November settled over Keith Manor like a breath held too long.
The ancient oaks had finally surrendered their last stubborn leaves, leaving skeletal branches stretching against a sky that couldn't decide between bruised grey and cold, flat white.
Each night, frost arrived with biting precision, spreading fine crystalline patterns across the old windowpanes, their delicate designs resembling lace beneath the moonlight.
Inside, the manor adjusted to the changing season.
Fires were lit earlier each day, their flames dancing behind iron grates and filling the rooms with warmth. The air carried the comforting scent of pine resin, mingled with the sharp smell of cold earth brought in on boots.
Heavy velvet drapes were drawn before the afternoon light had fully faded, keeping the warmth close against the ancient stone walls.
In the kitchens, the daily menu changed with the weather. Soups thick with root vegetables simmered for hours in great pots, while hearty savoury dishes filled the hearth with a steady warmth. Fresh bread emerged from the ovens fragrant and hot, its yeasty scent drifting through the drafty corridors.
The manor settled into its winter rhythm.
Winter had its own slow, measured pace, and the Keiths followed it without complaint.
Morwenna didn't.
She had developed very firm opinions.
Breakfast came first in her daily hierarchy. Porridge was acceptable only when accompanied by a generous helping of golden honey from the estate's own hives.
Anything less was treated as a personal insult that demanded immediate and vocal protest. Her objections were clear, concise, and entirely impossible for any adult to ignore.
She had opinions about her clothes, too. A particular deep green velvet dress had become indispensable after Jane made the mistake of choosing it for her three days in a row.
Morwenna had since decided that the dress was simply how the world ought to be, and any suggestion otherwise was met with considerable displeasure.
She had opinions about the garden, which she firmly believed should remain accessible regardless of the falling temperatures or the damp grass.
She had opinions about the library, having recently discovered that its lower shelves were conveniently within reach and its leather-bound books offered endless opportunities for exploration.
She had opinions about Tilly, who could apparently do no wrong in her eyes, and about the ancestors in the portraits, several of whom she greeted solemnly by name whenever she toddled past.
In every meaningful sense, she had become a person of consequence.
The change hadn't arrived with any grand announcement. It had crept up on them through a hundred small developments until, one morning, it seemed to have happened all at once.
Jack looked across the breakfast table and found himself confronted with the full reality of it. Honeyed porridge. Green velvet adorned with silver buttons. White hair escaping its silk ribbon in three different directions. A sideways glance that belonged unmistakably to Jane.
The little girl he had first held in his arms had become someone entirely her own. She hadn't asked his permission. She had simply claimed her place in the world.
She had preferences and judgements, along with a growing sense of humour that revealed itself in the sparkle of her emerald eyes.
Jack found the transformation remarkable.
Jane did, too, though she was also beginning to wonder what it might mean for the years ahead. Morwenna's determination suggested that raising her would require extraordinary patience and a willingness to reconsider, on a regular basis, what constituted a successful parenting decision.
The entire household had gradually adjusted itself around the child. Their mornings now followed her particular rhythm, shaped by the simple reality that a toddler had little interest in negotiating with the concept of time.
Jack still woke before dawn.
He always had. It was a habit formed long before Morwenna's birth, when the early hours offered him time for quiet reading and solitary thought before the rest of the household stirred. Now, that morning silence included his daughter.
Whenever she woke, he brought her down to his private study.
She would settle into the oversized leather chair, her small legs sticking straight out before her, a wooden serpent clasped firmly in her hands while he worked through his correspondence. She didn't require his constant attention. She simply wanted him nearby, and for Morwenna, that was enough.
Sometimes, she spoke into the quiet.
"Da. Bird."
Jack glanced up from his letters, his quill hovering above the parchment. "Where is it, Mimi?"
She raised her left index finger and pointed towards the dark window, beyond which the charcoal sky revealed no movement that he could see.
"I will take your word for it," he replied softly.
She accepted this acknowledgement with a solemn nod before returning to her own important work of studying the wooden serpent.
The room settled into peace once more.
Jane slept later into the morning than she once had, though her mind never seemed to rest completely. Jack said nothing about it. It was neither idleness nor lethargy, but the necessary rest of someone whose thoughts continued working long after her eyes had closed.
When she finally rose and joined them, she never did so leisurely. She arrived at the breakfast table with Morwenna's silk ribbon already in hand, her attention clearly occupied by the day's tasks before the day had properly begun.
"You were working again last night," Jack remarked one morning. His attention appeared to be on the Daily Prophet, though his eyes hadn't moved across the lines for some time.
Jane poured herself tea from the silver pot, steam curling elegantly above the cup. "I have no idea what you mean, Jack."
"The correspondence left on your desk. The Evans family tree in the blue journal. The letter you drafted to your contact in the Flint family."
A brief pause followed, just long enough to give her away.
"I haven't sent it."
"No," Jack said, turning a page of the newspaper. "But you wrote it."
Jane reached for the silk ribbon. As she moved, the small ring inherited from her grandmother caught the morning light on her right little finger. Meanwhile, Morwenna attempted to slide sideways out of her high chair, trying another escape manoeuvre she had been perfecting with increasing confidence over the past week.
Jane caught her by the shoulder before she could get far.
"Morwenna," she said firmly.
The attempt ended at once.
Morwenna accepted her fate and allowed her mother to tie the ribbon around her white hair, her expression suggesting that she considered this a reasonable compromise under the circumstances.
"Ze Flint family 'as deep Ministry connections," Jane said, smoothing the bow with practised fingers. "Old connections. Ze kind zat 'ear ze things zat never make it into ze official logs."
"I know," Jack replied. "Send it."
Jane's hands paused for the briefest moment in her daughter's hair.
"I do not want to move too openly," she said, lowering her voice. "Not before ze official hearing. If Dumbledore is watching, and he ees, zen anything obvious will give him time to reinforce ze boy's placement."
"Then move quietly."
"I am."
She finished tying the ribbon, settled Morwenna back into her chair, and placed a piece of buttered toast in front of her.
"Every channel I 'ave tried has produced not a single scrap of information. Zat tells me somezing important, Jack. Ze wards around ze child are far more comprehensive zan zey should be for a mere safety measure."
Jack lowered the newspaper slightly and looked at her over its edge.
Jane met his gaze, her green eyes unwavering and defiant.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then Jane looked away.
Jack reached across the table and covered Jane's hand with his own. Her fingers turned beneath his palm and closed around his, holding on for a brief moment before slowly releasing him. Then she reached for her tea.
They finished breakfast in silence, the easy, familiar kind shared by two people who had long since learned to understand one another without needing words.
Morwenna watched them both.
She remained quiet for long enough that Jack began to notice something was different.
That particular expression had settled over her face again, one that seemed far too old for a child her age. Something distant and difficult to name surfaced behind her emerald eyes, lingering a moment longer than it should have.
Her small body grew utterly still. The last traces of playfulness slipped from her shoulders as her gaze moved between her parents. She studied the faint tension in Jane's jaw, then the way her fingers tightened around her teacup.
For one unsettling moment, Morwenna seemed less like a child trying to understand the adults around her and more like something quietly studying the shape of their grief.
Then she blinked.
The strange weight behind her eyes disappeared.
Morwenna lifted her half-eaten toast in her left hand and took another bite.
« Encore, Maman, » she said.
The moment was gone.
. . .
The library had become Morwenna's second home, a vast sanctuary filled with drifting dust and the quiet, settled silence of centuries.
It had never been a question of whether she belonged there, only when she would begin to claim the space as her own. She had been brought into the heart of the stacks before she could even sit upright, nestled in a silk-padded wicker basket beside Jane's heavy reading chair.
The dry, sweet scent of aged parchment, the rhythmic scratch of quill against vellum, and the occasional whisper of enchanted pages turning themselves had filled her world long before she understood a single word of the knowledge these shelves contained.
By the time she learned what a book was, she already recognised that this particular place held a weight of its own.
Now that she was steady on her feet, she had claimed a stretch of the manor's eastern wing for her daily explorations.
She favoured the lower shelves.
They were just within reach whenever she rose onto her tiptoes, her pale fingers stretching towards the embossed gold lettering on the leather spines.
Jane had rearranged these shelves months ago, moving anything temperamental, cursed, or overly fragile to the higher reaches long before Morwenna's curiosity could become a problem for the more sensitive texts.
« C'est logique, » she had told Jack at the time. "She will learn to reach when she is ready."
What remained within Morwenna's reach was safe, old, and well worth exploring with a child's hands.
Every afternoon, Morwenna approached the shelves with solemn purpose. Her left index finger traced the leather spines as she moved slowly along them, almost as though greeting old friends.
Once something caught her attention, she gave it her full concentration. Sometimes she pulled a heavy volume free and held it between her small hands.
The leather warmed faintly beneath her touch, and the gold lettering shimmered before gradually fading again. She would study the cover with grave concentration, then return the book to its place with meticulous care.
At other times, she settled on the rug with a volume open before her, studying its contents for long stretches. She could become so absorbed that the rest of the room seemed to disappear around her.
The portraits lining the walls watched her closely.
"She is looking at Aldric's herbal again," Isolde Keith remarked from her gilded frame beside the tall, leaded window.
"Her attention seems particularly drawn to the serpent plants," observed Edmund Keith from across the room. A man from the Tudor era, he wore fur-lined robes and a stiff collar, both rendered in exquisite detail.
"Sensible," Isolde replied, her eyes following the girl.
"She is only eighteen months old, Isolde."
"I'm well aware of her age, Edmund."
Morwenna pulled the familiar tome from the shelf once more, its leather cover scraping softly against the wood. Without hesitation, she opened it, the spine creaking as she turned directly to the same page she had studied before.
A hand-painted illustration filled the parchment, depicting the plant's roots twisting into intricate coils that unmistakably resembled serpent scales.
She studied the image in silence.
Then she turned her small head towards the desk.
"Da."
Jack lifted his gaze from the ledger he was reviewing.
Morwenna pointed at the book.
"Sss," she said, her voice small but clear.
Jack glanced at the open page, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined the illustration. "Serpent root," he supplied, giving the strange-looking plant a name.
Morwenna went very still.
She tried the words again, working her mouth carefully around the unfamiliar sounds with intense concentration.
"Sss... root."
The candles on the reading desk flickered and dimmed, their flames bending low as though acknowledging the ancient language. Inside their frames, both Isolde and Edmund fell completely silent.
Jack's thumb brushed once over his signet ring. He gave her a small, approving nod.
"Serpent root," he repeated, his voice encouraging.
Morwenna neither smiled nor looked to him for praise. She simply nodded, apparently satisfied that the world had finally supplied the proper name for something she had already recognised.
She considered the words for another moment.
Then she closed the heavy book with a soft thud and returned it to its proper place, taking her time to align it neatly with the other volumes. Without another glance, she moved on to the next shelf, as though the matter required neither further thought nor celebration.
The library gradually settled back into its usual scholarly quiet.
Later that evening, after the library had fallen silent and Morwenna had been tucked into bed elsewhere in the manor, the portraits stirred once more.
Isolde leaned forward in her frame, her gaze fixed on the shadows beneath the lower shelves.
"She is going to be something else entirely," she murmured, her voice a dry whisper in the darkness.
Jack didn't look up from the parchment spread before him.
"Yes," he said. "I know."
. . .
It happened on a Tuesday in mid-December, the first unmistakable instance of Morwenna's accidental magic.
The Keith household was busy with its winter solstice preparations, an observance far older than Christmas and carried out with the same ritualistic precision that governed every part of their lives. The air inside the manor felt charged, as though the ancient stones themselves were drawing breath.
For three days, Tilly and the other house-elves had worked tirelessly, moving from one corridor to the next. Now, the manor carried the unmistakable presence of midwinter magic. Tall white candles burned in every leaded window, their steady glow reflecting off the frost-covered glass like intricate silver lace.
Heavy chandeliers were draped in glossy greenery threaded with waxy berries. The fires in the hearths burned with their peculiar blue-edged warmth, filling the air with the sharp scents of pine resin and dried orange peel, along with something far older, something that felt like a shared memory of the earth itself.
Morwenna had taken charge of the preparations.
No one had officially given her the role of supervisor. She had simply assumed it with the unshakable certainty of a child who had decided how things ought to be and saw no reason to question her own judgement.
She followed Tilly from room to room, her little feet moving quickly and purposefully across the stone floors. Whenever a garland or bowl of fruit failed to meet her exacting standards, she pointed at it with an imperious little finger and delivered a firm, decisive "No."
Tilly accepted every correction with grave respect.
Now and then, the elf made a tiny adjustment. A silk ribbon shifted slightly, a candle moved into better alignment, or a heavy garland was raised by half an inch. Morwenna examined each change with her emerald eyes until she was satisfied, then moved on to the next task.
Jack stood beside the arched doorway of the entrance hall, a half-read letter resting in his hand. For the moment, he had little interest in its contents. He simply watched his daughter at work.
Hanging the solstice wreath was the final task.
It always was.
Cut from the manor's own sacred grove and bound with ancient charms meant to endure through the darkest days of winter, the wreath was far more than a decoration. It was a statement of intent, a ward, and a promise that the House of Keith would withstand the coming cold, just as it had for generations before.
Tilly climbed the tall wooden ladder with careful, practised movements, carrying the heavy holly wreath. The silver oak-leaf fastenings on his forest-green tunic caught the candlelight as he secured it above the great oak doors. He adjusted it slightly to the left, then to the right, guided as much by ancestral tradition as by elven instinct.
The carved stone figures flanking the entrance, a serpent and a phoenix, watched in their usual silence.
When Tilly had finished, he paused and looked down at Morwenna, waiting for her approval, just as he had throughout the morning.
She stood directly beneath the ladder, small and still against the vastness of the hall. Her white hair caught the flickering candlelight like fresh frost. She tilted her head slightly, the tiny crescent moon birthmark behind her left ear shifting into view as she studied the wreath's position.
Several seconds passed in silence.
Then she smiled.
The expression came naturally, bright and unrestrained. It wasn't a smile meant for an audience or offered to please someone else. She was simply happy, entirely certain that everything was as it should be.
Jack felt the change the moment it happened.
That familiar vibration returned to the air, a deep, thrumming sensation he had begun to recognise, though he still didn't fully understand where it came from.
Then the entire Great Hall responded to her joy.
The candles flared in unison.
Every flame surged upwards, suddenly doubling in height as golden light flooded the hall. It swept across the grey stone walls, casting dancing shadows that appeared in an instant before becoming perfectly still.
Above the doors, the holly wreath burst into a shower of white sparks.
They didn't scorch the wood or harm the elf. Instead, they drifted lazily through the air, as gentle as snow falling through a forest where not even the wind stirred. The dark holly leaves gleamed as though something living and profoundly aware had touched them.
A wave of warmth followed the light.
It wasn't quite heat. Rather, it spread through the hall like a feeling made tangible, steady and deep, settling into the very stones beneath their feet. It felt like satisfaction, like a task completed exactly as it should be. A profound sense of rightness passed through Jack, leaving him firmly grounded against the stone floor.
The portraits turned as one.
Every ancestor shifted within their frame, their painted eyes fixing on the little girl at the centre of the hall. Even the oldest Keiths, who rarely bothered to move at all, leaned forward in their gilded frames, drawn by the unmistakable surge of raw, unrestrained magic.
At the heart of the golden light, Morwenna stood with her hands clasped, her smile unchanged.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped.
The candles returned to their steady, ordinary glow. The white sparks faded before reaching the floor, and the strange warmth receded, leaving only a faint, almost electric feeling in the air.
Morwenna looked up at the elf on the ladder.
« Bon, » she said, her small voice firm with approval.
Tilly made a choked, wet sound that might have been a sob. For a brief moment, he pressed his long ears flat against his head before disguising his emotions with a hurried cough into his hand.
Jack's fingers tightened around the parchment. The letter crumpled slightly, its sound pulling him back to the present. He let it hang forgotten at his side and leaned against the cool stone doorframe, grounding himself in the familiar surroundings.
He knew, with a clarity that almost hurt, that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.
Not because the magic had been dramatic or rare, though it was both.
But because it had been hers.
Jane found him there several minutes later. He had barely moved, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where the light had appeared.
"What happened, Jack?" she asked, studying his face.
"Accidental magic," he replied quietly, his voice still thick with emotion. "The candles. The wreath." His gaze remained on their daughter. "Tilly will probably want to check for scorch marks, though I doubt there are any."
He paused, then continued more softly.
"She was happy. Everything in her world was right, and the magic simply..." He searched for the words. "It came out of her like a breath."
Jane took in the hall at a glance. The candles were burning steadily again, but a faint shimmer still clung to the dark leaves of the wreath.
« C'est magnifique, » (It's magnificent) she thought.
"It ees powerful," she said, her voice carrying the quiet gravity of a mother who understood the weight of what she had witnessed.
"Yes."
"At nineteen months old, to 'ave zat kind of magical output from pure joy." She paused, still looking at the wreath. "It's extraordinary."
"I know."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Jane's expression softened, her emotions settling into layers. Pride shone first in her green eyes, bright and undeniable. Wonder followed close behind, with love beneath them both, vast enough to reshape the world around her.
Yet underneath it all remained the shadow that had followed her since that dark morning in November.
Jack slipped an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned against him for a single breath, accepting his support before straightening again. Her left thumb moved over the small silver ring on her right little finger, tracing its familiar shape in a steady, grounding rhythm.
"I received a letter this morning," she said, her voice returning to its usual evenness.
"From where?"
"Ze Rosier contact in Edinburgh." Her expression remained flat. "Nozing useful. Ze wards around ze Potter boy are complete and absolute. No one outside ze original design can detect even a trace of his location."
Jack's jaw tightened. "Whoever built those wards knew exactly what they were doing."
"Yes." Jane's eyes narrowed. "Zey did."
From the far end of the hall, Morwenna's voice carried towards them.
She raised her left hand and pointed at the lower branch of the wreath.
"Here."
Tilly immediately adjusted it to her satisfaction.
Despite her frustration, Jane's lips curved into a small smile.
For a moment, the warmth returned to the house.
. . .
Christmas came to Keith Manor as it always had: deliberately, carrying the weight of centuries of tradition.
The season didn't arrive all at once. Instead, it settled in gradually, filling the vaulted halls piece by piece until the entire manor seemed to hum with festive magic. The air grew rich with the scents of dried orange peel, cloves, and freshly cut fir.
For Morwenna, it was her second Christmas, but the first she could truly experience with any understanding. She was now aware of the changes around her, from the shift in the household's usual rhythm to the excitement that filled the manor. She was also firmly convinced that her participation in every ritual was essential.
She had already made her position on the Christmas tree abundantly clear.
The fir stood in the morning room, an enormous, perfectly shaped specimen whose dark green branches stretched upwards to brush the delicate plasterwork of the high ceiling. The Keiths had never been a family to decorate their home carelessly.
Deep crimson silk ribbons hung in long, graceful lines from the boughs, their rich colour standing out against the needles. Silver ornaments engraved with ancient protective runes caught the firelight, flashing softly whenever they moved.
Jane had chosen every ornament herself. She had checked the weight of each piece and tested its enchantments twice, making certain nothing could come loose or fall.
« C'est sécurisé, » (It's secure) she had assured Tilly earlier. "Nothing will fall on her."
Enchanted creatures moved among the branches with slow, deliberate motions, their movements uncannily lifelike.
A silver serpent, its scales shimmering like liquid moonlight, wound around the dark trunk in an endless coil. Near the top, a phoenix stirred at regular intervals, spreading its pale feathers in silent, majestic arcs.
A small dragon, no larger than Morwenna's hand, attempted twice to breathe real fire and singe the surrounding branches before Tilly intervened with the patience of a parent correcting a mistake he had expected all along.
On the morning the decorations were finally finished, Morwenna spent nearly an entire hour standing before the tree.
She didn't fidget or wander off. She simply stood there, perfectly still, her emerald eyes following every mechanical movement, every flicker of golden light, and every shift of the enchanted creatures nestled among the needles.
At last, she turned her head, the tiny crescent moon birthmark behind her left ear catching the firelight.
She raised her left index finger.
"Encore dragon," (More dragon) she declared, her voice clear and commanding.
Jack inclined his head with the solemnity of a man receiving a formal diplomatic request from a foreign power.
"I will see what can be done to increase the dragon population, Mimi." His tone remained perfectly even. "I shall draft a proposal to the Ministry of Ornament Distribution."
As if acknowledging the discussion, the small wooden dragon on the lowest branch gave a sharp, mechanical nod.
Morwenna's eyes widened with absolute approval.
*
By Christmas Eve, the manor had settled into a deep, comfortable stillness, the kind that came only after a long year had finally begun to draw to a close.
Morwenna had been put to bed after a full day of activity. Her protests against sleep had been brief and unfocused, more a matter of principle than any genuine desire to stay awake. Exhaustion had soon won, leaving her fast asleep in her room.
Downstairs, the morning room was occupied by only two people, accompanied by the steady flicker of firelight.
Jane sat curled into one corner of the velvet sofa, a glass of dark wine in one hand and a thick book open in the other. She hadn't actually read a word for some time. The pages had remained untouched for nearly fifteen minutes.
At the other end of the sofa, Jack leaned back against the wall, his attention resting on the blue journal open across her lap. His thumb brushed once over his signet ring.
The Evans family tree filled the cream-coloured pages, its branches marked by careful lines and precise scholarly notes. Names overlapped in different shades of ink, each new entry connecting another thread from the distant past to the present.
Jane's left index finger hovered above a single entry near the bottom of the page. The small silver ring on her right little finger caught the firelight.
She didn't touch the ink.
At the end of that particular branch, marked with a small, deliberate asterisk, two words stood alone in the margin.
Harry. Unknown.
"Come here," Jack said, his voice low and reassuring.
Jane looked up from the journal. A faint glimmer of expectation crossed her face, as though she hoped he might have found a practical answer to the question that had been haunting her.
He held out his hand.
She hesitated for only a moment before setting the journal aside on the cushions. Then she moved closer, settling against his side with the ease of long familiarity. Jack drew her in, his arm resting firmly around her shoulders.
Above them, the small phoenix perched in the Christmas tree stirred, slowly opening its wings. Its shadow spread across the rug like a fan of feathers.
"I keep thinking about what his Christmas looks like," Jane murmured.
"I know you do."
"I wonder whether zere even is one for him." She paused, her gaze fixed on the flames. "Whether zey give him any joy." Her voice tightened, and she corrected herself with sudden bitterness. "'E is Evans blood. 'E should know exactly what zat means."
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, making the dark liquid tremble.
"'E should be somewhere zat teaches him what 'e carries in his veins."
She continued staring into the fire.
"Instead, he is somewhere no one who loves him can reach 'im. Somewhere silent."
Jack lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss into her copper hair.
"We will find him, Jane."
"You don't know that for certain."
"I know you," he replied, his voice steady. "You haven't stopped searching since that morning in November. Not once. And whatever Albus Dumbledore built around that child, it was meant to keep out people who didn't understand what they were looking for."
He paused, allowing the words to settle between them.
"You do understand."
Jane didn't answer.
The fire crackled softly. Jack didn't push her to speak, content to keep his arm around her shoulders and let the silence do its work.
At last, she spoke again.
"Eight to twelve weeks," she said, her voice regaining its usual focus. "Ze hearing at ze Ministry."
"Yes. We will be there."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we keep pulling at the threads."
A heavy log shifted in the grate, settling into a bed of glowing red embers with a soft crunch. The silver serpent completed another slow circle around the fir tree's trunk, while the little dragon, newly modified by the elves to make it less likely to set anything alight, watched the room with harmless, clicking curiosity.
Outside the manor, the snow began to fall in earnest. Thick white flakes drifted past the windows as the sky finally surrendered to winter.
Jane watched the snow gather on the grounds. She would have to be patient, too.
She turned towards Jack and kissed him. It was brief, warm, and reassuring, a small reminder that whatever waited for them in the coming weeks, they would face it together.
"Happy Christmas, Jack."
"Happy Christmas."
They remained together, wrapped in the orange glow of the fire and the quiet comfort of the room, while the snow deepened outside and the enchanted tree continued its slow, living dance.
. . .
The second instance of Morwenna's accidental magic occurred on another Tuesday, early in January.
It followed a morning that had gone wrong in a quiet, measured way, beginning with a sky the colour of wet slate and a wind rattling the library's leaded windows.
The letter arrived with breakfast, delivered by a Ministry owl that looked as bedraggled and weary as the news it carried. It bore the heavy purple Ministry seal and was written in the polished language of a bureaucracy determined to smooth over what it couldn't possibly justify.
Jane read the parchment once, then again. Her expression remained unchanged, though her knuckles turned white around the handle of her teacup.
The review period had been extended.
Twelve to sixteen long weeks.
The letter offered no explanation beyond a vague reference to administrative workload. There was no acknowledgement of the case's urgency, nor any indication that the matter held importance beyond its place in an ever-growing queue of paperwork.
Jane finished her tea in three deliberate sips, then answered two unrelated letters with biting courtesy. Her handwriting remained precise, every word carefully placed.
Then she stood.
She crossed to the tall library window and stopped, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her gaze settled on the frozen winter garden beyond the glass. Her jaw tightened slightly, the only outward sign of the fury she refused to voice.
Jack made no comment about the letter.
Instead, he took Morwenna upstairs and left her with Tilly, who brought out a collection of enchanted wooden blocks to keep the little girl occupied and wisely avoided asking any difficult questions.
When Jack returned to the library, he and Jane spoke.
They spoke plainly, without their usual aristocratic restraint. Jane said things about Albus Dumbledore's methods that would have shocked anyone who knew her only as a gracious hostess. Jack let her speak without interruption. When he finally offered his own thoughts, he made no attempt to soften his assessment of the Headmaster's interference.
Eventually, the conversation ended as such discussions often did, with neither of them having anything left to say that they hadn't already said. Jane returned to her work.
By mid-morning, the library had settled back into the steady scratch of quill against parchment. The blue journal lay open beside her, its pages filled with the Evans family lineage. Letters had gathered in a growing stack at the corner of the desk, each addressed, sealed with wax, and set aside with grim efficiency.
An hour of silence passed.
Then something shifted in the air near the doorway.
"Maman."
Jane looked up from her writing.
Morwenna stood at the threshold, small and steady in her green velvet dress. Her silk ribbon had been lost during the morning's play, leaving her white hair loose around her face in untidy strands. Her vivid green eyes were fixed on her mother with an intensity that seemed far beyond her age.
Behind her, Tilly hovered in the hallway, looking like an elf who had suffered a respectful but undeniable defeat.
Jane's expression softened at once, the coldness in her eyes melting away.
« Viens ici, » (Come here) she said warmly.
Morwenna crossed the stone floor without hesitation and raised her left arm.
Jane lifted her into her lap, settling the little girl against her chest. Morwenna leaned into her and remained quiet for a long moment, taking in the room around them. Her gaze travelled over the scattered papers and the open journal, pausing briefly on each.
Whatever tension the morning's argument had left behind, she seemed to sense it.
Then she looked at Jane.
Really looked at her.
Morwenna raised her left hand and pressed her palm against Jane's cheek.
She left it there.
Jane closed her eyes and leaned into the small, warm hand.
The entire room fell still. The ancestors in their frames grew silent, while the fire in the hearth dimmed as though it, too, were listening. Even the soft rustling of parchment seemed to fade into the shadows.
Morwenna's little face tightened with fierce concentration.
Across the library, the books on the lower shelves began to move.
At first, the changes were almost too small to notice. One spine eased forward, followed by another, their leather covers whispering against the dark wood as the volumes shifted into new positions.
There was nothing chaotic or random about their movements.
Each book seemed to know exactly where it needed to go.
One by one, the volumes adjusted themselves, leaving uneven gaps between their spines. The pattern took shape slowly, imperfectly, as though guided by instinct rather than any deliberate design.
By the time the movement stopped, the books had formed a crooked heart.
A faint layer of silvery frost clung to their spines, catching the firelight.
The shape was neither symmetrical nor precise, but its meaning was unmistakable.
Isolde made a strangled sound from within her frame, then pretended nothing had happened. She carefully adjusted her shawl, while Edmund turned towards a blank section of stone wall and examined it with sudden interest.
"Quite remarkable," he murmured to no one in particular. "Quite remarkable indeed."
Jane stared at the rearranged shelves, momentarily unable to speak.
Then she looked down at her daughter.
"Oh, Morwenna," she whispered, her voice trembling.
She drew the little girl close and pressed her face into the soft fall of white hair. Morwenna patted her mother's shoulder once, then again, with the satisfied air of someone who had done precisely what the moment required.
The books remained where they were.
Jane made no attempt to correct their arrangement or return them to their proper places. She left the crooked heart untouched for the rest of the day, unwilling to disturb what her daughter had made.
....
That evening, the manor settled into its familiar quiet.
After one final, half-hearted attempt to resist bedtime, Morwenna had surrendered completely to sleep. The nursery was peaceful, with only the faint sound of her breathing breaking the silence.
In the library, the fire burned low, casting flickering orange light across the floor.
Jane sat in her usual armchair, the blue journal closed on her lap. Her gaze rested on the lower shelves, where the books still formed the little heart Morwenna had made that afternoon.
Jack entered and placed his chair opposite hers, with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door. He settled into it without a word.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
"She knew," Jane said at last. Her voice sounded hollow, yet warm.
"She always does."
Jane kept her eyes on the shelves. "She ees only twenty months old, Jack."
"She has known things since before she was even born."
Jane let out a slow breath. The sharp tension that had gripped her throughout the morning finally began to ease, giving way to something gentler.
"She ees extraordinary."
"Yes," Jack replied, his voice steady and reassuring. "Completely."
Jane turned to look at him.
The shadow of the Ministry's delay remained in her eyes, quiet and persistent. But it no longer stood alone.
"I don't know how we made her," she admitted.
Jack's thumb brushed over his signet ring.
"Years of diligent practice," he replied, deadpan.
Jane laughed before she could stop herself.
The sudden sound cut cleanly through the heavy silence of the room.
"You are impossible."
"You married me anyway."
She reached across the space between them and took his hand. He turned his palm upwards and laced his fingers through hers, his thumb moving in a slow, steady rhythm over her knuckles.
This time, she didn't let go.