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Queen Of Forbidden Forest: Chapter 13: a Dance of Embers and Snow
🕑 Added 2025-04-18 13:08:19 +0000 UTCMoon‑silver spilled across the lawn below Ember’s window, outlining drifting wisps of mist that clung to the grass like half‑remembered dreams. Only an hour earlier she had sat beneath those stars, promising the distant forest she would protect what lay within these castle walls until it was time to return. Now she watched the courtyard from a high landing, cheek resting against the cool mullioned glass as students in thick cloaks hurried through pools of lantern light. Laughter carried upward when someone skidded on a patch of frost; somewhere beyond the archway Peeves cackled, then swooped off into deeper darkness. Ember’s breath fogged the pane. The reflection that met her gaze was still startling—dark coils of hair, gentle green eyes, four glossy spider limbs folded behind her like delicate obsidian branches. A girl who was once a boy named Harry. A queen who was also still, somehow, a child.
Footsteps padded toward her from the spiral staircase. She didn’t turn. The gait was unmistakable—long, jaunty, almost canine in rhythm.
“Day‑dreaming again, Your Forest Majesty?” Sirius asked, voice low to keep the quiet. He carried two mugs, steam curling above them like tame ghosts.
“I’m practicing brooding.” She straightened, forcing seriousness into her tone. “It’s a requirement for mysterious half‑creatures in gloomy castles.”
“Hopeless.” He handed her a mug, careful of the handle in her smaller human hands and the spider limbs fanning for balance. Their fingers brushed. “You radiate comfort. Very poor brooding material.”
She accepted the warmth. Tea—strong, sweet, a hint of mint. “Thank you.”
They leaned shoulder to shoulder against the stone embrasure. From this height the quad looked like a snowscape even before winter—moonlight betrayed every frost crystal. Ember sipped, thinking of dragonfire, of spiderling mischief, of home. Sirius’s presence, steady and quietly protective, eased the ache.
“After what you did with that Horntail,” he murmured, “the rumor mill might collapse from sheer overload.”
“Let them talk.” She blew on the tea. “I’ve bigger things to worry about.” In truth, the stares still pricked. But Luna Lovegood’s easy acceptance that morning reminded her not all gazes judged.
Sirius nudged her. “Come on. Bed. Classes start again tomorrow, Professor Ember.”
She groaned. “Classes,” she echoed with reluctant amusement. “Do remind me why I agreed.”
“Because you’re a glutton for punishment.” He grinned. “And because you secretly missed Transfiguration essays.”
She snorted; together they slipped into the stairwell, mugs clinking when spider silk brushed stone.
Morning sunlight on November sixth poured through the tall windows of the Great Hall, gilding pumpkin muffins and pattering across startled plates of kippers. Ember hesitated at the threshold. A wave of whispers rippled toward her like a breeze bending wheat. She felt each murmur against her skin—she’s the dragon whisperer… half‑spider… Harry? Her spine straightened; she crossed to Ravenclaw’s table and sat beside Luna, who gazed dreamily at floating candles.
“Good morning,” Luna said. “The Nargles are very quiet today—perhaps they sense new guardian magic.”
Ember smiled tiredly. “Perhaps.” She reached for toast; several first‑years down the bench stiffened, eyes locked on the ebony limbs folded behind her. Luna, unfazed, tapped her chin.
“You have very beautiful spider legs,” she stated.
Heat blossomed in Ember’s cheeks—Relief? Surprise? She wasn’t sure. “Thank you, Luna. Most people… don’t call them beautiful.”
“They’ll learn,” Luna said serenely, spooning porridge. “Beauty is a matter of perspective. Spiders weave galaxies when you look closely.”
The tension eased. Ember ate quietly, stealing glances at Hufflepuff’s table where Cedric chatted animatedly—alive, bright, and safe. Nearby, Neville Longbottom admired a single plant cutting perched in a jar of soil beside his plate. He spotted Ember’s gaze, flushed, then looked swiftly down. She offered a gentle nod. His shoulders loosened.
Lessons resumed. Transfiguration first: McGonagall’s brisk voice filled the classroom, quills scratching in rapid counterpoint. Ember threaded herself into a desk at the back—space enough for extra limbs—aware of the hush that followed her entry. She forced attention on the blackboard, but whispers tickled her nerves.
At the bell’s end Luna drifted past, offering two Sugar Quills. “For courage,” she whispered. Ember squeezed her hand, gratitude swelling.
Between classes Sirius and Remus shadowed her like oddly shaped guardian angels. In dark alcoves Ember began holding secret theory circles—curious younger students, uncomfortable around large groups, found solace in her gentle explanations. She animated chalk in mid‑air, weaving runes into glimmering cobwebs. They watched, enthralled, as lessons on sympathy magic turned into quiet discussions about fear and kindness. Rumor spread: Ember teaches without judgment. Attendance grew.
Two evenings later Ember followed the patter of McGonagall’s heels into an empty classroom lined with tartan drapes. The Deputy Headmistress turned, expression both firm and apologetic.
“Miss—Ember,” she corrected, voice softening, “as a champion you must attend the Yule Ball. With a partner.”
Ember’s stomach dropped. “Must I?”
“Tradition,” McGonagall said. “Public image, uniting the schools, et cetera.”
“But dancing—crowds—dresses,” Ember protested weakly.
“You faced a Hungarian Horntail, dear,” the older witch replied, eyes twinkling. “One dance won’t devour you.”
Outside in the corridor, Sirius lounged against the wall. Seeing Ember’s stricken face, he clapped a hand to his chest theatrically. “Fear not! I’ll nobly sacrifice myself as your date.” He fluttered lashes.
Ember shoved his shoulder, half amused, half horrified. “You’re old enough to be my uncle. Oh wait—you are my uncle.”
“Details,” Sirius quipped. “We’d set fashion ablaze.”
Behind them Remus emerged, dry chuckle escaping. “Perhaps let her breathe, Padfoot.”
The next afternoon Dumbledore cornered Ron Weasley outside Charms, murmuring instructions with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. Ember, passing unseen in the shade of an archway, caught the gist—he wanted Ron to convince her into a more “suitable” partnership, ideally public and controllable. When Ron, crimson‑eared, stumbled toward her moments later, Ember’s leveled stare halted him mid‑sentence. She didn’t say a word. Her green eyes, molten with warning, flicked toward Dumbledore on the balcony. The headmaster retreated like a chastened kneazle. Ron swallowed, managed a quick apology, and fled. Ember exhaled shakily—victory tinged with weary sadness.
On November thirteenth, Ember spotted Neville in the greenhouse struggling with a Fanged Geranium that snapped at his gloves. His breath fogged the glass panes, and soil streaked his cheeks.
“Need a hand?” Ember asked, stepping in.
Neville jerked, almost uprooted the plant. “Oh—yes—thank you!” Ember’s spider limbs pinned the pot delicately while her human hands coaxed the leaves into stillness. Neville watched, astonished as the plant calmed under her murmur. When the Geranium finally settled, he looked up, shy hope glowing. “You’re incredible.”
Ember shrugged, wiping soil on a rag. “Just patience.” She hesitated, remembered the looming Ball. “Neville?” He straightened. “Would you… like to attend the Yule Ball with me? As friends,” she added quickly. “No expectations.”
He gaped, cheeks blazing red. “Me? With you? I—yes! I mean, if you’re sure—”
“Positive,” she said, warmth unfurling at his relieved grin.
News reached Sirius within hours. He burst into the common area proclaiming, “Operation Teach‑Neville‑to‑Dance commences!” Remus groaned; Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
Preparation became a spectacle. Sirius commandeered an unused classroom on November sixteenth, dragging Neville in twice daily. “Step, turn, don’t step on Ember’s toes or so help me—” Neville concentrated fiercely while Ember clapped encouragement. Remus hijacked evenings to refine posture; Grindelwald, amused, contributed graceful waltz variations from bygone Austrian courts. When Sirius dipped Neville dramatically and the boy toppled onto a stack of cushions, laughter bounced off the rafters until tears streamed down faces—Neville’s included.
Dressmaking followed. In a hush of enchanted needles and soft spider silk, Ember fashioned a gown the color of moonlit snow, gossamer strands shimmering between layers. Grindelwald provided subtle runic embroidery to strengthen the threads; Sirius contributed too many sparkles (later moderated by Remus). When Ember donned the finished dress privately, she twirled once—spider limbs emerging from slits at her back like obsidian blades against starlight. For a moment she felt delicate and powerful all at once.
Aragog’s gift arrived via a snowy white owl on December eighteenth: a tiny vial of shimmering essence—distilled spider silk light enough to weave into Ember’s gown, strong enough to repel minor curses. Ember pressed the vial to her heart, tears gathering. She wrote back, thanking her mother for thinking of her across the wards.
Yule Eve descended with crisp air buzzing of pine and anticipation. Sirius and Remus hovered in the corridor outside Ember’s room. Grindelwald waited nearby in impeccably tailored robes, amusement twinkling like frost on stone. When Ember emerged, they fell silent—snow‑silk gown flowing, pendant from Grindelwald gleaming at her throat, spider limbs arching in graceful curves edged with faint runes.
Sirius whistled softly. “Forest royalty indeed.”
Remus offered his arm until Neville arrived, flushed and proud in robes of deep forest green. He bowed awkwardly, offering Ember a shy hand. Sirius discreetly dabbed at an imaginary tear; Grindelwald smirked.
They descended marble steps to the decorated hall. Icicles of magic dripped light from the ceiling, and snowy firs sparkled with enchanted candles. Conversations stilled as Ember and Neville stepped across the threshold. The hush fractured into awed whispers. Fleur approached first, expression warm. “You look magnifique,” she breathed. Ember thanked her, introducing Neville, who stammered politely. Viktor nodded his respect; Cedric, dancing with Cho, offered a bright thumbs‑up.
Music swept in. Neville offered his hand. They began a cautious waltz, Ember guiding with gentle murmurs. Soon his nerves melted; they moved fluidly, weaving among other couples. McGonagall watched, eyes bright and misty. Dumbledore, subdued, observed from a dais, expression unreadable.
Mid‑set, Ember spotted Sirius lounging by a pillar, nursing punch. With a conspiratorial grin she slipped from Neville’s side and tugged her uncle onto the floor. “Your turn.” He sputtered, but complied, twirling her with dramatic flair. Laughter rippled around them. Even Grindelwald accepted a dance from an enamored Charms professor, executing steps with suave arrogance.
Hours flew. When final notes faded, Ember and Neville slipped onto the snowy grounds, breath puffing clouds in moonlight. They strolled silent paths glittering under fresh flakes. At the Beech Tree’s roots they paused. Neville smiled, a gentle, genuine expression.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For believing in me.”
Ember squeezed his mittened hand. “You believed in yourself,” she said softly. A content hush settled. They exchanged a warm, platonic hug, then turned toward the castle lights.
Snow deepened through December. Days drifted in a slow ballet: classes, quiet forest letters, Luna’s cryptic insights, secret theory lessons where even Slytherins ventured, drawn by Ember’s patient teaching. Sirius organized snowball fights—spiderlings included (magically contained). Grindelwald tutored advanced dueling footwork on crisp mornings, wand traces sparkling in cold air. McGonagall, dropping by unannounced sometimes, found a roomful of mixed‑year students rapt as Ember illustrated spell matrices in shimmering webs.
Around Christmas, Ember received a parcel of acorn‑flour biscuits from Hagrid (via owl, owing to his exile), making her smile and promise silently to visit soon. Throughout the castle, whispers transformed: fear shifted toward admiration; rumors of monsters became tales of maternal bravery. Ember’s presence threaded warmth through winter corridors.
New Year’s fireworks crackled over Black Lake, mirrored in still water. Ember watched with Luna and Neville, Sirius perched on a wall singing half‑remembered carols, Remus chuckling. Snow began again on January second: light, swirling, muffling the grounds in softness.
On January fifth, Ember rose early and walked alone across the blanketed lawns. The castle behind her kept silent vigil; the forest ahead beckoned like a slumbering friend. She inhaled crisp air, each breath ribboning white, each footstep crunching faintly. Memories shimmered: dragon flames, spider‑silk lessons, nervous laughter beneath garlands. She thought of Aragog’s gift, of Neville’s grateful smile, of Sirius’s overprotective fussing, of Grindelwald’s reluctant pride.
Stopping at the edge of the frozen courtyard pond, she closed her eyes. The world was cold, but her chest glowed with steady heat—a dance of embers amid snow. She faced the horizon where dawn blushed pale peach.
“No matter what comes,” she whispered, voice sure against the hush, “I am not alone.”
