The first week back at Hogwarts after the holidays was a blur of routine — unpacking trunks, comparing schedules, grumbling about snow-dampened socks. It was easy, in those first days of January, for Eliza Dawson to pretend everything was normal.
She smiled when she was supposed to. She laughed at Sol's antics. She even slipped into the WIX office late one night to write a fluffy filler piece under her Sharpwing pen name about ghostly New Year's resolutions — a piece requiring no sharp wit, no investigative edge, just a few harmless puns. She wrote it because if she didn't, Rosaline would notice, and if Rosaline noticed, her parents would worry. And if her parents worried, they'd ask questions Eliza didn't want to answer.
She couldn't stand the worrying.
Nights were the worst.
The first few days back, it was easy enough to slip into the noise of routine. OWL revision sessions, Quidditch practices, half-hearted pranks from Peeves — all of it created enough static to drown out the memories during the day. But at night, when the dormitory was quiet and the soft sounds of Rosaline's breathing filled the space, there was nothing left to distract her.
She lay awake most nights, flat on her back, staring up at the canopy of her bed until the shadows blurred into nothing. Sometimes, she curled onto her side, facing Rosaline's bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her twin's chest, anchoring herself to the proof that her world was still here, still safe — or as safe as it could be.
But it wasn't really safe anymore. Not in the way Hogwarts used to feel.
The castle had always been a fortress, an ancient stone sanctuary where danger was external — curses and creatures outside the gates, not lurking in the very air she breathed. The Great Hall's warmth, the Quidditch pitch's thrill, the snug comfort of the WIX corner in the library — all of it had once felt untouchable.
Now, even the softest places felt jagged. The common room's laughter sounded just a little too loud, the pitch's open sky felt too exposed, the castle corridors too full of spaces where someone could press too close, a hand at her back, a voice at her ear.
Even her own skin didn't feel quite right anymore. It was as though it belonged to someone else — the girl she'd been before the party, before Barker's hand had rested low against her spine, before polite words had turned sharp-edged. That girl had been brash and unafraid, confident enough to steal the last pastry off Sol's plate, to crash through Quidditch scrimmages with wild laughter. That girl could lean into hugs without flinching, could jostle her friends without her stomach knotting itself in confusion.
Now, every casual touch felt like a test. Magnus' reassuring hand on her shoulder, Gwenog's playful shove, even Rosaline curling up beside her at night — all of it set off some flicker of warning in her chest before her brain caught up and reminded her it was fine. That it was safe. That it was them.
Her body didn't know the difference anymore.
The worst part wasn't the fear. It wasn't even the dreams, though they clung like cobwebs long after she woke, Barker's too-friendly smile ghosting in the edges of her vision.
No — the worst part was how ordinary it had been. How easy it would have been to explain away. Just a recruiter talking to a promising player. Just a hand at her back, guiding her through a crowded room. Just a compliment, just an opportunity, just another stepping stone to a life she'd spent years dreaming of.
It was the just-ness that hurt the most. That moment when her brain had screamed too close and she'd smiled anyway because to do anything else would have made her difficult. Dramatic. The kind of girl who caused trouble, who ruined her own chances.
And it made her wonder — how many other girls had done the same?
She wanted to believe she was strong enough to shove it all down — to bury it beneath training drills and article deadlines and WIX chaos until it couldn't touch her anymore. Some days, she almost succeeded. But other days, her hands shook on her broom, her stomach twisted at the sound of a closing door, and all she could do was sit there, frozen in her own skin, waiting for the feeling to pass.
She wasn't broken. Not yet. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Rosaline's soft breathing was the only thing holding her together, Eliza wondered if she was slowly coming apart — piece by piece, touch by touch, until there was nothing left but the girl who smiled so no one would ask.
The sky had always been her favorite place.
On her broom, with the wind rushing past her ears and the whole of Hogwarts sprawling below, Eliza used to feel invincible. The air was sharp and clean, the weight of her body balanced perfectly between the familiar wood of her broom and the strength of her own grip. The pitch had been freedom — a place where nothing mattered except the next pass, the next goal, the sheer physical joy of flying faster than her thoughts could follow.
Now, the sky felt too big.
Her broom felt wrong in her hands, the handle too smooth, like it might slip through her fingers without warning. Every time she kicked off from the ground, her stomach turned over, the sharp lurch of flight no longer a thrill but a reminder of how far she could fall. Her fingers clenched too tight around the handle, knuckles whitening, until her grip ached.
The first few practices after the holidays, she could fake it. She missed a few catches, mistimed a few passes, but it was winter rust — perfectly normal after a break. Everyone was still shaking off the holidays. No one noticed.
But by the end of January, the rust should have been gone — and Eliza was worse.
The air felt too thin, every sound amplified until the wind in her ears was a howl, and the shouts from the ground came muffled, like her head was underwater. Her chest felt too tight under her Quidditch robes, her breath never quite filling her lungs the way it should. She flinched at shadows, at movement in her peripheral vision, every flash of motion pulling her attention away from the game, her instincts no longer sharp and certain.
Even the beaters—her own teammates—felt too close when they zoomed past her, the whoosh of air from their brooms prickling her skin like static. When a Bludger shot past her ear one afternoon, she didn't dodge so much as freeze, her entire body locking up as the heavy iron ball whistled by.
"Dawson!" Sofia Reed's voice rang out across the pitch, sharp and clear, but it barely reached her. Everything felt dulled, as though she stood at the bottom of a deep well, the world distant and muffled overhead.
Eliza's broom wobbled violently under her, her sudden panic making her overcorrect. Her stomach flipped as she nearly pitched sideways, her balance skewed by the wave of adrenaline crashing into her like a rogue tide.
Sofia was already there, flying close enough that her broom's bristles almost brushed Eliza's. "Eyes up, Dawson!" she barked, loud enough to pierce the fog in Eliza's head.
Eliza swallowed hard and nodded, but her hands were trembling on the broomstick. Sofia's sharp gaze flicked down to her grip — too tight, fingers locked like she was hanging off a ledge instead of flying.
They ran the drill again, and again, but the tightness never left Eliza's chest. Every time someone cut too close, her pulse stuttered. Every time she saw a teammate's shadow flicker across her shoulder, her stomach clenched. The sky felt too open, her body too exposed, and for the first time in her life, the pitch felt like a place where she could be hunted.
When Sofia called for a break, Eliza's landing was shaky — her knees almost buckling when her feet touched the ground. Sofia was there immediately, her broom tucked under one arm, her expression sharp with concern hidden behind captain-neutrality.
"You good?" Sofia asked, her voice casual, but her eyes scanning Eliza like a Healer searching for injury.
"Just tired," Eliza said, too fast, the lie curling in her throat like smoke.
Sofia didn't believe her. Eliza could see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line. But the older girl didn't push — not yet.
"Take five," Sofia said instead, her voice gentler than usual. "Get some water."
Eliza nodded and turned away, pretending she didn't feel Sofia's eyes on her back the entire walk to the bench. Her hands still shook when she reached for her water bottle, barely able to twist the cap open.
Gwenog wasn't a captain or even on Eliza's team, but Gwenog was Gwenog — loud, bold, and blunt to the point of rudeness. It was just her way.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," Gwenog said casually after practice, leaning on her broom beside Eliza.
"Just tired," Eliza had lied.
"Bullshit." But Gwenog didn't press, which was both a relief and somehow worse.
By mid-February, even Iris — queen of gentle avoidance — had noticed.
"You okay, 'Liza?" she asked one afternoon, voice soft, her fingers nervously tugging at the edge of her sleeve the way she always did when she didn't want to press too hard. "You've seemed… off."
Eliza flashed her brightest, most convincing smile. "Just OWLs stress, you know?"
They believed her because they were all exhausted. Fifth year was an endless gauntlet of essays, practicals, study sessions, and the looming specter of the exams that would define their futures. Everyone was worn thin, their tempers shorter, their eyes permanently shadowed. No one wanted to add one more problem to the pile.
But Eliza's exhaustion had nothing to do with OWLs.
It came from the dreams.
They came most nights now, woven from memory and fear — Harold Barker's too-friendly smile, his hand hovering too low on her back, the door swinging shut before Sol's voice could reach her. In the dreams, her own hands failed her, fingers curling uselessly at her sides, her voice trapped somewhere beneath her ribs. She woke gasping, heart hammering against her chest, sweat clinging to her skin even in the chill of the dormitory air. More often than not, Rosaline's soft whisper came from the next bed.
"Bad dream?"
"Yeah. Just a weird one."
Always the same lie. Always the same tight smile the next morning, as though saying the words out loud would make them true.
By March, the WIX had fallen into formation around her — a quiet, instinctive defense, as natural as breathing. No one said it was happening. No one needed to. They simply shifted, rearranged the patterns of their days until Eliza was never alone, never more than a few feet from someone she trusted.
Rosaline was her permanent shadow, hovering at her side during meals, in the library, in the common room — anywhere that silence might creep in and press too hard against her mind. She never asked, never demanded answers, but her presence was constant, a thread tying Eliza to the world around her.
Sol and Henry took up posts as her self-appointed Hogsmeade escort team. Every weekend visit to the village featured one or both of them flanking her like overenthusiastic, poorly-trained security trolls.
"We're your handsome honor guard," Henry declared one Saturday, striking a pose so ridiculous it made a passing fourth-year walk into a signpost.
"More like incredibly attractive bodyguards," Sol corrected, fluffing his hair dramatically.
"You're both morons," Eliza said — but she didn't tell them to leave.
Artemis handled it differently, quieter but no less fierce. She never asked Eliza to talk. She never tried to dissect what had happened. But when Gilderoy Lockhart, all gleaming teeth and self-satisfied charm, made a snide comment in the common room about how "girls love a bit of danger," Artemis' wand was out so fast even Professor Flitwick took a half-step back.
"You need to find a more productive outlet," Magnus murmured as they left Flitwick's office later that night.
"I'm working on it," Artemis muttered. "Right after I hex every predator in Britain."
Magnus didn't argue. Neither of them had to say it aloud — if anyone deserved that vengeance, it was Eliza.
Gwenog, ever the battering ram, took a more direct approach. She never coddled, never softened her edges for anyone, but she was always there — draped across the common room sofa beside Eliza, boots propped up on the table, tossing Bertie Bott's Beans into Eliza's hair until either laughter or hexes followed. It was Gwenog's way of saying I see you without making Eliza say anything back.
"Friends don't let friends wallow alone," Gwenog said one night, her voice light, her hands fidgeting with the seam of her jumper. "Besides, if you get any moodier, you'll ruin the aesthetic of our whole table."
At first, Eliza thought it was coincidence. Little moments stacking up, easily explained away.
Henry always seemed to be at her table during meals, even when his friends were elsewhere. Sol took to loudly announcing her schedule, as if she were the Minister herself. Iris, quiet and unobtrusive, had developed the uncanny knack of refilling her tea before Eliza even realized the cup was empty.
It was easy to pretend none of it meant anything.
But then came the other things.
Magnus appeared beside her in class, his presence solid and unassuming, a quiet anchor in the crowded, bustling chaos. Gwenog claimed the spot next to her at breakfast every morning, wide-legged and confident, physically blocking anyone from getting too close. Rosaline barely let her out of arm's reach, her voice following Eliza down hallways and into alcoves, as if afraid her twin might slip through her fingers entirely.
It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't pity.
It was all of them — rearranging themselves like a constellation, orbiting her without a single word.
Breakfast was always loud, but now it was theater. Gwenog had made it her personal mission to guard their corner of the Ravenclaw table like an overprotective Crup.
"Alright, move," Gwenog announced one morning, nudging a startled third-year halfway off the bench to make room. "Dawson Protection Squad reporting for duty."
"Are you serious?" Eliza muttered, half a laugh escaping her despite herself.
"Deadly." Gwenog snatched a piece of toast from Eliza's plate and bit into it with a grin. "Perks of the job."
Across the table, Iris topped up Eliza's tea without a word, her small smile the only sign she'd heard anything.
Eliza didn't say thank you. She didn't need to.
In Potions, Rosaline should have been the one glued to her side, but it was Magnus who silently took up position next to her. Magnus, who had a way of existing that didn't press, didn't demand — just filled the space with something sturdy and calm.
When Snape's cutting remark landed in her direction, it was Magnus — without looking up from his notes — who replied smoothly, "She's got the highest marks in this class, Professor."
Snape's eyes narrowed, but Magnus didn't flinch. And Eliza — Eliza could breathe again.
Sol turned her schedule into a production, looping an arm around her shoulders as they left Charms. "You've got back-to-back appointments with your incredibly attractive guard detail," he declared, waving his imaginary planner. "Lunch is scheduled between Gwenog's intimidation hour and Henry's awkward flirting session."
"And if I refuse?"
"Impossible." Sol grinned. "You signed the contract."
She didn't shrug him off.
Even in the library, her sanctuary, Henry found her. Dropping his books with theatrical flair, he settled in beside her, all wide grins and complete lack of subtlety.
"You don't even take Arithmancy," Eliza said.
"Support," Henry said cheerfully. "It's what I do."
He kicked his feet up onto the bench beside him, sprawling like he belonged there.
And maybe — just maybe — Eliza didn't mind.
At night, Rosaline's presence was the quietest of all, but the most constant. She never asked, never pressed. She just climbed into Eliza's bed and curled into her side, sometimes talking about nothing, sometimes saying nothing at all. She stayed until the sun crept over the windowsill, and when Eliza's breath hitched in the middle of the night, Rosaline's hand was already there, fingers curling around hers.
At first, Eliza thought it was coincidence.
Then she thought it was pity — that they were waiting for her to crack, for her to need saving.
But it wasn't that either.
They never treated her like glass. They never made her feel fragile, or broken, or like something too delicate to touch.
They were just there — loud, chaotic, steady, impossible.
They were her people.
And they weren't letting her go.
It was Sophia Reed, Eliza's captain, who made the hardest call in April.
It had been building for weeks — the string of fumbled catches, the mistimed passes, the plays that used to feel like muscle memory now tangled in hesitation. Everyone had written it off at first. A bad day. A bad week. Even the best players hit slumps. But then came the near-collision with the goalpost, Eliza's broom skimming the worn wood so closely that splinters grazed her sleeve. That time, Sophia didn't brush it off.
Practice ended under a sky streaked with soft gold and lingering spring chill, the kind of afternoon that should have felt clean and endless, perfect flying weather. Instead, Eliza's stomach twisted tighter with every second that passed without Sophia calling the team back into the air.
She didn't. Instead, Sophia's voice cut through the clearing crowd.
"Eliza. A word?"
Eliza froze with her foot halfway off her broom, fingers tightening briefly on the handle. The others were already heading toward the changing rooms, their chatter light and easy. The world around her carried on, completely unaware that her stomach was slowly dropping through the earth.
She walked toward Sophia, her broom resting against her shoulder like a shield she couldn't quite use. Sophia stood at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, her broom tucked under one arm. Her expression wasn't angry — that would have been easier to handle. It was something much worse.
It was gentle.
"Eliza," Sophia said, her voice low enough that no one else could hear. "I'm benching you."
The words landed like a physical blow, sharp and cold. Eliza's fingers curled tighter around her broomstick until her knuckles ached.
"No," she said, too fast, too desperate. "I just— I can fix this."
Sophia didn't roll her eyes or sigh the way some captains might have. She didn't even look surprised. She just watched Eliza for a long moment, something sad and understanding in her eyes.
"You don't need to fix anything," Sophia said softly. "You just need to breathe."
The kindness hurt more than if Sophia had yelled at her. It would have been easier to fight if Sophia gave her something to push back against — something sharp to bite down on, some fire to fuel her own.
But there was nothing except Sophia's quiet certainty, her soft captain's voice, the one she only used when someone needed to hear the truth more than they needed to be spared.
"Mae's ready to cover for you in the final match," Sophia added, almost apologetically. "We need you at your best, and I know you're not there right now."
The final match. The last game of the year. The one they'd all been working toward since September, where scouts and reporters would come to watch, where reputations were made or broken. The game Eliza had been counting on — not just to prove herself to the scouts, but to herself.
Her throat felt tight, her voice caught somewhere beneath her ribs, the same place it always got stuck lately.
"I—" She couldn't finish the sentence. There was nothing to say.
She just nodded, eyes fixed on the patch of dirt by Sophia's boots. The world blurred at the edges, colors smearing together into soft, shapeless things. Her hands were shaking again, but she couldn't feel them. She could only feel the hollow space in her chest, the one where flying used to live.
Sophia reached out, not touching her, just letting her hand hover beside Eliza's shoulder for a moment — offering, not demanding.
"It's okay," Sophia said, voice quieter still. "You're not letting anyone down."
That was the part Eliza couldn't believe, not even a little bit.
She turned and walked away before Sophia could see her eyes start to sting.
That night, Eliza didn't even bother pretending to sleep right away. She lay on her side, staring at the canopy above her bed, feeling the uneven stitch in the fabric where Rosaline had once tried to charm it to match her favorite sweater. It was a tiny thing, an old thing — something from before.
The dormitory was quiet except for the soft rustling of Rosaline slipping into her bed, as she'd done so many nights since the party. She didn't say anything, didn't ask, didn't press. She just curled against Eliza's side, her fingers tangling loosely with Eliza's own, her familiar warmth pressing into the cold places Eliza couldn't thaw on her own.
Eliza should have felt pathetic. Should have been embarrassed that her twin still curled into her like they were five years old again, hiding from thunderstorms under the covers. But Rosaline never made her feel like she was weak. Rosaline just held on. Like she was reminding her, over and over, that she wasn't slipping away.
Sharpwing's articles suffered next.
What had once been the sharpest, most reliable pen in The Wixen Chronicles started to dull. The words came slower, her once effortless wit smoothed down into something cautious and forgettable. Her columns still made it to print, but they were just words now, nothing Elizabeth Bell or Aurelia Lovelace would proudly point to in a staff meeting.
She knew they noticed. Elizabeth's polite offers to "take a break and focus on OWLs" grew more frequent, though her voice was always gentle, never accusing. Aurelia said even less, but her quiet glances were harder to face.
Eliza couldn't blame them. She could see the difference herself — the lack of bite, the absence of confidence. Her words used to have teeth. Now, they felt like she was writing in gloves, too careful, too removed, like there was glass between her and the page.
She kept writing anyway, because stopping would feel like losing another piece of herself. Even if her words felt smaller, they were still hers. And if she let go of that too, she wasn't sure what would be left.
The pitch was gone. Her voice in The Wixen Chronicles was fading. All she had left were the people who had made themselves her orbit — the WIX, Rosaline, the ridiculous boys who called themselves her bodyguards, the girls who filled the space with their noise and warmth until the cold couldn't get in.
For now, that was enough.
For now, they were holding her together — piece by piece, laugh by laugh, until she figured out how to put herself back.