Elk

Yves had many bad days in his life. The day he had spent outside, forgetting the sun protection. The day his corset bands ripped (he still blamed it on too many tasty brioches). The day Henry Green proudly gave him his “portrait.” And, worst of all, the day Mudblood got sorted into Ravenclaw.

Yves was proud of his House, though he wished it were a bit more exclusive. Ravenclaw’s open-mindedness had the unfortunate drawback of Mudbloods getting sorted there now and then. Yves did his best to ignore their existence – frankly, Ravenclaws were mostly quiet and lonesome regardless of blood status. But this one was impossible to ignore.

Selene Harrington, although he called her nothing but “Mudblood” in his mind. He didn’t bother learning others’ names normally. But he noticed this one despite himself – it was peculiar enough that she was sorted as a fifth-year.

There were other remarkable things about her, even Yves had to admit. Her beating Sallow’s arse during the first DADA lesson (it outraged Yves when he found out – even with his mutual dislike of Sallow, he was a pureblood and the thought of him losing to a Mudblood who had started Hogwarts a day ago was simply scandalous). Her undeniable skill in Potions (which Yves despised, because he thought that messing with Flobberworms and Troll Bogeys was something for those of lesser status). And the way her hair shone the rumours surrounding her.

Hogwarts was full of gossipers, and even though Yves wouldn’t stoop as low as to participate in rumours himself, as a Prefect, he had to be aware of what was happening. The rumour was that Mudblood went outside and fought goblins, poachers and Ashwinders. That, apparently, she could do something no one else could (that was true – she could annoy Yves like no one else). And that she had ancient magic.

Yves hoped the last rumour was just that – baseless and unreasoned. It reminded him too much of yet another Mudblood – Jarvis Wang from Slytherin, whose other remarkable talent was being impossibly stupid. He thought Yves was complimenting him by calling him “Mudblood” – and Yves was at a loss for words upon realising this. But as much as the sheer injustice of an ancient magic gift belonging to someone unworthy annoyed Yves, Jarvis never irritated him as much as Mudblood did.

It was because she was a Ravenclaw, too. Yves couldn’t even take points from her. That was all it was – otherwise, she wasn’t worthy of Yves’s attention in the slightest. Even if yet another set of rumours about her were true and her resemblance to Headmaster Black meant she was actually a half-blood, it didn’t matter. There was still dirt in her veins, and no amount of Black blood or Potions skill could ever justify it.

If Yves were completely honest with himself, he had to admit that some purebloods were annoying at best and hazardous at worst. Henry Green was a menace and Yves’s personal nightmare. It was bad enough that he was a Gryffindor who took far too many Bludger hits to the head. It became worse when he teamed up with Wang. It became simply dangerous when he discovered an artistic talent (as he thought) and, for reasons that were a mystery to Yves, chose him as his favourite victim. One day Wang chased him through half the castle with “a vampire question” on a day when Yves was close to fainting. And just when Yves closed the door to an unassuming room, Green was inside, with an easel set up and a devious grin on his stupid face. Yves had no choice but to let Green paint him while he lay down, hardly conscious and suffering from a migraine.

Another prime example of an unworthy pureblood was Duncan Hobhouse, or “Puffskein Dunkein”, as most called him. Yves didn’t – mostly because it was beneath him. But maybe he should have, because in that case Hobhouse would not think that he and Yves were some kind of friends (the mere thought made Yves shiver in disgust).

“But you agree! Mudbloods shouldn’t be allowed at Hogwarts! If we had someone better than Garlick at Herbology –” Hobhouse went on, trying to justify the miserable Herbology grade.

“Being a pureblood doesn’t make you worthy in my eyes, Hobhouse,” Yves sneered. “You are above a common Mudblood, but earning respect is something else. Detention.”

Hobhouse tried to protest again, but was interrupted by a loud snort. He and Yves turned to the source of the noise.

Harrington had just entered the Ravenclaw common room, studying them both with curiosity. Of course. As if the universe hadn’t punished Yves enough by throwing the most pathetic pureblood at him and now having to throw the most annoying Mudblood as well.

“I agree on this, by the way,” she said nonchalantly, as if she were part of the conversation. Yves noticed how Hobhouse paled at her sight. “Earning respect is hard. You certainly don’t have mine, Puffskein Dunkein.”

“You shouldn’t even be here!” Hobhouse wheezed in horror, trying to hide behind Yves.

“Neither should you. Out after curfew, tsk. Do you want to take a stroll to the Hidden Herbology Corridor together, Dunkein?”

Hobhouse did not take his chances and promptly sprinted for the boys’ dorm, stumbling on his robes. Mudblood followed him with a gaze that was at once bored and predatory – a peculiar combination. Then she turned her attention to Yves.

“Don’t let me catch you using that word again, blondie,” she said almost cheerfully.

Yves gasped at the sheer audacity. How dare this creature tell him what to do? And, if that were not enough, how dare she give him a ridiculous nickname?

“You are out of your dorm after curfew,” he managed, his nostrils still flaring with anger.

“So are you,” she replied, settling into the nearest couch and crossing her legs. “You won’t take points from Ravenclaw, though. You never do.”

“I can assign you detentions,” he hissed at her, but she just snorted.

“Suit yourself. Hecat will simply send me to Sharp. I don’t mind brewing potions for the Hospital Wing.”

Yves still stood with his mouth open, anger and annoyance rising.

“How dare you talk to me like that?” he sneered, showing his sharp canines. It affected mortals, especially Mudbloods, but she looked just as unimpressed as before.

“You are not the scariest thing I have ever seen, blondie. Not even in the top five.”

Something in her voice made Yves almost believe her. At least part of those rumours must be true, then.

“You’d do better to get your head out of your French arse,” she drawled. “Mudbloods are not worse than purebloods, you know.”

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year,” Yves replied without a hint of a smile.

“Hmm, I think the time Henry tried to make you and Nova kiss because she has silver eyes and he wanted to know whether you would be allergic was funnier,” she said with mock thoughtfulness.

Yves scoffed at the memory but did not dignify it with an answer. She did not need him to, and continued.

“I’ve given up on Puffskein Dunkein, as you might have noticed, so I don’t even bother convincing him. After all, his prejudice is easily explainable – he has nothing, absolutely nothing else. He simply needs a reason, however pathetic, to feel better about himself, and wears his pure-bloodedness like a badge.”

Despite himself, Yves agreed. He thought the same about Hobhouse (and some other purebloods). Being a pureblood was a necessary condition to earn an ounce of respect in his eyes, but it was not sufficient. And even though her logic was sound, that did not mean Yves had to admit that he agreed with her.

“But you are different,” she finished, assessing him with her piercing eyes. She always stared like that – intense and appraising, as if trying to analyse everything and everyone around her.

“Congratulations on noticing the obvious,” Yves scoffed. “Maybe you are not in this House because the Sorting Hat had a bad day.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I am as much a Ravenclaw as you are, blondie. And as deserving of this place. In this House, at this school, and in the magical world.”

“You are nothing but a Mudblood,” Yves said through clenched teeth. “And you should know your place. Go to your dorm before I assign you detention.”

She did not reply, but a small smile tugged at her lips. Slowly, carefully, as if she were prey trying not to provoke a predator, she rose and walked over to him with an almost catlike grace. Yves pressed his lips together in disgust as he reluctantly noticed that she, indeed, possessed some of the grace one could only be born with. He’d heard her Muggle family was rich – perhaps that meant etiquette lessons, or even dancing? Not that it made her any better than any poor Muggle, obviously.

As Yves battled thoughts about her heritage and whether it even mattered, she was already close to him. He had not worn his heels that day, but even so, he towered over her – her head barely reached his shoulder. She did not seem bothered by it.

“Make me,” she whispered, looking directly into his eyes.

His breath hitched. She was too close, invading his personal space. He had never let any Mudblood, let alone her, get so near. He could see the strands of hair framing her face, the rest in the tight, thick bun she always wore. How long was it when left loose? And why did Yves wonder about that at all?

He was at a loss for words – probably for the first time since he had arrived at the school. She continued studying him as if he were something peculiar, until her lips trembled and she let out a snort. Then another, and she began to laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. Yves jerked his head, as if awakening from a haze.

“Your face was priceless, blondie. Just… I can’t… I wish Henry were there to commemorate this moment in his art,” she said through laughter, and Yves felt another wave of anger.

There was no way to win with her. She was insane. Half the school could be threatened with House points and detention, the other half with bared canines and a glare that pinned them to the ground. Everyone could be intimidated by Yves – except her. She was not afraid of detention, she did not care about his appearance or his words, and, if Yves were completely honest with himself, he doubted he could win a magical duel against her.

So he chose the only way he could win this fight – by retreating. With an annoyed huff, he turned and went towards the dormitory when he heard her voice again.

“It’s down to my waist, blondie. Thick and slightly wavy and very beautiful.”

He turned to her again, fighting a rising dizziness.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My hair,” she explained. “Since you wondered. It’s more beautiful than yours, by the way. Because I have far better hair potions than you do.”

Yves felt the dizziness and migraine rising and craving the peace and quiet of his dormitory and his blood pouch. He noted absently that she somehow seemed to read his thoughts. But that was not even what distressed him most.

If there was one thing Yves was prouder of than his heritage, it was his hair. A gorgeous mane of silver, shining and attracting looks. It was not easy to maintain – his hair was just as picky and fussy as he was, rejecting almost every potion, demanding brushes of the finest materials. It was hard work, but almost all beauty came with a price: the corset traces on his skin, the aching feet from the heels, and the ungodly amount of time and money he spent on his hair.

And now this Mudblood standing in front of him claimed she had something better for her hair than he did? After he had tried every single thing money could buy? He gasped at the audacity.

She used his moment of confusion. Her fingers reached into her own hair, untying the bun until it fell loose. It indeed reached her waist, endless waves of silk, looking impossibly soft and inviting to touch. Yves had to stop himself as his fingers twitched. She noticed.

“Go on, touch it,” she said, this time without her usual arrogance. Her voice sounded as soft as her hair, and Yves was unable to resist.

She was a Mudblood. He should not be touching her hair. He should not even want to or think about it. But his hand acted without his control, his fingers already intertwined in the soft strands, gliding down, letting them flow like water. It was as pleasant to touch as it was beautiful.

He caught himself and quickly jerked his hand away as if burned.

“You were simply born with beautiful hair,” he said, forcing snideness he did not feel in his voice. “Perhaps the rumours are true and you are indeed related to the Blacks. Even a drop of magical blood can sometimes give… desirable traits. It does not excuse the mud in your veins.”

“But I still have better hair potions than you do,” she tilted her head with a sly smirk. “Everyone knows the best hair potions contain Occamy eggshells. But you can’t use them because you’re allergic to silver.”

He gritted his teeth but gave a slight nod.

“Moreover, you can’t even use the sun-protection potions. They include silver, too. Must be quite bothersome, even in Scotland, to have to hide from the sun.”

Another truth. As if normal vampire sensitivity to the sun were not enough, Yves’s albinism made it ten times worse, confining him indoors on sunny days.

“But that can be countered too,” she continued.

“If it were possible, I would know it. I researched everything available to wizardkind.”

“You haven’t researched inside my head,” she pointed to her temple. “I brewed Felix Felicis in four months instead of six. Sharp gave up on trying to teach me anything new after three weeks. I surpassed him while barely lifting a finger. I am a Potions prodigy, blondie. Good luck finding someone of my talent willing to help you.”

“As if you are willing to help me,” Yves muttered, more to himself, but she heard him.

“I am,” she shrugged. “I wouldn’t even mention it otherwise.”

He gave her a long, assessing look. She could not be serious – or could she? Despite all her flaws, he had never caught her outright lying.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

“I told you already. You are different. Maybe even redeemable.”

She took a step forward, too quick for Yves to register.

“Besides, I like my men tall and grumpy.”

With that, she finally left, mercifully leaving Yves alone to collect his thoughts.

Yves had almost forgotten about this strange encounter in the following days. He was more than busy with other things – mostly with Hobhouse seeking his protection whenever anyone bullied him. 

“In my defence, he smells bad,” Nova Shen concluded her side of the story, where she didn’t even try to deny beating Hobhouse up.

“Fair point, mademoiselle Shen,” Yves said with a theatrical sigh. Nova was a pureblood, and while she wasn’t as calm and nice to be around as her brother, she was still tolerable. Mostly because she at least didn’t assist Henry in harassing Yves.

“So, am I free to go?” Nova asked impatiently, and Yves waved her away. Nova putting Hobhouse in the Hospital Wing saved him from his annoying need to follow Yves around and insisting that purebloods should stick together. Yves didn’t disagree with the sentiment in general, but he didn’t want to have anything to do with Hobhouse.

“Yes, mademoiselle Shen. You may go. Don’t let me catch you next time,” Yves replied, and Nova left. He shook his head faintly, then returned to the dorm to collect his toiletries. He deserved a calm, long bath in the Prefect Bathroom after today.

Yves didn’t see bathing as a mundane act of cleaning himself. No, it was an act of self-care, an art, even. Combining the best available things, relaxing, letting the mind clear just as much as the body. And, of course, it could never be done in a shared shower. The only worthy place was the Prefect Bathroom, and it was worth enduring the annoying responsibilities this job came with.

He was already anticipating hours of bliss when he found the door locked. Yves scoffed and tried again. It could be that the bathroom was occupied by another Prefect, but all of them knew his timetable. It should be free now. With an angry huff, he knocked.

“Just a minute!” a voice responded. Female voice. A very annoying female voice.

Yves stepped back from the sheer audacity. He had to be wrong. It couldn’t be her, not even she had the guts and insanity to use the Prefect Bathroom while not being one. He blinked several times before gaining his composure – just in time as the door opened.

“Oh, it’s you,” Mudblood said as if nothing was amiss. “Come in, I’m almost done anyway.”

Yves gasped for air before finally managing something between a hiss and a growl.

“How dare you?”

She blinked at him, as if not understanding the reason for his outrage.

“How dare I what? Take a bath? I’m not Dunkein, after all.”

Yves continued looking at her, not believing his eyes at the sheer audacity. She was standing in front of him, a blue towel wrapped around her (thankfully), but her shoulders, collarbones and below-knee area were still visible. Another one wrapped around her head like a turban.

“Come on, I don’t bite. Unless you’re into it,” she stepped aside, letting him enter the room. Still at a loss for words, he entered.

“You may start, for all I care,” she shrugged. “I won’t look. I need some time to brush my hair.”

“Get out,” Yves hissed through clenched teeth, those two words the only thing he could muster. Predictably, it didn’t have any effect.

“Make me,” she replied, removing the towel from her hair. It was wet, and drops of water were sliding down it, some falling on her skin. Yves found himself watching the path one of the drops took, from her neck down her clavicle and down to her cleavage, disappearing under the towel.

Unfortunately, she caught his gaze.

“Stop ogling me, blondie. Or at least do it properly,” she reached for her towel, and Yves turned around. It was perhaps unwise to turn his back to the enemy – and she was exactly this, the enemy, the intruder, the disturber of his peace – but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t let her show him even more of her naked pale skin. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know how she looked beneath her clothes. Mostly because he wasn’t certain he would be able to look away.

She let out a chuckle at this, and he turned again, careful not to look too close, but still keeping an eye on her actions. For a second, Yves considered just leaving, perhaps returning later, but his pride and anger wouldn’t allow it. He deserved to be here, deserved his bathing time, and who was she to take it from him? Maybe it was her plan all along – to bully him out of his favourite place in Hogwarts. But he wasn’t going to give her this satisfaction.

She took a seat and picked up a hairbrush (Yves narrowed his eyes, noticing that it looked suspiciously like his own, with the finest unicorn hair bristles, suitable for fragile hair). She muttered an incantation and the brush began to comb her hair gently, whilst she used her wand for a hair-drying charm, blowing delicate streams of hot air along the hairbrush.

He gritted his teeth at the sight. A Mudblood, sitting in the Prefect bathroom, possessing a hairbrush made from the same fine material, her wand just as spiral and elegant as his (he had heard it was made of aspen, a noble wood suitable for a duellist, which was another travesty). And worse of all, her hair was an endless waterfall of flawless black silk, pliant and soft under her spell and the hairbrush, almost hypnotising in its shiny flow.

She was rather short, but not too short. Her wrists were thin, her skin glowing pale, her eyelashes thick and trembling. Her clavicles were elegant and symmetrical, and even through the thick towel, Yves could see that her waist was very slender. After years of wearing a corset himself, Yves could appreciate a thin waist, and she certainly had one. And even he couldn’t deny that she possessed magical power and intelligence.

But it was all tainted with the mud in her blood, the stains on her family tree. Her veins were blue beneath the skin, and they looked just as perfect as everything else about her. But it was a lie, an illusion. Her blood was not pure, and Yves kept repeating this to himself again and again, all whilst his eyes wandered from her hair to her skin and back.

She raised her eyes, meeting his gaze directly now, a sly smirk on her lips.

“I told you already,” she drawled. “Ogle me properly if that is your intention.”

“You are just a Mudblood.”

“Does it feel better for you when you repeat this over and over? Does it help with your jealousy about my hair?”

She tilted her head, mocking him with her expression, with her voice and with the mere fact that she was there, in a place he considered his.

Yves didn’t dignify this with an answer. She didn’t need one, it seemed, her eyes fixed on his. He almost cursed at his own stupidity, quickly averting his gaze. In a magical world, maintaining eye contact with an enemy was dangerous – Legilimency was a rare skill, but it existed. And if the Mudblood possessed this in addition to everything else she had no right to, it would at least explain how she knew his thoughts without him voicing them.

He turned around, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath slightly out of order. He should leave and return later. Or ward the damn bathroom in a way that no one, least of all she, could enter. Report her to the Professors, make her spend the rest of the year in detention. But he couldn’t even move, not until her voice yanked him from his thoughts.

“I’m dressed now. You can turn around.”

Yves turned as slowly and carefully as he could, still not trusting her, but, to her credit, she didn’t lie. She was just buttoning up her jacket, her loose hair the only difference from how she looked normally.

“Get out,” he whispered, almost resigned now. She smirked, but didn’t argue any further.

“My offer is still on the table. Or on the sofa. Wherever you want, blondie.”

Yves just waved his hand, pressing his other palm to his forehead. She was giving him the worst migraines he’d ever had.

Yves returned to the Ravenclaw Tower late at night, well after curfew. He took at least twice the usual amount of time in the bathroom, applying extra care to his hair. It looked good, even great. But it didn’t look amazing.

She was sitting in one of the cosy Ravenclaw sofas, her legs tucked under her, wrapped in a blanket. Her hair was tied in a bun, her eyes keen and intense on the book, but she raised her head slightly when she heard his footsteps. It took Yves several seconds to speak, but, for once, she gave him this time, a curl of her lips betraying that she already knew what he was about to say.

“I accept your offer,” he said, each word slow and reluctant. He hated how much her face lit up in satisfaction at this.

“I knew you would, blondie. You’re a Ravenclaw, after all. It’s a wise decision.”

Yves cringed at this, but didn’t argue. She patted the sofa next to her, but he took the opposite armchair.

“Let’s discuss the conditions, then,” she said. “First, I will need your hair for the experiments.”

Yves let out a solemn sigh, but complied, handing her his hairbrush. She carefully collected the residual hair from it (how he mourned every single one) in a potions vial she retrieved from her robes.

“Then, I will need money. The ingredients are quite pricey.”

“Name your price,” Yves said dismissively. She did, and his mouth fell open. It was more expensive than he expected. He could still afford it, obviously, but it was considerable.

“I am charging you triple the price I do normally, of course,” she explained cheerfully. “Consider it a ‘pureblood supremacy’ tax. Or a French tax, whatever you prefer.”

Yves groaned internally, but gave her a curt nod.

“Also, if I hear you calling anyone ‘Mudblood’ again, I am not guaranteeing any result. Or that you won’t end up bald,” she said nonchalantly, looking at her nails.

Yves closed his eyes for a second. At least she had warned him.

“When will you be ready?” he asked, each word forced through tight lips.

“A month, give or take. It takes time, and some potions depend on the lunar cycle, and Flobberworm slime is best collected in –”

“Spare me the details,” Yves said, wrinkling his nose. Potions was one of the least appealing subjects at school. The description of half the ingredients was enough to make him gag. He could respect the discipline (poisons especially, since they had shaped history so many times over thousands of years), and he enjoyed the benefits of some potions, but he didn’t want to know what the ingredients were.

“As you wish, blondie,” she shrugged.

Yves shot her a look, but, as usual, she was completely unimpressed.

“I have a condition too,” he started, and her brows rose, but she let him continue. “You stop using this ridiculous nickname.”

“And what should I call you, then?” she asked, her voice suddenly dropping lower.

“Monsieur Sauvignon is fine.”

“Sa-oo-wig-non?” she pronounced it in the most obnoxious and incorrect way possible.

“No. Sauvignon,” he said slowly and huffed. “It’s literally the name of the finest wine in the world, and you cannot pronounce it?”

“I can,” she countered with a fake pout. “It’s ‘so-why-gnoon’, right?”

She was provoking him on purpose. Yves took a deep breath.

“As long as I get my potions, I prefer not to see or hear you otherwise.”

“I’ve got another nickname for you, if you like,” she offered with a smirk that reminded him too much of Henry Green. “I can call you ‘Veela’. You look like one.”

That was surprisingly not offensive.

“It is a pleasure to be compared to a creature so magnifique,” Yves said with a small nod.

“Tu es vraiment magnifique, Yves. On voit naturellement la ressemblance,” she replied in perfect French, and Yves flinched at this.

“You speak French,” he said, his voice strained.

“I was raised by French nannies, yes,” she nodded.

Of course she was. Of course, as if her perfect skin and hair and thin waist and talents were not enough. Of course, she had to steal this from him too – the knowledge that at least she wasn’t better than most ignorant British people, unable to comprehend the true beauty of the most beautiful language on Earth. Don’t

“Then why are you pretending you cannot pronounce my name properly?” he hissed.

“Because you look cute when you’re angry. But I won’t. ‘Veela’ suits you better than the name of a mediocre wine.”

Yves opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of curses and outrage – how dare she call the wine that had made his ancestors world-renowned ‘mediocre’ – but he noticed the smirk and challenge in her eyes. She was provoking him. She probably didn’t truly think Sauvignon wine was mediocre, but was simply toying with him. Only a second later did Yves understand that it shouldn’t matter to him what some Muggleborn thought of his family’s wine.

“This discussion is over,” he said, standing up and fighting the sudden dizziness. “Only because I am allowing you to attempt to brew something for my hair does not mean you are better than any other –”

He caught himself just in time, noticing her frown.

“Muggleborn,” Yves concluded, and she gave him a slight nod. “I have no desire to spend time in your vicinity otherwise.”

“We’ll see about that, Veela,” she retorted, but Yves chose to ignore it, heading to his dorm.

Insufferable, annoying Muggleborn. His own personal nightmare.

She kept her word – Yves hardly saw her in the following weeks, giving him the peace he deserved. He used the Prefect Bathroom as usual, without finding her there even once, which was a blessing in itself. He had also noticed that she was rarely in the castle in general, missing meals and lessons – not that it was his problem.

He kept to his part of the deal, giving her the money she asked for through Vega and even restricting himself to using “Muggleborn” instead of the proper term. His tone was enough to convey what he thought of them.

One day, when Yves had almost given up on ever receiving his potions, she walked up to him during a meal with an almost predatory expression on her face.

“I’ve got your potions, Veela,” she declared, her voice full of pride. “Meet me after curfew in the Common Room.”

Yves gave her the slightest of nods and turned back to his meal. She gave him a pat on the shoulder and left, leaving Yves to hope that no one thought they were cordial, or, worse still, friends.

They weren’t. They couldn’t be. It was far easier to ignore her and the emotions she stirred in him (disgust and injustice, nothing more, Yves repeated to himself) when she was almost absent from the castle. But, somehow, Yves was glad she chose the Common Room to meet him and not a far more secluded place. He wouldn’t put it past her to choose the Prefect Bathroom – by then, he had learned about her wicked humour.

She was already there, a row of vials of various sizes and colours neatly arranged on the coffee table. Yves took the armchair again, not daring to sit near her. He noticed that each vial was labelled, and she pressed a parchment into his hands.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she said. “I had to consult a book or two on albinism. But it should all work.”

Yves briefly skimmed the parchment. A variety of hair potions, just as expected, three potions for sun protection and something else.

“Eye drops?” Yves raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged.

“Your skin is sensitive to sunlight, and so are your eyes. It should help. I combined Streeler venom with rue, added some dittany, and –”

“Why?” Yves interrupted her.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Streeler venom is extremely potent, so to counter its toxic properties, you need both rue and dittany.”

Yves jerked his head, forcing composure into his voice.

“Why did you do this? Why the eye drops? We only made a deal about the hair and the sun protection potions.”

She tilted her head, regarding him, then smirked.

“Well, I could say that I am a Ravenclaw, and academic curiosity was my main reason. Wit beyond measure…”

Her gaze wandered to Rowena Ravenclaw’s statue in the Common Room.

“Man’s greatest treasure,” Yves finished. Strangely, but he felt a peculiar sense of solidarity with her in that moment, as if accepting her as… perhaps not an equal, but at least a kindred spirit in this. They were both children of Rowena.

She looked at him, her gaze unreadable. Yves had never seen such an expression on her face.

“I could say it was about academic curiosity,” she repeated. “But it would be only half the truth.”

She got up from the sofa and turned around.

“If you want to know the whole truth, meet me tomorrow after breakfast on the seventh floor, opposite the Troll Tapestry. Take the sun protection potion and the eye drops.”

With that, she left, leaving Yves to wonder what this was about.

Yves followed her instructions carefully. He tested the hair potions first, of course. It’s not that he didn’t trust her, but she was far too friendly with Green, someone who had a Bludger instead of a brain and a mild obsession with Yves. Or Nova, who was vicious and almost bloodthirsty in her bullying of Hobhouse. And whilst Yves didn’t actually think Harrington would try to poison him, there was something about the eye drops that he didn’t trust.

He was used to almost constant eye burn. He was sensitive to light, wearing sunglasses on the worst days, and, of course, doing everything to stay away from sunlight, observing it in short, stolen moments before shutting the curtains. And even though Scottish weather wasn’t particularly sunny, it still hurt. His eyesight was far from perfect, but it was beneath Yves to display or even admit any imperfection.

He sat at the desk in his dorm, staring at the small vial in front of him. Harrington didn’t list the ingredients for each of her potions, and Yves was both relieved and grateful for that. Her hair potions worked, at the very least. His hair looked and felt incroyable, better than ever before, and this was just from one application. Yves didn’t resist running his fingers through his hair, sighing at how soft yet strong it felt.

With one final sigh, he took a leap of faith and put a precise drop in each eye. At first, nothing happened – it simply felt wet, and he even thought she had given him plain water. A second later, his vision turned completely blurry, and he shut his eyes to prevent dizziness. Yves could see colourful spots dancing in front of his eyelids until the whirlwind finally stopped, and all he could see was darkness. Carefully, he opened his eyes.

Something had changed. He saw the same desk with a parchment, the same golden quill – a gift from his parents – the same blue curtains adorning the tall windows. And yet, something was entirely different. Why was everything so intense? Why could he distinguish the silhouettes more clearly, the colours more vivid, the contours sharper? Was this how normal eyesight felt?

Yves got up from his chair and retrieved a small mirror he kept in his desk. He marvelled despite himself at his reflection – now that he could see more clearly just how beautiful he looked. But something was different – his eyes were different. Not the usual pale purple with red, but now the shade was closer to dark blue like his mother’s and sister’s. He blinked at his reflection, realising something else – they were not in pain. The burning sensation he had whenever even a little sun was in the room now was gone completely.

Harrington had found a way to help him. Yves had no idea how, but she did. He couldn’t even try fighting the rising gratitude in his chest, couldn’t bring himself to call her “Mudblood”, not at this moment. He just left the room, heading to the seventh floor, but not without throwing one last glance at himself in the mirror.

She was already waiting, her hands in her pockets, leaning against the wall opposite the probably ugliest painting in Hogwarts. Their gazes met, and she nodded with a small smile – probably noticing the difference in his eyes.

“Why are we here?” Yves asked, wrinkling his nose at the Troll Tapestry.

“You’ll see.”

She walked three times along the wall and, to Yves’s utter disbelief, a door materialised. He didn’t show his surprise, silently following her.

The room was blue – probably more blue than anything Yves had ever seen, and that spoke volumes as a Ravenclaw. The walls, the floor, the ceiling – everything was blue, except for the rows of cauldrons, bookshelves and something that looked like a door to the outside, warm sunlight streaming through it. They were on the seventh floor, though – there was no way to walk right into a sunny meadow through this room.

“If it becomes too much sun, you can return,” she warned him. “Stay behind me at first. She is docile and trusts me, but she is still not used to men.”

Yves opened his mouth to question who “she” was, but Harrington didn’t give him a chance, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the sun. He wanted to protest – both her boldness and the way she dragged him – but it was too late. A second more and they were standing right in the meadow, endless sunlight bathing the grass and flowers in its glow.

Flowers that Yves could see better now. Sunlight that didn’t hurt his eyes. Vibrant, intense colours, light breeze against his skin (which didn’t burn either, since he had applied the sun protection potion as well). It was overwhelming. He took it all in – the view, the feeling – and he didn’t even notice at first how Harrington was watching him with slight concern.

“I’m fine,” he said, reserved and composed, hoping his voice didn’t betray how his heart beat faster against his ribs. She nodded at this.

“Streeler is a snail-like creature, native to Africa. It changes its shell colour every hour. Its slime is poisonous and so potent that it burns all vegetation in its way. But it can also have healing properties if handled appropriately.”

She paused for a moment, as if waiting for Yves to interrupt. He didn’t.

“The lack of pigment in albino eyes causes problems like light sensitivity and refraction. Muggle medicine doesn’t have a cure for this. But magic does. I could stabilise the Streeler slime and powdered shell enough to give your eyes some colour back. It’s not permanent, and it won’t heal you, but… It’s something.”

Yves still didn’t say a word.

“I can write down the recipe if you want, but I wouldn’t advise you to brew it yourself. It’s a tricky potion, and I would trust maybe a handful of people in the castle to brew it at all,” she said, looking down at her shoes.

“Name your price. For you to brew it,” Yves said, looking at her. She allowed herself a small smile and named it.

Yves didn’t even register the price, high as it was – and just nodded.

“You told me you were raised by French nannies,” he said slowly, and she nodded.

“Yes. Why?”

“You come from riches. Muggle riches,” he tried to stop his lips from curling in distaste, but failed. “Still riches. Why demand so much from me, then? I will never believe you are in need of money.”

She tilted her head with another smirk.

“I might not need money, but someone else does,” she drawled. “Haven’t you noticed how most of the N.E.W.T. students are purebloods or half-bloods? The Ministry only sponsors education until the O.W.L.s. Not many Muggleborns can afford Hogwarts fees afterwards.”

Yves didn’t know that, but it made sense. He could count maybe a handful of Muggleborns in older years – not that he complained, explaining it to himself with their poor exam performance.

“I am changing this,” she continued. “I am establishing a foundation to cover the fees for every Muggleborn who cannot afford it. And your money flows right into it.”

Yves opened his mouth, ready to deliver a tirade, to express his outrage. How dare she? Use his money, his family’s money, to flood Hogwarts with even more Muggleborns?

But before the first words left his mouth, he saw something in the distance. A silhouette, glowing white that would make even snow look dirty in comparison. It could only be…

“Her name is Hazel,” Harrington said. “I rescued her a while ago.”

A unicorn. A beautiful, majestic creature, the embodiment of magic itself. The mare took slow, hesitant steps, drawing closer, and Yves held his breath, afraid to move, to make this half-vision disappear.

Hazel didn’t disappear. She came closer and closer, her steps growing more hesitant but not stopping, until Harrington went over to her, stroking her mane in slow, gentle movements and whispering something in her ear.

If anyone had told Yves before that Harrington literally had a unicorn, he would have been furious at the sheer injustice of it. But he couldn’t find any fury or jealousy in his heart now. Not when Hazel looked at him, her eyes infinitely kind and wise, as if she already knew everything he had to say.

“You may approach her,” Harrington said gently, interrupting his thoughts.

Yves took a step forward, his legs almost betraying him. He owned pretty much everything money could buy – many horses, some of them expensive enough to sustain a family for their whole lives. But no money in the world could buy a unicorn’s trust.

And here she was, a beautiful creature, so elegant and divine, looking at him. And beside her, Harrington, smiling softly, giving him this opportunity to come so close to something Yves had admired for so long.

His own Patronus was a unicorn. His wand contained unicorn hair. He had never seen a unicorn alive, though, and he doubted he could without Harrington’s assistance.

“Come on, you can pet her,” she said, and Yves dared to touch Hazel’s mane. Just as soft and wonderful as it looked, as Yves glided his fingers through it, and Hazel closed her eyes for a second before looking at him again.

Yves didn’t hear how Harrington went into a long explanation about how unicorn hair has healing properties, how only tail hair is suitable for the wand core, and how baby unicorns are golden, then silver, then turn white. Yves knew this all, of course, but he didn’t interrupt her.

He had never felt more grateful in his life. Standing there in the sunlit meadow, coming so close to a real testament of magic – the one even Muggles were aware of – he couldn’t bring himself to think about injustice or envy. Those emotions didn’t exist here, at this moment. Only magic.

“Merci, Selene,” he managed, turning his gaze to her. Perhaps it was just Hazel’s presence, or the sun, but he had never noticed before how beautiful her smile was.

“De rien, Yves.”

Thank you for reading 💙

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Credit for the ship name "Moonlight" goes to Bambi who also did this chart 💙💙💙 tysm for letting me borrow your fussy boy. Another thanks to Kris for letting me borrow her kids as well!