Time: Friday, April 13th, 11:30 a.m.
Location: Potter–Peverell–Grey Apartment, Unplottable London
Subtitle: One Letter of Warmth, Two Letters of Doom
The kettle clicked.
Not ominously. Not even particularly loudly. Just a gentle, final click of mechanical satisfaction as steam curled into the air like gossip too smug to stay silent.
Caius glared at it anyway. Suspiciously. As if the kettle had personally wronged him.
It hadn't. But it was Friday the 13th. And the world had been… aggressive lately.
He sat at the kitchen table like someone waiting to be stabbed with affection, arms crossed, back too straight, jaw tight in a way that promised bloodshed and absolutely no emotional vulnerability whatsoever.
Across from him sat Blood Fang.
Elbows on the table. Expression blank. Posture radiating "I am not emotionally available, but I will kill your enemies and possibly rearrange your furniture without asking."
He placed something on the table between them.
It was… wrapped.
Which was a problem.
Because wrapped bundles from Redcaps had a reputation. Some exploded. Some bit. Some hissed lullabies in dead languages and tried to seduce your cutlery.
"What," Caius said flatly, "is that?"
"A gift."
Caius narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
Blood Fang's lip twitched. Possibly a smile. More likely an expression of mild predation. "You survived."
Caius looked at the bundle. Then at Blood Fang. Then at the bundle again.
"…That's concerning."
"Shut up and open it."
There was a pause. A long one. But curiosity, like ancestral vengeance, was difficult to resist. Caius untied the wrapping. Slowly. Warily. As if the bundle might suddenly decide to scream.
It didn't.
Instead, it revealed a knife.
Not just any knife. A ceremonial blade forged from silver-shadow alloy, the kind of metal that shimmered in ways metal had no right to shimmer. The handle was wrapped in black-dyed Nightmare leather—sleek, supple, illegal in five courts and taxed like luxury lingerie. Etched near the hilt was the crest of House Grey: a wolf devouring a sword beneath a blood moon.
"It's sharp enough to cut between realities," Blood Fang said casually. "Or through someone's spine if they insult your tea."
Caius blinked.
"You got me a murder knife."
"I got you a murder friend."
He said it like it was obvious.
Caius, to his credit, did not laugh. Or cry. Or throw the knife at the nearest wall to test it (though the thought did occur).
He simply said, "I didn't ask for this."
Blood Fang took a sip of black coffee that looked more like regret steeped in hatred.
"No one asks for survival. Doesn't mean you don't mark it."
There was something ancient in his voice. Something that sounded like it had once spoken curses over battlefield corpses and whispered lullabies to dying empires.
"…Thank you," Caius said eventually, voice quieter.
Blood Fang grunted. Which was Redcap for "you're welcome," "I would die for you," and "I find emotional openness repulsive, please never make me do this again."
Then came the letters.
Three, to be exact.
Two formal. One slightly unhinged.
One carried warmth.
The other two? Doom.
Letter One:
From: Catherine Winters
To: Seraphina L. L. Potter-Peverell
Re: Long-Distance Regret, Guilt-Fueled Hugs, and Mild Threats to Bureaucracy
> My dearest baby girl,
Hallelujah, I finally managed to get a letter through.
The last five were redirected to France, eaten by cursed owls, or "accidentally" filed under 'Misc. Explosions' at the Ministry.
I heard you made contact with Raphael (tell him I still have the dagger he left in my ceiling).
And hopefully you're with your cousin—tell him to smile more and stop looking like his intestines offended him. Definitely a Hunt trait.
I'm so, so sorry I couldn't claim you. Dumbledore blocked everything. Every petition. Every visit. I tried.
But if you're reading this now, it means the tides are finally turning. And I want back in. If you'll let me.
Let me know if you're planning Hogwarts. If so, I'll apply to teach. I do have credentials. I didn't just make up hexes to piss off the French Ministry.
I love you. Always.
— Aunt Cat
Seraphina stared at the letter. Her tea forgotten. Her fingers curled around the paper like she could strangle seventeen years of abandonment into understanding.
She didn't speak.
But her magic pulsed.
Once. Sharp. Like the crack of old glass under new pressure.
Then—another letter slid in.
Cream parchment. Gold seal.
Letter Two:
From: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
To: Miss Seraphina Liliana Lily Potter-Peverell
Address: Formerly Number 4 Privet Drive, Currently: Not Your Business
Status: Protected by Nightmare Court Seals and Pure Spite
> Dear Miss Potter-Peverell,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Side of Predator and Prey.
Please find enclosed a list of required school supplies and recommended psychological fortitude.
Classes begin September 1st.
May your instincts be sharp and your enemies edible.
Sincerely,
Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall
(Succubus House of Calypso, Subject: Transfiguration)
Seraphina made a face. "Side of Predator and Prey? I feel like I just got recruited into Hogwarts: Blood Edition."
Caius snorted.
Then opened his.
The paper glared at him.
Letter Three:
From: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
To: Lord Caius Everen Grey
Address: Not Yours. Classified. Go Away.
> Dear Lord Grey,
You are hereby invited to attend Hogwarts, mostly because the magical community would rather have you inside the wards than outside the wards planning arson.
You have been placed in advanced placement due to prior education, trauma, and natural inclination toward stabbing things.
Please be aware that blood weapons must be declared at entry, and that possession of more than three vengeance tomes may trigger alarms.
Welcome back to education. We hope you survive.
—Sincerely, Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall
Caius set the letter down. "Did my Hogwarts letter just shade me?"
Blood Fang nodded, perfectly deadpan. "I approve."
Then Seraphina stood.
Walked over to the kitchen island.
And asked, like it was a perfectly normal question after being nearly kidnapped, gifted murder cutlery, and emotionally wounded by paper: "What do you want to eat?"
Caius blinked. "You want to cook?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Unlike when I was under Petunia's tyranny, this is voluntary. I get to cook what I want. And—shocking—I get to eat it too."
Caius opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then: "You're going to make the house-elves cry."
"Good. Maybe they'll finally stop putting cinnamon in everything."
"I like cinnamon."
"You would."
Blood Fang, traitor that he was, merely lifted his mug.
"I'll eat whatever you burn," he said solemnly.
"I don't burn things."
"You threatened to set the rice on fire two days ago."
"That was emotional expression."
Caius muttered, "Emotional expression should not involve a blowtorch."
Seraphina shot him a look that promised passive-aggressive seasoning choices. "Tell me what you want or I'll make enchanted curry. The kind that sweats back."
"…Butter chicken."
"Spicy or infernal?"
"I want to taste god and apologize."
"Done."
As she reached for her spell-bound apron (black silk, embroidered with "Death Fae Bake Best"), she muttered under her breath:
"Also. I'm still spiraling."
Caius glanced up.
"I know."
"I hate that I couldn't fight them."
"I know."
"I want to kill them. Slowly. Like, monologue-worthy slowly."
Blood Fang hummed. "We'll make a list."
Caius hesitated.
Then stood. Crossed the kitchen.
And placed a hand on her shoulder.
Just one.
Solid. Grounding. Quiet.
"You lived," he said. "That's what matters. For now."
Her voice cracked just a little.
"But next time, I'll kill them before you get there."
He nodded.
"You're a Queen. Not a corpse."
And across the table, a ceremonial knife gleamed.
Murder friend approved.