Forgivable Fate PV Evpraksiya V.

xxxxxxxx𝕾wans held a privileged position no singular other animals did. Elegant but not pretentious, obscure enough to be interesting but relatively known in the bubble of collective societal view not to be seen as strange nor- baba yaga forbid- out of place. No, swans were beautiful and flawless, creatures always out of reach to the common man. And reminiscent of the creatures, one Evpraksiya M. Y. Vinogradova walked through the corridor to charms, her footsteps measured and unhurried even as the bustling sea of students surged around her. She kept a certain distance from the crowd, weaving through it with a detached ease that would suggest her a qualified dancer if nothing else. Her Slytherin robes flowed neatly around her, not a crease out of place as her creme messenger bag shone polished, sitting neatly by her side. Evpraksiya let the ambiance of —(busy voices, someone tripping, yells about homework— a fight!— a teacher intervening, laughter, rustling of papers)— Hogwarts wash over her as she finally found her charms classroom.

Entering the classroom, she surveyed the seating arrangement with a quick, discerning eye, her lips curving into the faintest smile as she noted the empty rows filling from the back forward, students eager to claim the hidden, half—obscured desks where they could daydream or pass notes undisturbed. Evpraksiya’s own gaze, however, settled on a spot near the front, just close enough to afford her a prime view of the professor’s demonstrations, yet two rows back from the frontmost seats, where the eager or overly ambitious tended to cluster.

She had no wish— nor need— to associate with those zealots.

With a deliberate grace, she made her way to the second row and lowered herself into the chair, placing her things down with the same practiced elegance etched into her bones. Her fingers drifted over the smooth cover of bag as she withdrew her class materials. A dove feather quill, “A Book of Spells” by Miranda Goshawk, her notebook… Here, in the second row, she could observe both the instructor and her classmates with ease, a vantage point for learning not only the subtleties of charmwork but of the dynamics that surrounded her.

Evpraksiya let her gaze drift around the room, observing the other students as they filed in. The faint hum of their conversations filled the air, and she watched them with a mixture of curiosity and detachment, a small, faintly amused smile on her lips as she noted the interactions, the alliances, the silent dramas playing out across the room. She played her part too of course, smiling at people who greeted her back, turning it apologetic when others asked for the seat next to her. She wasn’t a particularly picky person, but gossips were everywhere and waiting for a politically safe family (or fates willing, Nabi) would do no harm to her otherwise pristine reputation.

She straightened in her seat, smoothing her skirt with a small, habitual movement, and folded her hands neatly over her textbook as sacremento eyes glanced up, the familiar syllables of her name curling from a voice that carried with it all the weight and warmth of a distant, half-forgotten past. Her gaze settled on Anais— dear, familiar Anais— and in that instant, Hogwarts itself seemed to still. All around them, the buzz of Charms class faded like the echo of distant music, and the stone walls, rough and stubbornly British, receded into nothing more than a blurred background before life picked up again.

Her friend stood framed in the doorway, every detail of her form painfully precise. Her honey-blonde waves, arranged with meticulous care, caught a slant of cool northern light that softened them to a muted glow. Her cheeks, pale as winter’s dawn, bore that delicate flush of color— rose petals on snow, an old-world softness Evpraksiya recognized as easily as the familiar lines of her own reflection. It took a few moments for Evpraksiya to realize the blush on her cheeks were still the same technique she'd taught her. Anais’s eyes met hers, and in that look, Evpraksiya allowed affection to twist her usual genial smile into a few more degrees of genuine joy.

A saint was only ever mortal before their family.

❝Anais,❞ she murmured, voice honeyed and saccharine sweet as it always was in any room with strangers— though the one before her was far from one. ❝The fates must be in a curious mood indeed today.❞

She gestured, almost absently, to the open seat beside her. The gesture was delicate, deliberate, a quiet, graceful invitation. ❝It would be a travesty if you weren't to join me,❞ she continued, with a faint lilt of teasing in her tone, the smallest quirk of amusement following her words. ❝Unless, of course, you mean to stand there and haunt me from afar?❞ Testing words, probing, asking do you know I missed you? Did you miss me?