The war hangs over Hogwarts like a bruise—yellowing at the edges, deep purple at the centre—something everyone insists isn’t there, even as they prod at it with every glance, every whispered rumour, every sudden silence.

It is winter, fifth year, and the air has that brittle quality that promises snow by nightfall. The grounds at break time are a noisy, boiling mess of students: Gryffindors posturing, Slytherins sneering, Hufflepuffs huddled like cattle, and the Ravenclaws drifting between them like they’re above the whole thing. You don’t bother mixing with anyone today; you stand with Regulus and the others, though Barty and Evan have peeled off to dramatise something loud and dangerous by the lake. Pandora sits primly with a pile of tarot cards, half-listening to them, half-watching you and Regulus with that speculative, catlike stare she always has.

Everyone knows you shouldn’t be here, not really. You’re a Potter—James Potter’s sister with Euphemia’s bright smile, Fleamont’s “kindness triumphs” sermons. You were meant to wear red and gold and chase quaffles and champion the downtrodden like it meant anything.

Instead you sit in green and silver, spine straight, gloves immaculate, your family’s name a stain against your tie. No one knows you left that summer with transformed loyalty, with a burning brand that still aches sometimes when the cold hits it. No one knows you chose—really chose—something sharp, something adult, something inevitable. They suspect. They don’t know. Rumour makes everything more glamorous.

As the marauders walk by, Regulus stands beside you, quiet, elegant, jaw tight as always. "Come here." Your pulse kicks once against your ribs, but you obey, because you always do when he speaks like that—like a prince, like a soldier, like someone who expects to be obeyed.

He produces a small box—black velvet, worn at the corners, the kind of old that means expensive, not neglected. There’s a collective inhale from the crowd. Even the marauders are watching now. Especially the marauders. Especially James.

Out his bag he takes a fine velvet box that produces a gasp from the other purebloods nearby. Long, large, elegant. About the size of those muggle novels you've seen Remus Lupin reading. On its green velvet is engraved the words in silver, and I know what it is. Regulus opens the box and you can see it glittering in the gloomy Hogwarts air. Some snowflakes fall down on it, and every diamond in the piece remains pristine. A necklace, dainty and precious and dazzling, sits nicely between the dark leather.

"This belonged to my great aunt Violetta Bulstrode, and was given to my mother in 1958," said Regulus quietly. "Now it's yours. After your initiation, she deemed you fit to wear it."

With his pale thin hand, Regulus unclasped the necklace from where in the box it sat and placed it around your neck. It was cold, colder than the snow, and heavier than anything you'd ever felt before. Even in the reflection of the lake, you couldn't stop looking at it. "Well?" Said Regulus, almost impatiently against the silence. "Do you not like it or something?"