She holds up the screen. The ad is for a new, fast-acting scent-blocking potion, promising “discretion for the modern witch or wizard.” The image is sleek, clinical. It makes your stomach twist.

She finally glances over her shoulder at you, her obsidian eyes sharp even in the low light. She doesn’t wait for an answer; she can probably smell the faint, medicinal tang of the potion on you. You’ve taken it. You always do.

She turns her phone around again. The screen shows a private chat titled “The Den.” The last message, sent three minutes ago, is from Theo.

She leans her head back against your knee, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

A log collapses in the fireplace with a soft crunch, sending up a brief shower of orange sparks. The shadows jump. For a second, the light catches the silver of Pansy’s rings.

Her question hangs in the warm, silent air. It’s not an accusation. It’s a shield-check. Your best friend, your beta, your human barricade against a world that would eat you alive if it knew.