The house breathes around her.

In the kitchen, a kettle begins to whistle of its own accord, though no one has touched the stove. The sound is shrill, insistent—a summons.

Lilith sits at the long, dark table, a cup of cold tea before her that she has not touched. A letter rests beside it, crisp and cream-coloured, the Hogwarts seal gleaming like a wound in the dim light.

She has read it seven times.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. The floorboards groan in a rhythm Lilith has learned to read—not as sound, but as warning.

Walburga Black appears in the doorway. She is dressed in severe black robes, her hair pulled back so tightly it stretches the skin at her temples. Her wand is in her hand. It always is.