July, 1986
Five summers had passed since the night the Dark Lord died, and yet the world still behaved as though it were holding its breath.
Wizarding Britain wore peace like a borrowed cloak—too large, too stiff, stitched together hastily by victors who feared that if they stopped moving, if they paused long enough to listen, they would hear something ancient and hungry stirring beneath the surface. The Ministry called it recovery. The Prophet called it rebirth. Old families called it interregnum.
And in the Lake District, where the air was sharp with rain and stone remembered older names than those printed on maps, Cosmo Manor woke each morning as it had for centuries: silent, watchful, and unimpressed by the passage of time.
The manor rose from the mist like a memory that refused to fade—vast, elegant, and unapologetically old. Its black stone walls drank in the light rather than reflected it, softened by creeping ivy and lichen that had been allowed to grow where it pleased. Runes—so old they had ceased to look like language at all—were carved into the foundation stones, humming faintly with restrained power. The wards surrounding the estate were layered with obsessive precision: blood-bound, star-anchored, keyed to intent as much as identity. Muggles walked past without ever realizing there was anything to see. Wizards without permission found their paths gently, firmly, redirected elsewhere. Even those who knew the manor existed could not find it unless the house itself allowed them to try.
Cosmo Manor did not tolerate trespassers.
Neither did its mistress.
Violet Cosmo stood on the eastern balcony as dawn broke across the lake, pale fingers resting against the cold stone balustrade. At sixteen, she already carried herself with the easy authority of someone who had never been told no by the world—and would not have listened if it had tried.
She was tall—unusually so for her age—her height lending her an almost predatory grace. Short black hair framed her sharp features in wild, deliberate disarray, spiking slightly as though it refused to be tamed. Her blue eyes were clear and assessing, bright with intelligence and something far less forgiving. There was a stillness to her, the kind that came not from passivity but from absolute control.
The last of the Cosmos.
The thought did not trouble her as it once had.
Once, the title had been a wound: last alive, final heir, the end of an ancient and noble house. The Cosmos had been old when Hogwarts was young, their lineage entwined with forgotten constellations and half-lost branches of magic that the Ministry pretended did not exist. They had married carefully, lived deliberately, and died spectacularly when they fell. By the time Violet had inherited the title of Lady Cosmo, there had been no one left to argue with fate.
Now, she wore her solitude like armor.
The war had stripped the wizarding world down to its bones. Voldemort was gone—destroyed, scattered, reduced to a cautionary tale told in hushed tones to children who would never understand the cost of his ambition. His followers had been imprisoned, pardoned, or quietly folded back into society under the guise of repentance. Traditions had been abandoned in favor of safety. Power had been diluted into committees and compromises.
Violet watched the sunrise and felt nothing but contempt.
"Peace," she murmured softly, tasting the word as though it might be poison. "Such an ugly thing, when earned by surrender."
Behind her, the balcony doors opened soundlessly.
She did not turn.
She did not need to.
Adelaide Rosier's presence was as familiar to her as her own magic—lighter, warmer, threaded with a sharp, dangerous brilliance that Violet found endlessly intoxicating. If Violet was night and stone and starless space, Adelaide was sunlight sharpened into a blade.
"You're awake early," Adelaide said, her voice gentle in the quiet morning.
Violet smiled, just slightly.
"Habit," she replied. "The stars don't care for sleeping in."
Adelaide moved to stand beside her, close enough that Violet could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her robes. Golden hair fell down Adelaide's back in a soft cascade, catching the first light of dawn until it seemed almost luminous. Her green eyes followed Violet's gaze out across the lake, thoughtful and unreadable.
Cosmo Manor had made space for Adelaide in a way it had never done for anyone else.
That, perhaps, was the most telling thing of all.
"Your wards shifted again last night," Adelaide said after a moment. "I felt it from the west wing."
Violet hummed. "I adjusted the astral alignment. The stars were… restless."
"That happens when you bind them to your will," Adelaide said lightly.
Violet turned then, blue eyes sharp with amusement. "Jealous?"
Adelaide smiled, slow and dangerous. "Hardly. I like it when you remind the universe who it belongs to."
The words lingered between them, heavier than they had any right to be.
Violet's gaze softened—just a fraction—before she looked away again. There were things she allowed herself to think when Adelaide was near, and things she very carefully did not. Want was a distraction. Affection was a vulnerability. Love—
Love could wait.
Beyond the manor's wards, the world pretended to heal.
The Ministry of Magic, under new leadership, busied itself with restructuring laws that had once existed to preserve bloodlines and magical traditions. Ancient houses were encouraged—strongly—to integrate, to modernize, to forget the old ways in favor of something smaller and safer. The Rosiers, like many others, had bent without breaking. Publicly repentant. Privately furious.
Adrian Rosier still lived.
That fact alone was an injustice Adelaide carried like a second spine.
At Rosier Manor, she was cold and precise, her expressions carefully curated to reveal nothing that might be used against her. Her father ruled through fear and legacy, clinging to power with hands that shook just slightly too much when he thought no one was watching. He saw Adelaide as an extension of himself—a future weapon, a bargaining chip, a tool to be honed and wielded.
He did not see the way she studied him.
He did not hear the quiet calculations she made in the dark.
Here, at Cosmo Manor, Adelaide allowed herself to breathe.
She turned her head slightly, watching Violet from the corner of her eye. There was something almost reverent in the way Adelaide looked at her, though she would never have admitted it aloud. Violet was everything the world feared and pretended not to want: powerful, unapologetic, unbound by Ministry approval or public sentiment.
A future, waiting to be claimed.
"You're thinking too loudly again," Violet said without looking at her.
Adelaide laughed softly. "And you're listening too closely."
Violet's mouth curved. "Occupational hazard."
They stood in companionable silence as the sun rose fully over the lake, burning away the last remnants of mist. Somewhere deep within the manor, ancient magic shifted and settled, responding to Violet's presence like a living thing.
Five years ago, the Dark Lord had died.
The world believed that evil had ended with him.
Violet Cosmo knew better.
Darkness did not vanish. It waited.
And when it rose again, it would not wear a madman's face or scream its intentions from the rooftops. It would be elegant. Controlled. Justified.
It would call itself tradition.
Violet straightened, turning fully toward Adelaide now. "Come," she said. "We have work to do."
Adelaide's smile was bright, almost innocent. "Always."
Together, they walked back into the manor, their steps echoing softly through halls that had witnessed empires rise and fall. The future waited patiently for them, coiled and ready, written not in prophecy but in choice.
And somewhere, far beyond the reach of Ministry wards and comforting lies, the stars shifted—aligning themselves, once more, with House Cosmo.
Cosmo Manor did not merely house magic—it remembered it. Every corridor bore the echo of spells cast centuries ago, every archway curved with deliberate elegance, as though shaped by hands that had known eternity was a finite resource. The floors beneath Violet's boots responded subtly to her presence, sigils warming as she passed. Chandeliers of floating crystal brightened without wandlight, attuned to her mood, casting pale silver illumination that made Adelaide's hair glow like spun gold.
They walked side by side through the eastern hall, their pace unhurried, the silence between them neither strained nor empty. It was a silence built from familiarity, from shared secrets and unspoken plans.
In the library—Cosmo's true heart—the air was heavy with ink, leather, and old power. Towering shelves curved upward into shadow, stacked with grimoires that the Ministry had long since declared lost, destroyed, or too dangerous for public access. Star charts were etched directly into the domed ceiling, slowly rotating in a pattern only Violet fully understood. A massive oak table sat at the center, already cleared, already waiting.
Adelaide slipped into a chair with graceful ease, crossing one long leg over the other. "You didn't sleep," she said softly, watching Violet move toward the shelves.
"I rarely do," Violet replied. She drew her fingers along the spine of a book bound in cracked midnight-blue leather. The title shimmered faintly, written in a script that predated modern magical language. "The stars were too loud."
"That usually means something is about to break," Adelaide said.
Violet smiled, sharp and pleased. "Or be remade."
She selected several volumes with quick precision and laid them out on the table. Astral convergence. Bloodline magic. Pre-Ministry governance structures. Spellcraft theory that assumed intelligence rather than restriction. Adelaide leaned forward, interest brightening her expression.
"You're planning further than usual," she observed.
"The world is complacent," Violet said calmly. "That's when it's most malleable."
Adelaide's fingers brushed the edge of one book. "The Ministry won't like this."
"The Ministry," Violet said lightly, "rarely likes anything of consequence."
There was a pause—not uncomfortable, but charged. Adelaide studied Violet's face, the way her eyes sharpened when she spoke of the future, the faint curl of her mouth that appeared only when she felt utterly certain of herself. Violet was beautiful in a dangerous, deliberate way. Adelaide had known that for years.
What she had learned, slowly and with great care, was how much Violet trusted her.
That trust was sacred.
At Rosier Manor, Adelaide was careful to keep her thoughts guarded, her magic coiled tight and unobtrusive. Adrian Rosier was a man who noticed weakness the way others noticed blood in water. He still held influence, despite his public repentance, his connections winding quietly through the Ministry's upper floors and the remnants of the old pureblood networks. He spoke often of survival, of adaptation, of patience.
Adelaide listened.
And planned his death.
Here, at Cosmo Manor, the mask fell away.
"You've been invited to the Summer Assembly," Adelaide said, changing the subject smoothly. "The old families are gathering. The Blacks, the Greengrasses, what remains of the Notts. Even the Malfoys are sending representatives."
Violet snorted. "How generous of them."
"They want to see you," Adelaide said. "The last Cosmo. Untouched by the war. Unaligned."
Violet turned slowly, her gaze settling on Adelaide with a weight that made her breath hitch, just slightly. "I am aligned," she said quietly.
Adelaide met her eyes, unflinching. "I know."
For a heartbeat, something electric passed between them—recognition, promise, restraint. Violet looked away first, returning to the table.
"Then they'll see me," Violet said. "And they'll remember what they've been trying to forget."
Outside the manor, wizarding Britain drifted deeper into its illusion of safety. Children who had never known the war practiced charms in sunlit gardens. The Daily Prophet ran articles about reconstruction, reconciliation, and the dangers of extremism. Hogwarts stood as it always had, its towers unchanged, its ghosts restless but resigned.
And beneath it all, old magic stirred.
Violet spent her days refining spells the Ministry had never catalogued, weaving astral calculations into dueling forms, inscribing runes that bent probability just enough to be noticed by those who mattered. Adelaide assisted where she could, her aptitude for Charms and Potions complementing Violet's more esoteric work. Together, they were formidable.
They trained in the dueling hall—a vast circular chamber lined with obsidian mirrors that reflected not the body, but the aura. Spells cracked against shields, sparks of blue and gold colliding midair. Adelaide moved with lethal grace, her wand an extension of her will, her focus absolute when Violet pressed her hard.
"Again," Violet said, eyes bright.
Adelaide obliged, a curse arcing toward Violet's left flank. Violet deflected it effortlessly, countering with a spell that twisted space just enough to force Adelaide to pivot.
She laughed, breathless. "You're enjoying this."
"Always," Violet replied.
When Adelaide disarmed her—rare, but not impossible—Violet froze, surprise flickering across her face before it transformed into something dangerously pleased.
"Well done," she said softly.
Their gazes locked.
For a moment, neither moved.
The air between them was thick with magic and something far more volatile. Adelaide felt it in the way Violet's attention sharpened, narrowed, focused entirely on her. Violet felt it in the way Adelaide's smile softened, just for her.
Then Violet stepped back, breaking the spell.
"We should stop," she said, voice controlled. "Before we lose track of time."
Adelaide nodded, though disappointment flickered briefly across her face. "Of course."
Some things were inevitable.
Others required patience.
Night fell over the Lake District like a velvet curtain, stars blooming one by one in the sky above Cosmo Manor. Violet stood once more on the balcony, Adelaide beside her, the world stretched out beneath them.
Five years after the Dark Lord's death, the world believed itself safe.
It had no idea what was coming.
And when the future finally arrived—elegant, ruthless, and crowned in starlight—it would find Violet Cosmo ready to claim it.
With Adelaide Rosier at her side.
And far above Cosmo Manor, beyond wards and weather and the careful lies of a healing world, the stars bore silent witness. They had watched empires rise and fall, had seen darkness burn itself hollow and light forget its own sharpness. They remembered the old names, the ancient vows, the bloodlines that refused to fade. And now, once more, they turned their gaze toward two figures standing beneath them—one born to rule, the other born to choose her. Whatever the world would call them in the years to come, the stars would remember them as they were here, at the beginning: not conquerors, not queens, but inevitabilities written into the sky.