Chapter Text
The weeks that followed the First Task settled into something that almost resembled a rhythm, though Estelle suspected the castle had only tricked itself into feeling calm. Hogwarts was too alive, too ancient, too steeped in history to let true stillness linger for long. But classes carried on, students shuffled from lesson to lesson, and the grounds began shrugging into October with a crispness that made the air sharper in the lungs.
Estelle found herself slipping—if not gracefully, then steadily—into the rhythm of teaching again. Her schedule was full enough to keep her from brooding too long, and the familiar sting of dirt under her nails did more to anchor her than any calming draught could.
In the early mornings, frost coated the greenhouse glass in delicate webs, cold enough that she could see her breath when she stepped inside. The students trickled in, shrugging off scarves and gloves, cheeks pink from the walk across the lawn. The younger years struggled with potbound puffapples and timid shrivelfigs, while her upper-level students worked in pairs, pruning venomous tentacula that had begun their seasonal growth spurt.
Her days smelled of damp earth and mulched leaves. Her nights smelled of ink and parchment and the faint lavender soap she used on her hands to scrub out stubborn stains. Lessons were planned, graded, amended, and replanned. Students complained about the cold. Neville Longbottom sent her an owl asking for advice about frostbite on mimbulus mimbletonias. Ravenclaws argued over spell technique. Gryffindors flirted loudly. Slytherins pretended not to listen and then did exactly as she asked. It was all normal. Too normal, perhaps.
Still, she breathed easier with each week.
The embarrassment of Rita Skeeter’s article had dulled into something she could tolerate without wanting to hex every whisperer in the halls. The students, mercifully, lost interest by the end of the week, when a rumor started that Viktor Krum had been spotted walking his “training shark” in the lake. Harry had stopped blushing whenever she entered a room. Even Severus had returned to wearing his usual expression of long-suffering disdain instead of the brittle, wounded silence that had followed the Prophet’s publication.
Not that they had spoken much.
They passed one another in the corridors with nods, curt and strained, but Estelle forced herself to meet his gaze instead of skittering away like a startled kneazle. Progress. She wasn’t sure if Severus noticed or if he had simply resigned himself to the unavoidable fact that they lived on the same floor and taught in the same castle and would likely collide every third day whether they meant to or not.
In truth, she thought about him more than she liked. Harry’s quiet lecture on forgiveness had rooted itself deep in her mind, sprouting unwanted shoots of self-reflection. She wondered whether she could forgive Severus. Whether she already had. Whether forgiveness was a single decision or a thousand small ones. Whether she was capable of being the bigger person.
Whether she wanted to be.
Some nights she told herself yes. Others, she curled under her blankets, staring at the ceiling until her eyes burned, and the answer felt like a distant star.
Approaching mid-October, the air shifted. Students began whispering about holiday travel plans—who would go home, who would stay, who would visit family abroad, who dreaded the long weeks in houses that felt like prisons. Estelle found herself lingering over the same question, though she pretended it didn’t matter.
Would she return to Grimmauld Place? The thought made her stomach twist. Yet staying at Hogwarts came with its own complicated tangle of ghosts. She wasn’t ready to decide. Not yet.
When the owl post arrived one morning carrying a letter from Remus, she felt the familiar pull behind her ribs. His handwriting was neat and slanted, the ink slightly smudged, as though he had been nodding off while writing.
Elle, it’s colder than usual this week. I hope you’ve been keeping warm. Tell Harry I’m proud of him. Tell him I believe in him. Tell him whatever you think he needs to hear. He trusts you.
Estelle folded the letter gently, keeping her expression neutral even as something in her chest ached.
The day carried on. Classes passed in a steady thrum of activity. Students trimmed back puffapples, complained about the smell of flobberworm fertilizer, and gossiped loudly about which international champion had smiled at whom in the corridors. Estelle tried not to laugh when a pair of sixth-year Gryffindors nearly hexed each other over who had made Fleur Delacour laugh during breakfast. It wasn’t until evening that the exhaustion of the week began to sink into her bones.
By the time she made her way into the staff room, the lanterns were lit and the chairs had been arranged in a loose semicircle. Minerva McGonagall stood at the front with the crisp posture of someone who could quiet a room with a single breath. Her tartan robes swished softly as she moved to adjust a stack of parchment on the table.
Estelle slipped into a seat toward the end, near the window, where she could watch the last streaks of sunset fade. Professors filed in one by one, murmuring greetings as they settled into their chairs.
Filius Flitwick levitated a cushion under himself with a flick of his wand and beamed at everyone. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Crisp! Perfect for a brisk walk—if one could ignore the damp in the air.”
Sprout nodded, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Hooch stomped in smelling faintly of broom polish. Trelawney drifted like incense smoke, layered in shawls that jingled as she sat. Dumbledore followed last, looking uncharacteristically cheerful. Severus arrived a moment before him, sweeping in like a storm cloud with nowhere to go. He sat two chairs away from Estelle without acknowledging her presence.
She tried not to stare. Tried even harder not to be relieved that he hadn’t chosen a seat across the room.
“Good evening, everyone,” Minerva began, tapping her notes. “I’ll keep this brief. We have a few matters to address concerning the upcoming months. As you all know, the Triwizard Tournament is well underway, and—”
A groan rose from somewhere in the back. Hagrid raised a massive hand sheepishly. “Sorry. Thought that was me head makin’ that noise.”
A few professors chuckled. Estelle smiled.
Minerva’s lips twitched, though she maintained her sternness. “Ahem. As I was saying. There are several logistical matters. First: holiday schedules. There will be some students staying at Hogwarts through the winter break, as usual. If you have not done so already, please inform the Headmaster of your own plans.”
Estelle shifted. The question was coming for her again. She didn’t have an answer.
Minerva continued. “Secondly—and this is the larger matter—we must discuss an event traditionally associated with the Tournament.”
Sprout perked up. Flitwick leaned forward eagerly. Severus visibly braced.
Minerva inhaled. “There will be a Yule Ball.”
Half the staff broke into delighted whispers.
The other half—Severus included—made noises usually reserved for gastrointestinal distress.
Estelle didn’t mean to groan aloud.
It just… slipped out.
Minerva’s eyes darted to her immediately, brows lifting. “Yes, Professor Black?”
“I—nothing. Sorry.” Estelle cleared her throat. “Force of habit.”
Hooch snorted. “Dancing not your thing, Black?”
“I’d rather be strangled by a Venomous Tentacula,” Estelle muttered.
Severus, to her surprise, made a soft sound that might’ve been amusement. Or disdain. Hard to tell in the dim lighting.
Minerva, unbothered, pressed on. “As staff, you are expected to attend. It is a formal event, and students will look to you as examples of decorum.”
Severus made an audible groan that echoed off the stone walls.
Estelle glanced at him. His eyes were closed as if praying for deliverance. She bit back a laugh.
Minerva forged ahead. “Preparations will begin in early December. Decorations, supervision, and logistical assistance will be shared among the staff.”
Dumbledore clapped his hands together, twinkle fully engaged. “I expect everyone to bring their finest spirit. And their finest attire!”
Minerva nodded crisply. “Formal wear is required.”
A chorus of sighs.
Severus actually dropped his head into his hand.
Dumbledore watched them all with a grandfatherly sort of delight. “It will be a splendid evening. Students look forward to it all year—or all three years, in this case. Let us give them a night to remember.”
The meeting carried on for another half hour—discussions of scheduling, student responsibilities, the delegation rotation for escorting foreign visitors through Hogsmeade—but Estelle absorbed little of it. Her mind was elsewhere. Winter holidays. Her own still-unmade plans. That infernal Yule Ball and everything it implied.
Her gaze drifted once, only once, to Severus.
He sat rigid in his chair, long fingers drumming silently against his knee. He looked… tortured. Though, to be fair, Severus looked tortured most days. But this—this was new. The ball clearly struck some nerve deep inside him. Some old fear or discomfort that Estelle didn’t yet understand.
She wished she did.
When Minerva finally dismissed them, professors stood, stretching stiff limbs and exchanging weary smiles. Dumbledore hummed cheerfully to himself as he drifted out. Sprout chatted animatedly with Flitwick about enchanted snowflakes. Trelawney wafted down the hall trailing sandalwood.
Estelle lingered.
She wasn’t sure why—habit, maybe. Or maybe the simple fact that her chambers and Severus’s were both in the dungeons meant she would inevitably end up walking the same direction.
Sure enough, when the staff room emptied, Severus remained by the doorway, arms crossed, looking like he was contemplating escape through the nearest stone wall.
Estelle cleared her throat. “Heading back to the dungeons?”
He glanced at her, unimpressed. “Where else would I go?”
“Fair point.”
They walked together in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing down the dim corridor. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that stretched and snapped with each step.
The silence wasn’t comfortable. But it wasn’t cold either. It was something in between—an awkward truce, like two duelists lowering their wands without quite trusting that neither would fire.
Estelle inhaled. “So. A Yule Ball.”
Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. “An abomination.”
She huffed a laugh. “You hate dancing that much?”
“I despise dancing,” he corrected. “And crowds. And forced socialization. And… whatever that was.”
“The meeting?”
“The announcement.” He looked as though he were still in pain. “Formal attire. Dancing. Laughter. What fresh torment.”
Estelle smiled faintly. “You do realize it won’t be that bad.”
He gave her a flat look. “You are an optimist. It’s disturbing.”
“Hardly,” she said. “I just know that if the students have to endure a holiday ball, the least we can do is pretend to enjoy ourselves.”
“I’m not convinced,” Severus muttered.
They walked another few steps in silence.
Then Estelle said, lightly, “Will you be dusting off your dress robes, then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Minerva said formal attire.”
“Minerva can pry me from my chambers by force.”
“You’re very dramatic,” Estelle noted.
“You know nothing of my dramatics,” he replied darkly.
The words startled a soft laugh from her before she could stop it. Severus’s lips twitched, just barely. It was the first sign of something resembling warmth she’d seen from him in weeks.
A small relief bloomed in her chest.
They turned the corner, descending the staircase that spiraled into the cool dampness of the dungeons. The air grew colder with each step, and their breaths fogged just slightly.
Estelle’s heartbeat felt louder in the quiet.
Severus slowed as they reached the corridor where their chambers branched apart. For a moment, he simply stood there, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.
She waited.
Finally, he said, voice low, “Good night, Estelle.”
She blinked. Her name on his lips—soft, unguarded—sent something warm and unexpected crawling under her ribs.
She found herself looking at him longer than she meant to. His face was unreadable in the low light, but his eyes flickered toward hers with unusual hesitance. As though he were waiting for her to pull away. As though he expected it.
“Good night, Severus,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t dramatic or profound, but something shifted in the air between them anyway. Something small and fragile and painfully human.
He inclined his head, turned, and walked down the left corridor toward his chambers. His robes whispered along the stones, his footsteps steady.
Estelle watched him go.
When he disappeared around the bend, she exhaled—a slow, lingering breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Then she turned in the opposite direction, letting the quiet of the dungeons swallow her footsteps.
Her chambers felt colder when she entered, but not unpleasantly so. She lit a single lamp, unpinned her hair, and set her gloves neatly on the small table by the door. For a long moment, she stood in the dimness, letting the silence settle around her.
The Yule Ball loomed in her mind, shimmering with implication and dread.
She still didn’t know whether she would go home for the holidays.
She still didn’t know what it would mean, exactly, to be the bigger person where Severus was concerned.
But as she curled beneath her blankets later that night, she realized she wasn’t afraid of any of it.
Not the ball.
Not the winter.
Not even him.
Somewhere in the dark, she smiled to herself, small and tentative.
Perhaps it was the slow rhythm of the weeks settling into something manageable. Perhaps it was Harry’s words still echoing in her chest. Perhaps it was the quiet way Severus had said her name.
Whatever it was, she felt—for the first time in a long time—that she could face what came next.