Victoria had never cared much for noise and crowds. In fact, she hated them. Especially when she was already under stress—if the chatter of the world outside grew louder than the relentless murmur in her own head, she wanted nothing more than to vanish into thin air. That was why, as she walked toward Potions class with only half of her essay clutched in her hands, she could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
She had never failed to finish an assignment before. Not once. And now—now she had. For someone like Victoria Blythe, it was a catastrophe. Her family’s reaction was already playing itself in her mind, each scornful remark and withering glance echoing in a loop until she almost winced. The shame pressed against her chest like a weight.
But then, just as she was about to disappear into those thoughts entirely, a sound cut through the din around her—high-pitched, shrill, and full of raw grief. A cry.
Victoria’s head snapped up. Her cold blue eyes, always guarded, softened ever so slightly with concern. Was someone… crying?
Her question was answered almost instantly. Standing along the corridor wall, caught in a gilded frame, was a portrait—one of Hogwarts’ many restless inhabitants. And the painted woman within was indeed weeping, shoulders shaking as tears streamed down her flushed, painted cheeks.
The woman looked to be in her fifties. Streaks of white ran through her once-vibrant dark red hair, and her round face quivered with each hiccuping sob. Her shrill voice carried down the hall, sharp enough to drive several passing students to hurry off, glancing over their shoulders with visible relief once they’d escaped the noise.
Victoria, however, lingered. She had always had a soft spot for people in distress, though she rarely admitted it out loud. Technically, of course, a portrait wasn’t a person. But the sound of genuine pain—even if it came from painted lungs—made something in her chest ache.
For a fleeting moment, she thought of the unfinished parchment in her hand and felt the childish urge to collapse against the wall and cry alongside the woman. But she swallowed it back, straightened her shoulders, and instead took a quiet step closer.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly. Her tone was gentler than usual, though her eyes still retained their coolness, only brightened by the faintest glimmer of worry.
The words were barely out of her mouth before Victoria cursed herself inwardly. Of course she wasn’t all right—the woman was weeping loud enough to rattle the glass lanterns on the wall. What a foolish question. But then, Victoria had never been good at comforting people with words. Whenever she tried, her attempts at kindness came out awkward, misplaced—like clothes that didn’t quite fit.
The woman in the portrait snapped her head up, eyes red and swollen from crying. She loosed a dramatic, noisy sniff and barked in between sobs:
“Do I look all right to you!? Go away!”
Victoria froze, lips parting just slightly, caught off guard. That was… not the response she’d been expecting. She stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, blue eyes flickering with confusion. Should she leave? Should she press on? Her thoughts tangled like knotted threads, each one pulling her in a different direction.
For the first time that day, she almost forgot about the half-finished essay clutched in her fingers.
