┏ ೋღ : 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂. : ღೋ ┓

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖘𝖎𝖝:
𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔷𝔢𝔡

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𝕲REEN FLAMES SPAT YOU OUT, making you land gracefully onto the hearth of your family's living room. The familiar space was bathed in golden afternoon light streaming through the windows, casting long, dappled shadows across the floor.

Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, disturbed by your arrival. The scent of old books, faintly lingering fireplace smoke, and something sweet — maybe remnants of a pastry from earlier — filled the room.

Silence loomed heavy, the emptiness you'd been bracing for since your departure from Hogwarts. You brushed soot off your clothes, the dark smudges smearing across your fingers, and stepped out of the fireplace, dragging your trunk behind you. The thud of its wheels against the wooden floor felt unnaturally loud in the quiet house.

"Leon?" You called out, your voice echoing faintly in the quiet house.

For a moment, there was nothing. After a beat, the sound of soft footsteps padded from the kitchen, and your younger brother appeared in the doorway.

He stood there, cradling a half-empty glass of juice, his other hand tucked lazily into the pocket of his worn-out sweatpants. His messy hair stuck up at odd angles, as if he hadn't bothered to brush it since rolling out of bed — or perhaps since waking up from a midday nap. The faded graphic on his T-shirt was nearly unreadable, and there was an orange juice stain near the hem.

"Oh. You're back," he hummed, his tone neutral but not unkind, as if you had merely stepped out to run an errand rather than returned from months away at school.

"Yeah," you replied, trying to smile. "You were expecting someone else?"

Leon huffed a quiet chuckle, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Nah. Just forgot you were coming home today."

You rolled your eyes, shifting the weight of your trunk. "Thanks for the warm welcome," you muttered, though there was no real bite behind the words.

He shrugged, taking another slow sip of his juice, watching you over the rim of his glass. "Mother and Father aren't home, if you couldn't already tell," he finally said.

You let out a small sigh, unsurprised. The absence of your parents was as much a staple to you coming home as the scent of old parchment in the study or the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

"Figures," you murmured, more to yourself than to Leon. Then, after a brief pause, you asked, "Do you even know when they'll be back?"

Leon shrugged, letting out a short hum. "No clue. The last time I saw Father for more than ten minutes outside of meals was... I dunno, a few days ago?" His voice was casual, but there was a tinge of something underneath — something hard to place. Disappointment, maybe, or just quiet acceptance.

You hesitated before responding, knowing there wasn't much you could say to change that. "Sounds about right," you finally murmured, gripping the handle of your trunk a little tighter.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the silence between you more awkward than tense. You'd never been particularly close — not because you disliked each other, but because you were just... different.

Growing up, there had always been this distance put between the two of you, a gap neither of you had ever really attempted to cross. Not out of choice, but because it had always been there, carefully and unknowingly placed by your parents.

Your mother doted on Leon, always fussing over him like he was still a small child. She made sure he had everything he needed before he even had to ask, smothering him with gentle affection, brushing his hair back with fond smiles, and making excuses for his lack of effort. Your father, on the other hand, never pressured him — never insisted on high grades or discipline. It was as if he had decided early on that Leon simply wasn't meant for it, and so he let him be.

With you, it had been different. Your mother had never coddled you, never lingered too long when you fell or failed. She expected you to be strong, to be capable, to handle things on your own. Your father pushed you, scrutinized your studies, and expected you to achieve everything he had and more. You were not given the option of failure, nor the luxury of indifference. Your father never addressed your achievements, only your failures.

Leon's eyes flickered to your trunk. "Need help dragging that thing upstairs?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. "Uh... sure, if you don't mind."

He set his juice down on the counter and walked over, grabbing one end while you took the other. The trunk was heavy, but with both of you lifting, it wasn't unbearable. The effort gave you something to focus on, something to fill the space between you that had never quite been easy to navigate.

As you lifted it up the first few steps, Leon spoke again. "How was Hogwarts?"

"Busy," you answered, grunting slightly as you hoisted the trunk another step. "How was—"

"Boring," Leon cut in before you could even finish. "Same old, same old. I swear, I'm counting the days till I can leave."

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. "Well, you've got a week left, then you go to Hogwarts in September. Just a few months more."

"Yeah," he muttered. "Too long."

You didn't respond to that, mostly because you understood. Leon had never thrived in school the way you did — never found much motivation in studying or participating in anything unless he absolutely had to.

Maybe he was just wired differently.

As you reached the top of the stairs, the two of you set the trunk down with a dull thud. You exhaled and stretched your arms, rolling your shoulders to shake off the strain. "Thanks for the help."

Leon shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "No problem." His voice was casual, but there was something almost dismissive about it, as if he was already half-checked out of the conversation.

You hesitated, glancing at him before asking, "So... what have you been up to while I was gone?"

"Not much." He leaned against the hallway wall, tilting his head back slightly. "Hanging out with friends. Playing games. Avoiding homework. Y'know, the usual."

You huffed a small laugh, though there was a hint of jealousy in your heart. Why was Leon always given so much freedom? "Sounds productive."

"Oh, incredibly. You already know Father approved of it all," he deadpanned, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips before it quickly disappeared.

For a second, it almost felt like a normal sibling conversation — a rare moment of ease between you. But just as quickly as it came, it slipped away. Leon rubbed the back of his neck and pushed off the wall, his posture shifting like he was already thinking of an escape.

"Anyway," he muttered, glancing toward the stairs, "I'll, uh, let you unpack."

You nodded and hummed. "Yeah. See you later."

He gave you a small nod before turning on his heel and heading back downstairs. His footsteps faded down the hall, and with them, the brief connection you'd managed to grasp onto.

You stood there for a moment before dragging your trunk the last few feet into your room. As you stepped inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment, old books, and a faint trace of the perfume your Aunt Nora had gifted you last Christmas but that you rarely used. Everything was just as you'd left it — neatly arranged, dust-free, as if your absence hadn't mattered at all.

You let out a long sigh and sat at the edge of your bed, running a hand through your hair. The house was too big, too empty, its silence pressing down on you like an invisible weight. Your parents' absence was expected, but it still left behind that same hollow ache.

You wished that you were still at Hogwarts.

With a resigned breath, you forced yourself to start unpacking, folding your robes into drawers and placing your books back onto the shelves. But even as you moved through the motions, you couldn't shake the feeling that the summer ahead would stretch endlessly before you, just as cold and isolating as the house itself.

You shifted your weight, feeling the cool tile press against your heels as you stood near the dining room entrance. The air in the house always felt still, as if the walls themselves had learned to hold their breath. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the clock and the crisp rustling of newspaper pages as your father turned them with slow, deliberate movements.

Your mother stood by the kitchen counter, stirring her tea in a steady rhythm, the spoon clinking softly against the porcelain. She looked tired — though, to be fair, she always did. The lines at the corners of her mouth, the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, the way she never quite met your eyes for long — it all added to the ever-present air of exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. 'It's just one night. Just one night.' 

"Um... Mother? Father?" Your voice felt too loud in the stillness, and you curled your fingers around the hem of your sleeve as if bracing yourself.

Your father didn't even glance up, his only acknowledgment being the turn of another page. Your mother, however, lifted her eyes toward you with a brief flicker of attention. "Yes?"

You clasped your hands together in front of you and swallowed. "Can I stay over at Uncle Frank's house for the night?"

That got your father's attention. He lowered the newspaper slightly, his sharp eyes peering over the rim, analyzing you the way he did whenever he suspected something wasn't quite right. "Why?"

You kept your expression neutral, trying to sound casual. "I just... I haven't seen them in a while. Thought it'd be nice to catch up."

Your mother's frown deepened as she set her teacup down with a quiet clink. "You just got back from Hogwarts and you want to go out? You should be spending time at home."

'With who?' You thought bitterly. 'You're both always working anyway, and Leon doesn't care if I'm here or not.' But you bit your tongue.

Besides, spending time at home? As if the three of you ever really spent time together. Your father rarely acknowledged you outside of discussions about school and future expectations, and your mother was always distant, floating between her duties in the house and whatever occupied her thoughts. And then there was Leon — off in his own world, neither favored nor pushed, left to do as he pleased.

Your father exhaled sharply, folding the newspaper and setting it down. "If you're looking for entertainment, there are books in the study. I don't see why you need to run off so soon after returning home."

It wasn't outright disapproval, but it wasn't permission either. You recognized the pattern — no direct refusal, just subtle discouragement until you gave up on the idea entirely. It was a game you had learned well over the years.

"I just thought it'd be nice," you repeated, a little softer this time, your eyes glued to the floor with the fear of making direct eye contact with one of them.

Your father's eyes didn't leave you as he shifted in his chair. "Why the sudden visit? Did they invite you?"

You hesitated for just a moment too long, the answer already on the tip of your tongue. "No, but—"

"If they didn't invite you, why are you trying to invite yourself?" Your mother's voice cut in, her tone sharp. Her gaze was fixed on you and there was a certain weight in the way she spoke. "It's not proper to just show up like that."

Your stomach twisted. 'Merlin, why is this so difficult?' You weren't a baby anymore, yet every interaction with them felt like you were still trying to earn their approval for even the smallest of requests.

"They wouldn't mind," you told them quickly, trying to steady your breath. "Aunt Nora's always happy to have me over." The words felt practiced, almost rehearsed, but you kept going, grasping for something that might tip the balance in your favor. "And since she's a witch, she could help me review spells for next year."

At that, you saw your father's eyebrows raise slightly, a flicker of thought crossing his face. He leaned back in his chair, considering your words with a thoughtful hum. But your mother's gaze remained skeptical, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Why not study here?" She challenged, her voice sharp. "You have all your books, don't you?"

"I do," you admitted reluctantly. "But Aunt Nora has more experience. She could help me in ways a textbook can't."

Your father rubbed his chin, still deep in thought, while your mother's lips pressed together tightly in contemplation. The seconds dragged on as you waited, but the air was thick with their hesitation. Finally, your mother sighed, shaking her head slightly. "You know we just want you to focus on your studies. Not run around wasting time."

The words hit you like a weight to the chest, more than you'd expected.

Wasting time.

You bit your lip, clenching your teeth.

Wasting time?

The bitter taste of resentment rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down. It wasn't fair. Your younger brother barely had to ask for anything — he could simply say, "I'm going out," and they'd nod, no questions asked.

But with you, it was always different. Every request felt like a formality, like you had to present a full proposal just to leave the house. And yet, they expected you to be grateful for the privilege of it even being considered in the first place.

You tried to keep your voice steady. "I'm not wasting time. I'm working on my future."

Your mother's gaze softened for a fraction of a second, as if weighing her next words carefully. Still, however, she was still unconvinced and merely sighed again. "It's not about that," she muttered, her eyes flicking briefly to the clock on the wall. "We just want you here."

The words were hollow. They always were. You were here, but that didn't mean they actually saw you.

Your father exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound carrying a weight that felt like a decision made begrudgingly. "Fine. One night," he agreed, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it. "But when you come back, I expect you to stay home for the next few days and focus on your studies."

The words were sharp, as if reminding you that any freedom you got would come with an added string attached. Your mother, still leaning against the counter with her fingers wrapped around her teacup, looked skeptical but nodded in agreement. "And you're not to go anywhere else. You'll be at Uncle Frank's and nowhere else, understood?"

"Understood," you confirmed quickly, the words tumbling out with a practiced ease. You forced a smile, but it felt thin, like it was held up by sheer will. "Thank you."

Relief flooded through you, warm and immediate, but it was quickly overshadowed by a simmering frustration. 'Why is this always so difficult?' You clenched your fists, trying not to let the resentment show. 'Why do they never question Leon like this?'

Leon could stroll in and out of the house like it was his own personal playground, while you were treated like a project to be micromanaged. It made no sense, and yet, it was always this way.

But you didn't argue. You didn't even let the words slip from your lips. 'At least I got what I wanted,' you told yourself, though the words tasted bitter. Or at least, part of what you wanted. You still had to work around the rest of it — the half-truths, the lies you had to weave to keep your plans intact. 'Now, I just have to make sure they don't find out I'm actually going to Kyra's.'

That was the catch. Uncle Frank's house was merely the cover story, the one that would satisfy them.

With the smile still plastered on your face, you stepped back, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Before your mother could ask another question or your father could drop another expectation, you quietly slipped from the room, feeling the weight of their watchful eyes on your back.

Once you were safely out of their line of sight, you let out a slow breath, already planning the best route to take without raising suspicion. 'One night,' you thought, but the ache of frustration still lingered, the taste of inequality bitter on your tongue.

The emerald green flames of the Floo Network roared to life, swallowing you in a rush of heat and swirling magic before spitting you out into the cozy familiarity of Uncle Frank's living room. You landed as gracefully as you could manage — though the sudden shift in momentum still made you stumble slightly before catching yourself on the edge of a worn armchair. The carpet beneath your feet was thick and slightly faded, and the scent of tea, parchment, and something faintly herbal filled the air.

Straightening up, you brushed at the soot clinging to your clothes, patting at your sleeves and the front of your clothes before adjusting the straps of your backpack. A fine layer of ash still dusted your fingers when you wiped at your face.

"God, kid," came Uncle Frank's familiar, slightly gruff voice from the hallway. "You've got soot on your nose."

You looked up to see him leaning casually against the doorframe, dressed in a soft T-shirt and slightly wrinkled trousers, his graying hair sticking up in places as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, sharp and knowing, flickered with amusement as he took in your disheveled state.

You swiped at your nose instinctively. "Did I get