The room was quiet in a way only Hogwarts managed.
The fire had burned down to a steady glow, no longer crackling, just warm enough to keep the chill away. Outside the window, the grounds were dark and still, the castle lights scattered like distant stars.
They had washed and changed without much conversation. The day had been long, fuller than either of them had expected. When they finally settled into bed, the quiet felt earned.
Amber lay on her side, facing Wayne. He lay on his back at first, one arm folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling as if reading something written there long ago.
She shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
"Wayne," she said finally, her voice low and careful.
"Yes."
She hesitated, fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his shirt. "You said the carriages are pulled by Thestrals."
"Yes."
"And that most people can't see them."
"That's right."
She took a slow breath. "You can."
He turned his head toward her.
"I can," he said.
Amber was quiet for a moment longer. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost uncertain. "Why."
He didn't answer immediately.
She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. "You said it's about death," she continued. "Seeing it. Understanding it."
"Yes."
Her grip tightened just a little. "I've seen death too," she said. "More than once."
Wayne's expression didn't change, but something in his breathing did.
She swallowed. "People I loved," she added quietly. "People I couldn't save."
The words stayed between them.
Wayne reached out and brushed his thumb lightly along her arm, grounding, steady. "Seeing death isn't enough," he said gently.
She frowned slightly. "Then what is."
"It's staying," he replied. "After."
She waited.
"When you see death and your world still makes sense," Wayne continued, "the Thestrals stay invisible. When you see it and something in you shifts permanently… then they don't."
Amber's eyes searched his. "Something shifted for you."
"Yes."
She didn't push. She just listened.
"I was younger," Wayne said. "Still at Hogwarts. I thought I understood the world. I thought I understood magic."
He paused.
"It was someone close to me," he said. "Someone I loved. I thought I could fix it. I couldn't."
Amber didn't move.
"When they died," he continued, "I didn't just lose them. I lost certainty. Hogwarts didn't feel the same after that."
She whispered, "Is that why you left."
"It was one of the reasons," he said honestly.
She pressed her face into his shoulder, holding him tighter now. "I didn't know."
"You weren't meant to," Wayne replied.
They lay like that, the firelight flickering gently across the room.
After a while, Amber spoke again, her voice barely above a breath. "Then why can't I see them."
Wayne shifted slightly, turning onto his side so they were facing each other fully now. He looked at her carefully, as if choosing each word.
"Because grief isn't the same as understanding," he said. "You carry loss. But you didn't let it hollow you out."
Her eyes stung, but she didn't look away.
"You survived without breaking the shape of yourself," he added. "That matters."
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then she asked, very softly, "Does that mean something is wrong with me."
"No," Wayne said immediately. "It means you healed."
She let out a shaky breath and nodded against him.
"I don't think I'm ready to understand it yet," she admitted.
"You don't have to," Wayne said. "Not tonight."
He lifted a hand and rested it gently on her shoulder.
"Sleep," he said quietly. "Tomorrow will answer what today can't."
His touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary.
Amber felt warmth spread through her, heavy and comforting. The tension in her body loosened all at once. Her breathing slowed, evened out, and within seconds, her grip on his shirt relaxed.
She was asleep.
Wayne stayed awake a little longer, watching her breathe, steady and calm. He withdrew his hand slowly, careful not to wake her, and lay back against the pillows.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
A new day, with new questions.