"Do you think this will complicate your arrangement with Dumbledore?"
Sabine's voice was soft, but edged with something barely perceptible—the sheathed blade of a dagger. She stood by the family hall's fireplace, watching the blue flames whisper in a forgotten tongue. Nathael, still seated, looked up. The rest of the family had already retired: cousins to their chambers, uncles to strategize in the gardens, house-elves to clean in silence. Only the two of them remained.
"No issue," Nathael said calmly. "If I win the Tournament and must go to China, I can ask Dumbledore for time. He understands that some family matters can't wait."
Sabine nodded slowly, still not looking at him.
"And if you don't win?"
"Then I'll honor my commitment at Hogwarts," Nathael replied. "But… there's something you should know. My arrangement with Dumbledore is rather interesting. He asked me—"
"I don't need to know," Sabine interrupted, finally turning to face him. "If you've already given your word, keep it. Grauheims do not break promises."
Nathael fell silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
"As you say, Mother."
Sabine studied him with those eyes that seemed to see beyond words, beyond intentions.
"Just remember: Hogwarts isn't a marketplace. It's a nest of serpents in robes. Don't let them charm you with sweets and titles. You're a hunter—not a professor."
"I'll never forget it."
She gave one final nod, then turned and left the room, her robe rippling like a shadow fading into night.
Nathael exhaled slowly. Though his mother never said it outright, he knew she distrusted Dumbledore—not out of malice, but instinct. The Grauheims had survived millennia precisely because they never fully trusted the powerful.
Meanwhile, in the east wing of the manor, in a room filled with cushions, antique mirrors, and racks of cloaks in every color, Lysander circled Celestia with almost childlike excitement.
"Look! Anneliese bought it for me yesterday!" he said, pointing to a small emerald-green cape with silver trim. "It has a built-in lightness charm! And the clasp is made from genuine hippogriff bone!"
Celestia looked at him with a mix of affection and exasperation.
"Lysander, you're twenty-four. Not twelve."
"But it's the first time Anneliese ever let me choose the color!" he replied, fumbling with the clasp. "She always said green didn't suit my fur."
"Because it doesn't," Celestia said dryly. "Emerald green accentuates the patches on your chest. You look like a bush with eyes."
Lysander's ears drooped.
"Oh… really?"
"No," Celestia softened. "You look fine. Just… don't get so worked up. You act like you've just been born."
"But you're younger than me," Lysander said with a timid smile. "I was born with Anneliese. You with Nathael. That makes me… the eldest."
"Technically, yes," Celestia conceded. "But you behave as if you're still waiting for someone to tell you when to meow."
Lysander laughed—a soft, shy sound.
"It's just… Anneliese always has everything under control. And I… well, sometimes I feel that if I don't do things perfectly, I'll disappoint the family."
Celestia stepped closer and rubbed her head gently against his.
"No one expects perfection, Lysander. Only loyalty. And you have that in abundance."
He sighed, visibly relieved.
"Thank you, sister."
"Now take off that cape before you trip over it," Celestia said. "And come on. Let's see if Anneliese left any star biscuits in the kitchen."
Nathael walked the manor's corridors, his footsteps silent on the ancient stone. The air smelled of parchment, beeswax, and something else: tension. He knew Anneliese would be in the library. She always was.
The Grauheim library wasn't a room—it was a cathedral of knowledge. Bookshelves stretched into the vaulted ceiling, floating staircases shifted according to need, and books whispered when someone came too close. Beneath a glass dome that revealed the actual stars—not enchanted projections—Anneliese sat with an open book on her lap.
The volume was ancient, bound in blackened leather, its yellowed pages seeming to breathe. Anneliese read it with such effortless fluency that to anyone else, it might have looked like a pose—as if she were pretending to understand a text that was, in truth, utter gibberish.
But Nathael knew better.
"The Codex of Forgotten Runes?" he said, approaching. "Still with the forbidden texts?"
Anneliese didn't look up.
"I heard you caused quite a stir in Egypt," she said in a neutral tone. "Five dark wizards, a stolen relic, and a clean disappearance. Very… conspicuous for a hunter who prefers the shadows."
"Someone has to keep the family fed," Nathael replied with a playful smile. "Not all of us can live off dusty tomes."
Anneliese finally looked at him. Her eyes—same blue as their mother's—were cold, but not unkind.
"Not everything is combat, Nathael."
"I know," he said, leaning against the back of her chair. "But not everything is theory either. Lysander needs to get out of the kitchen. I'm sure he's spent too long teaching house-elves how to brew tea in spirals. It's not good for his instincts."
Anneliese frowned.
"It seems you haven't been paying much attention to the family lately."
Nathael blinked.
"What do you mean?"
She closed the book with a soft snap.
"Nothing I need to explain now." She rose, smoothing her robes. "Just remember: the Tournament isn't a game. And I don't intend to lose."
"I never said you would," Nathael replied.
Anneliese held his gaze for a long moment. Then, with the slightest nod, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing like heartbeats on the stone.
Nathael watched her go. There was something in her tone… something that didn't quite fit. What didn't he know about Lysander? About the family?
Before he could reflect further, a white figure leapt from a nearby windowsill and landed in his arms with a dramatic sigh.
"Carry me to bed," Celestia murmured.
Nathael chuckled softly.
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse," she said, settling into his arms. "He showed me five cloaks. Five. And every single clasp made noise. My patience has limits."
"You adore him, though," Nathael said, heading toward the stairs.
"Of course I do," Celestia yawned. "But that doesn't mean I'll wear a vulture-feather hat."
They climbed in silence. Magical torches flared to life as they passed, as if the house itself recognized them. When they reached their chamber—a spacious room overlooking the ancestral forest—Nathael set Celestia down on the bed. She curled up on a silk cushion and closed her eyes instantly.
"Today was a long day," Nathael murmured, removing his cloak.
"Too long," Celestia said without opening her eyes. "First the journey, then the meeting, then Lysander's fashion parade… and now the Tournament. Do you think Anneliese suspects something?"
"About what?"
"That you're not planning to lose."
Nathael sat on the edge of the bed.
"Anneliese doesn't think in terms of winning or losing. She thinks in duty. And if she believes she's best suited to go after Father, she'll do whatever it takes—even if it means defeating me."
"So… will you let her win?"
"No," Nathael said firmly. "Because we've been to places no maps record. We've faced creatures that would make an Auror flee in seconds. We've crossed deserts where magic dries like blood. Anneliese is brilliant—yes. But her world is within these walls. Ours… is in the shadow, in the risk, in the unknown. And if Father's in a place like that… he needs the one who's already survived the impossible."
Celestia opened one eye.
"That was… unusually serious for you."
"Because it is," Nathael said. "This isn't about glory. It's about bringing him back."
She purred softly, then closed her eyes again.
"Then sleep. Tomorrow, preparation begins. And Anneliese won't be the only one testing you."
"I know," Nathael said, extinguishing the lights with a wave. "But as long as you're with me, I need nothing else."
In the darkness, Celestia whispered:
"I'll always be with you. Until my last breath."