_+*FR0ST*+_

f- Hufflepuff- writer- reader- cook- artist

[fr0st33]

Hello and Welcome!

Thank you for visiting my blog!

I predominantly post written fiction along with art here.

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My current AU’s and Fandoms include:

MCU

COD

HTTYD

Harry Potter—> Marauders

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I am a slow poster but try to stay consistent so bear with me here but I also do writing prompt suggestions.I won’t write anything explicit or overly gory as I am just not interested but if it fits my current hyper fixations I would be happy to make it a blurb or oneshot, possibly even a series? 0-0 Leave a comment or message me with ideas!!

REQUESTS: open

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My favorite creators:

@bluegiragi

@VilloWasntHere

@

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MASTERLIST

[fr0st33]

The Scent of Static

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Prologue:

The suppressant doesn’t taste like anything.

It dissolves on my tongue like it was never there to begin with, no bitterness, no aftertaste, no proof. If I didn’t take it every morning, same time, same dose, I’d almost believe it wasn’t doing anything at all.

But that’s the trick.

The things that matter most are the ones you can’t feel working.

I swallow, dry, and set the empty foil on the bedside table without looking at it. My fingers hover there for a second longer than necessary, like they’re expecting something to change.

It doesn’t.

Good.

I sit on the edge of the bunk and count my breathing instead.

In. Four.

Hold. Four.

Out. Four.

By the third cycle, everything settles back into place, heartbeat even, muscles loose, mind clear. Whatever sits under my skin stays there, quiet, contained.

Where it belongs.

I stand, rolling my shoulders once before crossing to the mirror.

I don’t stare. I never stare.

Long enough to check. Not long enough to think.

Hair tied back, neat enough. Collar straight. No visible signs of anything that shouldn’t be there. The scar through my brow catches the light wrong again, pale against skin that never quite tans evenly anymore.

Doesn’t matter.

I adjust my sleeve instead.

The patch sits just beneath the fabric at my wrist; thin, nearly invisible, pressed flat against skin. I run my thumb over it once, checking the seal.

Still there.

Still working.

The second one sits higher, hidden at the base of my throat, just under the collar line. I don’t touch that one. I don’t need to.

Two layers.

Always two.

The pill handles what’s internal.

The patch handles what leaks.

And me?

I handle everything else.

A knock cuts through the room.

Two sharp taps. Precise. No hesitation.

I don’t answer straight away.

“Patel.”

Laswell.

Of course.

“We’re moving.”

I exhale slowly, grabbing my gloves from the table. “Yeah, alright,” I mutter, voice rougher than I’d like this early.

I cross the room and open the door.

She’s exactly where I expect her to be—composed, still, presence held tight like it’s something she chooses to carry instead of something that controls her. It presses against the edges of the space without ever crossing into it.

Controlled Alpha.

Safe.

Her eyes flick over me once.

Not searching.

Assessing.

“You’ve taken your suppressant.”

Not a question.

I lean against the doorframe slightly, casual by design. “I’m upright, aren’t I?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting before caffeine.”

A pause.

Then the faintest shift at the corner of her mouth—almost something human, quickly gone.

“Briefing in ten,” she says. “You’re attaching to 141.”

I still for half a second.

Just enough for it to register internally. Not enough for it to show.

Task Force 141.

Right.

“Sounds like a laugh,” I say, pushing off the frame. “Love being volunteered.”

“You weren’t.”

“Even better.”

She steps aside as I move into the corridor.

The air out here is cooler. Cleaner. Easier to manage.

My boots hit the floor in even rhythm, controlled without thought. Everything is controlled. Pace, posture, breathing—each piece exactly where it should be.

The suppressant dulls the rest.

Mostly.

Laswell walks beside me, silent for a few steps before speaking again.

“Your classification remains unchanged.”

I don’t look at her. “It always does.”

“You understand why.”

“I understand that if it doesn’t, this whole arrangement goes sideways real quick.”

“That won’t happen.”

Not reassurance.

Expectation.

I nod once anyway. “Good to hear.”

We turn down the final corridor toward the briefing wing.

And then—

It hits.

Not strong.

Not overwhelming.

Just… there.

Faint traces, layered into the air like something left behind rather than actively present.

Different.

Distinct.

One is sharp and clean, pine, maybe, with something colder underneath. Structured. Controlled. Another is warmer…smoke and spice, steady and grounded, like it settles instead of spreads. There’s something brighter too…citrus, quick and restless, cutting through the heavier notes like it doesn’t know how to sit still.

And underneath all of it—

Something darker.

Muted. Close. Hard to place.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s just scent.

Just environment.

Just people in a room I haven’t walked into yet.

But my body reacts anyway.

A flicker under my skin.

Awareness sharpening without permission.

Wrong.

I shut it down immediately.

Neutral.

Always neutral.

Laswell doesn’t look at me, but I know she notices the shift in my stride. She notices everything.

“You’ll maintain control,” she says quietly.

Not a question.

I roll my shoulders once, grounding. “Always do.”

We stop outside the briefing room door.

It’s closed.

Quiet on the other side.

Waiting.

For a second, the scents bleed through stronger—just enough to register again, to press faintly at the edges of something I’ve spent years locking down.

Static hums low under my skin.

Unwelcome.

Unfamiliar.

I ignore it.

I always ignore it.

My hand settles on the handle.

Cool metal under my palm.

Steady.

Controlled.

Everything exactly where it should be.

I glance at Laswell once.

She gives a single, sharp nod.

That’s all I get.

That’s all I need.

I turn the handle—

—and push the door open.

…

[fr0st33]

THE SCENT OF STATIC

————————————————

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

[fr0st33]

TF141 x Reader - APEX

————————————————

Part Three: Proximity

You feel it before it’s spoken.

—

Something has changed.

—

Not in a dramatic way.

Not something you can point to and say this is where it shifted.

—

It’s quieter than that.

—

It’s in the way they move.

—

The way they look at you.

—

The way they don’t look away.

—

—

Price assigns the mission himself.

That alone is enough to make everyone pay attention.

—

“Overseas,” he says, voice steady, controlled. “Recon and intel. Minimal engagement.”

Soap shifts slightly in his seat, wolf ears twitching. “Minimal engagement usually means the opposite.”

Gaz doesn’t respond, but his black tail gives a slow, thoughtful flick.

Ghost says nothing.

But he’s listening.

Always listening.

—

You stand at the edge of the room, file in hand, posture straight.

Not separate.

Not part of them either.

Just… present.

—

Price’s gaze finds yours.

Holds.

—

“You’re on point with us,” he says.

—

No question.

—

You nod once. “Understood.”

—

Soap glances at you briefly.

Gaz does too.

Ghost doesn’t move.

—

But you feel it—

—

The shift.

—

You’re no longer distant.

—

Not in this.

—

—

The mission begins the way most do.

—

Quiet.

—

Cold air.

Muted movement.

Controlled formation.

—

But this time—

—

you’re not apart.

—

You’re with them.

—

—

Soap runs ahead slightly, wolf instincts pushing him to lead the forward edge.

Gaz moves to your right, panther precise, always watching angles you can’t see.

Ghost takes the rear, silent and solid, polar bear presence anchoring the group.

—

And you—

—

you’re not alone anymore.

—

You’re in the center of it.

—

—

It doesn’t take long for instinct to notice.

—

Too many apex predators in one space.

—

Too many eyes.

Too many instincts brushing against each other.

—

And yet—

—

it’s working.

—

Barely.

—

—

Until the moment it doesn’t.

—

—

The contact is accidental.

—

Or it should be.

—

You slip slightly on uneven ground—just a fraction, nothing serious—

but Ghost’s hand is already there.

—

Catching your arm.

—

Steady.

Firm.

—

Instant.

—

His grip is warm through your sleeve.

Strong.

Unquestioning.

—

You freeze for half a second.

—

Not because you’re unstable.

—

Because you weren’t expecting it.

—

—

He doesn’t let go immediately.

—

Just enough to steady you.

—

Then releases.

—

But not before your instincts register the contact.

—

Bear.

Close.

—

Too close.

—

—

You recover quickly.

Adjust your stance.

Move on.

—

But the moment lingers.

—

Not just for you.

—

For him too.

—

—

Soap notices.

Of course he does.

—

His gaze flicks between you and Ghost, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.

His wolf tail shifts once.

—

Gaz sees it too.

—

His posture changes slightly.

Subtle.

But present.

—

Price—

—

Price doesn’t miss anything.

—

His lion’s gaze sharpens.

Just a fraction.

—

But he says nothing.

—

Not yet.

—

—

“Control your footing,” Ghost says quietly.

—

Not criticism.

Not concern.

Just observation.

—

You glance at him.

Hold his gaze.

—

“I had it,” you say.

—

A beat.

—

He nods once.

—

But his attention doesn’t leave you.

—

—

The rest of the mission runs smoother than it should.

—

That’s what makes it worse.

—

Because nothing goes wrong.

—

And yet—

—

everything feels different.

—

—

It’s after.

—

Back at base.

—

Late.

—

You don’t expect to run into any of them.

—

You take the quieter route.

The empty corridor.

—

But that doesn’t matter.

—

—

Because someone is already there.

—

Soap.

—

Leaning against the wall again.

—

Waiting.

—

—

“You’re gettin’ predictable,” he says.

—

You stop.

Just a few feet away.

—

“Am I?”

—

“Aye,” he replies, watching you carefully. “You avoid the main routes.”

—

“I prefer efficiency.”

—

“Avoidance,” he corrects.

—

Your eyes narrow slightly.

—

He smiles.

—

But it’s softer than before.

—

Less challenge.

More… observation.

—

—

“You don’t like us,” he says.

—

Not accusing.

Just stating.

—

You pause.

—

Then answer.

—

“I don’t dislike you.”

—

“Right.”

—

A beat.

—

“Just don’t trust us,” he adds.

—

You meet his gaze.

—

“No,” you say.

—

Honest.

—

“No,” he echoes.

—

But there’s no bite in it.

—

Just understanding.

—

—

And that—

—

is worse.

—

—

Because for the first time—

—

you think:

—

They’re starting to notice you.

—

Not just as an assignment.

—

But as something else.

—

—

And you don’t know yet—

—

if that’s going to be the thing that pulls you together.

—

Or breaks everything apart.

[fr0st33]

TF141 X Reader APEX

————————————————

Part Two: Pressure

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Nothing ever does.

—

It happens in pieces.

Small enough that if you wanted to ignore them—you could.

But you don’t.

You notice everything.

—

It starts in the hallways.

You round a corner, steps steady, posture controlled—

and you feel it before you see it.

—

Presence.

—

Soap is leaning against the wall like he owns the space. Relaxed in that way wolves are when they’re not entirely relaxed at all. His arms are crossed, one foot braced behind him, ears angled forward—listening.

Waiting.

For what, you don’t know.

Until you.

—

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t hesitate.

But your path adjusts by instinct—just enough to give him space.

—

His eyes track the movement.

Of course they do.

—

“Lieutenant.”

His voice is casual.

But it lands like something deliberate.

—

You don’t look at him immediately.

Just a fraction too long.

Just enough to make it clear you’re aware of him.

Then you turn your head.

Meet his gaze.

“Sergeant.”

—

A pause.

—

You could walk past.

That’s what the agreement says.

That’s what everyone decided.

—

But neither of you move.

—

Soap’s ears twitch once, his tail giving a small shift behind him.

His gaze sharpens slightly—not aggressive, not challenging.

Just… interested.

Like something about you doesn’t quite fit the way he expected.

—

“You always this quiet?” he asks.

—

You tilt your head slightly.

A tiger’s observation.

Measured.

Controlled.

—

“Only when there’s nothing worth saying.”

—

That earns you a low huff of amusement.

Not quite a laugh.

But close.

—

“Careful,” he says. “That might be the nicest thing you say all day.”

—

You give him a look.

Not amused.

Not hostile.

Just… flat.

—

Then you step past him.

—

And continue on.

—

You don’t look back.

But you feel it.

—

His gaze following you down the hall.

—

—

The next time it happens, it’s Gaz.

—

Armory.

Late.

—

You’re checking your gear when you hear it—

a shift behind you.

Soft.

Measured.

—

You don’t turn right away.

You wait.

—

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

—

Gaz.

Panther.

Quiet in a way that feels more dangerous than noise.

—

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s leaning against the doorway, his black ears angled forward slightly, tail held still behind him, eyes tracking your movements with steady focus.

—

“Is there a time restriction?” you ask.

—

A faint smile.

Not mocking.

Not warm.

Something in between.

—

“No,” he says. “Just figured you’d be with the others.”

—

There’s a beat.

—

“The others,” you repeat.

—

His gaze flickers.

Just slightly.

—

“Price. Soap. Ghost.”

—

You turn back to your gear.

“Then you figured wrong.”

—

Another pause.

—

Not awkward.

Just… charged.

—

“You don’t train with us,” Gaz says.

—

It’s not a question.

—

You secure the strap on your vest.

“No.”

—

“Why?”

—

You finally look at him fully now.

Tiger stillness meeting panther focus.

—

“Because I was told not to.”

—

That’s it.

—

No more explanation.

—

But the silence that follows says more than either of you do.

—

—

The first real shift comes during training.

—

You didn’t expect to be included.

That was the agreement.

—

But Price calls you in.

—

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just a simple:

“Lieutenant. You’re with us.”

—

Soap’s head tilts slightly, his wolf ears flicking as he watches you step forward.

Gaz straightens, tail giving a slow, deliberate flick behind him.

Ghost doesn’t move—but his attention sharpens, his polar bear ears angling subtly forward beneath his hood.

—

You step into the space without argument.

—

This is still controlled.

Still contained.

—

At first.

—

You run drills.

Movement.

Coordination.

Spacing.

—

It should be clean.

Efficient.

—

But it isn’t.

—

Because now—

you’re aware of them.

—

Soap moves fast.

Too fast to ignore.

—

Gaz reads movement before it happens.

His black tail shifts subtly with each adjustment.

—

Ghost doesn’t waste motion.

Ever.

His smaller, white polar bear ears remain still, but his presence fills the space in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

—

And Price—

—

Price watches everything.

His lion’s tail gives a slow, controlled flick as he observes.

—

“Again,” he says when the drill ends.

—

No one argues.

—

You reset.

—

And this time—

you notice it.

—

Soap adjusting his pace to match yours.

—

Gaz shifting slightly closer than necessary.

—

Ghost positioning himself so that, unintentionally—

you’re within his line of sight.

—

You pause.

Just for a fraction of a second.

—

Then continue.

—

Because you know what this is.

—

Not trust.

Not yet.

—

But something is changing.

—

And none of you have decided to stop it.

—

—

Later—

you’re alone in the corridor.

—

Or you think you are.

—

Until you hear it.

—

Footsteps.

Heavy.

Measured.

—

You stop.

Turn.

—

Ghost.

—

Polar bear.

Silent. Unreadable.

His small white ears barely visible beneath his hood, his tail shifting once behind him as he comes to a stop.

—

You both stand there for a moment.

Neither of you speaking.

—

Then—

“Why are you avoiding us?”

—

His voice is low.

Not accusatory.

Just direct.

—

You don’t flinch.

But something in your chest tightens.

—

“I’m not.”

—

A lie.

—

Not entirely.

—

He studies you.

Long enough that it becomes uncomfortable.

Not for fear.

For awareness.

—

“You are,” he says simply.

—

You hold his gaze.

Tiger meeting bear.

—

“Because that’s what we agreed on.”

—

Another pause.

—

Then—

“Doesn’t look like you want it anymore.”

—

That lands.

—

Quiet.

Heavy.

—

You don’t respond immediately.

—

Because he’s not wrong.

—

And that’s the problem.

—

Before you can answer—

you hear footsteps behind you.

—

Soap’s voice cuts in, lighter but edged with curiosity.

“Oi, what’re you two standin’ about for?”

—

Gaz follows, quieter.

“Everything alright?”

—

You feel it then.

—

The shift.

—

You’re no longer just a lone assignment.

—

You’re part of their attention now.

—

And that changes everything.

—

You glance between them.

Four apex predators.

Four different instincts.

Four different ways of watching you.

—

And for the first time since you arrived—

—

you realize:

—

Distance might not be something any of you can maintain.

—

Not for long.

—

Not anymore.

[fr0st33]

COD mini Series- APEX

————————————————

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

[fr0st33]

TF141 Apex Predators X FReader Predator

——————————————————————

Part One: Territory

You know before anyone says a word—

this isn’t going to work.

It’s not something logical. Not something you can point to on paper and argue against.

It’s instinct.

The kind that settles low in your chest and doesn’t leave.

—

The briefing room is already occupied when you arrive.

Of course it is.

They don’t wait.

Predators rarely do.

—

You pause just outside the door for half a second longer than necessary.

Not hesitation.

Assessment.

Breathing steady. Shoulders loose. Hands relaxed at your sides.

Control everything.

Give nothing.

Then you step in.

—

The room feels smaller than it should.

Four men. Four apex predators.

It shouldn’t matter—you’ve worked with worse, commanded worse—but something about the way they fill the space makes it feel… territorial.

Like you’ve stepped into something already claimed.

—

Captain Price stands at the center of it.

Lion.

You don’t need the hybrid traits to know it—the authority rolls off him in quiet, steady waves. He’s not the loudest presence in the room, but he’s the one everything else orbits around.

His gaze flicks up when you enter.

Brief.

Sharp.

Measured.

You hold it.

Just long enough.

Then you look away first—not submission, just acknowledgment.

You know how to play this.

—

Soap is next to register you.

Wolf.

He leans back in his chair like he’s relaxed, one boot hooked under the table, arms loose—but his eyes are alert, tracking you the moment you cross the threshold.

There’s a grin there.

Not friendly.

Not unfriendly.

Curious.

Like he’s trying to decide if you’re worth the energy.

—

Gaz doesn’t move at all.

Panther.

He’s half-shadow even in a lit room, posture still, gaze steady and unreadable. You feel it settle on you like weight, like a presence that doesn’t need to announce itself to be dangerous.

He doesn’t blink.

Neither do you.

—

Ghost is last.

You don’t look at him right away.

You feel him first.

—

Polar bear.

—

It’s not something you can explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it.

That quiet, looming pressure of something that could end you without trying.

When you do look, it’s quick.

Enough to take in the size of him, the stillness, the way he doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s watching you.

Not hostile.

Not welcoming.

Just—

aware.

—

“Lieutenant.”

Price’s voice cuts through the room, grounding it.

You nod once. “Captain.”

Your voice is even.

It always is.

—

No one offers a handshake.

You don’t expect one.

—

You step further into the room, boots quiet against the floor, and set your file down on the table like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Like you belong here.

Even if no one else thinks you do.

—

There’s a pause.

Not awkward.

Measured.

—

“Shepherd’s call?” Soap asks, glancing between you and Price.

His tone is casual, but there’s something under it. Something testing.

Price nods once. “Temporary attachment.”

Temporary.

You don’t comment.

You’ve learned not to put weight on words like that.

—

Gaz shifts slightly, just enough to show he’s listening more closely now. “We weren’t informed.”

“No,” you say simply. “You weren’t.”

You don’t apologize.

—

That earns you a look.

From all of them.

Different, but the same at the core.

Recognition.

—

Laswell’s voice crackles through the speaker before anything else can be said.

“This assignment stands.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Still, Price’s jaw tightens slightly. “With respect—”

“With respect,” she cuts in, calm but firm, “you’re getting one of the best field operatives available.”

Silence.

Then—

“She’ll integrate.”

—

You almost smile.

Almost.

—

No one in this room believes that.

Not you.

Not them.

—

The discussion that follows isn’t loud.

No raised voices.

No arguments.

That would be easier.

Instead, it’s controlled. Precise. Each word chosen carefully, like stepping through something fragile that might snap if too much weight is placed on it.

—

“Separate rotations,” Gaz suggests.

“Minimal overlap,” Soap adds.

“Mission-only contact,” you say.

That one lands.

—

Price studies you for a moment.

Longer than before.

Weighing.

Measuring.

Then he nods.

“Fine.”

—

Ghost doesn’t speak.

But you feel the decision settle anyway.

Like something unspoken has been agreed upon.

—

Distance.

—

It’s cleaner this way.

Safer.

—

You don’t train with them.

You don’t eat in the same spaces.

You learn the base by avoiding the routes they take.

Early mornings. Late nights. Empty corridors.

You become something that exists parallel to them.

Close enough to be assigned.

Far enough to not disturb the balance.

—

It works.

—

Mostly.

—

But instinct isn’t something you can schedule around.

—

The first time you hear Soap laugh down the hall, it catches you off guard.

Loud. Unrestrained. Alive in a way that doesn’t fit the careful distance you’ve all built.

You pause.

Just for a second.

Then keep walking.

—

The first time you pass Gaz in the armory, he looks at you longer than necessary.

Not rude.

Not invasive.

Just—

interested.

You don’t acknowledge it.

But you feel it.

—

The first time you step into a room and realize Ghost is already there—

you leave.

Without a word.

—

And Price—

Price watches.

He doesn’t interfere.

Doesn’t push.

But you catch him sometimes, across rooms, across distance, assessing.

Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

—

Maybe you are too.

—

Because this kind of arrangement doesn’t last.

Not with predators.

Not with territory.

Not with instincts that don’t understand distance as anything other than temporary.

—

Something will give.

—

It always does.

—

And when it does—

it won’t be quiet.

[fr0st33]

TF141- Cold Hybrids x FReader- Warm Hybrid

Gaz-Owl. Soap- Timber Wolf. Price- Grizzly Bear. Ghost- Reindeer. Reader- Fennec Fox.

————————————————

COLD FRONT:

The cold doesn’t creep in.

It hits you.

The second the ramp drops, wind slams into you like a physical force—sharp, biting, vicious enough to steal the breath right out of your lungs. Snow whips across the ground in blinding sheets, stinging your cheeks, clawing at every inch of exposed skin.

Siberia.

Of course it’s Siberia.

You step off the aircraft—and immediately regret everything.

“…No,” you say flatly.

Soap laughs beside you, breath fogging thick in the air. “Bit chilly, is it?”

You turn to him slowly, ears already pinned back tight against your head. “Chilly? This is not chilly. This is hostile. This is a personal attack.”

Gaz’s wings shift under his gear, feathers fluffing slightly against the cold. “You read the mission brief.”

“I didn’t realize ‘cold’ meant actively trying to kill me, Kyle.”

Price, entirely unbothered, adjusts his gloves. Grizzly instincts, steady and solid. Built for this. “Stay close. Keep moving. You’ll warm up.”

You stare at him.

“You’re a furnace,” you accuse. “You don’t get an opinion.”

Ghost’s voice cuts in from behind, dry as ever. “Should’ve brought more layers.”

“I’m wearing six.”

“Make it seven next time.”

You make a small, deeply offended noise.

You try.

You really do.

You keep pace. You follow formation. You breathe through the cold like it’s something you can outlast.

But you are not built for this.

Not even a little.

Fifteen minutes in, your teeth start chattering.

Over comms, it sounds… bad.

“—zzzt—copy—zzzt—p-p-position—”

Soap snorts immediately. “That you, or comms givin’ out?”

You try to answer with dignity.

“—I’m f-f-fine—”

Gaz loses it. “That is not a stable transmission.”

“I hate all of you,” you snap, voice shaking uncontrollably.

Ghost doesn’t even sound surprised. “Stick closer.”

You don’t argue.

You drift toward Price first.

It’s instinct at this point.

Every gust of wind pushes you closer until you’re brushing his arm, then his side, then practically glued to him like he’s the only thing standing between you and freezing solid.

He glances down at you.

“Cold?” he asks.

You don’t even pretend anymore. “I can’t feel my soul.”

Soap appears on your other side almost immediately, wolf instincts kicking in. “C’mere, then.”

You go without hesitation.

Of course you do.

You press into both of them, stealing warmth shamelessly, hands curling into their sleeves like you belong there.

“Thank you,” you mutter, already thawing slightly.

From behind, Gaz calls out, “Unfair advantage!”

“You have feathers!” you shoot back. “Figure it out!”

Ghost exhales quietly. “Pathetic.”

You twist just enough to glare at him. “I hope you slip.”

“They won’t.”

“Tragic.”

By the time the mission is done, you are running on spite alone.

And even that is fading.

Night falls, and somehow—somehow—it gets colder.

“How?” you demand, hands shaking as you fumble with your gear. “How is it worse?”

“Sun’s gone,” Gaz says.

“I will fight the sun.”

Soap laughs. “Aye, good luck with tha’.”

The tent is small.

Too small.

Normally, that would bother you.

Right now?

It’s survival.

The second you’re free of your outer layers, you make a decision.

“Move,” you say.

They don’t.

Fast enough.

So you fix that.

You go straight for Price.

You press into his side, cold hands immediately slipping under his jacket without warning, searching for warmth like your life depends on it.

He stiffens for half a second.

Then his arm comes around you automatically.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “You’re freezing.”

“I told you,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Soap is next.

You grab him by the sleeve and yank him closer, tugging him into place like it’s obvious.

“Oi—!” he starts, then cuts himself off the second your freezing fingers brush his wrist. “Christ—alright, alright—”

He settles in, pulling you closer properly this time, tail curling around your legs.

Gaz doesn’t even pretend to resist.

He drops in beside you, wings adjusting instinctively to block the cold seeping through the tent.

Ghost hangs back.

Watching.

Until you look at him.

“…Simon.”

Just that.

He exhales.

Moves.

Sits close enough that your shoulders touch.

And when your hand finds his sleeve—

he lets it stay.

It doesn’t take long.

The shaking fades first.

Then the biting cold in your fingers softens.

Then your breathing slows.

You sink into them without thinking—into warmth, into steady heartbeats, into something safe.

“This,” you mumble sleepily, “is the only good part of this mission.”

Soap huffs a quiet laugh. “Aye? Nearly freezin’ to death worth it, then?”

“…Maybe.”

Gaz smiles faintly. “We’ll include that in the report.”

Ghost mutters, “Idiot.”

But his hand shifts closer to yours anyway.

Price’s arm stays firm around you, grounding, steady.

“Get some sleep,” he says quietly.

You hum in response.

Already drifting.

Outside, the cold howls.

Inside, you’re warm.

And for once—

you don’t feel like you’re fighting to survive it.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 12: Blood and Ink

The rumors did not fade.

They thickened.

By Thursday, Freya Starwind could feel eyes on her before she entered a room.

Some were curious.

Some amused.

Some sharp.

“Careful,” a Slytherin girl murmured as Freya passed in the corridor. “Blacks stain.”

Freya did not react.

But she remembered it.

That evening, the air inside the castle felt too tight.

Too warm.

She needed space.

She found it in the courtyard.

Cold stone beneath her boots. Breath fogging in front of her.

She wasn’t alone for long.

“Starwind.”

She turned.

Sirius.

Jaw tight. Eyes darker than usual.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I’ve been worse.”

He studied her carefully.

“They’re being cruel.”

“I’ve been called worse than ambitious,” she replied evenly.

His mouth twitched faintly — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“He spoke to you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair.

“You need to understand something,” he said quietly. “My family does not do ‘nothing.’”

Before she could ask what that meant—

Another voice cut through the cold air.

“You shouldn’t be speaking for us.”

Regulus stepped into the courtyard from the shadowed archway.

Of course he had heard.

Sirius’s posture changed instantly.

The air shifted — like two storms recognizing each other.

Freya felt it in her bones.

“I don’t need your permission to speak,” Sirius replied lightly.

Regulus’s expression did not change.

“No,” he agreed. “You rarely waited for it.”

There it was.

The old wound.

Sirius stepped forward.

“Leave her out of it.”

Regulus’s gaze flicked briefly to Freya — not possessive, not dismissive. Just aware.

“I have not put her in anything.”

“You’ve let the castle do it for you.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened.

“You forfeited the right to comment on how I handle my life.”

Sirius let out a sharp laugh.

“Your life?” he echoed. “Or Mother’s?”

The temperature seemed to drop.

Freya stayed still.

Did not intervene.

But she did not leave either.

Regulus’s voice was calm.

Too calm.

“You made your choice.”

“Yes,” Sirius snapped. “I did.”

“And now you wear rebellion like it’s noble.”

Sirius stepped closer, shoulders squaring.

“At least it’s mine.”

Silence cracked between them.

Then Regulus said it.

“They expect me to take the Mark.”

The words did not echo.

They landed.

Heavy.

Freya’s breath caught.

Sirius’s expression went utterly still.

“What?” he said.

“Fifth year,” Regulus continued evenly. “It has been discussed.”

“Discussed,” Sirius repeated dangerously.

“Yes.”

“As if it’s a Quidditch trial?”

Regulus did not flinch.

“As if it is inevitable.”

Freya felt the world tilt slightly.

The Dark Mark.

Not rumor.

Not whispered ideology.

Planned.

Structured.

Sirius’s voice lost its humor.

“You’re sixteen.”

“I will be.”

“You don’t have to.”

Regulus’s eyes flashed — the first real crack in his composure.

“You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you left,” Regulus snapped.

The word tore through the air.

Freya had never heard his voice rise like that.

“You walked away and left me there,” Regulus continued. “You don’t get to lecture me about choices you never had to face.”

Sirius recoiled slightly.

“I tried to get you out.”

“You tried to get me to betray everything we were taught.”

“Yes,” Sirius shot back. “Because it’s wrong.”

Regulus’s breathing was sharper now.

“It is not that simple.”

“It is,” Sirius insisted. “It’s evil.”

The word hung between them.

Freya’s chest tightened.

Regulus laughed once — hollow.

“You think I don’t know what it is?” he asked quietly. “You think I haven’t considered what it means?”

“Then don’t do it.”

“And go where?” Regulus demanded. “With you? Into exile? Into disgrace?”

“You’d be free.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked toward Freya again.

Brief.

Unintentional.

Revealing.

“Freedom,” he said softly, “is expensive.”

The wind cut through the courtyard.

Freya stepped forward then.

Just slightly.

“You don’t owe them your skin,” she said.

Both brothers looked at her.

Regulus’s expression shifted — something vulnerable flickering beneath it.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“Then explain it.”

He held her gaze.

“My name is currency,” he said quietly. “If I refuse, it isn’t rebellion. It is treason.”

Sirius scoffed.

“Treason to who? Mother?”

“To legacy.”

“And what has legacy done for you?” Sirius shot back.

Regulus’s jaw tightened.

“It has kept me alive.”

The words were not dramatic.

They were honest.

Silence followed.

Freya felt something deep and cold move beneath her ribs.

Not fear.

Assessment.

Regulus was not arrogant.

He was cornered.

Sirius’s voice softened — just slightly.

“You don’t have to become what they want.”

Regulus looked at him — not hostile now.

Tired.

“Perhaps not,” he said quietly. “But you underestimate how little room there is to refuse.”

Freya stepped closer again.

“If you take it,” she said, steady despite the tremor in her chest, “it will not just belong to them.”

Regulus studied her.

“It will belong to me,” he said.

“And that matters.”

“Yes.”

Sirius shook his head.

“You think you can wear it without becoming it?”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that survival requires compromise.”

“And what happens when compromise becomes allegiance?” Sirius demanded.

That one hit.

Regulus’s composure slipped for half a second.

Then it returned.

“That is not your concern.”

“It is when she’s involved.”

Freya stiffened.

“I am not a battlefield,” she said sharply.

Both brothers fell silent.

She looked at Regulus.

“If you take that Mark,” she said quietly, “don’t pretend it won’t change things.”

He did not look away.

“I won’t pretend.”

The honesty in that almost hurt more than denial would have.

Sirius exhaled hard.

“You’re playing with fire.”

Regulus’s voice was steady again.

“I was born in it.”

Silence.

Cold.

Breath visible in the dark.

Then Regulus stepped back.

“I did not come here to argue,” he said quietly. “I came because I am tired of being spoken about like I am not present.”

His eyes held Sirius’s.

“You left,” he said again — softer this time. “I did not.”

And then he turned.

Walking back toward the castle.

Freya stood frozen.

Sirius stared after him, jaw tight.

“He won’t survive it,” Sirius muttered.

Freya didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure survival was what this was about anymore.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and merciless.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Chapter 11: The Weight of Daylight

Classes started back up as if nothing had shifted.

As if the long weekend had not stretched something fragile between houses.

As if frost-lit fields had not held the silent outline of predator and predator beneath the moon.

Hogwarts resumed its rhythm without mercy.

Freya Strawind was tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep could mend.

The kind that came from holding herself carefully in public spaces.

From choosing when not to look.

From deciding which corridors were safe.

Monday morning arrived grey and sharp. Students shuffled through the castle in clumps, complaining about essays and Quidditch drills.

Freya moved through it all with quiet precision.

She did not look toward the Slytherin table at breakfast.

She did not need to.

Awareness did not require eye contact.

Transfiguration was first.

Of course it was.

Professor Minerva McGonagall stood at the front of the classroom, hands folded behind her back, posture immaculate.

“Settle,” she said crisply.

Freya slid into her seat, spine straight.

McGonagall’s eyes skimmed the room — sharp, assessing.

They paused briefly on Freya.

“Miss Starwind,” she said, “you appear distracted.”

Freya met her gaze evenly. “Apologies, Professor.”

“See that your concentration improves.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Across the room, Sirius sat unnaturally upright. James had already snapped his quill in half. Peter looked nervous. Remus was calm but alert.

Regulus sat two rows ahead of Freya.

Impeccable.

Still.

Not once did he turn around.

“Today,” McGonagall began, conjuring a floating diagram of a witch overlaid with the faint outline of a feline form, “we revisit partial human-to-animal transfiguration.”

Freya’s pulse ticked once.

“Controlled manifestation of physical traits without full cognitive surrender,” McGonagall continued. “One must never allow instinct to overtake identity.”

The diagram shifted — claws extending from human fingers.

“Self-transfiguration,” she said, “is not surrender. It is discipline.”

Freya wrote the word down.

Discipline.

Across the room, she felt Sirius go very still.

Remus’s eyes flicked subtly toward her.

Regulus did not move at all.

But she could feel him listening.

They met again that evening.

Same abandoned classroom.

Same floating candles.

The air felt different now.

More charged.

James shut the door carefully.

Peter checked the corridor twice.

Remus placed the books down gently.

Sirius leaned against the wall, watching Freya.

“You’re first,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was trust.

Freya stepped into the center of the room.

She closed her eyes.

Anchors.

Freya Strawind.

Hufflepuff.

Chaser.

Silver rings cool against her fingers.

Balou’s soft weight on her shoulder.

Snow across a mountainside.

Wind cutting clean through silence.

Strength that did not need permission.

She inhaled.

Let go — but not fully.

White fur rippled up her arms.

Not imagined.

Not shadow.

Real.

Her fingers elongated, nails sharpening into curved claws before retracting.

Her spine shifted — subtle but powerful.

For one suspended second, her eyes opened — pale and feline.

Snow leopard.

Massive.

Controlled.

Then she pulled it back.

Breathing steady.

Present.

James stared openly.

“That,” he whispered, “was not subtle.”

Remus exhaled slowly.

“You stayed anchored.”

Freya nodded once.

“I wasn’t losing myself.”

Sirius stepped closer, gaze intense.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

She almost smiled.

“I know.”

James tried next.

Antlers flickered clearer this time — unmistakable before fading.

Peter managed whiskers and a twitching nose before panicking and snapping back.

And Sirius—

The air shifted before he did.

A shadow pressed outward from him.

Broad shoulders.

Sharp muzzle.

A black wolf.

Not domestic.

Not tame.

For a split second, his posture lowered — predatory.

Remus stepped forward immediately.

“Sirius.”

The outline receded.

Sirius blinked hard, grounding himself.

“Still me,” he said quietly.

Remus nodded.

“Good.”

Freya watched them carefully.

They were getting closer.

Close enough to matter.

Close enough to risk something.

The rumors began Tuesday.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

Just enough.

A Ravenclaw whispering as Freya passed.

Two Hufflepuffs going quiet mid-conversation.

A Slytherin girl smirking openly in the corridor.

By lunch, it had sharpened.

“She spends an awful lot of time near the Black brothers.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“She’s not even Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

The last one lingered.

Freya kept her posture steady.

Starwind was not a sacred name.

Starwind did not come with legacy dinners and blood purity lectures.

Starwind was wind over mountains. Not polished silver tables.

Across the hall, Sirius looked furious.

James looked ready to start a fight.

Remus looked concerned.

Regulus —

Regulus looked carved from stone.

He did not defend her.

He did not distance himself.

He simply existed.

And somehow that was louder than anything he could have said.

She left early.

The courtyard air was sharp.

She didn’t get far.

“Freya.”

Lily.

Dorcas.

Marlene.

All three.

Arms crossed.

Protective.

Marlene spoke first. “What’s going on?”

Freya blinked. “With?”

“Don’t,” Dorcas said calmly.

Lily stepped closer, softer.

“They’re talking about you. And the Blacks.”

Freya exhaled slowly.

“They talk about everyone.”

“Not like this,” Dorcas replied.

Silence.

Marlene tilted her head.

“Are you involved with one of them?”

Freya hesitated.

And that was enough.

“Which one?” Lily asked gently.

“Regulus.”

The name settled carefully between them.

Marlene blinked. “The quiet one.”

“Yes.”

Dorcas studied her.

“Is he treating you well?”

Freya’s jaw tightened slightly.

“He hasn’t mistreated me.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Dorcas said evenly.

Freya looked toward the Black Lake in the distance.

“I don’t know what it is yet,” she admitted. “And I don’t know what it becomes.”

Lily’s voice softened.

“Then don’t let the castle decide it for you.”

Freya swallowed.

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Good,” Marlene said firmly. “Because we won’t let anyone make you feel small.”

Small.

Freya almost laughed.

There was nothing small about what lived beneath her skin.

That night, as she crossed the courtyard alone, she felt it again.

Watching.

She turned this time.

Regulus stood beneath the archway.

Still.

Controlled.

His gaze met hers and held.

Not demanding.

Not pleading.

Waiting.

Freya did not look away.

The silence stretched — heavy but not hostile.

The snow leopard inside her did not retreat.

It did not chase.

It assessed.

For the first time since she began avoiding him—

She stepped forward.

Just one step.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough to mean something.

Regulus’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Are you finished thinking?” he asked quietly.

Freya held his gaze.

“Not yet.”

A flicker of something — relief? frustration? — crossed his expression.

“I’ll wait,” he said.

She studied him carefully.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

And that was the difference.

The wind moved between them.

Freya did not retreat this time.

But she did not stay long either.

She passed him slowly, close enough to feel warmth through winter air.

And for once—

Neither of them felt temporary.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 10: Claws Beneath the Skin

The common room was loud enough to be normal but quiet enough to feel secret.

James had dragged three armchairs into a rough circle near the fire. Peter sat cross-legged on the rug with parchment scattered around him. Remus had a stack of books open, all marked with careful tabs. Sirius lounged sideways in his chair like he owned the concept of rebellion.

Freya sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, boots off, silver rings glinting in the firelight.

On the table between them sat a single, old, leather-bound book.

Advanced Self-Transfiguration.

Stolen. Obviously.

“This is absolutely mental,” Peter muttered, squinting at a diagram of magical core alignment.

“That’s the point,” Sirius replied.

Remus ignored both of them.

“We are not attempting full transformation,” he said firmly. “Not yet. We’re focusing on magical anchoring and identity stabilization.”

James grinned. “Moony, you make it sound like a Ministry pamphlet.”

Remus gave him a look.

Freya leaned forward.

“Walk me through the anchoring again.”

Remus softened immediately.

“It’s not just becoming an animal,” he explained. “It’s allowing your magic to take its most natural form. You don’t choose arbitrarily. Your magic chooses.”

Sirius smirked faintly. “I chose.”

“No,” Remus corrected gently. “You didn’t.”

Sirius didn’t argue.

Freya stayed quiet.

Because she already knew.

She had known since the first time she’d closed her eyes by the Black Lake and felt something vast and white moving under her skin.

Snow.

Silence.

Power coiled and patient.

A snow leopard did not chase.

It watched.

It endured.

It survived.

“Right,” James clapped once. “Let’s try partial projection.”

Peter paled.

Sirius rolled his shoulders and stood.

Remus stepped back instinctively.

The fire dimmed slightly as they focused.

Freya watched carefully.

James closed his eyes first. His hands trembled. For a moment, the air around him felt… different. A shimmer. A suggestion of something tall and antlered pressing outward from inside him.

Then it vanished.

He exhaled sharply.

“Blimey.”

Peter attempted next.

Nothing happened except a nose twitch and an indignant squeak when Sirius laughed.

Then Sirius stepped forward.

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

Not colder.

Sharper.

His eyes darkened slightly as he concentrated.

For a split second —

Freya saw it.

A shadow behind him.

Broad shoulders, low stance.

Teeth.

Not a dog.

Not domesticated.

A black wolf.

Then it snapped back like a breath being pulled inward.

Sirius staggered but didn’t fall.

Remus stared at him.

“That was closer.”

Sirius grinned, breathless. “Felt it.”

Freya’s heart pounded.

She could feel hers too.

Not outward.

Inward.

Claws resting beneath her ribs.

Waiting.

They practiced for nearly an hour.

No full transformations.

Just flickers. Shadows. Instincts.

It wasn’t reckless.

It was intentional.

Because this wasn’t about glory.

It was about Remus.

About the nights he disappeared alone.

When they finally stopped, Peter collapsed dramatically.

“I’m going to turn into a teacup by accident.”

James threw a cushion at him.

Sirius glanced toward Freya.

“You’re quiet.”

She shrugged lightly.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t think my magic would be small,” she admitted.

Sirius tilted his head slightly.

“No,” he agreed. “It wouldn’t.”

There was no teasing in it.

Just certainty.

She left before the others.

On purpose.

Timing mattered.

She knew when the Slytherins usually crossed the corridor between the library and their common room.

She waited.

Then took the opposite staircase.

Avoidance wasn’t dramatic.

It was strategic.

She hadn’t spoken to Regulus in days.

She didn’t linger in shared hallways.

She didn’t sit near the Slytherin end during combined study blocks.

It would have been easier if he’d been angry.

If he’d confronted her.

Instead, he simply watched her from across rooms.

And that was worse.

The next afternoon, after Defense Against the Dark Arts, she exited quickly.

Too quickly.

“Freya.”

Her spine stiffened.

Regulus stood halfway down the corridor.

He wasn’t blocking her path.

He never would.

That wasn’t his way.

His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms. Tie loosened just slightly. Hair falling imperfectly over his brow.

He looked composed.

Too composed.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said quietly.

Not accusatory.

Just factual.

She adjusted the strap of her bag.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched.

Students moved around them.

Laughter echoed somewhere distant.

“You don’t have to pretend I won’t notice,” he added.

Her jaw tightened.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She met his eyes finally.

Guarded.

“I’m thinking.”

His expression shifted — not hurt exactly. Something more controlled.

“And am I part of that?”

She didn’t answer.

Because yes.

And that was the problem.

He stepped slightly closer — not touching, just within reach.

“You’re not something I intend to mishandle,” he said carefully.

Her heart stumbled.

“That’s not reassuring,” she replied softly.

Something flickered in his gaze.

“What do you want from me, Freya?”

Honesty burned on her tongue.

She swallowed it.

“I don’t know.”

That was the truth.

And he recognized it.

Regulus straightened slightly.

“I won’t chase you,” he said.

She felt that like a physical thing.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” he agreed.

Another beat of silence.

He stepped back.

“But don’t mistake restraint for indifference.”

Then he walked away.

And somehow that was worse than if he had argued.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

Balou shifted on his perch near her window.

Moonlight spilled across the floor.

She slipped from her bed quietly and out toward the grounds.

The cold air hit her lungs like clarity.

She walked until the castle lights dimmed behind her.

And then she stopped.

Closed her eyes.

Breathed.

Let go.

The shift was smoother now.

Less painful.

More like shedding than breaking.

Her spine lengthened.

Her senses sharpened.

White fur rippled into existence under the moon.

A snow leopard stepped into the frost-tipped grass.

Silent.

Massive.

Controlled power in every movement.

She didn’t run immediately.

She walked first.

Testing the weight of herself.

Her paws left faint impressions in the thin layer of snow.

The lake shimmered nearby.

She avoided it instinctively.

Depth was not for her.

Mountains were.

Open air.

High places.

She bounded once — just to feel it.

Strength coiling and releasing.

No expectation.

No politics.

No legacy.

Just instinct.

Somewhere across the grounds, another presence shifted.

She felt it.

Dark. Sleek. Watching.

Not approaching.

A black panther did not chase snow leopards.

It observed.

And waited.

Freya did not turn her head.

She did not acknowledge it.

But she knew.

He was there.

And for a long moment, under the moonlight, predator and predator stood on opposite ends of the frost-covered field.

Not enemies.

Not allies.

Not yet.

Then she leapt toward the treeline and disappeared into shadow.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 9: Where the Forest Breathes

The laughter lingered all the way back to the castle.

Boots crunching in snow. Butterbeer warmth still humming in her chest. Marlene recounting something ridiculous James had said. Lily pretending not to smile.

Freya stayed a half-step ahead of them.

Still smiling.

But thinner now.

By the time they reached the courtyard, the air had changed.

The castle loomed taller. Colder.

Hogsmeade felt like a dream already dissolving.

“Common room?” Dorcas asked.

“In a bit,” Freya replied lightly.

“You’re not escaping,” Marlene warned.

“I’m not,” Freya said.

Lie.

She waited until the others disappeared inside before turning away from the doors entirely.

The snow was deeper near the grounds. Untouched. Clean.

Her boots carried her without much thought.

Past the greenhouses.

Past the Whomping Willow, keeping careful distance.

Toward the edge of the forest.

The tension she’d ignored all day began to settle back into her bones.

The look in the pub.

The way he’d left.

The word liability echoing faintly in her mind.

She hated that it still stung.

She hated that it mattered.

Hagrid’s hut came into view, smoke puffing warmly from the crooked chimney.

She knocked once.

The door swung open almost immediately.

“Ah! Miss Starwind!” Hagrid beamed. “Come ter escape the castle, have yeh?”

Freya offered him a small smile. “Something like that.”

“Well come in, come in! Jus’ made tea.”

The hut smelled like woodsmoke and something earthy. Fang thumped his tail happily at her arrival.

She sat at the rough wooden table, hands wrapped around a chipped mug.

Hagrid watched her over the rim of his own cup.

“Yeh’ve got that look,” he said gently.

She blinked. “What look?”

“Like yer thinkin’ too loud.”

She huffed a quiet laugh.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To creatures, maybe,” he said warmly.

She glanced toward the window, where the Forbidden Forest stood dark and vast beyond the clearing.

“It’s quieter out there,” she murmured.

Hagrid followed her gaze.

“Forest ain’t always quiet,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

That felt right.

Freya stood slowly.

“Mind if I walk a bit?”

“Stay near the edge,” Hagrid warned automatically. “Snow hides tracks.”

She nodded.

Outside, the world felt softer.

Snow muffled everything — even her thoughts, for a moment.

She stepped carefully into the tree line.

Just barely.

Not deep.

Never deep.

The forest breathed differently in winter.

Less movement.

More stillness.

Freya closed her eyes briefly.

And something inside her shifted.

Not fear.

Not quite longing.

Something instinctive.

The cold didn’t bite the same here. It settled against her skin like familiarity.

Her fingers flexed slightly.

Her breath slowed.

She wasn’t thinking about Regulus.

Or bloodlines.

Or whispers.

She was thinking about space.

About how small the castle sometimes felt.

How heavy expectations pressed against her shoulders.

Out here—

She felt taller.

Lighter.

The wind stirred through the trees.

And for half a second—

She imagined running.

Not walking.

Not carefully stepping.

Running.

Fast enough that thought couldn’t keep up.

A flicker passed over her skin — strange, subtle, like the echo of something not yet fully formed.

She opened her eyes quickly.

The sensation vanished.

Just snow.

Just trees.

Just her.

Freya exhaled slowly.

“Not yet,” she whispered to herself.

The forest did not answer.

But it did not reject her either.

After a while, she sank down onto a fallen log, brushing snow aside first. Her boots pressed into white powder.

She stared at her hands.

At the silver rings catching pale winter light.

Liability.

The word replayed again.

She swallowed.

It wasn’t that she needed him to approve.

It wasn’t that she needed him at all.

It was that for one brief moment in the air—

He had chosen her.

And that was dangerous.

Because if someone chooses you once…

You might start expecting them to stay.

A sharp crack of a twig pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up.

Nothing but shifting branches.

Still.

Watching.

Freya stood slowly.

She was not afraid.

But she was aware.

And awareness had saved her more than once.

“I’m leaving,” she murmured softly — not to anything in particular.

The wind stirred again.

When she stepped back out into the clearing, Hagrid stood by his hut, arms folded comfortably.

“Feel better?” he asked.

She considered.

“Yes,” she answered honestly.

Not healed.

Not resolved.

But steadier.

“Good,” Hagrid said warmly. “Forest’s got a way of remindin’ folks who they are.”

Freya glanced back once more at the dark treeline.

Who she was.

Not someone fragile.

Not someone drowning.

Not someone waiting to be chosen.

Snow began falling again as she made her way back toward the castle.

High in the Astronomy Tower, unseen, a dark figure watched the grounds.

Regulus had gone there when the castle felt too loud.

He saw her silhouette near the forest edge.

Alone.

Wind lifting her pale hair.

Something in his chest tightened.

She looked like she belonged out there.

Wild in a way the castle couldn’t contain.

He did not call out.

He did not move.

He simply watched her turn and walk back toward the light.

And wondered—

If one day, she would choose the forest over all of them.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 8: Snowfall in Hogsmeade

Hogsmeade looked like something out of a storybook.

Snow draped over the rooftops. Icicles glittered from shop signs. Chimneys puffed soft spirals of smoke into a pale winter sky.

Freya stood just beyond the village entrance and breathed in.

Cold. Crisp. Clean.

She had dressed carefully.

A black mini skirt that moved when she walked, thick black tights beneath to guard against the bite of winter. Her favorite brown leather boots — worn in perfectly, polished but practical. A soft green and white sweater tucked neatly at the waist, and over it, a navy trench coat that cinched slightly at her middle. A white scarf wrapped twice around her throat. Earmuffs nestled over pale hair.

Silver rings, of course.

Always silver.

Marlene grabbed her arm immediately. “You look devastating.”

Freya arched a brow. “That’s the goal.”

Dorcas grinned. “If we run into Slytherins, I want them intimidated.”

Lily adjusted her gloves. “I want butterbeer.”

James, already walking backward in front of them, pointed dramatically. “Ladies, gentlemen — and Pettigrew — the day is ours!”

Peter waved from behind him, nearly slipping on ice.

Sirius fell into step beside Freya.

“You’re not even cold, are you?” he asked.

“I am Australian,” she replied. “Not immune.”

“You walk like you are.”

Freya glanced sideways at him. “Like what?”

“Like you own the snow.”

She didn’t answer.

But she did smile.

—

The first stop was Honeydukes.

The door chimed as they entered, warmth immediately fogging the windows. The scent of sugar and chocolate wrapped around them like a spell.

Freya wandered ahead of the group, fingers brushing glass jars filled with jewel-colored sweets.

She paused at a display of crystallized pineapple slices.

James appeared beside her. “Strategic choice?”

“Efficient sugar distribution,” she replied solemnly.

He snorted.

Dorcas tugged her toward a rack of Chocolate Frogs. “We’re starting a card competition.”

“Unfair,” Sirius said. “I have superior luck.”

“You have superior arrogance,” Lily corrected.

Freya selected a small box of honeycomb shards wrapped in gold paper.

As she turned—

She caught sight of him.

Through the frosted front window.

Across the street.

Regulus.

He wasn’t with anyone.

Dark coat buttoned neatly. Gloves black. Posture composed.

Watching.

Not the shop.

Her.

For a moment, the noise of Honeydukes dulled.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t wave.

Just held her gaze from across the snow-lined street.

Freya’s heart stuttered once.

Then Marlene shoved a licorice wand into her hand.

“Freya, focus.”

The moment broke.

When she glanced back—

He was gone.

—

They spilled out onto the street in a cloud of laughter and sugar.

Snowflakes drifted lazily now, light and soft.

Freya tilted her head upward, letting them land on her scarf.

“You look like a Christmas card,” Sirius informed her.

“Say that again and I’ll bury you in snow.”

He grinned. “Tempting.”

They ducked into Gladrags Wizardwear next.

Freya slowed immediately.

Fabric.

Cut.

Detail.

Her fingers skimmed over wool coats and tailored skirts, over velvet gloves and delicate lace collars.

Lily joined her near a display of winter cloaks.

“You notice stitching,” Lily observed.

“I notice effort,” Freya replied softly.

She paused at a mannequin wearing a structured emerald dress with silver thread embroidery at the sleeves.

Her expression shifted — thoughtful.

“You’d wear that to a duel,” Dorcas commented from behind.

Freya’s lips curved faintly. “Or a funeral.”

“Cheerful,” Marlene said.

But she was smiling.

Freya wandered toward the accessories case next.

And that’s when she saw them.

Silver pocket watches.

Polished. Engraved. Some simple. Some ornate.

She leaned closer.

One in particular caught her eye — delicate etching around the rim, a faint star motif carved into the casing.

Her fingers hovered over the glass.

“Practical?” Remus asked quietly beside her.

She startled slightly.

“Or sentimental?” he added gently.

Freya considered.

“I like knowing what time it is,” she said. “Feels… grounding.”

Remus nodded.

“Sometimes it’s nice,” he said, “to remember that things move forward.”

Her blue-grey eyes flicked to him.

He offered a small, knowing smile.

She didn’t buy the watch.

But she remembered it.

—

They ended at The Three Broomsticks.

Steam fogged the windows. Laughter echoed from every corner.

Freya sat between Lily and Dorcas, fingers wrapped around a warm butterbeer mug.

Across the table, Sirius argued animatedly with James about Quidditch formations while Peter nodded vigorously at both.

Remus watched with quiet amusement.

For the first time all week—

Freya felt light.

No whispers.

No bloodline debates.

Just warmth.

Halfway through her drink, she felt it again.

That subtle awareness.

She turned slightly.

Near the back of the pub, partially obscured by a pillar—

Regulus.

Alone again.

He wasn’t drinking.

Wasn’t speaking.

Just observing.

Their eyes met.

This time, he didn’t look away.

There was something unreadable there.

Not accusation.

Not regret.

Something quieter.

Almost uncertain.

Sirius followed her gaze.

Saw his brother.

Sighed.

“Of course.”

Freya didn’t speak.

Regulus stood after a moment.

Left without acknowledgment.

But the space he left behind lingered.

—

Later, walking back toward the castle, snow crunching under boots, James threw an arm around Sirius’s shoulders.

“You’re brooding,” James declared.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Lily said.

Freya walked slightly ahead of them, scarf fluttering in the wind.

She was smiling.

Actually smiling.

Sirius glanced toward the castle silhouette rising against the pale sky.

“He doesn’t know what to do with it,” he murmured.

“Do with what?” Remus asked.

Sirius watched Freya as she laughed at something Dorcas said.

“With someone who doesn’t fit into the mold.”

Freya didn’t hear him.

She just lifted her face to the falling snow.

For now—

She was happy.

And somewhere deep beneath that happiness—

Something was still shifting.

Because Regulus Black had gone to Hogsmeade alone.

And left even more alone than he arrived.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 7: Chapter Seven

Fault Lines

The Slytherin common room was unusually loud that evening.

Victory still hummed in the air from the match days before, though the triumph had dulled into something quieter — more strategic. Slytherins did not celebrate loudly for long.

Regulus sat near the fire, posture straight, a book open in his lap.

He had read the same sentence four times.

“Fascinating,” came a voice from behind him.

He did not need to turn.

Sirius Black leaned against the stone pillar, hands shoved into his pockets. James Potter stood beside him, poorly disguising curiosity. Remus Lupin lingered just behind, expression thoughtful. Peter hovered near the doorway.

Regulus closed the book.

“This is a restricted dormitory,” he said calmly.

“So is your personality,” Sirius replied. “Yet here we are.”

James snorted.

Regulus stood slowly. “State your purpose.”

Remus spoke first — measured, diplomatic. “We heard about the corridor.”

Regulus’s expression did not shift. “I’m sure you hear many things.”

“And we heard,” James added lightly, “that you let go of a Snitch.”

That did it.

Regulus’s jaw tightened.

“I recalculated.”

Sirius stepped closer. “You flinched.”

The room had gone quieter now. A few Slytherins watched openly.

Regulus met his brother’s gaze evenly.

“You’re mistaking me for sentimental.”

“Am I?” Sirius asked softly.

A beat.

“You’re making her a target,” Sirius continued. “You know that.”

Regulus’s eyes darkened slightly. “She was already one.”

“Not like this.”

James crossed his arms. “You could have just caught it. No drama. No rumors.”

“I do not tailor my strategy around gossip,” Regulus replied.

Remus’s voice cut gently through the tension. “This isn’t about gossip.”

Regulus looked at him.

“It’s about attention,” Remus continued. “You don’t move impulsively. Everyone knows that.”

Silence stretched.

Sirius tilted his head. “Do you like her?”

The question was casual.

The air was not.

Regulus didn’t blink.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Answer it,” Sirius pressed.

James shifted awkwardly. “Pads—”

“No,” Sirius cut in, eyes never leaving his brother. “Answer it.”

Regulus stepped closer.

They were nearly the same height now.

“You’re projecting,” Regulus said quietly. “Just because you reject the family does not mean I do.”

Something flickered in Sirius’s expression — hurt, quickly masked.

“She’s not a rebellion,” Regulus continued. “She’s a distraction.”

“And yet,” Sirius replied softly, “you’re the one distracted.”

For half a second, Regulus’s composure fractured.

Not visibly to most.

But Sirius saw it.

Remus saw it.

Even James did.

Regulus stepped back first.

“This conversation is over.”

Sirius studied him one long moment.

“Be careful, Reg.”

Regulus’s voice cooled instantly. “Of what.”

“Of choosing the wrong thing when it matters.”

The words lingered long after the Gryffindors left.

Regulus did not return to his book.

—

Meanwhile, in the Hufflepuff common room, Freya sat cross-legged near the hearth while Marlene animatedly recounted a story involving a misplaced Bludger and a very embarrassed third-year.

Dorcas lounged beside her, chin in her palm.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Dorcas observed.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Marlene chimed.

Freya rolled her eyes.

Lily Evans sat opposite them, red hair catching firelight. “About the match?”

“About the rumors,” Freya admitted.

Lily’s expression sharpened. “People are idiots.”

“People are predictable,” Freya corrected.

Pandora wandered past dreamily. “Blood is a very boring thing to obsess over.”

“Thank you,” Freya muttered.

Dorcas nudged her. “He defended you, you know.”

Freya’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Your surname,” Dorcas clarified. “In Potions. Some fourth-year said something and he shut it down.”

Freya stilled.

“He didn’t look at you,” Marlene added with a grin. “But he heard it.”

Freya stared into the fire.

A liability.

That’s what he had called her.

And yet—

He had corrected someone.

Across the room, Balou swooped down from the rafters and landed on her shoulder, snowy wings brushing her cheek.

She reached up absently, stroking his feathers.

“You’re brooding,” Lily said gently.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Dorcas and Marlene said in unison.

Freya huffed.

Then Marlene’s expression brightened suddenly.

“Right. Enough of this. Hogsmeade weekend.”

Freya blinked. “Already?”

“Tomorrow,” Lily confirmed. “And we are not wasting it discussing Slytherin mood swings.”

Dorcas grinned. “We’re going.”

“All of us,” Marlene added pointedly.

Freya narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘all.’”

A familiar voice echoed from the entrance to the common room.

“Well, this is cozy.”

Freya groaned.

Sirius leaned casually against the archway. James behind him. Remus polite as ever. Peter waving awkwardly.

“You can’t be in here,” Freya said automatically.

Sirius shrugged. “Minor detail.”

James clasped his hands together dramatically. “We propose a truce.”

“Terrifying start,” Lily muttered.

“Hogsmeade,” Remus explained calmly. “Group outing.”

Freya stared at them.

“With you?”

James grinned. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

“It might be,” Dorcas replied sweetly.

Sirius’s eyes flicked to Freya.

“You’re coming,” he said lightly.

It sounded less like a suggestion.

Freya hesitated.

The week had been heavy.

The castle tight with whispers.

Hogsmeade meant fresh air. Open space. Laughter that didn’t echo off stone walls.

And maybe—

Distance.

“Fine,” she said.

Marlene clapped excitedly.

James cheered.

Peter nearly tripped over a chair.

Remus smiled faintly.

Sirius’s expression softened just slightly.

“We leave at ten,” Lily declared. “And if any of you start a fight—”

“We won’t,” Sirius promised solemnly.

No one believed him.

As the Gryffindors began retreating toward the exit, Sirius paused beside Freya.

Quiet enough that only she heard.

“He’s worse when he’s trying not to care.”

Freya’s gaze lifted slowly.

“I don’t need protecting.”

Sirius nodded.

“I know.”

And then he left.

—

That night, snow fell again.

Regulus stood at the Slytherin dormitory window, watching flakes gather along the stone ledge.

Hogsmeade tomorrow.

He had not been invited.

He told himself he did not mind.

He told himself it did not matter.

But when he closed his eyes, he did not see green banners.

He saw white-blonde hair in winter light.

And a moment midair where instinct overruled expectation.

Somewhere across the castle, Freya lay awake too.

Wondering when liking someone had started to feel like standing on thin ice.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 6: The Weight of a Name

The morning after the match felt wrong.

Too bright.

Too ordinary.

Freya woke before her roommates, staring at the canopy above her bed while frost traced faint patterns across the dormitory window. Snow had settled overnight — soft and deceptively gentle.

Balou hooted once from his perch.

“You saw nothing,” she muttered into her pillow.

He blinked at her.

Traitor.

She dressed carefully.

White-blonde hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Silver rings slid onto steady fingers. A thin chain at her throat. Armor, in pieces.

When she entered the Great Hall, conversation dipped.

Just slightly.

Enough.

Hufflepuff greeted her warmly — claps on the back, praise for her goals, grins over pumpkin juice.

But from the Slytherin table—

Looks.

Not admiring.

Not hostile.

Assessing.

Regulus sat composed as ever, slicing into his toast with precise movements. He did not look at her.

Which was worse.

—

It began in History of Magic.

Whispers two rows behind her.

“…he dropped the Snitch…”

“…for her…”

“…Black wouldn’t—”

“…unless—”

Freya’s quill pressed harder against parchment.

Ink bled.

She did not turn around.

She did not need to.

By the time she reached the corridor outside Transfiguration, it had evolved.

“…mother was only half-blood…”

“…father’s family cut ties…”

“…betrayal…”

That word again.

Betrayal.

She stopped walking.

Very slowly.

Behind her, two Slytherin girls halted mid-sentence.

Freya turned.

Her expression was calm.

Her eyes were not.

“Finish it,” she said evenly.

They glanced at each other.

“No one was talking to you,” one muttered.

“No,” Freya agreed. “You were talking about me.”

Silence stretched.

“You can say it,” she continued. “Whatever version you’ve heard.”

The braver of the two lifted her chin.

“Your father married beneath him.”

The corridor felt colder.

Freya’s jaw tightened once.

“And?”

“And his family considers it a stain.”

There it was.

Neat. Clinical. Cruel in its simplicity.

Freya smiled.

It was not warm.

“My father,” she said quietly, “considered it love.”

The girls shifted.

“Love doesn’t rewrite blood,” one snapped.

Freya stepped closer.

“No,” she agreed softly. “But it makes it irrelevant.”

She turned before they could answer.

But the word lingered.

Stain.

—

By lunchtime, the whispers had traveled.

Gryffindor table. Ravenclaw tower. Even Hufflepuff murmurs — softer, defensive, but present.

Freya kept her back straight.

In Charms, she misfired a levitation spell.

In Potions, she sliced her finger slightly while preparing lacewing flies.

Just enough to sting.

Professor Slughorn fussed over it.

“Distracted, Miss Starwind?”

“No, sir.”

Lie.

—

She felt him before she saw him.

Regulus intercepted her outside the library.

Alone.

The corridor quiet.

“You handled that poorly,” he said without preamble.

Freya’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“The confrontation,” he clarified coolly. “You drew attention.”

Her laugh was sharp. “I didn’t start it.”

“You escalated it.”

“Would you have preferred I bowed?”

His gaze flickered.

“You shouldn’t let them provoke you.”

“And you shouldn’t let them define me,” she shot back.

Silence.

Snow light filtered through the tall windows behind him.

“They aren’t wrong,” he said carefully.

Something in her chest shifted.

“What.”

“About your father’s family.”

There was no malice in it.

Just fact.

“My grandmother disowned him,” Regulus continued. “He forfeited position. Influence.”

Freya’s fingers curled slightly.

“For marrying my mother.”

“Yes.”

“And that makes her lesser?”

His jaw tightened.

“That makes it complicated.”

She stepped closer.

“So that’s what I am to you? Complicated?”

The words slipped before she could stop them.

Regulus went very still.

“You are,” he said quietly, “a liability.”

The corridor felt like it dropped away.

Freya’s face did not crumble.

She would not give him that.

“A liability,” she repeated calmly.

“In certain circles.”

“Your circles.”

His gaze hardened slightly. “You don’t understand how this works.”

“Then enlighten me.”

He hesitated.

And that hesitation said more than explanation could.

Freya inhaled slowly.

“You let go of the Snitch,” she said.

His eyes flashed.

“That was tactical.”

“Liar.”

Something flickered again — irritation, maybe even shame.

“You hesitated,” he countered. “You froze.”

The word hit.

She did not react outwardly.

“I corrected,” she said evenly.

“Next time,” he replied, “there might not be someone close enough to do it for you.”

Her pulse quickened — not fear.

Anger.

“You don’t get to decide when I fall,” she said.

“And you don’t get to pretend falling doesn’t scare you.”

The words landed too precisely.

Too cleanly.

For a moment, something raw flickered in her blue-grey eyes.

He saw it.

And immediately regretted it.

Silence stretched thin between them.

“You think I don’t know what they say about me?” he added, quieter now. “About my family?”

“That you worship it?” she replied coolly.

A faint, humorless smile ghosted across his face.

“That I’m expected to.”

That was the closest he had come to honesty since the lake.

Freya studied him.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

He looked at her like she had suggested stepping off a cliff.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

Footsteps echoed at the end of the corridor.

The moment fractured.

Regulus straightened.

Composure sliding back into place.

“Be careful, Starwind.”

“Of what?” she asked, though she already knew.

“Of who listens when you speak about blood.”

He turned.

Left her standing in cold sunlight.

—

That evening, Sirius cornered her in the courtyard.

He did not grin this time.

“Sorry,” he said abruptly.

Freya blinked. “For what.”

“For him.”

She hesitated.

“He didn’t start it.”

“No,” Sirius agreed. “He never does.”

There was something heavy in his voice.

“He’s not as certain as he looks,” Sirius added.

Freya folded her arms.

“He called me a liability.”

Sirius winced.

“…that sounds like him.”

“Comforting.”

Sirius studied her carefully.

“He notices you.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” Sirius said quietly. “He notices you.”

The difference hung between them.

Freya exhaled slowly, watching snowflakes drift across the courtyard stones.

“I don’t want to be noticed,” she murmured.

Sirius’s expression softened.

“Then stop being extraordinary.”

She almost smiled.

“Noted.”

As she walked back toward Hufflepuff, she felt it again.

That tightening under her ribs.

Names.

Expectations.

Blood.

Somewhere deep beneath the castle, in the Slytherin dormitory, Regulus Black opened a book he was not meant to have.

Advanced Transfiguration.

Animagus theory.

He stared at the page for a long time before turning it.

Snow fell steadily outside.

And neither of them understood yet—

That they were already being pulled toward water far deeper than either wanted to face.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 5: When Snow Hunts

The morning of the match dawned sharp and silver.

Frost clung to the grass like a warning.

Freya had barely slept.

She stood in the Hufflepuff locker room, fingers tightening the leather straps of her gloves. Around her, her teammates buzzed with nervous energy — pep talks, strategy reminders, forced laughter.

“You take left arc,” the captain told her. “They’ll expect you to favor right turns. Black studies patterns.”

Of course he does.

Freya nodded once.

Outside, the roar began to build.

The stands were packed — green and gold draped aggressively across opposite sides. The cold air carried sound clean and sharp.

She mounted her broom.

As the Hufflepuff team rose into the sky, applause thundered.

And then—

Slytherin emerged.

They moved like a single organism.

Regulus at the rear, already higher than necessary, scanning.

He didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

Madam Hooch’s whistle pierced the air.

“Mount!”

They were already airborne.

“The Quaffle is released!”

And chaos bloomed.

—

Freya shot forward the second the ball left Madam Hooch’s hand.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t look to see who followed.

She felt the Slytherin Chaser at her flank — green sleeve flashing. She dipped sharply, cutting under him. The Quaffle slammed into her palm.

The crowd erupted.

“Starwind takes possession!”

She ascended in a steep arc — clean, controlled — scanning for openings.

A Slytherin Beater sent a Bludger screaming past her shoulder.

Too close.

She rolled sideways, hair whipping across her vision, and passed cleanly to her teammate below.

Goal.

Hufflepuff roared.

Freya allowed herself one sharp inhale.

Then—

Movement.

Fast.

Regulus dove.

The Snitch hadn’t appeared yet — this wasn’t about that.

He was repositioning.

Studying.

He flew lower than usual, circling wide.

Watching her.

—

Second possession.

Slytherin.

They were ruthless.

No wasted passes. Tight formation. Controlled aggression.

Their Chaser scored cleanly.

The green side of the stands exploded in sound.

Freya’s jaw tightened.

Fine.

She could match ruthless.

—

The next twenty minutes blurred into impact and instinct.

Freya dodged two Bludgers, executed a tight spiral maneuver that made the Gryffindors howl in appreciation, and scored again under the right hoop.

Slytherin retaliated almost immediately.

Regulus remained detached — above the fray — scanning constantly.

Until—

The Snitch flashed.

A flicker of gold near the Ravenclaw stands.

Both Seekers saw it at the same time.

They dove.

The stadium shifted.

Everything narrowed.

Freya had the Quaffle in hand mid-field when she realized their descent path intersected.

Too fast.

Too close.

She veered hard left —

But a Slytherin Chaser clipped her broom.

Not intentionally.

Just badly timed.

Her balance snapped sideways.

Her grip faltered.

The world tilted.

For half a heartbeat—

There was nothing under her.

Just air.

Just the memory of black water.

Of sinking.

Of no one noticing.

The crowd gasped as one.

Her broom dipped sharply.

Wind roared in her ears.

And then—

A hand caught the back of her robes.

Hard.

Violent.

Stabilizing.

Her broom jerked back under her.

She sucked in air.

Regulus.

He had abandoned the dive.

Abandoned the Snitch.

His grip remained firm for only a second longer than necessary before he released her.

The Snitch vanished.

Both Seekers pulled up sharply.

The stands erupted into noise — confusion, cheering, shouting.

Freya hovered, breath uneven.

He faced her.

Eyes darker than storm clouds.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly.

She swallowed.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

She wanted to argue.

But he had felt it.

That flicker.

That split second of fear.

Below them, Madam Hooch blew her whistle furiously. “Back to positions!”

Regulus didn’t move immediately.

“Don’t do that again,” he said.

It wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t mocking.

It was almost—

Furious.

“With me?” she shot back, still breathless.

“With anyone.”

Their gazes locked.

Then he turned sharply and ascended.

The match resumed.

—

Freya flew differently after that.

Sharper.

Angrier.

She stole possession twice in a row, executed a daring feint that nearly unseated a Slytherin Beater, and scored through the left hoop with enough force to make it rattle.

The Hufflepuff stands chanted her name.

Even the Gryffindors joined.

Sirius’s voice could be heard somewhere yelling, “Ten points for dramatic tension!”

James shouted something about “romantic midair rescues.”

Freya refused to look.

The score tightened.

70–60.

80–80.

The Snitch reappeared near the southern tower.

Both Seekers dove again.

This time uninterrupted.

Regulus flew like something unleashed.

No hesitation.

No deviation.

His form was flawless — every movement economical, precise.

Freya hovered mid-field, heart pounding as she watched.

He extended —

Fingers closing around gold.

The whistle shrieked.

Slytherin victory.

The green stands detonated.

Regulus ascended slowly, Snitch held aloft.

He didn’t celebrate wildly.

Didn’t grin.

He simply turned in the air—

And met her gaze.

Across the open sky.

Freya’s chest rose and fell heavily.

She felt the loss.

Felt the near-fall still trembling in her bones.

But she did not look away.

He inclined his head once.

Not smug.

Not triumphant.

Acknowledging.

She nodded back.

Snow does not bow.

But it recognizes strength.

—

On the ground, the teams dismounted.

Cheers and groans filled the pitch.

As Freya stepped off her broom, boots crunching frost, she felt eyes on her again.

Regulus approached.

Close enough that the noise dimmed slightly around them.

“You flew well,” he said.

It was the second time he’d said it.

Different now.

She studied him.

“You let the Snitch go.”

A pause.

“I adjusted,” he replied smoothly.

She almost smiled.

“Liar.”

Something flickered behind his eyes.

Just briefly.

“Next time,” he said, voice low, “don’t freeze.”

The words hit deeper than he intended.

Her jaw set.

“I won’t.”

He held her gaze for a long second.

Then turned back toward Slytherin.

Leaving her with frost under her boots and something warmer under her ribs.

—

That night, the castle buzzed with match talk.

Freya sat on her dormitory bed, Balou perched on the window ledge, snowy feathers glowing in moonlight.

She replayed it.

The fall.

The hand at her back.

The fury in his voice.

She touched the spot on her robes where he’d grabbed her.

Silver rings cool against fabric.

Outside, snow began to fall lightly over Hogwarts.

High in the Slytherin dormitories, Regulus lay awake staring at his ceiling.

He had never abandoned a Snitch before.

Not once.

He told himself it was strategy.

Positioning.

Probability.

He did not examine the truth too closely.

Because the truth was simple.

When she fell—

He did not think.

He chose.

And that frightened him far more than losing ever could.

[fr0st33]

+-Before the Locket-+

——————————

Part 4: Lions Laugh, Serpents Watch

By October, everyone knew.

Freya Starwind was Hufflepuff’s new Chaser.

And Regulus Black had started watching matches from higher up in the stands than necessary.

It did not go unnoticed.

Especially not by Gryffindor.

It began in the courtyard.

Freya had just finished Arithmancy and was halfway down the steps when a voice rang out:

“Well if it isn’t the snow princess herself.”

She didn’t have to turn to know it was Sirius.

She did anyway.

Sirius Black leaned lazily against the stone archway, sunlight catching in his dark hair. Beside him stood James Potter — already grinning — Remus Lupin with a book tucked under his arm, and Peter Pettigrew hovering close.

Freya lifted one pale brow. “And if it isn’t the runaway heir.”

James made an impressed sound. “Oh she’s quick.”

Sirius pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Starwind.”

She stepped down the last stair.

“You survived.”

Remus’s gaze flicked between them thoughtfully.

James leaned forward. “So. Heard you’re facing Slytherin next week.”

Freya folded her arms. “That’s generally how scheduled matches work.”

Peter snorted.

Sirius pushed off the wall and circled her slowly — exaggeratedly inspecting.

“You know,” he drawled, “it’s fascinating.”

“What is?” she asked flatly.

“How someone with that name,” he gestured vaguely, “and that look—” his eyes skimmed her pale hair, “—ended up in Hufflepuff.”

There it was.

The pure-blood edge.

Freya’s jaw tightened, barely.

“My mother was Hufflepuff.”

James blinked. “Really?”

Remus nodded slightly. He’d known.

Sirius tilted his head. “Ah. The half-blood.”

The word wasn’t cruel.

But it wasn’t kind either.

Freya’s voice cooled several degrees. “The brilliant half-blood.”

A pause.

Sirius’s smirk faltered just slightly.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered.

“Most people don’t,” she replied.

There was a shift in the air. Small. Subtle.

James, ever the chaos diffuser, leaned in again.

“Wait — say ‘castle’.”

Freya blinked. “What?”

“Say castle.”

“…Castle.”

Peter burst out laughing.

Sirius stared. Then grinned wickedly. “There it is.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed. “There is what.”

“That,” James wheezed. “That thing you do with your vowels.”

Remus hid a smile.

Sirius straightened dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen, our very own Hufflepuff Chaser from the colonies.”

Freya felt heat crawl up her neck.

She had worked very hard to soften it. To smooth the rounded edges of her Australian vowels. To sound less… foreign.

“It’s barely noticeable,” she said sharply.

Sirius raised a brow. “You just said ‘barely’ like it has five extra letters.”

James was laughing openly now.

Freya’s chin lifted. “At least I don’t sound like I’ve swallowed a posh etiquette manual.”

Peter choked.

Remus actually laughed at that.

Sirius’s grin sharpened. “Careful, Starwind.”

“Careful of what?” she challenged.

His expression shifted — playful but pointed.

“My brother doesn’t like being mocked.”

Ah.

There he is.

Freya held his gaze evenly. “Your brother doesn’t like much of anything.”

James whistled under his breath.

Sirius studied her more carefully now.

“You know,” he said slowly, “he talks about you.”

Her stomach betrayed her with a small, traitorous flip.

“Does he,” she said coolly.

“Mmm. Mostly critiques. Form. Strategy. Bloodline.” His eyes flicked meaningfully.

Freya’s shoulders went rigid.

Sirius noticed.

And something clicked behind his eyes.

“Oh.”

It was softer.

Less teasing.

James glanced between them. “What?”

Sirius looked at Freya, truly looked.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what,” she asked carefully.

But Sirius just shook his head slightly.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

For once, he didn’t push.

And that unsettled her more than laughter would have.

The castle buzzed the night before the opening match.

Hufflepuff versus Slytherin.

The Great Hall was louder than usual — green and gold banners already hanging from the rafters. Students placing bets in corners. Whispered predictions.

Freya sat at the Hufflepuff table, half-listening to strategy talk.

Her fingers toyed with the silver ring on her index finger.

Across the hall, Regulus sat at the Slytherin table.

Perfect posture. Perfect composure.

He did not look at her.

Not once.

Which somehow felt worse than staring.

Marlene leaned in beside Freya. “You nervous?”

“No.”

Lie.

Dorcas grinned. “He’s going to be insufferable if they win.”

“They won’t,” Freya said immediately.

Pandora, from further down the table, called dreamily, “Snakes are very good at constricting their prey.”

“Helpful,” Freya muttered.

Laughter bubbled around her.

But under it—

That tightening.

Later that evening, she found herself back at the pitch.

Empty now. Quiet.

Frost silvered the grass.

She walked onto the field slowly. Looked up at the towering stands.

Tomorrow, it would roar.

She mounted her broom and rose gently into the cold air.

Not high. Not yet.

Just enough to feel weightless.

Wind tangled in her pale hair. Bit at her cheeks.

Up here, she could breathe.

Below, the world felt smaller.

Simpler.

Until—

A second broom cut through the night air.

Silent.

Efficient.

She didn’t have to turn.

Regulus hovered a few yards away.

Moonlight caught on his dark hair.

Neither spoke for a moment.

Just wind between them.

“You shouldn’t practice alone,” he said finally.

She arched a brow. “Afraid I’ll drown in midair?”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Afraid you’ll fall.”

She smiled faintly. “I don’t fall.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Everyone falls.”

A beat.

The tension wasn’t loud.

It was coiled.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “I won’t go easy.”

“Good,” he replied.

Another pause.

The castle lights glowed in the distance.

“You still sound Australian when you’re angry,” he added quietly.

Her eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”

The faintest ghost of amusement flickered in his expression.

“It slips.”

Heat flared in her chest. “Maybe I don’t want it to disappear.”

Something changed in his gaze then.

Less teasing.

More consideration.

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

Soft.

Almost… certain.

Wind whipped between them again.

Freya’s heart beat harder than flying warranted.

“We’ll see you on the pitch, Black.”

His eyes darkened.

“Count on it, Starwind.”

They descended separately.

But neither slept easily that night.

Tomorrow—

Snow would meet serpent.

And one of them would bleed first.