Chapter Thirty Seven: Thread by Thread

It all cracked in late April.

It wasn't dramatic. No collapsing in the Great Hall. No screaming on the pitch. It was Vivian who found her — curled into an alcove on the seventh floor, her hands trembling so badly her quill clattered to the floor.

"Eliza?" Vivian's voice was soft, but unwavering.

"I'm fine," Eliza whispered.

"You're not."

Eliza's breath caught. "I'm so tired of being afraid."

Vivian sat beside her, offering nothing but silence until Eliza's breathing evened out. One by one, the rest of the WIX found them — Rosaline first, followed closely by Artemis, Henry, Magnus, Iris, Gwenog, and Sol. They didn't ask what happened. They didn't need to.

Sol plopped down dramatically, resting his head on Eliza's knee. "We're forming a vigilante group, by the way."

Eliza blinked. "What?"

"We've got costume ideas," Henry added. "I'm thinking capes."

"No capes," Magnus said solemnly.

"Absolutely capes," Gwenog argued. "And matching boots."

"We should vote," Iris offered, her voice soft but warm.

For the first time in weeks, Eliza laughed. It was shaky, and her eyes were wet, but it was real.

They rebuilt her in pieces — laughter layered over fear, teasing woven through grief. It wasn't healing, not fully. But it was something.

Sometimes, late at night, when the dreams still crept in, it wasn't Barker's voice she remembered. It was Sol's, loud and clear, cutting through the fog and pulling her back.

She would never admit it — not to anyone — but sometimes, when Sol's arm draped around her shoulders or his teasing grin landed just right, her stomach did a stupid little flip. It was a crush she would die with, because she'd rather drown than admit it to him.

But when his hand found hers — just a brief, grounding squeeze — she didn't pull away.

She wasn't whole. Not yet. But she wasn't alone.

And as long as she had the WIX, she knew she never would be.

It all cracked in late April.

It wasn't dramatic. No collapsing in the Great Hall, no screaming on the pitch. There was no single explosion, just a slow collapse under the weight of everything she'd been holding together.

It was Vivian who found her — tucked into the narrow alcove on the seventh floor behind a statue of Wilhelmina the Wayward, knees drawn to her chest, her hands trembling so badly that her quill slipped through her fingers and clattered to the floor, the ink leaving a jagged line across her half-finished notes.

"Eliza?" Vivian's voice was soft, but unwavering.

"I'm fine," Eliza whispered, even though her hands were still shaking and her throat burned from trying not to cry.

"You're not."

Eliza's breath caught, the words hitting her with a quiet, devastating accuracy. There was no judgment in Vivian's voice, no pity — just the truth, spoken aloud in a way that made it impossible to keep pretending. Eliza's fingers curled into the fabric of her robes, holding on like she could physically hold herself together.

"I'm so tired," she whispered, her voice trembling like her hands. "I'm so tired of being afraid."

Vivian sat beside her without a word, knees bumping gently against Eliza's. She didn't offer advice or solutions. She just stayed, grounding Eliza with quiet, steady presence. That was the thing about Vivian — she didn't fill silences because they made her uncomfortable. She let them exist, until they were safe to break.

One by one, the rest of the WIX found them. Rosaline was first, her eyes going wide with worry as she folded herself down beside Eliza, her arm sliding around her twin's shoulders without hesitation. Artemis arrived next, her gaze sharp and knowing, but her touch gentle as she placed her hand on Eliza's knee. Henry and Magnus hovered just behind, each radiating a different kind of quiet concern — Henry fidgeting, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, while Magnus stood still and solid, a quiet wall just behind her.

Iris and Gwenog came together, Gwenog's sharp energy softened into something gentler as she took up her usual post, standing close enough that anyone who so much as glanced at Eliza would have to go through her first. Iris knelt beside Vivian, her small, careful hands smoothing out the crumpled edge of Eliza's notes, as if fixing something small could make the rest of it better.

Sol was the last, appearing with his usual flair, but his smile was softer around the edges, the usual brightness dimmed by something quieter.

He plopped down dramatically, resting his head on Eliza's knee with a theatrical sigh. "We're forming a vigilante group, by the way."

Eliza blinked down at him, her throat still tight, but her lips twitching toward a smile. "What?"

"Vigilante group," Sol repeated. "Secret identities. Cool code names. The whole thing."

"We've got costume ideas," Henry added, perching awkwardly on the edge of a nearby bench. "I'm thinking capes."

"No capes," Magnus said solemnly.

"Absolutely capes," Gwenog argued, crossing her arms. "And matching boots."

"We should vote," Iris said softly, her voice warm with the kind of quiet affection only Iris could offer.

For the first time in weeks, Eliza laughed. It was thin and shaky, but it was real — the kind of laugh that unlocked something tight in her chest. Her eyes were wet, her breath still uneven, but the weight pressing down on her felt just a little lighter.

They rebuilt her in pieces, whether they realized it or not — laughter layered over fear, teasing woven through grief, hands always reaching out before she could fall too far. It wasn't healing, not fully. But it was something.

Sometimes, late at night, when the dreams still came — Barker's hand too low on her back, her voice locked behind her teeth — it wasn't Barker's voice that pulled her out of it.

It was Sol's. Loud, ridiculous, entirely too confident — slicing through the fog, tugging her back to the present with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.

She would never admit it — not to anyone, not even Rosaline — but sometimes, when Sol's arm draped over her shoulders or his teasing grin landed just right, her stomach did a stupid little flip. It was the kind of crush she'd rather die than confess, one she knew would fade into the background of their friendship like so many other teenage things.

But when his hand found hers — a quick squeeze, a grounding touch — she didn't pull away.

She wasn't whole. Not yet. But she wasn't alone.

Artemis, ever the quiet observer, had seen the cracks forming long before they broke open in the alcove. Even before Eliza had started flinching at shadows, before the hesitation in her voice bled into her writing, Artemis had known.

The night after Sophia benched Eliza, Artemis sat at her desk long after her roommates had gone to bed, her quill poised over Eliza's WIX diary — the enchanted books they'd all had since third year, connecting them across houses and dormitories, allowing them to write each other notes in secret. But Artemis' message wasn't to the WIX.

It was to Lavania Dawson.

Eliza had gifted her parents their own linked diary — a private line to their daughter when owls felt too slow or too formal. Artemis had long since mastered the art of writing in it when Eliza couldn't, keeping her parents updated in gentle, careful bursts that gave them enough information to understand — but never enough to panic.

Tonight, her message was different.

She needs help.

More than we can give her.

- Artemis 

The words sat stark and blunt on the page, her normally elegant script heavy with weight. She knew Lavania would see them before dawn, and for the first time in months, Artemis felt a flicker of relief — like handing a piece of the burden over to someone who could actually do something with it.

The next day, Eliza's diary flashed with a new message in her mother's familiar hand.

We're here. Whenever you need us. No pressure, no questions — just love.

Eliza hadn't realized how much she needed to see that until she saw it. The words weren't a demand, weren't a call for explanations or answers. They were just there, steady and certain, a reminder that her parents were her parents before they were anything else.

The messages became a quiet rhythm after that — small check-ins, never intrusive, always gentle. Notes about what Edgar was cooking for dinner, reminders that the garden gnomes were getting cheeky again, stories about Lavania accidentally hexing a Ministry memo into singing Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits for three hours straight. They filled the diary like letters from home, a reminder that her world wasn't just Hogwarts and memories she wanted to outrun. It was still hers, even when she felt like she'd lost herself in it.

Artemis kept writing, too — sometimes in the diary, sometimes in her own notes, tracking Eliza's progress like a puzzle she was determined to solve. It wasn't about fixing her. It was about making sure Eliza knew she didn't have to fix herself alone.

They didn't call it therapy, not at first. Just someone to talk to over the summer, someone who wasn't family or friends, who could help untangle the knots in her chest and the shadows in her head. Lavania framed it like a gift, not a punishment — a way to breathe again after OWLs, to clear out the weight of everything that had been pressing down on her.

Eliza hadn't said yes right away. But when she finally did, she didn't feel weak. She felt relieved.

She wasn't whole. Not yet.

But with her family, her WIX, and that steady, unseen thread tying her to the people who loved her — she was no longer afraid of being lost forever.

And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to start finding herself again.

May 3rd

Good morning, lovebug.

Your father made pancakes this morning — well, he tried. I think he forgot that you can't just "Accio" batter directly into the pan, and we are now the proud owners of a ceiling pancake. It's still up there. I told him it's your problem when you come home.

We miss you. We're proud of you. We'll see you soon.

May 7th

It's been raining all day. The kind of rain that smells like earth and makes you want to sleep. I hope you're remembering to rest. It's easy to forget when the world feels too loud.

You don't have to write back — just know I'm here.

May 12th

Your Uncle sent another owl. Don't worry, I told him you were busy being brilliant and terrifying the faculty. He sends his love and a truly horrible drawing of the family kneazle.

It's okay if you're not ready to talk yet. You're still ours, no matter what.

May 20th

You know Artemis has been writing to me. I know she's worried. So are we. But there's no clock on this. We'll be here, whether it's next week or next year.

I love you, my clever girl.

May 30th

I booked a chat for you — just to try. Not because you're broken, not because you need to be fixed. Because it's okay to let someone help you hold the heavy things.

You are not too much. You are not too little. You are enough. Always.

June 6th

You don't have to do this alone.

The first appointment was held in a bright, sun-drenched room, so at odds with the knots in Eliza's chest that she almost turned around in the doorway. Everything felt too open, like the sunlight might burn through her skin and lay her bare.

The therapist — Healer Merriweather, though she insisted Eliza call her Lena — was older than Eliza expected. Not grandmother-old, but comfortably middle-aged, her greying curls pulled into a neat bun, a teacup balanced precariously on the armrest of her overstuffed chair. Her robes were a soft slate blue, the kind of color Eliza associated with her mother's gentler days, when Lavania was home instead of at some Ministry function, and they would spend afternoons wandering through the gardens.

There were no notepads or clocks in sight. Just the tea, a dish of chocolate-covered almonds, and a wide window overlooking a quiet field of poppies.

Eliza stood awkwardly at the threshold, her pulse quickening in her wrists, her throat tightening with the familiar fear that she'd say too much, or nothing at all.

"First times are the hardest," Lena said, smiling just enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. "Come in. No expectations. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to."

Eliza sat, stiff and wary, in the chair across from her. The cushion was too soft, like it might swallow her whole if she relaxed even a fraction.

They didn't talk about Barker at first.

They talked about Quidditch — or rather, they talked around it. Eliza's hands fidgeted with the sleeve of her jumper, twisting the fabric until the threads stretched thin. She talked about drills and formations and the way the wind changed the further you flew from the castle. Lena didn't interrupt, just nodded and occasionally offered a soft, "That makes sense."

The silence wasn't oppressive. It sat between them like a third person — acknowledged, but not feared.

Eventually, Eliza found herself talking about Sharpwing, about how her words had started to feel like someone else's, like she was imitating the girl who had written those articles in third year, not actually becoming her.

"Sometimes I don't even remember how to be her," Eliza admitted. "She always knew what to say. I never do."

Lena only smiled, her hands folded loosely in her lap. "You don't have to be her," she said. "You only have to be you."

Eliza didn't know who that was anymore.

The second session went worse.

Lena didn't push, but Eliza was angry anyway — at her, at herself, at the fact that talking felt so much like peeling away layers of skin, exposing raw nerves that had learned to hide too well. She snapped at soft questions and refused the tea Lena offered.

But Lena didn't withdraw. She stayed exactly where she was, hands still folded, voice still soft.

"You're allowed to be angry," Lena said. "You're allowed to feel however you feel."

Eliza crossed her arms so tightly her elbows dug into her ribs. "I don't even know what I feel."

"Then we'll figure it out."

The third session was when the dam cracked.

It wasn't a tidy confession, no cinematic speech. It was bits and pieces, fragmented memories that came out sideways. Eliza couldn't even say Barker's name at first. She just described his hand — the way it had rested too low, the way her skin still crawled remembering it. How she could still feel the weight of it, even now, like a stain she couldn't scrub away.

Lena didn't interrupt, didn't fill the space with platitudes. She just listened.

When Eliza's voice gave out, her hands trembling in her lap, Lena placed the dish of chocolate almonds between them.

"Take one," Lena said gently. "You did something brave today."

Eliza took two.

They didn't fix her. Therapy wasn't a spell, and Lena wasn't a Healer in the way Eliza was used to. There was no potion, no charm to undo what had been done. But there was a space, and in that space, there was permission — to be messy, to be afraid, to be angry and small and all the things Eliza had swallowed down so no one would worry.

Lavania's diary messages kept coming.

June 10th

The garden gnomes built a tower out of Mum's old cauldrons. Your father's pretending not to notice because they're too cute to evict.

We're proud of you, darling. Every day.

June 15th

You don't have to be okay right away. There's no deadline for healing. Just remember — we're here, always.

June 18th

If you need to scream, scream. If you need to cry, cry. None of it makes you weak.

It makes you ours.

The diary became a lifeline, not just for her parents, but for Eliza herself. A silent tether, proof that her world hadn't shrunk to just fear and silence. It still included garden gnomes and burnt pancakes and Lavania's terrible habit of humming Celestina Warbeck when she thought no one was listening.

It still included love.

Eliza wasn't whole. She might never be the girl she was before.

But bit by bit, she was remembering who she was now — not because she was forced to, but because she had people who wanted to know her, even when she wasn't ready to know herself.

She had her parents. She had the WIX. She had Lena, with her tea and her chocolate almonds and her unbearable patience.

And for the first time since that party, Eliza started to believe she wasn't lost forever.