The weeks after the Quidditch match passed in a strange kind of silence.
The castle looked normal — laughter echoing through corridors, students gossiping about Lockhart's "heroics," green and silver banners still draped across the Slytherin tables — but underneath it all, something had shifted.
The shadows stretched longer. The air felt colder. And every sound seemed to fade faster than it should have.
At first, Shya thought Talora was just tired.
Everyone was. Midterms, essays, sleepless nights, and Lockhart's relentless self-promotion — exhaustion was basically the Hogwarts brand.
But this was different.
Talora's laughter came slower now. Her eyes seemed duller, unfocused. She'd forget what she was saying mid-sentence or trail off halfway through reading a line in a book.
And she kept waking up before dawn, sitting on her bed in silence, fingers pressed to the edge of her collarbone like she was feeling for something that wasn't there.
"Bob," Shya said one morning, watching her tie her hair with trembling hands, "you sure you're okay?"
"Just tired," Talora said softly. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You worry too much."
Shya tried to smile back. "That's my job. I'm Head of Worrying. Elected unanimously."
Talora chuckled faintly. "Then you should probably quit. Bad for your health."
"I'll consider it when you start sleeping again."
That ended the conversation. But Shya couldn't stop watching her — the way Talora's brightness, usually soft and golden, had dimmed like the end of a candle's life.
A week later, after dinner, Roman cornered her near the staircase.
"What's going on with Talora?" he asked quietly, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one was listening.
Shya stiffened. "What do you mean?"
He gave her that look — the one that meant don't insult my intelligence. "She looks awful, Shya. She's skipping meals, skipping classes. Cassian said she almost fell asleep standing up in the library."
Cassian,, standing beside him, nodded once. "She's not well."
"She's tired," Shya said quickly. "That's all. It's just — school, you know? It's been… a lot."
"Yeah, but—" Roman started.
"I've got it handled," Shya interrupted, voice firmer now. "She doesn't need everyone crowding her."
Cassian studied her for a long moment before saying quietly, "Make sure you don't wear yourself out trying to carry her."
Shya forced a grin. "Please. I'm basically built for emotional labor."
They didn't look convinced, but they let it drop.
Still, Shya could feel their eyes on her in the days that followed — Roman's worried glances from across the Great Hall, Cassian's quiet observation when Talora didn't show up to meals.
Even Lisa, Mandy and Padma had started whispering about her absence.
The morning they found Colin Creevey, everything changed again.
The castle woke to rumor: a student had been petrified, a Gryffindor boy with a camera clutched to his chest. By breakfast, it was official. Dumbledore's face was grim at the staff table. Filch was beside himself.
Whispers filled the Hall — hushed, horrified, buzzing like flies.
"Colin Creevey," Mandy said, eyes wide. "He's Muggle-born."
Lisa swallowed hard. "Do you think—?"
Padma shook her head sharply. "Don't."
Shya stared at her untouched plate. "You know, Hogwarts really needs a refund policy. 'Magical education includes risk of being turned into a statue.'"
The table went still — then, slowly, the smallest ripple of uneasy laughter passed through their group. It wasn't much, but it gave everyone something to breathe through.
Only Talora didn't laugh. She was staring at the flicker of candles above the Hall, her expression distant, her hand clenched tight around her fork.
Shya saw it — that tremor in her fingers — and knew it wasn't fear of the Chamber. It was something deeper.
Over the next two weeks, Shya started covering for her.
When Talora missed class, Shya went to the professors.
"She's been sick, Professor Flitwick. Stomach flu."
"She's just resting, Professor Sprout. Caught a chill."
She even went to McGonagall, hands clasped tightly in front of her robes. "Professor, Talora's unwell. I think she needs time to recover."
McGonagall studied her closely. "Has Madam Pomfrey seen her?"
Shya hesitated. "She doesn't… like the hospital wing. It makes her anxious."
McGonagall's gaze softened a fraction. "Very well. Tell her she's excused for the next few days. But if her condition doesn't improve, I will intervene."
"Thank you, Professor."
Shya exhaled only once she'd left the room.
By mid-November, the snow had begun to fall.
The castle glittered in frost, the lake glassy and still. Inside, fires burned low and steady, but Shya couldn't shake the cold that seemed to cling to everything — to Talora most of all.
She spent more and more time in bed now, too tired to read or eat. Her hair lay in soft tangles across the pillow, her eyes half-open but unfocused.
Sometimes she spoke in fragments — half-dreams, murmured apologies, things that made no sense.
And Shya kept her company through it all. Sitting beside her, talking about nothing — Lockhart's new ridiculous scarf, Cassian's arrogance, Padma's latest study chart — anything to keep the silence from swallowing her.
Letters began arriving from Talora's parents by the end of the month.
Dear Shya,
We hope this reaches you well. We haven't heard from Talora in some time — please tell her we love her, and that her owl's always welcome home.
Dear Shya,
We're growing worried. Could you please ask her to write to us, even just a few lines?
We know she's busy, but we miss her. Thank you for looking after her.
Each letter was kind. Gentle. And each one made Shya's chest ache a little more.
She kept them stacked neatly on her desk, tied together with a bit of blue ribbon.
One evening, after everyone else had gone to dinner, Shya climbed the dormitory stairs again.
Talora was in bed, curtains drawn. The air was heavy, cold despite the fire downstairs.
"Bob" Shya said quietly. "You awake?"
A small sound. "Mmh."
She pushed the curtain aside gently. Talora's eyes flickered open — glazed, unfocused.
"I got another letter from your parents."
"I know."
"You should write them back."
Talora shook her head weakly. "I can't."
"You can," Shya said, trying to sound light. "Just tell them you're busy avoiding Lockhart's quizzes. They'll understand."
That earned the faintest laugh. But then Talora's lip trembled, and she looked away.
Shya sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hey. What's going on, really? Because this —" she gestured softly around them "— this isn't you."
Talora's voice was barely above a whisper. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it's there again. The garden. The light. It used to feel warm, alive. Now it's strangling. The vines keep reaching, pulling at me — taking everything. I wake up feeling like I've been drained."
Her breath hitched. "It's like something inside me is rotting."
Shya's chest tightened. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
Shya gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "Tal, I excel at worrying. I could get a N.E.W.T. in it."
That coaxed a shaky smile.
Shya squeezed her hand. "Listen to me. You don't have to go through this alone, okay? I don't care if I have to drag Madam Pomfrey up here myself or yell at the sun to give you back your energy — I've got you."
Talora blinked, tears spilling silently. "You shouldn't have to take care of me."
"Too bad," Shya said softly. "It's in the fine print of friendship. Non-negotiable."
For a moment, the world went still. Just two friends in the dim light, one holding the other's hand as snow drifted past the window.
Then Talora whispered, almost to herself, "Something's wrong with the magic here, Shya. I can feel it."
Shya didn't know what to say to that. So she just held on tighter.
That night, Shya stayed in the chair beside Talora's bed until she fell asleep. The fire burned low. The tower creaked in the wind.
When she finally looked down, she noticed that Talora's skin looked pale — too pale — as though the light had been pulled right out of her.
And as the snow kept falling over the castle, soft and endless, Shya couldn't shake the feeling that something in Hogwarts itself was watching them — silent, patient, waiting.