Chapter Text
January arrived not with fanfare but with a quiet, biting cold that seemed to seep into the bones of the castle itself.
The first two weeks of the new year unfolded with the slow, steady rhythm of midwinter at Hogwarts—wind rattling the shutters, frost clinging stubbornly to the corners of windowpanes, and students trudging from class to class wrapped in scarves and layers of mismatched wool. The castle felt suspended, caught in a kind of post-holiday exhale. Even Peeves appeared slightly sluggish, contenting himself with sliding down banisters and humming off-key renditions of “Auld Lang Syne” rather than dropping ink balloons on unsuspecting students.
Estelle welcomed the lull.
Or rather—she tried to.
Underneath the mundanity, a pulse of worry persisted like a low throb behind her ribs. The second task loomed. Always there. Always waiting. Always swimming just beneath the surface of her thoughts like something cold and watchful.
End of February, she reminded herself. Weeks away. Plenty of time.
Plenty of time to worry, her nerves whispered back.
But she ignored them as best she could.
Classes demanded her attention. Students demanded her patience. The greenhouses demanded her hands, which was, at least, a comfort.
The first week back passed in a steady stream of lessons, soil, frost charm repairs, and essays covered in her unruly handwriting.
“Professor Black?” a first-year asked during Monday’s double lesson, holding up a limp-looking puffing podwort that wheezed in defeat.
“Yes, Birch?”
“This one seems depressed.”
“It’s January,” Estelle replied, taking the plant and turning it over. “Everyone is depressed. Give it a bit more warmth and tell it something encouraging.”
Birch nodded solemnly and leaned over the plant. “You’re doing great,” she whispered.
The podwort made a faint, hopeful puff.
Estelle smiled.
Tuesday brought a mishap involving a group of third-years who had—despite her explicit instructions—decided to test the bite strength of the newly acquired dwarf screeching ivy. Filch escorted the culprits to her greenhouse looking like a man who had survived an avalanche of poor decisions.
“These demons are yours,” Filch said, shoving the scribbling incident report toward her.
“Yes,” Estelle said, deadpan. “The ivy grew legs, marched upstairs, and forced them to poke it with sticks. My horticultural reign of terror continues.”
Filch muttered something about “ungrateful children” and stormed off.
The rest of the week passed in much the same fashion. Draco Malfoy attempted to flirt with a Hufflepuff by demonstrating his “superior pruning technique” and nearly severed a mandrake leaf. Hermione Granger stayed after class to ask questions about magical plant cross-pollination and left with five additional books Estelle insisted she read “only if you have time and not during classes, Hermione.” Ron tripped over a vine that Estelle suspected had tripped him back.
Nerves hummed beneath everything, but routine muffled the edges.
On Wednesday evening, a soft tap at her window interrupted her attempt to grade a stack of fifth-year essays.
Estelle looked up—and blinked.
A large barn owl stood perched on the outer sill, eyes bright and round, feathers dusted with tiny snowflakes.
“Charlie,” she murmured.
She crossed the room, lifted the latch, and let the cold air sweep in as the owl hopped onto her arm.
“Hello, beautiful,” she said, scratching gently beneath its chin. “He’s feeding you well out there.”
The owl nipped affectionately at her sleeve and stuck out a leg.
Estelle untied the letter and offered the owl a treat from her pocket. It accepted with regal satisfaction before sweeping back out into the night with a rustle of wings.
She closed the window, returned to her chair, and unfolded the letter.
Charlie’s handwriting—bold, slightly slanted, and unmistakably his—sprawled across the parchment.
Stel,
Romania is frozen. Completely frozen. Even the Horntails are crankier than usual, if you can imagine. Kirtov nearly lost an eyebrow yesterday, but he insists it adds character. Half the interns have decided to braid their beards together for warmth. I do not recommend it.
Estelle snorted.
I saw the Prophet article about the Yule Ball. I assume the photograph was taken at the world’s second-worst possible moment? (The first would be a toilet mishap.) You looked great though. I assume Snape did not appreciate it.
Heat crept up Estelle’s neck.
She skipped to the next part.
Speaking of the Tournament—any gossip about the second task? We’re all placing bets here. Dragons were… well, dragons. But the second task never sits right with me. It’s always designed to scare the hell out of someone. Thought maybe you’d have inside knowledge. No pressure, but if you do, send details before I lose more Galleons to Sinistra.
Miss you. Don’t let the students murder each other.
-Charlie
Estelle folded the letter slowly, thumb smoothing the edge.
The warmth that bloomed through her was familiar and steady. Charlie’s letters had always done that—ever since they’d met in Romania during her university term abroad, where he’d been a sunburnt, overenthusiastic dragon intern with soot-smeared freckles and an alarming tendency to climb things he shouldn’t.
She reached for parchment.
---
Charlie,
First, tell Kirtov I said eyebrows do not grow back with “added character,” they grow back crooked. Also tell the interns to unbraid the beards. I refuse to be associated with such tomfoolery even across international borders.
I have seen the article. And no, Snape did not appreciate it. To quote him: “Pestilence exists in photographic form.” I didn’t correct him.
She smirked as she wrote.
As for the second task… I don’t know anything official, but there are whispers. Something about the lake. Something taken. Something returned. The usual nonsense designed to give me premature grey hair.
No dragons, thank Merlin. Probably nothing up your alley at all unless they decide to unleash giant squid spawn.
A terrifying thought. Forget I said that.
Miss you too. Stay warm. Try not to poke anything that breathes fire until I can supervise.
-Estelle
She sealed the letter, whistled for Icarus, and waited until her handsome horned owl swooped in through the open window with a hoot.
“Romania with this,” she said, tying the letter to his leg. “Straight to Charlie. And don’t let the Horntails roast you on arrival.”
Icarus clicked his beak indignantly—*as if he would ever allow such disrespect*—and launched himself back into the cold night.
With that, Estelle bundled into her cloak and headed for dinner.
The Great Hall glowed warm in contrast to the chill beyond its doors. Torches flickered along the walls; the ceiling mirrored a snowy, star-punctured sky. Students trickled in in small groups, shedding scarves, rubbing their hands, and complaining about the wind.
The staff table was half-full already.
Hagrid boomed a greeting. Minerva offered a small nod. Severus was not yet present—still finishing with his sixth-years, she guessed. Flitwick sat on three stacked cushions, humming merrily as he buttered a roll.
Estelle slid into her seat beside him.
“Evening, Filius.”
The Charms professor looked up, his entire face brightening. “Estelle! How lovely to see you. I was just thinking I needed to ask your opinion on something.”
“Oh dear,” she said, reaching for tea. “If this is about cross-pollinating your office plants again, the answer is no. I will not be complicit in creating a carnivorous bonsai.”
Flitwick giggled in his high, chirping way.
“Not that!” he said. “Though the idea *is* intriguing… I wanted your thoughts on this.”
He reached under the table and produced—
A flowerpot.
A perfectly ordinary, slightly chipped terracotta flowerpot.
Except it was singing.
Off-key.
And incredibly loudly.
“Oh Merlin,” Estelle whispered.
Flitwick beamed. “Isn’t it delightful?”
“It’s… something.”
The flowerpot continued its enthusiastic warbling, the plant inside wiggling like a dancing green noodle.
“I’ve charmed it to sing whenever someone uses the word ‘lumos,’” Flitwick said proudly.
“…Why?”
“Well! Students say it so often! This way, there’s a bit of cheer in the room when they do.”
Estelle pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Filius,” she said gently, “have you tested this in a classroom yet?”
“Oh no,” he said, waving a tiny hand. “Not yet. Why do you ask?”
She gestured discreetly toward the Gryffindor table, where several students had just walked in.
“Because,” she said, “Fred and George are approaching.”
Flitwick looked delighted.
Estelle felt dread coil in her stomach.
The twins reached the staff table as the plant launched into another emphatic verse.
“Professor Flitwick,” Fred said reverently, “that is magnificent.”
“We need it,” George added.
“For educational purposes,” Fred clarified.
Flitwick looked flattered. “Why, thank you, boys! But it’s only a prototype.”
Estelle cut in swiftly.
“Which means,” she said, “it stays with Filius until he’s certain it won’t explode, combust, or achieve sentience.”
The twins blinked in unison.
“…So tomorrow?” Fred asked.
“No,” Estelle said.
“Next week?” George asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Valentine’s Day?” Fred tried.
“Get out of here,” she said, shooing them away.
They grinned and retreated, whispering suspiciously.
Flitwick winked at Estelle. “They remind me of myself at their age,” he said fondly.
“This is deeply concerning,” she replied.
He patted her arm.
Dinner flowed with relaxed chatter. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, warm rolls, buttery peas, endless pumpkin juice. The hum of voices filled the hall, rising and falling like waves.
Halfway through her meal, the Great Hall doors opened again.
Severus strode in, robes swirling dramatically (he swore they weren’t charmed but Estelle had her doubts). His expression was its usual careful neutrality, though she saw it—the flicker of soft recognition when his eyes found her.
He gave her the smallest of nods before taking his seat.
Her stomach warmed.
Minerva leaned slightly toward her. “You have a glow tonight,” she murmured.
“It’s the torches,” Estelle said quickly.
“It’s not the torches,” Minerva said dryly.
Estelle stabbed a potato.
Conversation continued. Students drifted out. Plates emptied. Filch glared at a cluster of first-years who had spilled custard on their shoes.
By the time dessert vanished, the castle’s post-dinner hush settled into place.
Outside, snow flurried in erratic gusts.
Inside, the staff began to rise from their seats.
“Good evening, Estelle!” Flitwick said brightly, hopping down from his chair. “If the flowerpot begins composing its own lyrics, I’ll let you know!”
“Please don’t,” Estelle called after him.
She gathered her things, nodded to Minerva, and made her way toward the side doors.
Severus intercepted her in the corridor.
“How were dinner theatrics?” he asked, falling into step beside her.
“Filius created a singing plant.”
He blinked.
“Why?”
“Unclear. But Fred and George are plotting.”
“Merlin preserve us,” he muttered.
They walked together through the quiet corridor, the lamps along the walls flickering softly.
The castle was peaceful in these moments—students in their common rooms, portraits whispering to each other, wind sighing against stone.
Estelle let out a slow breath.
“Two weeks,” she said softly. “Two weeks since January started. I thought I’d be anxious every second. But today was… good.”
Severus glanced at her. “Normal?”
She nodded. “Yes. For the first time in months.”
He made a thoughtful sound.
“You thrive in chaos,” he said. “But you deserve quiet.”
She smiled.
“So do you,” she said. “You won’t admit it, but you do.”
He didn’t deny it.
They reached the junction where their paths split—hers toward the greenhouses, his toward the dungeons.
She paused.
“So,” she said softly. “Another day survived.”
“Many more to come,” he murmured.
She stepped back slightly, giving herself just enough distance to keep from reaching for him in a corridor lined with gossip-prone portraits.
“Goodnight, Severus.”
His voice was soft.
“Goodnight, Estelle.”
And as she walked away, she felt the truth of it settle warm beneath her ribs:
January was cold.
But January was gentler than expected.
And—for the first time in a long time—she was beginning to believe February might not break her.
Not completely.
Not if she had this.
Not if she had them—
Harry.
Her students.
Her greenhouses.
And Severus.
Love, in winter, was a fragile thing.