Chapter Thirty Eight: The Weight We Carry

The castle had a distinct hum during OWL season — a frantic, barely-contained energy that clung to the corridors like static. The usual carefree noise of Hogwarts had been replaced with a relentless undercurrent of stress, the kind that made even the portraits whisper behind their hands, as if afraid they'd disrupt someone's fragile focus.

In the fourth-floor corridor, a third-year was sobbing into the arms of a very uncomfortable suit of armor. Outside the library, two sixth-years were in a heated argument over the ethical applications of memory charms in exams — neither of them were even sitting OWLs. Near the Great Hall, someone had spilled a cauldron of ink, and Filch was mid-breakdown, muttering threats about chaining students to the walls until they learned to stop "staining his floors with their incompetent existence."

Inside the library itself, the tension was thick enough to chew, layered with the rustling of parchment, the squeak of quills, and the soft sounds of despair. Even Madame Pince had abandoned her usual hawk-like vigilance, resigned to the fact that desperate students would spill ink, bend pages, and pass out face-first into textbooks no matter how many threats she issued.

At the center of this chaos, the WIX had claimed a corner table — sprawling across it like survivors of some apocalyptic siege.

"Who thought it was a good idea to give us essays the size of textbooks and call it 'revision'?" Gwenog groaned, face down on her parchment. Her normally wild hair was tied into a haphazard knot that had sprouted several uneven tufts, making her look halfway between a stressed-out student and a creature hunted for sport.

"Magical Education Department sadists," Sol declared, balancing a quill horizontally across his upper lip while lounging backwards in his chair. "Their goal is to see which of us cracks first."

"Gwenog," Artemis answered without looking up, her highlighter skimming ruthlessly across her color-coded Transfiguration notes.

"Me," Gwenog confirmed into her sleeve.

Across the table, Rosaline was slowly dissecting a chocolate frog, peeling off the edges like she was removing its skin, her gaze unfocused. Beside her, Eliza sat with her arms around a mug of tea, half a biscuit resting on her parchment. It had been sitting there for twenty minutes — untouched, slowly crumbling into smaller and smaller pieces, the way Eliza herself had once felt. She wasn't the ghost she'd been earlier in the year, but the sharp-edged humor that once defined her had softened, her voice quieter, her presence less forceful.

Every so often, Gwenog's gaze flicked toward her, guilt flickering across her face like a shadow. The WIX never talked about it, but they all knew — Eliza's absence from the final Quidditch match, her benching, had weighed heavily on Gwenog. No matter how many times Eliza had waved it off, no matter how much Iris reassured her, Gwenog couldn't fully shake the feeling that her victory had been bought with Eliza's silence.

"Alright," Sol announced, slamming a small, clinking box onto the table, snapping everyone's attention to him. "It's time."

"Time for what?" Magnus asked warily, already inching his chair away.

"Sol's Patented OWL Brain Booster," Sol declared proudly, flipping the box open to reveal rows of small, corked vials filled with ominously glowing purple liquid. "Guaranteed to enhance cognitive function, improve memory, and possibly grant temporary invisibility."

"That's Pepperup Potion with extra sugar," Magnus said, nose wrinkling as he sniffed one.

"It's science," Sol said solemnly.

"No, it's a stomachache," Artemis muttered, flipping a page in her notes.

"I'd rather die than study another minute," Gwenog groaned, reaching blindly for one of the vials and uncorking it with her teeth. "If I spontaneously combust, someone tell my mum I died fighting for knowledge."

Before anyone could stop her, Gwenog tossed it back like a shot. Her eyes watered instantly, her whole body shuddering. "That tastes like regret."

"Delicious, isn't it?" Sol grinned.

It was about that time that Professor Flitwick appeared, hovering on a stack of levitated books. "Ah, WIX," he said cheerfully, though his brow lifted at the assortment of potions on the table. "Shouldn't you be focusing on your Charms notes instead of… extracurricular brewing?"

"Scientific innovation, Professor," Sol said smoothly. "We're expanding the boundaries of educational efficiency."

"You're expanding the boundaries of your stomach lining," Flitwick said dryly. "But I suppose — within reason — I can't fault your creativity. Just don't accidentally brew anything explosive."

Gwenog groaned again, slumping face-first onto her notes. "If anyone sees me with another textbook, you have permission to bludgeon me with it."

"As if you and Erika didn't just dismantle half the school on the pitch," Rosaline said.

"That was muscle memory. Exams require brain memory. Entirely different beasts," Gwenog mumbled.

"You've got this," Iris said, nudging Gwenog's knee with hers under the table.

Gwenog managed a weak smile, but the guilt still sat there — a familiar weight pressing down on her chest.

Later, after lunch, Gwenog and Iris wandered down toward the lake, hands loosely clasped between them. The spring air was bright and cool, sunlight glinting off the water's surface. It should have been perfect — the kind of day Gwenog usually loved — but the weight in her stomach refused to lift.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Iris said, wide-eyed, when Gwenog finally spilled the news after lunch. "Three teams, Gwen! That's amazing!"

"It's not," Gwenog muttered, hands shoved deep into her pockets. "Eliza should've—"

"Stop," Iris interrupted, her fingers threading into Gwenog's and pulling her to a halt just beside the lake. "Eliza's proud of you. We all are. You didn't take anything from her."

"She was benched," Gwenog said miserably. "And I was out there — winning — like none of it mattered."

"She doesn't blame you," Iris said softly, her fingers tracing light patterns against Gwenog's wrist. "She loves you, Gwen. And you've worked for this. You and Erika were terrifying and brilliant."

"Doesn't mean it feels right."

"Feelings aren't facts," Iris said, squeezing her hand gently. "And the fact is — you and Erika are monsters. Beautiful, deadly monsters."

A loud throat-clearing interrupted them. They both glanced up to see Sol hanging upside down from a low tree branch, lazily tossing an apple in the air.

"Speaking of terrifying," Sol called down. "Sharpwing's back, baby."

Gwenog's heart stuttered. "What?"

"Eliza's writing about you," Sol grinned. "Whole piece. Half love letter, half roast. It's beautiful."

Gwenog's stomach flipped over itself as her gaze found Eliza under the shade of the tree, sitting cross-legged beside Rosaline. Eliza lifted her quill in a silent wave, her smile small but real — the kind of smile Gwenog hadn't seen on her face in months. Something inside Gwenog loosened, her breath coming easier, the knot in her chest unraveling just slightly.

"See?" Iris said, leaning her head on Gwenog's shoulder. "We're all healing."

Gwenog's hand squeezed Iris' back, needing that grounding touch, needing Iris there — her steady warmth, her unwavering belief in her.

Later, after the chaos of the day, they lay sprawled together on the grass, Gwenog's back against a tree, Iris curled into her side. The light was soft, the kind of gentle, golden glow that made everything seem less real.

"You and Erika were terrifying," Iris whispered, her fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on Gwenog's wrist. "You're monsters."

"Beautiful monsters," Gwenog said, a flicker of pride edging into her voice.

"Monsters who know how to kiss," Iris added, her smile tilting slightly, just before she leaned up and brushed her lips against Gwenog's.

Gwenog sighed into it, her free hand slipping into Iris' hair, tangling in soft curls, grounding herself in the warmth of it. There was no guilt here — not in Iris' touch, not in the way her heart fluttered — only comfort, only home.

When they pulled apart, Gwenog rested her forehead against Iris', breath shaky.

"Even monsters need soft spots," Iris murmured, fingers brushing Gwenog's jaw.

Gwenog's throat tightened. "You're mine."

"I know."

The words were easy, effortless, but Gwenog held onto them like a lifeline. She wasn't perfect, she wasn't whole, and maybe the guilt would always sit just under her skin — but Iris was here. Iris saw her, jagged edges and all, and stayed.

Somewhere up in the tree, Sol pretended to gag, then fell out of the branches with a dramatic yelp.

They laughed — Gwenog's first real, gut-deep laugh in weeks — and as she sat back down, pulling Iris into her side, the knot inside her chest didn't feel quite so heavy.

Maybe they were monsters. But even monsters deserved soft spots.

And Gwenog knew exactly where hers was.

Maybe things weren't perfect. But they were healing.

Iris bumped her shoulder against Gwenog's, her smile soft. "Told you."

Gwenog's fingers curled tighter around Iris', her heartbeat slowing into something steadier, something safe.

"Alright," Gwenog said. "But if Sharpwing calls me a gorilla again, I'm hexing her quill."

Iris laughed, and somewhere above them, Sol launched the apple into the lake, cackling like a lunatic.

The WIX were, somehow, still standing. And for the first time in months, Gwenog let herself believe that was enough.

Rosaline found Marcus on the Astronomy Tower — their place, once upon a time.

The air was crisp, a biting kind of cold that clung to the stones and swept up the tower like a whispered warning. The sky stretched endless above them, a patchwork of stars flickering faintly through thin, fast-moving clouds. Below, the Forbidden Forest swayed in the wind, a dark sea Rosaline had always found comfort in — wild, uncontained, just like her.

Marcus stood at the railing, shoulders hunched, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his worn school robes. The wind ruffled his hair, and Rosaline's heart clenched painfully at the sight. He looked so much like the boy she'd first kissed here, under this sky, laughing into her mouth because she'd slipped on the slick stones and nearly knocked them both over.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey." His voice was rougher than usual, like it had been caught in his throat for a while.

She stepped beside him, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the familiar warmth radiating from him. Her fingers curled loosely over the edge of the railing, brushing the same grooves they'd traced together a dozen times during late-night conversations — ones about Quidditch, their post-Hogwarts plans, and how many detentions they could rack up before McGonagall personally hexed them both.

There were no jokes tonight. No teasing grin. Just silence stretching taut between them, too thin to hold everything unsaid.

"This isn't working," Rosaline said, her voice quiet but steady. No wavering, no second-guessing. She owed him that much.

Marcus' jaw tensed, but he didn't argue. There was no point. "I know."

It would have been easier if he'd fought, if he'd tried to convince her, but the resignation in his voice twisted the knife deeper into her ribs.

"I'm sorry," she said, swallowing against the ache in her throat. "You deserve better."

He turned his head slightly, just enough for her to catch the sad curve of his mouth. "You're not the villain here, Rose."

"No," she agreed, voice soft but unflinching. "But I can't split myself in half anymore."

Her fingers flexed against the stone, the cold biting into her skin until it almost — almost — grounded her. "My sister needs me. My family needs me. I'm trying to be everything for everyone, and I'm failing all of them, including you."

Marcus' gaze dropped to the floor, his foot scuffing against the worn stone. "I knew you were pulling away," he said after a moment. "I just kept hoping—" His voice cracked, and he didn't bother hiding it. "Hoping you'd come back."

Rosaline closed her eyes briefly, the memories surging up unbidden — the way he used to wait for her after a WIX meeting, hands stuffed in his pockets, grin easy and familiar. The way he always knew when she needed sugar in her tea or a stolen moment away from everyone. The way they used to fit, easy and uncomplicated, before life had crashed into them like a rogue Bludger.

"Remember when you asked me out?" Marcus said softly, breaking the silence.

She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "You said I was the only person who could keep up."

"You did." His smile was there, but it was smaller now — fragile, like something held too long in unsteady hands. "But now…"

"I have to slow down," Rosaline finished, her voice breaking just a little. "And you shouldn't have to."

Marcus' hand found hers, just briefly, their fingers tangling the way they had a hundred times before — easy, warm, a comfort they both knew was slipping through their hands like sand.

"I'll miss you," he whispered.

"Me too."

The wind whipped past them, cold and indifferent, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth from the forest below. Rosaline's fingers tightened around his for a heartbeat longer before she let go, her hand slipping away, leaving only the cold in its place.

"You're incredible," Marcus said, his voice soft but fierce. "Even if you don't see it."

Her throat ached. "So are you."

She turned first, walking away without looking back. If she had, she might've stayed — might've let herself believe that they could hold onto what they used to be, even as they both grew into people who needed different things.

Marcus stayed where he was, leaning heavily against the railing, his heart aching with something that was neither anger nor regret — just a quiet, bittersweet grief for the version of them that might have been.

He didn't follow.

And Rosaline didn't expect him to.

Because sometimes, love wasn't enough to hold two people together when the weight of the world was pulling them in opposite directions.

But for all the sadness, there was no bitterness. No broken glass between them. Just the quiet understanding that this wasn't failure — it was growing, and it hurt.

But it wasn't the end of either of them.

The stars stretched endless above them, uncaring, eternal — a reminder that even endings were just new beginnings waiting to unfold.