why she disappeared
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| ───── | Christmas break in the Bianchi household was more or less the same every year. Family dinner on Christmas Eve, then presents, lunch, and outings on Christmas Day. Tinsel, tree, wrapping paper—and the fire crackling in the hearth, the living room glowing warm in shifting hues of yellow and orange. Some years they travelled to Italy, others they stayed in London, and on one occasion they'd split halves of the holiday between the two locations. Regardless of where they celebrated, it'd always been Stella's favourite holiday season because it had always meant her siblings were coming home from Hogwarts for two whole weeks. A guaranteed fortnight of laughter and cheer, of games of chess in the living room and mugs of hot cocoa left half-drunk on the mantle. In recent years, it'd become one of the only times of year she could always count on to spend time with her siblings, who seemed to take advantage of exeats and any other school breaks less and less often as their lives at Hogwarts took full shape. This year, she'd been among them on the train back to London, though something in her felt one step removed from it all. The whistle had blown, the platform blurred past, and she'd sat in silence with Carlotta on one side, the window on the other, determinedly facing away from her siblings and towards the snowy landscapes they passed by instead. Stella couldn't understand why they'd chosen to sit with her at all. Since November exeat—when she'd pieced together that they'd been quietly reporting back to their parents about how badly she was doing—she'd been almost cruel in her avoidance of them. Brushed off their every attempt at conversation, ignored them in the corridors. Done practically everything she could think of to disappear when their paths crossed. Stella understood her siblings well enough to know that this behaviour had only worsened their perception of her state of mind, and that their insistence on sharing a compartment had less to do with wanting her company and more to do with making sure she was within reach when they reached London, concern curdling into something closer to vigilance. Regardless, why would they choose to put all five of them through what had to be the most awkward train ride imaginable? That was what puzzled Stella the most. Still, they didn't seem to mind her silence—or at least they didn't challenge it. No one tried to engage her in their chatter or coax a smile from her; in fact, aside from a few sideways glances, they seemed almost content to let her stare moodily out the window, snow flickering past like static, and the train ride passed without incident. When the Express finally hissed to a halt at King's Cross, Stella lingered for a moment longer than necessary, letting the sound of footsteps and luggage carts wash over her without really noticing. It was not for a lack of urgency that she remained seated, but because her body simply refused to move, rooted in place by factors far beyond the physical plane. Dread had been building in her for weeks, the source of it being this very holiday and the idea of seeing her parents again. They knew now, for certain, that her claims of being fine during the November exeat weekend had been nothing more than a brittle performance—Stella had known she hadn't been convincing then, and that they'd let it slide back then, let her have the lie, out of pity, maybe, or perhaps out of their own quiet wish to believe she wasn't falling apart. But her siblings wouldn't have stopped writing home about her: every weary glance, every silence, every meal missed or class skipped, would have been dutifully reported back to her parents, underlined with concern and stamped with unease. The small mercy of indulgence granted to her at exeat wasn't going to extend through Christmas, that was for certain; the culmination of the entire family's worries and whatever form it took was sure to crash down on her with full force now, and she didn't think she was equipped to handle it in the slightest. Fran nudged her lightly from the seat across, a silent reminder that it was time to move, and like a puppet with tangled strings, Stella stood with some reluctance, shoving her hands into her coat pockets to hide their trembling as she followed her siblings off the train. Outside, the platform was crowded with families, trunks, and the faint smell of coal and frost, but she barely registered her surroundings, even when her siblings located her parents and rushed forward to greet them with smiles of delight. Her thoughts were somewhere else entirely, looping back over the last few months like a reel she couldn't pause; the small, bright blur of her family's reunion left a hollow tug where excitement and relief should have been, and she hated herself for it, more than just a little. For the way her stomach twisted, not with warmth, but something sharp and restless far too close to guilt to sit well. This was meant to be the part she loved: the rush into her father's arms, the jostling warmth of her siblings crowded close, her mother's laughter cutting through the cold. It was everything Stella had missed, and yet, standing there now, half a step behind it all, she felt as though she was watching from behind a pane of frosted glass—as though they were no more than figures in a snow globe or a painting. Close enough to see, too far to feel, and worlds away from her in every way but physical. Her father's voice carried faintly through the bustle of the platform—something cheerful, something normal—and Giulia turned to beckon her over, smile still warm in her eyes. Stella hesitated, watching with growing dread as the rest of her family slowly turned their heads towards her. The movement of people blurred around her, steam still hissing from the train's undercarriage and dissolving into the winter air. For a fleeting second, she considered staying right where she was—pretending she'd dropped something, maybe, or that the lacing of one of her boots had become undone. Delay the inevitable for just a moment longer. But her mother's gaze caught hers over the heads of the crowd, soft with knowing, and the decision was all but made for her. Stella forced herself forward, each step far heavier than it had any right to be. They seemed to part a little as she joined them, just enough to make space—too much space. Not unkindly, no, but it was careful, tentative, as though they were making room for a guest rather than welcoming back one of their own. A quick glance between Elio and Fran, an uneasy shifting from one foot to the other from Giulia, a frown playing at Lotta's mouth—or perhaps she was just imagining it? Her father's arm wrapped around her shoulders, her mother pressed a kiss to her hair, but the warmth didn't quite close around her again once she stepped in. Stella murmured something, she didn't even know what, and tried to shape her face into something that could pass for a smile. Her mother's hand lingered a second too long on her cheek, brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear, her touch feather-light and searching. "Ciao, tesoro," Concetta said softly. Hi, sweetheart. "Ciao," Stella replied, her voice small. It was the briefest of exchanges, and yet her mother's eyes paused on her a moment longer than normal before she turned back to gather the others toward the exit, tilting her head to whisper something in her husband's ear as she did so. Steeling herself, Stella took a deep breath, but it did nothing to loosen the anxiety coiling in her chest as she followed her family out of the station, pulling her trunk behind her. The noise of the station seemed to swell around her again, swallowing her up with it: the hum of conversation, the scrape of trunks, the shriek of the whistle—all of it a sharp reminder that the holiday still stretched out in front of her, glowing with warmth and familiarity that she could not seem to reach—and she thought, distantly, that this was going to be the longest Christmas of her life. . | ───── |
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| ───── | . Christmas came and went in a blur of lights that were too bright and laughter that was too loud. Stella tried to participate, tried to move among her siblings and parents like she belonged as she once had, but every moment of casual warmth felt like stepping into a space she had no right to occupy. She had sat on the floor of the living room on the morning of Christmas Day, staring into the fire long after the presents had been unwrapped, trying to summon some of the old delight she remembered from years past. She wanted so badly to be charmed by the tinsel, the cocoa, the small holiday rituals she had once adored, and yet the celebratory mood around her seemed to vibrate through a thin film she couldn't pierce. Any attempt to push herself into it fell flat, the effort itself hollow as a drum. But perhaps these outcomes were not entirely her fault alone, she told herself—ever since they'd gotten back, it was as though the world within the Bianchi house had shifted half a degree and refused to tilt back. Everyone seemed to move differently around her now, careful in ways they either thought she wouldn't notice or entirely couldn't help, this strange choreography of conversations dipping into careful, breakable registers as soon as she entered the room. She would catch her parents watching her when they thought she wasn't looking—her father's brow drawn in contemplative worry, her mother's hands going still in whatever chore she was pretending to be absorbed in. Every time she met their eyes, they softened far too quickly, the way people did when they didn't want you to flinch. At a loss, Stella tried explaining it away, tried telling herself it was harmless. Being treated gently, after all, was better than the alternative. And maybe she was just tired, maybe they were all just tired. It was nearing the end of the calendar year, it was the week after the holiday rush, the lull between Christmas and New Year's where no one quite knew what to do with themselves. Only the illusion crumbled the moment she realised that no one had asked her about school beyond the barest of polite questions. She ought to have been glad that no one was broaching the subject, that she wasn't being pressed for details she couldn't bear to hand over, but Stella knew her family, and they weren't the kind of people to pretend nothing was wrong when an issue presented itself. They could postpone a conversation, redirect it, soften it, but never had they let anything simply dissipate without acknowledgement. No, their silence wasn't out of some well-meaning hope that giving her space would steady her, it was because they'd already discussed it somewhere she could not hear and were simply holding back—and for what, exactly? The right time? When would that be? It drove her crazy, not being in on whatever plan the rest of her family seemed to be following. And the more she looked, the more she found it—the pattern of strategy threaded through every interaction: the measured, faux-casual tone everyone slipped into when she appeared, the recalibrations of posture she wasn't meant to notice, the too-long glances that turned into too-quick smiles. The way her siblings drifted into pairs or trios as soon as she went upstairs, as if reconvening to compare notes. Meals were the worst; conversation topics wove around her like a river bending around a stone, careful not to land on anything Hogwarts related, and her parents and siblings traded quiet, coded looks over her head. Whenever she lifted her fork to eat, someone would pause mid-sentence, almost imperceptibly, as if waiting to see if she would finish the bite. Evidently, they all thought they were being subtle enough. That they were treading lightly enough that she wouldn't notice. But Stella noticed everything—she always had. She felt every cautious breath, every tempered word, and she couldn't stand it, how much they were trying. She couldn't stand that they had to. It wasn't until the night before New Year's Eve that Stella finally stumbled upon a break in her family's careful performance, although entirely by accident, and they had no idea she'd come across it. She wasn't trying to eavesdrop. She'd only passed the study on her way upstairs to her room, searching for five minutes of solitude before dinner, before the next smile she would have to fake and the conversations that tiptoed around her like delicate glass. The hall was dimly lit by the lamps along the walls, their soft glow casting long, wavering shadows across the carpet, and her footsteps were muffled by thick wool underfoot, not that she'd had any thought of hiding her passage through the house. But the library door, left half-open, revealed a sliver of light and the low murmur of voices that made her pause instinctively on the threshold. She recognised the timbre of her siblings' voices almost instantly—their tones were urgent, soft but unmistakeably tense, carrying the kind of hush that only ever accompanied matters of consequence. Stella knew almost immediately that this conversation was not meant for her ears, that she ought to keep walking; something in the cadence, the way the words pressed against one another, warned her that they were discussing something that she didn't want to know. But another part of her, one that was tired and tender and far more fearful of being left out than of the truth, held her in place where she stood out of view, caught between the instinct to flee and curiosity, the need to know. "...è per il suo bene," Elio was saying, voice subdued but firm, "lei capirà." Stella felt her stomach dip with a cold, sinking weight from behind the door. She didn't need to hear another syllable to understand that they were talking about her. È per il suo bene, lei capirà, he'd said. It's for her own good, she'll understand. The phrase landed too neatly, too sharply; it was one of those lines that always meant trouble when adults said it, and disaster when one's siblings did. And it was about her, whatever "good" they were discussing, whatever it was she was meant to understand, and yet she was still not part of the conversation. Frustration began to simmer within her, but she willed herself to stay quiet; perhaps she could decipher what exactly they were talking about if she listened carefully enough. There was a pause, a soft rustle, and a sigh, then Francesca's voice in clipped, disbelieving English: "You can't possibly believe that." "I'm not saying she'll like it," Elio replied evenly. "Just that it's what has to happen. You know that, Fran. It's not like this is new news to you, to any of us," and Stella felt it slowly sink in, piece by piece, that this had been in motion for weeks—long before Christmas break, long before she'd picked up on her family's strange behaviour. "What has to happen," echoed Carlotta faintly. There was something unsteady in her voice that made Stella's throat tighten. It was destabilising to hear her like this—Carlotta, normally a whirlwind of electric noise and colour, now sounded small and unsure in a way she had never witnessed. All because of her. "Merlin, Elio." There was a noise—a book dropped, maybe, or a table leg scraped—and then Giulia's voice, shaky with emotion. "Non la prenderà bene." She's not going to take this well. "Would you?" Fran snapped. "If it were you? If someone told you—" Giulia cut her off tightly. "Don't. Don't ask me that. I just..." She sniffed, and with a jolt Stella realised her sister was crying. There was the sound of flurried movement, of something being passed to her, likely a box of tissues or a handkerchief. "I just don't know. Say it was me... I just don't know. But the alternative, to just do nothing... è inimmaginabile." It's unimaginable. "Stiamo facendo la cosa giusta... vero?" We're doing the right thing... aren't we? Another pause. "Yeah," Elio finally said, with a sigh, "it's the right thing to do. Don't look at me like that, Fran, you know it is. We all agreed it was." "I know," Fran responded, and there was no fight, no snap left in her voice this time. Stella pressed herself closer to the wall, heart thudding, caught in the strange, bitter ache of being both invisible and central at once. "And mamma and papà... well, they've already decided, haven't they? I just hate that it's come to this. I hate that she's going to hate us." The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Stella stepped backwards before she even realised she was moving, cold blooming down her spine like the very fingers of death itself had curled around her bones. She didn't want to know. Whatever it was—whatever they were discussing and planning, whatever "had to happen"—she could feel the shape of it pressing at the edges of her comprehension, something heavy and inevitable and sharpened with good intention, and she didn't want to know. Her breath caught in her throat. She backed away from the library door, her hand slipping off the banister as she turned away too quickly, footsteps muffled by the carpet as she fled down the hall and out into the backyard. Took in heavy, wet gulps of winter night air as she pulled the door shut behind her, resisting as best as she could the sudden urge to burst into tears. She didn't let herself think, didn't let the words settle, didn't let her mind circle back to the meaning that lay beneath them. Just knelt in the grass, still wet from the rain, and let the cold seep through her clothes until all she could think about was the bite of it against her skin and the pale puff of her breath in the porch light, a desperately forced means of distance from the sound of her siblings deciding something about her life behind a door they hadn't meant for her to pass by. Anything more than that, she wasn't prepared to hear—not yet—but then again, she didn't think she ever would be. As she would soon find out, though, it didn't matter what she did or didn't want to know. What was coming would reach her anyway. . | ───── |
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| ───── | . The third of January dawned grey and glassy, brittle at the edges like the world itself wasn't quite sure it had the right to start a new year. As far as Stella was concerned, the holiday season had overstayed its welcome; the decorations were still up, tinsel and fairy lights drooped over the mantel and staircase banisters, but the warmth of the season (if one could even call whatever sorry attempt Stella had made warmth) had long since thinned, leaving behind only a sad echo. Just as it did every year once the calendar ticked past New Year's Day, winter in London was now just winter in London: grey giving way to white, cold sinking into colder, stripped of the borrowed festivities of December. For the first time in her life, Stella felt it not just around her, but inside of her as well, as though the season had found a way to reflect her moods back at her with unwanted clarity. She hadn't slept well. She hadn't really slept at all. The knowledge that the holiday break was drawing to a close pressed at her with increasing insistence with every passing day—the notion of returning to Hogwarts creeping towards her, an inevitability she couldn't bear facing. She didn't want to go back. She also didn't want to stay here. The two truths circled each other in nauseating symmetry, leaving her suspended in a strange, airless space between them; wanting to go away, but unable to name where away began or ended, or from what, exactly, she meant to flee—Hogwarts, home, herself? Where precisely was one to go when there was no place—internal or otherwise—that offered anything resembling relief? Layered cruelly atop all that, Stella saw the sliver of lamplit library and her siblings' silhouettes shifting inside it every time she closed her eyes; heard their voices in low urgent tones discussing her life, discussing her, as a problem that needed to be solved. È per il suo bene, it's for her own good. The phrase had crawled beneath her skin and stayed there, tight and cold, refusing to loosen its grip. She had woken that morning with it still wedged like a splinter beneath her ribs, and it stayed with her now as she descended the stairs in a sluggish sort of haze, socks muffling her footsteps against the hardwood. The house was oddly quiet as Stella walked through its different levels on her way to the kitchen—though perhaps it was no longer appropriate to think of uneasy silence as odd anymore, if the last two weeks were any indication of what now counted as ordinary for the Bianchi family. She looked into the library as she passed it, and saw all four of her siblings moving within it and speaking in hushed voices as she had four nights ago, except the door was wide open this time. Carlotta's words cut off mid-sentence upon catching sight of Stella in the doorway, her pacing breaking off as the others turned their heads to follow her gaze. Something soft and unreadable seemed to pass over their faces, and heat prickled at Stella's collarbone as she realised that she'd interrupted yet another discussion that, inevitably, circled back to her—likely a continuation of the conversation that had occurred on the 30th. She turned from the door and withdrew down the stairs again without a word to them, trying to ignore the sick feeling that arose in the back of her throat. The voice at the back her head that whispered, something was about to happen—she pushed it back. She didn't want to know. Perhaps if she never found out, it would simply cease to happen. The kitchen was empty when she stepped inside, or so she thought; it took her a moment to register the faint rustle from the pantry, the soft click of a jar being set down. A second later, Concetta emerged with a small start, surprise flickering across her face before she rearranged it into something more careful. "Stella," she said, "you're up." Stella nodded wordlessly and turned to take a plate from the cupboards. She wasn't hungry, not really, but she made herself eat a piece of toast at the counter, chewing mechanically and tasting none of it, watching the pale winter light pool across the tiled floor and catch on the cold lip of the sink. All the while, her mother moved between the stove and the sink with a too-even rhythm, never saying a word but watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye at every moment. Her father stepped into the room only briefly to kiss Concetta's temple and murmur something Stella didn't catch. She wandered out before they could ask her how she slept, or if she had any plans for the day, making her way up two levels into the living room where the Christmas tree still stood—drooping slightly now, a few ornaments missing where Carlotta had knocked into it the day before—and curled up on the sofa with one of the blankets hanging off the back, pulling it over her legs as she did so. She stared at the extinguished hearth, at the faint smear of soot along the brick, and closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself imagine that everything was as it used to be, as it should be, and recalled the laughter and ease of last Christmas, wishing harder than anything she could go back. For a moment, she let herself pretend everything was normal. The daydream lasted all of ten seconds before she heard her parents' footsteps enter the room. "Stellina," Antonio said softly, and the use of the nickname—usually warm, now careful—seemed to form a cold knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. "Can you come and sit with us for a moment?" Stella's heart sank like a stone. She didn't want to; she already knew what this was going to be about. Every instinct screamed at her to make some kind of excuse, her mind searched for any and every reason she could give them to somehow delay this, but she could already tell from the shape of her father's voice, from the way her mother stood with her hands folded neatly, that later no longer existed. The moment had already arrived. So she nodded, stiffly, and followed them downstairs to the dining room, heart thrumming like it was ready to leap right out of her chest with every step. They didn't sit at the ends of the table like they normally did. Instead, they had arranged three chairs near one corner, two facing one, like something pulled directly from a doctor's office or a mediation room—something deliberate in its formality. Her father gestured toward the single seat, and Stella sat, her hands curling tightly in her lap, fingertips cold in spite of the warmth of the house. Concetta folded her hands on the table, took a slow breath, and began. "Vogliamo parlarti della scuola, Stella." We want to talk to you about school. School, she'd said. Never Hogwarts directly. The lump in Stella's throat lodged itself deeper. She swallowed, and made herself speak, though she felt completely unable to look either of them in the eye. "Okay." The tone of her voice came out flat and badly shaped, almost rude, scraped raw on its way out—not at all how she'd intended it—but she couldn't bring herself to care or apologise for it. Her parents exchanged a glance, one of those fleeting coded looks Stella had grown to dread over the last two weeks, and Antonio nodded almost imperceptibly, as though out of encouragement, as if they had rehearsed the order of speaking beforehand. "Siamo stati molto preoccupati per te in questo trimestre," her mother continued. We've been very worried about you this term. Stella stared at the wood grain of the table. Her mind was static, emptying out in that frightening way she had started to become familiar with, as though her default response was becoming not to feel or think anything at all. She felt strangely separated from the room, a light sensation of hollowness filling behind her eyes, and yet the hammering of her heart still seemed to pound loudly through her head, her breath catching against nothing as she realised, a beat too late, that they had expected a response from her. "Okay," she said again, though she wasn't sure what she was agreeing to, or if she was agreeing at all. She sensed, dimly, her mother adjusting the fold of a sleeve, her father exhaling some careful, measured breath across the table, all of it arriving as sound alone rather than meaning, filtered through the thick dread that had wrapped itself around her since the moment she sat down. Stella's fingertips pressed into the underside of her knee, lightly, almost absently, in an effort to ground herself, though the gesture succeeded only in making her aware of how little ground she had in this conversation. "Sappiamo che è stato difficile," said Antonio, after a pause, "più difficile di quanto tu voglia farci sapere." We know it's been difficult, he'd said, more difficult than you want us to know—gentle as anything, but Stella felt every word with a dull little stab, like the acute pain of fingernails digging into one's palms. Oh you know, do you? she wanted to bite back, but her voice seemed stuck in her throat. "Abbiamo parlato con i vostri insegnanti." We've been talking to your teachers. "Con i tuoi fratelli." With your siblings. "E abbiamo parlato insieme, come famiglia." And we've spoken together, as a family. The dots were connecting now in Stella's mind. A tremor ran through her thoughts like something small and battered in a cage, bringing the conversation she'd overheard in the library to the forefront of her mind once again. È per il suo bene... and the scene she'd passed this morning, barely twenty minutes ago—Carlotta's halted pacing, the sudden hush, they way they'd looked towards her with what she now knew to be guilt—she hadn't been mistaken. They'd been talking about her. Deciding things. She also hadn't wanted to know, had hoped that framing the meaning of her siblings' words as vague and open-ended would make them lose their potential for action. And yet, as was the case with so many things in Stella's life, it was not up to her. Concetta's voice followed, quiet and even, holding a deliberate softness meant to soothe, yet carrying the unmistakeable tone of inevitability and stirring in Stella only more alarm and distrust, the reflexive tightening of muscles and teeth. "Siamo tutti d'accordo che hai bisogno di una pausa." We all agree that you need a break. A break. Stella felt the phrase brush past her with imprecision, a dull object whose meaning she could not fully grasp. She stared at her mother blankly, turning the notion over in her mind in an attempt to fit it into something that made sense, and came up empty. Concurrently noting her parents' eyes on her, lingering not with impatience but with that uncomfortable expectance that she should already understand what they were trying to say, should already know what to say in response, and the realisation pulled tightly like a hot wire inside of her. Something nudged at her comprehension, another unfolded, and finally things clicked into place with sick certainty. And yet she had to ask. She could not believe they would be so cruel to make such a decision on her behalf without consulting her. "Una pausa da cosa?" Stella asked, voice brittle. A break from what? The question was not really an inquiry, for she knew the answer—it was a lifeline, a way to grasp at some piece of agency, some tangible foothold she could cling to in the middle of the decision being pressed onto her without consent. She looked up at them, jaw set. Surely they did not, they would not... Her parents exchanged glances again. "Da Hogwarts," said her father. The words hit Stella like a stone dropped into water, solid and uncompromising—though there was no ripple, no outward disturbance, only the absolute weight of understanding pushing straight down into her chest. Da Hogwarts, from Hogwarts, a break from Hogwarts. The syllables seemed to settle there, and for a moment she couldn't breathe around them, couldn't move her lips or even blink properly, as though the recognition of their meaning had become stuck somewhere between her ribs and throat, unyielding in their sharpness. "You're pulling me out?" she managed in English; she was given no response, but the looks of guilt on her parents' face was answer enough. A tightness built behind Stella's eyes, a slow, insistent pressure she could not shake, and before she knew it the edge of her vision had blurred with the unwelcome sheen of tears. They pooled there, stubborn and reluctant, refusing to fall, waiting for permission she could not grant. The confirmation stung not only because it was unexpected, but also because now it was unmistakeable, unavoidable, cemented into reality. She wanted to demand it back, to pull the words apart and examine them, to find the pause, the loophole, the exception, but there was no ambiguity left in the conversation, no softening of the blow left to give. "No," she said, shaking her head, "no, non puoi." The words tumbled out, urgent little sparks of resistance between uneven breaths, angry and childish and frantic: No, no, you can't. She brushed the back of her hand against her eyes angrily, trying to steady her breathing to no avail. Every muscle in her body seemed caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to fight, leaving her suspended in the unbearable in-between. "Non farmi questo. Per favore," she begged. Don't do this to me. Please. "Posso finire l'anno. Posso." I can finish the year. I can. It occurred to her in that moment that she would have given anything for them to believe her, though deep down, somewhere she tried very hard not to look, she knew she didn't even believe herself. What her days at Hogwarts had been like, she knew better than anyone—more miserable than she'd ever thought capable. But the idea of them seeing it too, of them deciding that she wasn't strong enough to handle what everyone else did with ease; it was humiliating. In her mind she heard once again the low tone of her siblings' conversations in the library the other night, heard Elio saying È per il suo bene as though he were sat next to her. How many of those discussions had occurred? Were her failings really so great that the entire family deemed it necessary to speak of her in such a secretive manner? Her mother leaned forward, just slightly, expression softening, but the movement was marked by the burden of surveillance, the measured manner of someone talking to a very small child in distress—Stella saw this, and could not help resenting it. "Sei così stanco, piccola. Stai lottando. Lo vediamo tutti." You're so tired, little one. You're struggling. We can all see it. Stella bristled, a protest already half-formed in her mouth as she shook her head, but Concetta held up a hand, her steady tone flowing over her daughter's shaky words as easily as water slipped over stones. "Non è qualcosa che devi nasconderci." It’s not something you have to hide from us. There was an assured, insistent note to the Sicilian woman's voice that made it hard to argue without feeling completely irrational, and yet Stella continued to persist, fighting back the onslaught of tears making cracks in her already-fragile composure. "Non nascondo nulla," she said desperately. The lie sounded false to her own ears: I'm not hiding anything—yeah, right. She tried to level out the pitch of her voice, to suppress the waver within it. "I'm fine. I said I was fine—at exeat, too. I already told you." At this, Antonio's gaze seemed to narrow its focus even closer towards her, if such a thing was possible, dark brown eyes steady and unblinking. "No," he said, fixing her with an even—though not unkind—look, "ci hai mentito anche allora." You lied to us back then as well. It was as though the air had gone out of the room, leaving a hollow quiet that bore into the small, panicked beat of Stella's heart. The blood drained from her face and her body curled inward reflexively, a mixture of shame and anger and hurt settling over her. She inhaled shakily, the breath shallow, rapid, tasting of copper and fear, and shook her head again. Denial, yet again, denial, until she felt it unravel at its edges, fraying like a thread pulled too tightly. "Avevo a che fare con... cose," she begged. I was dealing with... things. "A volte tutti abbiamo a che fare con le cose." Everyone deals with things sometimes. A weak excuse, an even weaker lie, and she knew it. "Ciò non significa che puoi farlo..." That doesn't mean you get to... Her voice had sharpened, rising in places beyond her intention, and she had to pause to breathe, drawing one of her knees to her chest and wiping the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "Non me l’hai nemmeno chiesto." You didn't even ask me. And that, she supposed, was what hurt the most about this entire mess of a situation: the conversations that went on behind her back, that she wasn't supposed to notice but did anyway, the knowledge that her loved ones trusted each other with the truth of her more than they trusted her. Antonio sighed, running a hand briefly over his face, expression pinching faintly with pained concern and grim conviction. "Non stai abbastanza bene per prendere questa decisione." You're not well enough to make this decision. "Sei esausto." You're exhausted. "Non mangiavi," you weren't eating, "restavi indietro," you were falling behind, "dormivi a malapena—" "I was sleeping—" "Not enough to keep yourself healthy, Stella!" Her father's voice snapped upward—not loud, but edged, the kind of exasperation born less of anger than of fear, the tremor of helplessness threading through his voice stretched thinner than Stella had ever heard it. The sound of it struck her like a small blow. Stella flinched, not visibly so much as inside, something in her chest tightening as if pulled taut by an unseen hand. Next to him, Concetta placed a hand over his, an action Stella recognised dimly as meant intended to steady him and ease the tension back down, but Stella's own breath was already catching in the back of her throat again, tears gathering fast and helpless at the corners of her eyes. She hated that she felt scolded, hated more that part of her believed he was right, hated most that he sounded like someone who had been genuinely terrified for her. Concetta moved her hand off her husband's and reached for her daughter's, a small bridge extended into the space of resistance that Stella could not bear to cross. She seemed to pause to think for a moment, looking down at their hands, and when she finally spoke, her tone was quietly beseeching, as if trying to draw her back toward them with the gentlest possible touch. "Non è per sempre, Stella. È solo per ora… finché non guarisci." It’s not forever, Stella. It’s just for now… until you get better. "So che è frustrante, ma è per il tuo bene." I know it's frustrating, but it's for your own good. È per il tuo bene. It's for your own good. There it was again, that maddening phrase, worn and scuffed to pieces by adults who wanted to close conversations before they began. It was perhaps unfair to assign this label to her parents, who had never meant it as a weapon, who she knew truly meant well for her, but she couldn't think clearly about fairness or intention right now, not with the ribbon of frustration and hurt winding steadily angrier through her. Some part of her wanted to give in and just let them have it, wanted to cling tightly to Concetta's hand, wanted her mother—but she found, with a jolt, that she didn't know what to do with any of that anymore. Stella had spent so long folding herself into smaller, colder pieces at Hogwarts, the isolation closing in around the parts of her that felt and ached and needed, that she barely remembered how to exist in gentleness. The instinct to recoil and yell was faster than thought; she didn't want her mother's hand, didn't want the comfort, didn't want to be pulled into whatever space they were trying to offer. Instead, her mind was rewiring, looping back to that hated phrase. It's for your own good. She could feel its cold, patronising insistence as keenly as she would a knife; it was not comforting or steadying to her, but a reminder that her body, her mind, her very existence was under scrutiny, shaped by expectations that were anyone's but her own. Stella ripped her hand out of Concetta's with a venomous look, shaking her head. Before her parents could even move, her voice raised again, tearing itself outwards in furious Italian. "No. No. Non voglio questo! Non stai ascoltando?" I don't want this! Aren't you listening? Her breathing was quickening again, and she glowered at them with as much conviction as she could muster, eyes wide and bright with unshed tears, hands clenching at her sides as if she could squeeze her defiance into something tangible. "Non puoi semplicemente decidere una cosa del genere senza chiedermelo—" You can't just decide something like this without asking me— Her mother interjected with a tone just sharp enough to cut her off, the authoritative note within it slicing through Stella's rising words without ever raising in anger. "In questo momento devi essere in un posto dove puoi guarire. Hogwarts non è quel posto." Right now you need to be somewhere you can heal. Hogwarts is not that place. Stella stared at her wordlessly, and Concetta seemed to take this an encouraging sign, continuing in a softer tone: "Forse possiamo parlare di tornare tra qualche mese, se sei pronta—" "No," Stella said forcefully. As soon as Concetta had started speaking that last sentence, Stella had been shaking her head again, unable to stomach the concept of what was being proposed to her. Forse possiamo parlare di tornare tra qualche mese, se sei pronta, her mother had said, maybe we can talk about going back in a few months, if you're ready. The idea floated before her now, delicate and tentative, and yet somehow heavier than anything she could have imagined. Maybe in a few months. If you're ready. As though anyone knew what that even meant, what that was supposed to look like, or when "a few months" was supposed to end—if it ever did, that is. She didn't want maybe, she didn't want if. Stella shook her head again and looked pointedly towards both of her parents, jaw set stubbornly, fingers flexing and folding anxiously in her lap. "No, non stai ascoltando." No, you're not listening. "Io dico di no." I'm saying no. Stella watched her parents share yet another one of those quiet looks, and wished they wouldn't. Her father leaned forward in his chair, brow creased in a faint furrow. "Stella," he said, gentle but firm, "this isn't optional." The words detonated inside her, small and absolute and final, and something inside of Stella just cracked. The coil of frustration, fear, and helplessness that had been pulling tighter and hotter within her over the course of this conversation had suddenly snapped, tears springing into her eyes and chest heaving with quick uneven gasps—and she realised she could not bear to stay seated a moment longer, could not bear the suffocating concern in their eyes, the insistence that she obey what she had no power to refuse. Without thinking, she shoved back from the table, chair legs scraping against the hardwood in a harsh, grating protest; she could feel the tiny vibrations under her palms as she rose, the scrape echoing in her ears. For a split second, her eyes were fixed on the floor, tracing the faint scratches and scuffs, trying to find purchase in the only things she could control, before her gaze snapped to her parents, cheeks hot and wet with fresh tears, heart hammering in a way that left her breathless. "This isn't OPTIONAL?" The protest erupted before she could temper it, unbidden, hot, immediate, and she could feel it rise from her diaphragm like it was a physical thing, pressing against the roof of her mouth, vibrating through her shoulders and back. Once the words began, they seemed to take a life of their own, spilling out faster than she could catch them, each one more jagged than the last. Her voice grew louder, more frantic, carrying the sharp edges of weeks and months of frustration she hadn't been able to name before and a raw, desperate need to be seen. "So that's it? That's all? You don’t care what I want, you don’t care what I say, you don’t care about anything except what you think is best!" "Stellina—" Concetta's voice, gentle and measured, an attempt to soothe, to redirect. "DON'T CALL ME THAT!" The eruption came full-bodied and and irrepressible, and Stella noticed her mother flinch slightly, a small movement she seized upon as evidence that her voice, her refusal, finally existed and registered, however fleetingly, inside the dining room. Yet the satisfaction of having their full attention did not diminish the sharpness of the panic still thrumming in her chest, did not soften the ache of being caught and scrutinised, of the impossibility of undoing what had already been decided for her. Looking down at her parents' stricken faces, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to retreat to the fragile, private space of her bedroom, to shut the door behind her and let the world be nothing but the quiet she could control. Without another word she spun on her heel and all but ran out of the room. Neither of her parents said a word to stop her; it seemed her explosion had stunned them into silence. As she reached the familiar bend of the staircase, she froze, just for an instant, and saw them—all four of her siblings, standing silently in the hallway outside the dining room, because of course they were. Their faces were startled, hesitant—guilty in the dim light, though whether the guilt was for eavesdropping or for the parts they had played in her predicament, it was hard to tell. The sight of them, witnesses to her unraveling, watching her wide-eyed like she was an escaped animal from the zoo, twisted the rawest parts of her into something tight and mean, into resentment to the people she loved the most in the world. "Enjoy the show?" Stella snapped, voice laden with the betrayal she could not stop herself from feeling. Her hands balled into fists, the tremors of fury threading through her fingers, and the presence of them, so close and so still, made the suffocating pressure between her ribs flare hotter and more painfully than ever. Stella turned and fled upstairs before any of them could say a single world. She didn't wait for reassurance, didn't pause for the gentle tones or hesitant murmurs she had spent the last two weeks trying and failing to ignore. When she finally reached her room on the top level, she pushed the door shut with a force that made the doorframe rattle, leaving the echoes of her tantrum and the stunned silence of the house smoldering in the air below. Stella sank to the floor, back against cool wood, hands braced on either side of her as if holding herself physically could make her anguish any less sharp. Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, tears slid freely down her cheeks, and her body shook with the release of weeks of tension and anxiety. It was only now that Stella fully recognised that there was no escape for her from any of it—even here, in her own beautiful, quiet bedroom, her anger and hurt hummed inside her relentlessly, as it had at Hogwarts, as it had in the dining room, as it did everywhere she went. The awful truth pressed in on her with terrible clarity; there was simply nowhere she could go, nothing she could say or do, that would fix whatever had broken when she'd stepped into the Hogwarts castle four months prior. And yet, somehow there was a strange, raw comfort to be found in the silence that lingered downstairs. The house, for the first time in months, had at last stopped pretending. | ───── |
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| ───── | Click here for Bianchi house floor plan. Title and tagline from Christmas Song... NOTES | ───── |
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;