violent, relentless—but the sun still hung above Hogwarts like it refused to look away. It cast thin gold through the hospital wing's enchanted windows, while the wind shrieked against the glass hard enough to make the metal groan.
Cassian didn't notice the storm anymore.
He barely noticed anything beyond the closed door of the private room at the far end of the ward.
Dumbledore had cleared the wing in the first hour, sealing off the room with wards so old they hummed in the bones. Students had whispered, tried to peek, been gently redirected by Professor McGonagall. Even Madam Pomfrey had stopped asking for updates.
Inside the private room, the world had narrowed to four beds:
Two occupied by unconscious girls.
Two occupied by their collapsed familiars.
And between them—
Cassian Black, who had not gone more than three steps from Shya's bedside since the night they were found.
He sat now with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The room's warmth didn't reach him. It never seemed to anymore—not when Shya lay still as stone beneath a blanket, hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.
Her breathing was slow. Too slow.
Not shallow—just… deep. Too deep. Like she was inhaling something far bigger than oxygen.
Cassian swallowed, staring at her chest rise and fall.
"C'mon," he whispered under his breath, leaning closer. "You're annoying. You always wake up early. Don't start slacking now."
Silence.
Except—
The faintest crackle of frost forming along the metal hinge of the bedside cabinet. It spread slowly, delicately, as if tracing veins.
Cassian stiffened.
He lifted a hand, waved it slowly through the air above the frost.
Cold.
Not natural cold.
Not winter cold.
Something deeper.
Quieter.
Older.
He should have stepped back.
He didn't.
Instead, he reached through the cold and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her skin wasn't icy. But it wasn't warm either. It felt like marble warmed by moonlight—soft, but impossibly still.
"Shy…" he murmured, voice cracking.
He didn't say the rest.
He didn't say please.
Cassian was so fixed on her that he didn't notice the other side of the room shifting until Roman spoke.
"She's warmer again."
Cassian jerked his head around.
Talora lay across the room beneath the window—the only bed granted sunlight whenever the storms parted. She glowed faintly in the patch of light. Nothing dramatic, just… softened. As if the sun pooled more willingly against her skin than the blankets.
Roman stood over her, palm hovering just above her forearm, brow furrowed sharply.
"It's subtle," Roman said. "But real. The blankets around her—feel this."
Cassian didn't move.
Roman's jaw tightened. He grabbed Cassian's wrist and hauled him upright with a strength he normally hid.
"Touch it."
Cassian reluctantly placed his hand on the blanket beside Talora's arm.
He almost pulled back.
It was warm.
Not fever-warm.
Not spell-warm.
Life-warm.
Like the warmth of holding a hand. Like sunlight caught in fabric.
He swallowed hard.
"That's not… normal," he said.
"No," Roman replied simply. "Neither is that."
He nodded toward Shya's bed.
Cassian turned.
The frost on the hinge had spread another inch.
He stared at it.
Then he stared at her.
His heart knotted itself in his chest.
"They're changing," Roman said quietly. Not fearful, not resigned—just recognizing truth.
Cassian rubbed his face with both hands, then shook his head, voice raw.
"I don't care what's happening to them. I just want them to wake up."
Roman exhaled—for patience, or grief, or both.
"We'll be here when they do," he said. "That's all we can do."
Cassian sank back into his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped again.
He didn't argue.
But he also didn't look away from her.
Snow hammered the castle in white fury, rattling the wards, coating every tower and parapet in ice. The storm outside was a snarl of wind and winter—but here in the private hospital room, sunlight still poured through the window in a steady, impossibly gentle beam.
Roman hadn't slept.
He told Cassian he did.
Told Madam Pomfrey he did.
Told himself he did.
But the truth was simple:
He couldn't.
He sat between the two beds, a book open but unread across his lap, listening to the slow, even breathing of the girls as snowflakes drifted sideways outside the glass.
Talora.
Shya.
Still asleep.
Still glowing faintly—one warm, one cold.
It terrified him.
It humbled him.
It made him protective in a way he'd never fully understood until now.
A thin sheen of gold dust coated the blankets, visible only when the sun angled just right. When Roman brushed a finger across it, it tingled—alive, like the hum of wards or the breath of fire.
Pandora slept curled at Talora's feet, fur glowing in soft waves. The little familiar no longer had that gentle garden-warmth she'd always carried; she now radiated something brighter, something that made the air smell faintly like summer grass even in midwinter.
Roman brushed Talora's hair away from her face.
"You look like you're about to wake up and scold me for staring," he murmured, voice low.
But she didn't wake.
Her fingers didn't so much as twitch.
A knot tightened in his chest.
He didn't let it show.
On the opposite side of the room, the light dimmed.
Shya lay half-submerged in shadow, though the room was well-lit. The darkness didn't seem cast by anything; it just gathered where she was, pooling around her like ink.
Haneera slept at her bedside, the giant pup's coat pitch-black and faintly smoking at the edges, as though shadows breathed against her fur.
Roman glanced over, watching Cassian sitting stiff and motionless beside her.
The frost that had formed on her bedpost yesterday morning had grown again overnight—thin spiderweb patterns stretching along the metal frame like white veins.
Cassian didn't look away from her for a second.
Roman didn't interrupt.
A soft chime sounded through the infirmary.
Christmas morning.
Typically the castle would be loud by now—students dragging stockings through the corridors, the Great Hall bursting with music, owls swooping down with presents.
But Hogwarts was nearly empty.
Just a handful of students.
A handful of professors.
A world locked behind snow.
The silence was deeper than ever.
The quiet knock was almost unnecessary—Roman sensed the Headmaster before he even opened the door. Light followed him like a companion, bending slightly toward Talora.
Behind Dumbledore, Severus Snape stepped into the room as well—stiff, pale, jaw set. His eyes went immediately to Shya, then to the frost, then to the darkened air around her.
Snape inhaled sharply.
But said nothing.
Dumbledore looked at the boys, tired but gentle.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
Roman nodded. Cassian didn't respond.
Dumbledore's gaze softened.
"I've called Sirius," he said quietly. "He deserves to know his son is here."
Cassian's shoulders tensed.
"Just him?" Cassian asked.
Dumbledore hesitated.
"Harry insisted on coming with him… but I did not allow him inside this room."
Cassian's jaw clenched so hard Roman could hear the grind.
Snape coughed softly, expression unreadable. "Your godbrother does show consistency. Irritating consistency."
Cassian shot him a glare.
Snape raised an eyebrow.
Dumbledore pretended not to notice the tension.
Dumbledore stepped aside, giving the boys a moment.
Roman rose first.
He walked to a small table where Madam Pomfrey had set down parcels left by owls. Most were from the Ravenclaw girls—Lisa, Mandy, Padma—asking for updates, demanding secrets, begging for reassurance.
Roman kept all of them unopened.
Instead, he reached for the box he'd hidden in his trunk since the day before break.
He unwrapped it quietly:
A green cloak—deep emerald, soft as breath—lined with snowbeast fur. Luxurious. Warm. Fit for a queen.
Or for Talora.
He draped it gently across her chest, smoothing the fabric with slow, steady movements.
"You'll like this," he murmured. "It's your color."
He didn't look at Cassian, but he could sense the boy watching him.
His hand hesitated only once—grazing her cheek before he pulled away.
Cassian finally moved.
He dug into his own pocket, pulling out a small velvet pouch.
Inside was the trinket he'd bought weeks ago:
A tiny carved skull of polished obsidian, delicate but fierce, glinting with silver in the cracks.
He'd meant to give it to Shya on the train back for break.
Now—
He swallowed, hands trembling as he fastened it onto a thin chain he'd charmed to never break.
He leaned over her, slipping the necklace around her throat.
It fell perfectly against her collarbone.
"Happy Christmas," he whispered.
His voice cracked on the last syllable.
Roman pretended not to hear.
The sunlight brightened on Talora's skin, tracing her cheekbones.
The frost thickened on Shya's bedframe, cracking faintly.
Both girls' hands pulsed once—
Shya's in moon-silver,
Talora's in soft gold.
Roman inhaled sharply.
Cassian pressed a fist against his mouth.
Snape stepped instinctively closer to the darkness.
Dumbledore stepped instinctively closer to the light.
Neither spoke.
Because the truth was too ancient for words.
And far too big for Christmas morning.
A voice echoed from down the hall—
"Cassian?"
Cassian flinched so violently his chair scraped loud against the floor.
Roman closed his eyes briefly.
Dumbledore sighed and stepped to the doorway.
Outside the private room, Sirius's voice was soft but urgent.
And Harry's was confused:
"What do you mean I can't see him? What happened? Why are you here? Why—why won't you tell me anything?"
"Harry," Sirius said, strained, "not now."
Roman and Cassian exchanged a look.
Cassian's eyes glimmered—anger, guilt, fear, longing.
Harry Potter—
the godbrother he never asked for, never wanted, never fully accepted—
was outside the door.
And Cassian did not move to open it.
The voice outside the ward door echoed again — rougher this time, frayed with worry:
"Cassian?"
Cassian froze.
His breath caught in his throat, held, trapped, like a fist closing around the center of his chest. Roman looked toward him immediately, sharp and steady, but Cassian didn't move.
He couldn't.
Sirius's boots hit the stone floor in hurried steps.
Harry whispered urgently at his side:
"Is he hurt? What's going on? Sirius—what's wrong?"
Dumbledore stepped out before Cassian could brace himself.
Roman murmured, low: "You don't have to talk to him if you're not ready."
Cassian swallowed hard.
"No," he whispered. "I… I want to."
Dumbledore cracked the door open.
Sirius slipped inside, breath visible in the cold air around Shya's bed. He shut the door quietly behind him. His eyes swept the room once — taking in the sealed windows, the runic wards, the trembling familiars — before locking onto his son.
And in that moment, Sirius's bravado cracked.
He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled Cassian into a tight, fierce hug — the kind that didn't ask permission.
Cassian stiffened—
then folded.
Shoulders sagging. Fingers gripping the fabric of Sirius's coat. Jaw clenching to keep something — some sound — from escaping.
Sirius held him harder.
"Merlin, Cassian," he whispered. "Why didn't you send for me sooner?"
Cassian didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Sirius eased back just enough to frame Cassian's face in his hands — thumb brushing his cheekbone the same way Shya did for him when he broke his nose in second year.
"Are you hurt?" Sirius asked softly.
Cassian shook his head.
"How long have you been sitting here?"
Cassian's throat bobbed.
"…Since it happened."
Sirius's expression twisted — pain first, then pride.
"You stayed," he murmured. "Of course you stayed."
Cassian's jaw clenched. "I wasn't leaving her."
Sirius's gaze flicked to Shya's bed — to the frost creeping along the metal frame.
His chest rose sharply.
He placed a hand on Cassian's shoulder.
"You did good," he said. "You did everything right."
Cassian closed his eyes.
Sirius's voice softened even further. "…And I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."
The door cracked open again — Harry's face briefly appearing before Dumbledore gently blocked him with an arm.
"Sirius?" Harry whispered. "Is Cassian hurt? Is something wrong with—"
Sirius didn't turn.
But his voice was steady when he answered:
"Harry. I'm here with my son."
Harry flinched at the emphasis.
Cassian did not turn around.
The door shut.
Sirius guided Cassian to sit on the edge of Shya's bed.
Cassian's hands shook once, barely visible. Sirius noticed anyway.
"You love her," Sirius said, not as an accusation, not as amusement, but as something gentle and certain.
Cassian's breath hitched.
He didn't deny it.
"Is she going to die?" he whispered.
Sirius inhaled sharply — a crack in his façade — and then placed a steady hand against the back of Cassian's neck.
"No," Sirius said firmly. "She is not going to die."
"How do you know?"
"Because I remember this room. And I remember how it feels when magic goes wrong." Sirius swallowed hard. "This isn't that. This feels… older. Bigger. And the Headmaster called me — which he only does when things matter."
Cassian's eyes burned.
Sirius squeezed his shoulder.
"You are not alone in this," he said. "You're my son. You don't get to face this alone."
Cassian finally broke.
He didn't sob. He didn't fall apart.
He just leaned forward and put his forehead against Sirius's shoulder, breath shaking hard enough that Sirius wrapped both arms around him and held tight.
Roman looked away politely — but not far.
After a long moment, Sirius looked toward Talora's bed.
"…Talora's warmer," he murmured.
Sirius stepped toward her bed. Frost crackled under his palm when he brushed the footboard.
He hissed softly. "This isn't natural."
Roman's voice was a quiet correction.
"…It's not unnatural either."
Sirius studied the frost, then the warmth in Talora's blankets, then the sigils glowing faintly on their palms.
Something old stirred in his memory.
He didn't voice it.
He just turned back to Cassian and cupped the back of his son's head.
"We will figure this out," Sirius said. "Together."
Cassian nodded, shoulders rigid.
"Don't tell Harry."
Sirius's face softened — a promise and an apology in one.
"I won't," he said. "Not until you're ready."
Cassian exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the blanket beside Shya's still hand.
Sirius rested a hand on his back.
And for the first time in days, Cassian breathed without shaking.