veils of salvation
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| ───── | Stella had spent the better part of the first week of term trying to reacquaint herself with Hogwarts, having been abruptly pulled out last Christmas for reasons that still left a sour taste in her mouth. The castle felt a strange mix of foreign and familiar, as though she was walking through photographs—recognised, but belonging more to memory than to her, pieces of a story she'd once been a part of but could no longer step back into unchanged. To make matters worse, she seemed to stick out like a sore thumb, with classmates asking if she was new and then why she'd left three months into first year, questions she didn't know how to answer without stumbling into truths she wasn't ready to hand over. The library had become her sanctuary over the last week for the reason that old libaries were just about the same everywhere: the rows of shelves, the smell of parchment and ink, the hush of turning pages, all holding a familiarity that steadied her. She'd taken refuge in its quiet corners almost every day after classes, settling into the same table beneath a tall window, losing herself in the ordinary rhythm of homework and watching the dust dance in the light as though it moved only for her. Here, no one asked uncomfortable questions. No one spoke to her period—those in the library came to study on their own anyway, and under the press of maintained library silence, there was little room for conversation even if someone wanted to ask about her disappearance last year, thus she was left alone at her desk. Most of the time, that is. The hush of the library seemed to splinter with the sound of a chair being scraped across the carpeted floor, the culprit's footsteps drawing up right in front of her table and shattering Stella's fragile sense of safety. The young witch froze mid-word, the rhythm of her quill faltering as a shadow fell over her parchment. She didn't need to look to know who it was, having endured the same intrusion almost every day this past week from... Portia, was it? A bump in the corridor, too direct to be accidental, that sent her books spinning. A too-loud laugh when her wand rolled under the table in Potions. A syrupy "Are you lost?" outside the Great Hall on Sunday. Stella had no idea what she'd done to earn the girl's ire, but the pettiness of it all was unmistakeable. None of it enough to complain about, never obvious enough for a professor to notice—just constant nudges, barbs wrapped thinly with sweetness, each one leaving her unsettled and bracing for the next. "Hey, you're in my spot," came the voice now, ringing with practiced cheer and lazy sharpness. Laced with cruelty so casual it was almost boredom, as if Stella was nothing but an inconvenience to be toyed with, a pastime to fill the empty spaces between classes. Stella's quill hovered uselessly over her homework for a moment, ink blotting into the fibres of the parchment as she silently, desperately willed the unwelcome intruder away, heart hammering in her chest as though simply wishing hard enough could erase her presence. When Portia cleared her throat instead of disappearing, the sound sharp and insistent, Stella knew with a tightening feeling in her chest that her hope of being left alone was pointless. There would be no peace today, no small corner of quiet to cling to. Slowly, she forced herself to look up with her heart in her throat, catching the girl's expectant grin. All that wide-eyed sweetness at odds with the steel beneath it. In one hand, Portia held a chair she'd dragged halfway across the library, tilting it casually as if it were a prop in some kind of private performance. Her other hand rested against the edge of the table, drumming a rhythm that seemed entirely too deliberate. Stella's grip around her quill tightened as she tried to swallow her nerves, brown eyes flicking between the chair and that smug, self-assured grin on Portia's face. For a moment, she considered letting it slide, surrendering the desk to Portia and giving her the satisfaction of making her flinch—but no. She'd promised herself that this year would be different, that she wouldn't vanish from every uncomfortable moment. (And this was certainly one of the most uncomfortable moments she'd had in a long time...) "This isn't... really anyone's spot," Stella said softly, drawing her parchment closer to her. Her voice was calm, logical, almost businesslike... and far steadier than she truly felt on the inside. "It's a library. People just sit where there's space." Portia tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she rolled them once, twice, a faint edge of impatience creeping into her brightly curated expression. Without another word, she slammed the chair down in front of Stella with a sharp clack that seemed to reverberate throughout the library, punctuating her refuge of bookshelves and desks with the jarring insistence that it, too, could be spoiled. Stella watched in mute horror as Portia sat down in front of her with a glint in her eyes that seemed to suggest she knew exactly the kind of effect she was having on her. "Looks like there's an empty space right here, isn't there?" And like a cornered animal, trapped in the confines of her rising panic, Stella could only stare back in helpless disbelief, grasping for words like lifelines thrust on her in a conflict she never agreed to partake in... | ───── |
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| ───── | TAG..@EVPRAKSIYA VINOGRADOVA......NOTES..AND SO WE BEGIN :]STA 5 EVA 9 STR 0 WIS 7 ARC 4 ACC 10.../ / /...SEER & WANDMAKER .ACTION..:..TRYING TO STUDY AND BEING INTERRUPTED BY PORTIA :| | ───── |
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;
veils of salvation
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YEAR II. ADAGIO |  |
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𝐄𝐕𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐒𝐈𝐘𝐀 𝐌. 𝐘. 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐀 |
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banner made by @Harlan Montgomery
@@Stella Bianchi | Scotland Highlands, Libraryx |
“All these words are sweet and meaningless.” |
wc: 2235 | 08/09/2025 | Mentioning; @Elena Clark |
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Holy! Holy! Holy! Though the darkness hide thee,𝓟ictures of fresh scars, still pink and soft, lingered at the back of Evpraksiya’s mind when, three days ago, Evpraksiya had sat beside Elena on the granite bench of the courtyard as she said those four little words—“We aren’t… friends anymore.”— Small birds Evpraksiya couldn’t identify chirped around her, in tune with her growing frustration.She would’ve welcomed a little selective pruning of Elena’s social circle if not for the implied fracture of Elena’s affections that curled roots of disquiet inside her cerebrum. In the days after, Elena had withdrawn into herself, as she always did when conflict threatened to stain her with shades of emotions that weren’t her own. Evpraksiya, ever so perceptive and magnanimous in her kindnesses, understood that trying to force Elena’s hand directly would only drive her further away.
What was one to do when your dear friend was encountering difficulty beyond her capability? They of course did their best to help earnestly, it was only luck that Elena’s struggles landed in her field of expertise, and Evpraksiya resolved to do what she did best with what she had.
Like an angel from old, descending from on high with cherubs playing triumphant hymns behind her, Evpraksiya would deliver happiness onto the Ravenclaw!
It was a far length to run for a half-blood, but why was a question she’d stopped pursuing long ago. When she brought up the measures she’d taken with Tatiana, she was met with a blank look and a hand on her shoulder that spelled disapproval, even if her nails didn’t dig into her trapezius like Nadezhda’s did. Her sister told her to bring it up to Elena, Stella, and to take a pause in that scheming little brain of her’s. It was a suggestion she’d given as a joke and Evpraksiya laughed off as a one they both knew didn’t sound right.
Scheming, scheming, scheming. Evpraksiya didn’t like that word—scheming. It sounded like she was doing something bad, but what she was doing was only… communicating. She was communicating with people who wouldn’t understand her any other way. If she asked her puppy to sit, he wouldn’t sit until she gave him a treat! If she’d spoken to Elena, she’d withdraw further, and that wasn’t helping at all! She didn’t need to worry about the people who were made into treats along the way, because no one wiped away every footprint they made on the floor except Elena.
But Evpraksiya was a good person and it was only the purest emotion that forced her hand. Her friends had been nebulous about love, the way they described it, made it feel like an alien sentiment—always dancing around the notion and darting glances at the subject of their affections. When Evpraksiya pressed, she saw the furrows on their brows and bit her tongue in frustration. But wanting the best for a person was love, she was sure of it, and even if she couldn’t exactly find others to stand behind her actions (though plenty seemed comfortable behind her ideas) she could understand that Elena was the feverish heart of her love. A heart that was terribly cold without her adoration. Evpraksiya needed that adoration back.
If Elena was this rattled by the loss of Stella, then she’d only have put Stella back where she belonged, no? Then she’d have Elena again, and the stars would align like they did before the Ravenclaw had her little… slip. Because everyone makes mistakes, and as the paragon of virtue that she was, it was in Evpraksiya’s nature to forgive and to make everything right.
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It’d taken Evpraksiya a few days of careful observation to resign herself to the fact that Stella Bianchi was not keen on providing her an opportunity to help.
It was unfortunate that some people were so purposely difficult. Stella not understanding what was best for her was a pity, but a fixable one. Evpraksiya had guided so many people onto better paths. If Stella needed to be brought back among the flock, then she’d run her fingers through her white fur and lead her back to the right road. Honestly, in a more appreciative world, people should’ve called her skills repair. Perhaps she could have made a career in restoring age-old artifacts—though for all her skill in people, it had never once seemed to translate to patience in any other area of her life, which was why she decided she’d much rather make the opportunity than continue lurking around Stella like some sort of starved stray.
From the past few days, Evpraksiya had caught glimpses of her, always tucked into some corner of the library, half-hidden by towers of leather-bound tomes and the unsteady rhythm of her quill. The Slytherin was of the firm opinion that no content lady would be hiding in that oppressive silence. The only people who did were scoundrels and thieves—or otherwise, people who had something they refused to confront. No one could very well address problems they couldn’t hear, and in the library, the silence was deafening. It’d taken her a few days to finally gather what had occurred to the girl, and honestly—she was expecting something a little more dramatic than a roommate confrontation, but such was the nature of the anticlimactic school Hogwarts was.
And if Hogwarts was going to be anticlimactic, then she supposed she would have to be too. Which was why, during breakfast the next week, when Portia was ranting about rumors that she was stealing from the other girls at school, she finally decided to chime in.
“The whole thing is ridiculous, honestly,” she’d said, gently dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “It was the girl from Gryffindor—the one who always hides in the library. I heard her telling Sylvia you’d taken her bracelet from home. I don’t get what she has against you, but…” Evpraksiya let the pause hang heavily in the air as she frowned lightly and bumped her shoulder to Portia’s in casual assurance—assurance she knew would do nothing to soothe her worries. “Be good, won’t you?”
That was all it took.
Portia was predictable—vicious in her boredom and hungry for control. Evpraksiya had not needed to specify when or how the confrontation should unfold; the girl’s own spite would arrange the scene neatly for her. All she really needed to do was be in the right place at the right time which was pathetically easy when the only place Stella stayed in for any reliable amount of time was the library.
(Evpraksiya was beginning to grow sick of dust.)
She could afford to lose Portia’s trust. She was a half-blood, and one not from a particularly affluent family at that, after her father had left her mother. So when the spectacle she was sure the girl would cause was over, she’d have some dear friends lay down a select handful of Evpraksiya’s own belongings in Portia’s room. Jealousy marring the melody was a score as old as time, and one she knew the general populace would eat up. Especially after the drama from the aftermath of Portia’s spat with her roommate had already given her rewards in the form of suspicious glances whenever she walked through the Slytherin common room. Evpraksiya needed to cut her off anyway. And how fortunate it was that Portia already had issues so similar to Stella’? She could bring up Stella’s own situation in a roundabout way while savoring the fading glint in Portia’s pretty blue eyes. It was killing three hares with one shot.
Now, standing in the far aisle between two rows of Charms reference books, Evpraksiya listened to the faint echo of voices: Portia’s lilting cruelty and Stella’s soft refusal. The dull slam of wood on carpet. Without any audience on her yet, she didn’t bother with the mask. Virtue, in its purest form, stood unmoving—breath leaving her chest steadily as her eyes, wide, unblinking, and eerie, stared placidly at Portia and Stella as they conversed. Swallowing down the saliva pooling in her mouth. It was always pleasant to see the fruits of your labor begin to blossom.
“Looks like there’s an empty space right here, isn’t there?”
Her cue might as well have been the tolling of the old Hogwarts bell with how loud it rang through her head.
Evpraksiya molded her features, beginning with her eyes—softening them at the edges, not too much or it’d seem queer—knitting her eyebrows together until that perfect little crease appeared between them. She knew without looking; she’d seen it in the mirror countless times already. Though she still mourned her lack of Hufflepuff robes and the glowing repute they enjoyed alongside the color, the Slytherin mentality of keep it within the house would benefit her in the confrontation with Portia later on.
Evpraksiya moved without hurry, her footsteps quiet but purposeful, the picture of composed intervention. She carried a thin stack of sheet music under her arm—Grieg’s Lyric Pieces, Op. 12, No. 4, a piece she’d mastered for her fourth recital in this foreign land. No one knew that, and it was a simple song that Evpraksiya supposed could draw Stella into conversation later on; her family did so love to patronize the arts.
When she turned the corner, she saw them frozen exactly as she had imagined: Portia leaning forward, eyes glittering with mock delight, and Stella, small and rigid, her expression caught somewhere between indignation and dread.
“Oh,” Evpraksiya breathed, a faint note of surprise in her tone. “Stella. Portia. Is there an issue?”
Portia’s expression faltered first, she always did when confronted with someone whose reputation outshone her own.
“Evpraksiya,” Portia replied with forced brightness. “Didn’t know you were here. I was—”
“Harassing her?” Evpraksiya supplied gently, her smile unwavering but her tone cutting just enough to make Portia blanch. “After your last roommate, I’d thought you were finished with that.” She set her sheet music down on the table and let the soft slap of parchment ring out in the suddenly quiet library. Nosy students this school had, convenient though it may have been for the Vinogradova.
Portia’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again in protest, but Evpraksiya didn’t give her the chance to make her case. She tilted her head, her voice concerned and honey-smooth.
“We’re worried about you. I… I know you’ve been going through a hard time recently, but you can’t keep doing this. I mean, with your father going off with another woman, it must have been harsh on you—but you have friends that care, Portia.”
She peered up from where she demurred and tampered down her murmurs to a whisper. “We just don’t want you ending up in the same madhouse like your crazy mothe—”
A horrific crack was the sound Evpraksiya’s head made as it hit the bookshelf.
Or maybe she was the only one who heard it—but the burst of pain that brought instinctual tears to her eyes was real as Portia rammed her against the dark wood with wild eyes. The rising murmurs of students wanting to play hero rose around them as Portia’s nails broke skin, digging into Evpraksiya’s shoulders through her cashmere robes, as Evpraksiya looked up at the other Slytherin with mismatched green eyes glinting in delighted malice, even as her lips pulled up in a wince, about to say—
Portia looked away. She muttered something unintelligible, stood, and pushed past the crowd forming around them roughly, with feigned indifference, brittle as glass—or her mother’s mental stability, Evpraksiya thought jovially.
The blond waited until the swishing robes of the former disappeared behind a shelf to drop dramatically, some friends breaking from the crowd to gather around her. Saints, she wished she’d paid off someone to take a picture of them at that moment. It had all the markings of a Baroque painting: the sunlight coming in behind the empty slots of books, illuminating her hair like a halo while painting Portia’s face in ominous shadows to dear Stella behind the pair of them.
It took her a few minutes to placate everyone—and perhaps seed a few more rumors about her fellow Slytherin—before turning back to Stella, the schadenfreude in engineering the downfall of Portia’s life dissolving into practiced warmth in front of pretty deer eyes.
“I’m so sorry you had to witness that,” Evpraksiya sighed softly, placing her hand on her cheek. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her these past few weeks. I’ve tried to help her through the whole ordeal with her roommate, but she’s been so angry lately. I just didn’t think she’d move on to tyrannize others.”
She smoothly moved to collect her music sheets, conveniently next to Stella.
“Are you alright?”
“All these words are sweet and meaningless. You can't trust a single thing I say.”
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❝The devil's voice is sweet to hear❞ | xxx STA 7 │ EVA 10 │ STR 0 │ WIS 8 │ ARC 5 │ ACC 10 LOVELY CREATURE |
veils of salvation
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| ───── | The introduction of another figure at the scene of the crime caught Stella off guard in her already wary state, large brown eyes turning to the source of the voice with an ever-increasing anxiety permeating her delicate features. For frightened animals backed into a corner, all human faces look the same, shedding all the particularities that would otherwise distinguish a hunter from a healer, a butcher from a nurse. The newcomer's expression held a perfect picture of concern, illuminated by sunlight through library windows as though she were the subject of a pre-Raphaelite painting, champagne locks caught between shades of white and gold, but Stella saw only another figure in a Slytherin tie, another potential threat to her safety and peace of mind. Her thoughts jumped wildly, quickly, to the assumption that she intended to join hands with Portia in tormenting her, before the girl in question had even finished speaking, and Stella shrank further into herself, lips pinched tightly together in an effort to stave off the onslaught of tears that threatened to follow the heightening of her consternation. It wasn't until she saw Portia's reaction to girl's arrival, milliseconds later—didn't know you were here, uttered with an unmistakeably strained tone that spoke loud and clear of her discomfort—that Stella understood she'd miscalculated the turns of this event. She sat up a little straighter, some of the tension dissipating from her eyes and shoulders as the attention of the situation swung away from her and towards Portia, and looked closer at the blonde girl in front of her. Yes, Stella knew who she was; she'd seen her in the hallways, in classes, in the Great Hall, always dressed immaculately in silks and cashmere wraps and shiny black shoes, always surrounded by a gaggle of friends who followed her with easy affection and brightened when she spoke. They reminded her of a flock of doves, soft and sweet and a little silly, all pale feathers and gentle noise, content to forever coo at one another and fly after their designated leader, dripping in velvet and pearls, when winter came. And yet the recognition did not end with the image of the little tsarina in the archways: Evpraksiya, Portia had said, a name that, as her mind cleared itself of judgement-clouding panic, seemed increasingly familiar far beyond mere corridor passings and lunchtime gossip. Something nudged at her consciousness from the back of her brain, burrowed deep beneath memories of childhood beach trips and family risotto recipes. "...after your last roommate, I’d thought you were finished with that," continued Evpraksiya, her tone of voice holding a note of warning that seemed to chill the air around her. The reference to a roommate was one Stella only somewhat understood, vaguely recalling days-old rumours at the breakfast table about theft in the Slytherin dormitories, but if the look on Portia's face was anything to judge by, it had hit its mark and stuck. She found she could not tear her eyes away from Portia; such a curious phenomenon it was, to witness the girl who'd been harassing her for the last week, the cause of her anxieties, become absolutely lost for words—but there was no pleasure nor satisfaction to be found in it, only the strange disorientation of no longer being the smallest person in the room. She was, however, too well brought up (and too full of empathy, even for those who were getting what they deserved!) to continue her appearance of openly watching and listening for much longer, particularly when Portia's home life was brought up—a line she recognised Evpraksiya was permitted to give as a concerned friend, but one she herself had little business knowing. Feeling Portia's gaze jump back towards her, part hurt and part embarrassment as Evpraksiya's voice lowered to a murmur in utterance of something meant for just the two of them (something something madhouse, was all that could be heard from where the Gryffindor sat), Stella quickly feigned disinterest as best as she could, suddenly becoming very engrossed with the wooden grains of the library table— Crack! went Evpraksiya's head. Portia had acted so quickly that Stella had not even seen her move. She stared, now, in dumbstruck horror, instinctively leaping to her feet without realising she was moving or registering the scraping sound of the chair's legs against the floor, as Evpraksiya was forcefully held against the bookshelf by the vengeful grip of her housemate. So stunned she was by an act of such vitriol that her legs seemed completely rooted in place beyond their initial reflex to jump upwards, a sensation Stella cursed for rendering her entirely useless; yet providence, it seemed, along with the inevitable curiosity of her classmates, spared her the necessity of action this time round. The commotion had attracted several students to the periphery of the tableau, their clustering silhouettes bringing with them the certainty of witnesses that even the most frenzied anger could not ignore. Heart in throat, Stella watched as Portia's shoulders, previously drawn tight with adrenaline and fury, sagged sadly downwards like the air had gone out of her entirely. She released Evpraksiya at last and stepped back, her expression pinching together as though the real blow had landed only then, before turning to flee from the scene. Relief flooded through Stella as the back of Portia's head disappeared out the library door—not in the way one felt after winning, but how the chest unclenches after narrowly avoiding calamity—and gratitude, too, overwhelming gratitude for Evpraksiya's intervention, for she had most certainly rescued her from yet another headache-inducing afternoon. (She could only hope that it would end here, that it would not invite a reckoning later on; she did not want to find out if Portia's viciousness took on an even harsher form after humiliation.) Though raised to percieve kindness as an innate characteristic possessed by everyone but a miniscule variety of bad apples, this standard did not diminish the warmth Stella felt when it was proven true, and she was most impatient to express her indebtedness to the other girl. As it happened, her blonde-haired saviour seemed preoccupied with reassuring the flurry of worried friends that had gathered around her immediately following Portia's departure (they really were like birds, Stella thought to herself); thus, the Gryffindor withheld her thanks for the immediate present, lowering herself back into her chair to wait for a break in the conversation where she could express her appreciation. She thought she could detect—there was something in the tilt of Evpraksiya's head, the way her gaze seemed to flick towards her direction, that suggested she, too, wished to confer with her alone. And indeed, when the last of the doves was shepherded away, reluctantly drifting back to their own conversations, Evpraksiya turned fully to face her; she could now speak, and Stella could now listen. "I’m so sorry you had to witness that..." Sacramento eyes, softened like sea glass worn smooth by salt and sand. Evpraksiya's voice, now removed from all and any tones of reproach, was sweet and mellifluous to the ear, like that of a hymn sung softly in the nave. "...she’s been so angry lately. I just didn’t think she’d move on to tyrannize others." Stella nodded at the explanation, torn between the compassion she felt was owed to Portia upon hearing what she'd heard on her family's situation, and the indignation she still maintained at having been the target of unprovoked cruelty for so many days. A most awkward conflict, one she did not quite know how to reconcile—particularly when there was still the fear, lingering beneath her relief, that the scales had only temporarily tipped in her favour, and that the balance was sure to snap back later, keener and more unforgiving than ever. Before she could dwell on it, though, Evpraksiya sat in the seat next to her own and leaned in: "Are you alright?" Stella blinked, startled that it was Evpraksiya, the girl who had just borne the physical brunt of Portia's wrath, who was asking after her wellbeing as though the entire altercation had been nothing more than a cat scratch. "I am," she replied, smiling gratefully, "though I really ought to be asking you that. Are you alright? I couldn't believe..." Her gaze grew tender with concern, brow furrowing ever so slightly as she looked the girl over for any signs of physical injury; it would be a long time before she forgot the force with which Portia had rammed Evpraksiya against the bookshelf. She shook her head gently in an attempt to clear it from that image, remembering what it was she wanted to say. "Thank you," she said softly, earnestly taking one of Evpraksiya's hands in her own, "for standing up for me. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there." Virtue was the fastest way to the heart of a girl like Stella, who still put stock in wishing stars and fairytales, and Evpraksiya had very quickly become something like one herself—a miracle, if not a fable—to the young Bianchi, particularly because of the contrast she'd struck most brilliantly against not just Portia, but Stella's complete experience of Hogwarts. The castle had felt no less lonely this past week than it did in the three disastrous months she'd spent here last year, the walls stretching endlessly around her as if purposefully emphasising that she was forever marked by her absence. And now, illuminated against the grey backdrop of stone walls and shadows, here was Evpraksiya, hand extended into that hollow like a benevolent angel from on high, and Stella's heart, so unpractised in friendship, so ready to trust, could not help but open itself up to hope again. | ───── |
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| ───── | TAG..@EVPRAKSIYA VINOGRADOVA......NOTES..LMK IF YOU WANT ANYTHING CHANGED!STA 5 EVA 9 STR 0 WIS 7 ARC 4 ACC 10.../ / /...SEER & WANDMAKER .ACTION..:..REACTING TO THE SCENE ; TALKING TO EVPRAKSIYA | ───── |
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;