Shya did not remember falling asleep.
She was awake—she was sure of it—lying in her Ravenclaw bed with the moonlight spilling through the curtains in thin silver threads. She could hear Talora breathing across the room. She could hear the faint hum of the tower's ancient wards.
Then the breath in her chest collapsed.
She blinked.
The room was gone.
There was snow beneath her bare feet—snow so white it almost glowed. It stretched endlessly in all directions, as smooth and untouched as parchment.
Above her, the sky was a blank sheet of gray, evenly lit, evenly oppressive, without a sun or moon to hold it up.
Her breath fogged in the air.
A thousand feet away—
or maybe just ten—
stood a figure.
A child.
Tiny. Still. Facing away from her.
A familiar shape.
Shya's stomach folded into itself.
She took a step forward.
The snow didn't crunch.
It didn't move at all.
Like she was stepping on painted glass.
"Hello?" she called.
The sound didn't echo.
It didn't even travel.
It dropped straight to the ground like a stone.
The child turned slowly.
And it was her.
Not just a similar face—
Not just an echo—
It was her, at six years old.
Wide-eyed.
Hair clipped unevenly.
A little scrape on the forehead she remembered from climbing a fence she wasn't supposed to climb.
But the eyes—
The eyes were wrong.
Too dark.
Too deep.
Like someone had dipped her irises into wet ink and let them soak.
Shya felt her lungs tightening.
She swallowed hard.
The child-Shya tilted her head.
"You're late," she said.
Her voice was Shya's voice—but higher, thinner, stretched like a thread pulled too tight.
Shya's fingers curled into fists. "I— I didn't know I was meant to—"
"You left," the child said, stepping forward.
The snow didn't change under her steps either.
No imprint.
No disturbance.
"You keep leaving."
A chill slid between Shya's ribs like a blade.
"I didn't—" She tried to breathe. "I didn't leave you. I don't even remember—"
"That's the problem."
The child-Shya blinked slowly.
The ink in her eyes seemed to ripple.
Shya's breath hitched.
She took a step back—
and her heel hit something hard.
She looked down.
A chain, half-buried in the snow.
Cold metal bit her skin.
She went still.
When she looked up—
The child was inches from her.
The ink-eyes stared straight into hers.
"You're always late," she whispered. "You're always trying to catch up."
Shya's pulse dropped into her stomach.
Her throat closed.
"No," she said, voice paper-thin. "That's not— that isn't—"
The child-Shya leaned forward until their foreheads almost touched.
"You're running out of time."
The snow cracked.
Hairline fractures spiderwebbed outward from where Shya stood, black lines splitting the pristine white surface. She staggered, chains rattling, breath turning sharp and metallic.
She tried to pull her foot free—
the chain tightened.
Cold metal dug into her ankle.
The cracks deepened.
Something dark pooled beneath the snow, bleeding upward like ink.
Shya's chest tightened until she couldn't breathe.
Her vision flared white.
The child's face blurred.
And then—
A hand shot up through a crack in the snow and grabbed her wrist.
Small.
Pale.
Familiar.
Shya screamed—
She jerked awake.
Her sheets were twisted.
Her breath came ragged.
Her heart hammered like it was trying to escape her ribcage.
Talora slept peacefully across the room.
The moon had shifted.
The night was quiet.
Shya lifted a trembling hand—
and froze.
Ink smeared along her wrist, thick and wet, like something had gripped her with fingers dipped in darkness.
Her magical fountain pen lay uncapped on her bedside table.
She stared at the ink-stain for a long time.
Then the mask slid into place—
smooth, cold, perfect.
She wiped her wrist clean.
Recapped the pen.
Folded her hands over her stomach.
She did not sleep again.
Shya didn't speak a word about the nightmare.
She woke before Talora, got dressed without turning on a lamp, and braided her hair with mechanical precision. When she looked in the mirror, her reflection stared back with bright, sharp eyes and a smile so convincing it could have fooled a saint.
The ink was gone.
The trembling was gone.
The chain-mark bruise around her ankle—hidden behind charmed socks.
Mask: flawless.
But Talora saw through her anyway.
The moment Shya stepped down into the common room, Talora paused mid-sentence in front of Lisa and Mandy, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"You look tired," she said.
"I look stunning," Shya corrected. "Don't project your insecurities onto me."
The others snorted.
Talora exhaled, half-amused, half-worried, and let it slide.
The Great Hall was thinner than usual.
Students were trickling out for the holidays.
Trunks lined the walls.
Owls swooped overhead with last-minute letters.
The air smelled like cinnamon, wool, and goodbyes.
Shya swept into the room like she owned it, plopping down between Talora and Padma and stealing a honeyed pastry without blinking.
"You're in a good mood," Mandy said, arching a brow.
"I woke up," Shya replied dramatically. "I should be rewarded for surviving."
Talora hid her smile behind her goblet.
Padma rolled her eyes.
Cassian, arriving a minute late, paused long enough to give Shya a once-over that was far too observant for a 13-year-old boy.
"You okay?" he muttered under his breath.
"Never been better."
It was a perfect lie.
It almost worked.
Except her spoon shook once when she reached for porridge. Just once.
Cassian's eyes flicked to it.
Shya froze.
Then she snorted, tossed the spoon aside, grabbed a fork instead, and said loudly:
"Ugh, Gryffindor silverware. Can't enchant anything properly."
The table laughed.
The moment passed.
But Cassian's gaze didn't leave her for three whole seconds.
More students left as the day went on.
By mid-afternoon, the castle felt cavernous — corridors echoing, windows rattling with winter gusts. Ravenclaw Tower hummed with emptiness.
Shya thrived in it.
She walked the hall like it was a runway.
She answered questions too quickly in conversation.
She laughed too brightly at Mandy's jokes.
She hummed under her breath, tapping her fingers against her thigh in a rhythm that didn't match any song Talora had ever heard.
There was a shine to her —
a manic edge to her cheerfulness, like a lantern burning too hot.
Talora noticed every flicker.
Fay Dunbar lasted exactly three encounters.
The first time she saw Shya in the corridor that day, she froze, eyes wide, clutching her books so tightly the covers bent. Shya walked past with a lazy smile and didn't look back.
The second time, Shya paused mid-step, tapped Fay's shoulder with a single manicured nail, and said:
"Your hair looks… unintentional."
She didn't wait for a response.
By the third encounter, Fay was trembling. She rounded a corner and found Shya leaning against the wall as if she'd been waiting.
Shya smiled.
A slow, syrupy, dangerous smile.
Fay bolted.
Talora rounded another corner and caught the end of it — Fay fleeing down the staircase like she'd seen a monster.
"Bob," Talora hissed when she reached her. "What are you doing?"
Shya blinked innocently. "Improving the gene pool."
Talora pinched the bridge of her nose.
Roman stifled a laugh.
Cassian did not.
"What did she do to you this time?" Cassian asked.
"She existed wrong," Shya answered.
He couldn't argue with that.
Not because it was right —
but because he could see something in her eyes he didn't recognize.
And it scared him.
By sunset, the world had gone quiet.
The four of them met in the Haven, a room lit by golden fire and mismatched chairs. Mandy and Lisa had already left for the holidays. Padma was packing.
So it was just them —
Shya, Talora, Cassian, and Roman —
their bond forming an unmistakable gravitational pull in the empty space.
Roman and Talora curled together on one sofa, sharing a blanket and a book. Nothing romantic — just gentle, warm, and entirely natural.
Talora's head rested lightly on his shoulder.
Roman turned pages for her without being asked.
It was the softest thing in the room.
Cassian sat nearby, legs sprawled, pretending to read a Quidditch magazine. But his gaze kept drifting to Shya — small, subtle glances, like he didn't trust her to stay upright without supervision.
Shya sprawled on the rug, sketchbook open.
And for once —
she wasn't drawing monsters.
She drew a winter sky, swirling with snow.
She drew Ravenclaw Tower with light glowing from only one window.
She drew hands pressed against the glass.
Not monstrous.
Not cosmic.
Just lonely.
Cassian saw it upside down and swallowed.
"You good?" he asked quietly.
Shya smiled without looking up.
"Always."
The lie was smooth as silk.
Talora looked up a moment later, and her eyes softened — she saw the sketch, and she saw the truth.
But she said nothing.
The fire crackled.
Snow fell outside.
And for a brief hour, they looked like normal children again.
By Wednesday, the snow had settled into a permanent hush over the grounds — thick and glittering, muffling every sound until the whole of Hogwarts felt like it was holding its breath.
The castle was nearly empty now.
Just a few stragglers in each House.
Just the younger professors wandering the halls.
Just the four of them, orbiting each other like stars too stubborn to drift apart.
And Shya…
Shya was radiant.
And wrong.
It started in the corridor outside the library.
Cassian and Roman were mid-argument about some Quidditch statistic when they realized Shya wasn't walking with them anymore.
She stood frozen in place, staring at one of the tall arched windows.
At first, Cassian thought she was admiring the snow.
Then he saw her reflection.
Her eyes weren't moving.
Not blinking.
Not tracking.
Just staring through herself into something far away.
"Shya?" Cassian said.
No response.
Talora stepped into her line of sight. "Bob. Hey."
Shya blinked once, like something had snapped back into her skull. She straightened, rolled her shoulders, smiled brilliantly.
"What? Did I zone out or something?"
Cassian's jaw ticked.
"That's not what—"
She waved a hand. "Relax. I'm allowed to admire myself. Look at this lighting. Peak aesthetic."
She pinched her own cheek, posed dramatically.
Roman snorted.
Talora forced a smile.
Cassian did not.
The crack sealed over, just like that.
But it didn't disappear.
The next sign appeared in Magical Art.
The room was quiet, sunlight reflecting off snow through the tall windows. Only three students stayed for the holidays — Shya, a fifth-year painting a ghoul portrait, and Professor Burbage humming to herself at her desk.
Shya set her sketchbook down and began without thinking.
Her charcoal danced.
Her wrist moved faster than usual.
Her breath stayed even.
When she leaned back to look, she felt a strange prickling travel down her spine.
She had drawn a forest —
but every tree was hollow.
Every trunk was carved open, roots exposed, like something had crawled out of them.
Between the trees stood a girl with her back turned.
Hair long.
Barefoot.
Pale.
A little girl shape.
Shya's heartbeat kicked.
She put her thumb on the charcoal and smeared it until the girl disappeared.
Burbage wandered by, smiling. "Beautiful shading, Miss Gill. But quite bleak."
Shya shrugged without looking up. "Seasonal depression. Art reflects life."
The professor blinked.
Shya smiled sweetly.
Mask: flawless.
By Thursday, Fay Dunbar had developed a sixth sense.
The moment Shya stepped onto a staircase, Fay's head snapped up like she sensed a predator. If Shya rounded a corridor, Fay veered suddenly into an alcove. If Shya walked into the Great Hall, Fay left half her food behind and fled.
Shya didn't chase her.
She didn't need to.
A smile was enough.
A slow turn of her head.
A lift of an eyebrow.
A tilt of her chin that said I could ruin you and we both know it.
The psychological pressure was exquisite.
Fay began flinching whenever she heard footsteps.
Talora stopped Shya outside Charms. "Bob," she hissed, "you're scaring her."
"She started it," Shya said flatly.
Talora pressed her lips together. "She's terrified."
"Good."
Shya walked away. "Fear builds character."
Roman exhaled through his nose like a disappointed older brother, putting a hand on Talora's shoulder.
"She'll burn herself out," he said quietly.
"No," Talora whispered. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Later that afternoon, the castle felt particularly cold, drafts seeping through ancient stones. Talora pulled Roman into an unused classroom with tall windows and warm afternoon light.
They sat together on the sill, knees touching, watching snow drift lazily over the courtyard below.
"It looks peaceful," Talora murmured.
"For once," Roman agreed. "No screaming portraits. No Peeves. No Weasley twins detonating something."
Talora laughed softly, leaning her shoulder into his. "I think I needed this. The quiet."
Roman looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "And her?"
Talora's breath steadied, then wavered. "She's slipping."
He nodded. "I know."
"But she won't talk. And when she does… it's jokes. Or chaos. Or she's just… shining too bright."
Roman didn't speak for a moment.
Then he lifted her hand and squeezed it.
"She'll come back," he said gently. "Because you're the one she always comes back to."
Talora swallowed, and her fingers tightened around his.
It was not romantic.
Not yet.
But it was soft.
And steady.
And exactly what she needed to hear.
Shya sat in the courtyard where they'd had snowball fights only days earlier.
The snow sparkled like glass dust.
She held her sketchbook open in her lap, fountain pen hovering above the page.
She didn't draw.
She stared.
At nothing.
At everything.
The world felt too still, like the snow had muted even her thoughts. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt—
a pull.
Downward.
Inward.
As if something under the castle was knocking softly on her ribs.
She swallowed hard, blinking the feeling away.
Cassian stepped into the courtyard just in time to see her go motionless, eyes unfocused, breath shallow.
"Shya."
She blinked. "Hmm?"
"You okay?"
It came out rougher than he meant.
"Obviously."
Her smile cut paper-thin.
Cassian didn't smile back.
It was late.
Later than they ever stayed up in December, when the castle grew cold early and the air tasted like old stone and snow.
Talora had fallen asleep first — collapsed sideways into her pillow mid-sentence, hair in a messy braid, Pandora curled at her belly like a breathing hot-water bottle.
Roman was on the rug, transfigured book under his head, one arm over his eyes.
Cassian read for a while — or tried to — but his attention kept shifting to Shya.
She sat cross-legged on the window ledge of the Haven, sketchbook open on her lap, fountain pen still.
Perfectly still.
He watched the back of her head, the rigid line of her shoulders, the way not even her fingers twitched.
"Shya," he murmured eventually, "come to bed."
She didn't answer.
He stood, padded over, and touched her wrist lightly.
She turned her head toward him, slow, mechanical.
Her eyes were deep, hollow, shining with some reflection he couldn't see.
"I'm not tired," she whispered.
But she looked exhausted.
Fragile.
Stretched thin like a string near snapping.
He didn't argue.
He didn't push.
He just walked her to her bed and tucked the blanket around her legs before turning away.
Talora murmured in her sleep, reaching out blindly, and the familiar warmth of the Haven swallowed the room again.
Shya closed her eyes.
And the world vanished.
She was standing in the same courtyard where she'd sat earlier that day.
But it was wrong.
The snow was black ash.
The sky was white and blinding.
The castle behind her was cracked open, giant fissures running down its walls like ribs splitting.
In front of her stood the little girl again.
Barefoot.
Hair hanging.
Head down.
Except—
Now she was facing Shya.
Her face was blank.
Wiped clean.
Like someone had forgotten to draw it.
Shya's heartbeat stuttered painfully.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The girl cocked her head.
And something crawled across her empty face — not an expression, not a feature, just pressure, like the world struggling to remember who she was supposed to be.
A voice pushed through the white noise around them.
"You left me."
Shya's breath hitched.
"No," she whispered. "I didn't—"
The girl opened her mouth.
And claws spilled out.
Not hands — claws.
Black, skeletal fingers, scraping the ground, pulling shadows with them.
Shya stumbled backward.
The courtyard cracked under her feet.
The ground peeled away.
The little girl dragged herself forward, unhinging, unfolding, becoming something ancient and wrong —
Something that remembered her.
Something that had always been under her skin.
Something that had been waiting.
It lunged.
Shya screamed—
And woke up to nothing.
No sound.
No breath.
Just darkness crushing her chest.
She didn't remember getting up.
One moment she was in her bed, drenched in sweat, the next she was standing in the courtyard.
Barefoot.
In the snow.
Nightgown thin as paper.
Hair tangled, stuck to her face.
The castle loomed above her, enormous in the moonlight.
A frozen statue of a world that suddenly felt too small to contain her.
Her breath fogged, then didn't.
She didn't feel cold.
She didn't feel anything.
She walked toward the window — her window — where the Haven would be glowing warmly inside.
She touched the icy stone windowsill.
Inside, Talora slept curled around Pandora's flank.
Roman snored softly on the rug.
Cassian sat awake on the sofa, book open but eyes unfocused, foot bouncing with worry he'd never admit.
He didn't see her.
Just the shadow outside.
Just the shape.
Shya lifted a hand to the glass.
Her fingers didn't reflect.
And when she leaned forward to look at her own face—
Her reflection stared back wrong.
Too pale.
Too still.
Eyes too deep, as if the darkness behind them wasn't darkness at all but a drop into something endless.
She whispered to her reflection:
"I'm right here."
Her reflection didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Shya's throat closed.
Because the reflection wasn't delayed.
It wasn't stuck.
It wasn't frozen.
It was gone.
There was no reflection at all.
Just a hollow outline where she should've been.
Just emptiness.
Just void.
A hand caught her shoulder.
Warm.
Steady.
Human.
Shya jerked around, startled, breath tearing back into her chest.
Cassian.
Barefoot, cloak thrown on crooked, hair mussed from running.
"Shya," he breathed, voice cracking. "Shya—"
She stared at him, eyes wide, pupils blown.
"I…" She swallowed. "I don't know how I came out here."
He pulled her into his cloak, arms tight around her like he could anchor her body back into itself.
"You're freezing—"
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
Which terrified him more.
He guided her back inside, arm around her waist, shutting the courtyard door behind them.
As they stepped into the warmth of the Haven, the candles flickered violently — all at once — as if something had passed through them.
Talora shot upright in bed.
Roman sat bolt straight.
Cassian held Shya tighter.
She trembled, not from cold.
From recognition.
Because whatever had followed her out of the nightmare…
Had almost made it through the window.
It was inevitable.
The moment Cassian shut the courtyard door behind them, the temperature in the Haven dropped.
Not a draft.
Not a breeze.
A shift.
Candles guttered, all at once — flames bowing low, quivering like something had passed straight through them.
Talora jerked awake on the sofa, Pandora rising at her feet with a soft whine. Roman sat up sharply on the rug, wand halfway drawn before he realized where he was.
Cassian didn't let go of Shya.
He had one arm around her shoulders, cloak still wrapped around her, breath uneven as if he'd run the whole length of the courtyard barefoot — which he had.
Shya didn't cling.
She just… stood there.
Her hair was windswept.
Her nightgown clung damp to her legs.
Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the color from her eyes.
Talora was off the sofa in a heartbeat.
"Bob?" she breathed.
Shya blinked slowly, as if dragging her mind back into her body inch by inch. "I'm… I'm fine."
She wasn't.
Her voice was thin.
Her hands were shaking.
Her breath was shallow, too controlled, like she was holding her ribs still by sheer will.
Cassian's jaw flexed. "You weren't fine outside."
Shya laughed — a sound too light, too bright, like a glass ball thrown at a wall.
"I was just—getting some air."
Roman stood now, eyes narrowed. "At midnight? Barefoot? In the snow?"
Shya shrugged. "Fashion."
Talora's worry deepened. She stepped closer, taking one of Shya's hands.
Cold.
Not winter-cold.
Absent-cold.
Talora's throat tightened. "Bob… something's wrong."
Shya stiffened.
For a full second, her mask flickered — eyes wide, lip trembling, like she was about to say everything's wrong, don't let go—
Then she snapped it back in place.
"Nothing is wrong," she said brightly. "Stop being dramatic."
Talora didn't let go of her hand.
Cassian didn't step back.
Roman didn't look away.
And the Haven — always warm, always safe — watched.
The fire crackled weakly. The air tasted metallic. Something in the stones hummed like a distant bass note.
Shya swayed.
Just barely.
Talora caught her elbow. "Bob—"
"I'm tired," Shya murmured, abruptly soft. She pulled her hand from Talora's and turned away, brushing past Cassian without meeting his gaze.
"I'm going to bed."
Talora moved as if to follow, but Cassian held her back with a hand on her shoulder.
"Give her a minute," he said low. "If you push now, she'll bolt."
Talora swallowed hard.
Shya walked up the stairs to the dorm hallway, slow, measured. Too measured.
She didn't look back.
The moment she disappeared, the fire steadied — as if whatever had pressed into the Haven retreated with her.
Roman released a breath. "She's not okay."
Cassian didn't sit.
Didn't blink.
"I know."
Talora ran a hand through her hair. "Should we—should someone stay with her?"
Cassian hesitated.
The first crack of fear showed in his expression. "She won't let us."
They stood in silence, listening to the wind scrape the windows.
Pandora whimpered.
Haneera paced in circles, restless.
Cassian didn't move for a long time. Then he whispered, almost to himself:
"She didn't have a reflection."
Talora's breath caught.
Roman froze.
"What?" Talora whispered.
Cassian swallowed hard. "In the courtyard. She touched the window. And there was nothing."
The room went so quiet the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Talora pressed a hand to her mouth.
Roman looked toward the stairwell, jaw tight. "We need to keep an eye on her."
Cassian's eyes were still fixed on the empty doorway, voice barely audible.
"I don't think watching will be enough."
Shya did not make it to her bed.
She made it to the doorway.
She made it to the far corner of the Ravenclaw dormitory.
But when she reached her four-poster, her hands were trembling too badly to pull the curtains. She sat on the mattress instead, cloak slipping off her shoulders, hair falling across her face like a curtain.
The moonlight hit her in slanted white beams.
Her breathing was too quiet.
The dorm was empty except for Talora, still downstairs fretting.
Shya curled her knees against her chest and pressed her forehead to them.
Her fingers dug into her calves.
"I'm fine," she whispered to no one.
The words evaporated before they left her lips.
THE DREAM TOOK HER WITHOUT WARNING.
There was no drifting, no slipping.
One blink — she was in her room.
The next — she was in the dark.
Not snow this time.
Not the courtyard.
Not a void.
Just dark.
Black from every direction.Black with depth.Black with gravity.
She felt floor beneath her feet — stone, cold, damp.
A tunnel.
Her throat tightened.
No… not a tunnel.
The tunnel.
Her breath came out in a whisper-fog, the only light in the world.
"Not again," she whispered. "Please. Not again."
Something answered.
A scrape.
A wet drag of something across stone.Slow.Purposeful.
Shya's pulse hammered against her ribs.
"No," she whispered again. "That's not real. I'm awake. I'm awake—"
A child's giggle echoed through the dark.
Soft.
High.
Familiar.
Her stomach collapsed into itself.
"Stop," she choked.
The giggle came again — closer this time, behind her ear.
"Why? You followed me."
Shya spun.
The dark rippled.
A tiny silhouette stood in front of her — the shape of a small girl. Bare feet. Thin nightshirt. Hair hanging over her eyes.
Shya's breath went thin and stringy.
"You're not real," she whispered to the dark. "You're not real. You're just a nightmare."
The girl tilted her head.
"No," she said. "I'm what you threw away."
Shya staggered back.
Her heel hit chain.Cold. Smooth. Heavy.
The girl stepped forward, bare feet making no sound.
"Don't leave," she whispered. "You always leave."
Shya backed into the wall.
"I'm not leaving," she gasped. "I'm not—"
"You left me," the girl said simply. "So I learned to follow."
Her head snapped up.
And this time she had a face.
Not Shya's face.
Not the child's face from before.
A face crawling with ink, lines moving under the skin like worms, black veins pulsing, eyes sunken voids that glitched between shapes.
Shya slapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.
The girl lunged.
Shya jerked backward—
And fell.
Down.Down.Down.
Her scream tore free as the world swallowed her whole.
THE CHAMBER SWALLOWED HER.
She landed on stone so cold it felt alive. Her palms burned. Her knees scraped.
The basilisk's enormous shadow stretched across the chamber, though the beast itself was nowhere — only the silhouette, cast by nothing.
Shya scrambled backward.
"What do you want from me?" she sobbed. "Why won't you leave me alone?"
A whisper unfurled behind her like fog.
"You brought me here."
Shya turned.
The girl stood inches away again — ink pulsing beneath her skin.
"You think you can cut me out," the girl whispered. "Hide me behind a pretty smile. Pretend I'm gone."
Her mouth stretched into a grin too wide for a human skull.
"But I'm growing. I'm hungry. And you're cracking."
Shya pressed back until her spine hit stone.
"I'm not— I'm not cracking—"
"Then why," the girl whispered, leaning close, "am I getting stronger?"
Shya's throat closed.
The girl's ink-filled eyes burned.
"You left me in the dark," she said. "And everything grows in the dark."
Hands — too many hands — burst from the floor behind her.Clawing. Grabbing.Cold fingers wrapping around Shya's wrists, ankles, hips.
She screamed, kicking, struggling, but the hands pulled her downward, sinking her into the stone as if it were mud.
"No— no— STOP—"
The little girl crouched at Shya's face level, tilting her head with eerie curiosity.
"Why do you fight me?" she whispered. "I'm trying to come home."
Shya sobbed, thrashing, her voice ripping raw. "You're not me—!"
"I'm the part of you," the girl breathed, "that survived."
The stone swallowed Shya up to her ribs.
She screamed louder.
Talora's voice echoed through the chamber in the distance:
"BOB!"
Shya gasped—
The girl vanished.
The hands dissolved into dust.
The chamber split apart in a crack of deafening white—
Shya woke with a sound that wasn't a scream only because it didn't make it out of her throat.
It strangled itself halfway up, ripped into silence, and shattered her lungs from the inside instead.
Talora, asleep in the bed beside hers, didn't stir at first — still curled around Pandora's warmth, braid loose, breathing even.
The Tower was dark.
Silent.
Cold in a way that felt personal.
Shya's fingers clawed at her own sheets. She shoved them off, gasping like she'd surfaced from drowning. Sweat clung to her hairline. Her nightshirt stuck to her spine.
The nightmare still clung to her skin — ink on her wrist, chains around her ankle, that thing's voice scraping her bones raw.
Her breath shook.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—"
Her voice cracked.
Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The quiet of 3 AM pressed in on her like stone.
THE NIGHTMARE HAD BEEN WORSE.
Not the abstract, snow-white void from before.
Not the child version of herself.
This time it was the Chamber — the Chamber she had never stepped foot in — swallowing her whole.
Hands pulling her down.
A voice saying she was out of time.
Ink crawling beneath her skin.
And the worst part—
She could still feel fingers around her wrists.
Invisible.
Cold.
Lingering.
Her breathing hitched into sobs before she could stop it.
She pressed both hands against her face.
"I can't—" she whispered. "I can't do this—"
Her shoulders heaved.
Her mask was gone.
Burned away.
Shattered.
She broke. Completely.
And the sound of her breaking finally woke Talora.
Talora blinked into the darkness, hair loose, eyes wide but not yet focused.
"Bob?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep. "What—"
She saw her.
Shya, curled in on herself at the edge of her bed, trembling like something had hollowed her out. Tears streaking her face silently, breath hitching, hands shaking so violently her nails dug into her palms.
Talora was out of her bed in a heartbeat.
"Shya— hey— Bob— look at me."
She reached out—
Shya flinched away.
Talora froze, her heart splitting.
"Bob."
Shya's sob came out strangled.
"I can't— I can't breathe— I can't—"
Talora climbed onto the mattress beside her and cupped her face with steady hands.
"Hey," she whispered, voice fierce and tender all at once. "Look at me. Right here. I'm here."
Shya met her eyes.
And the dam broke again.
"It was so real," Shya gasped. "It pulled me— it pulled me— I couldn't wake up— I thought I would never wake up—"
Talora pulled her into her arms.
Shya collapsed into her instantly, fingers clutching the back of Talora's nightshirt, sobbing into the hollow of her shoulder.
Talora stroked her hair, trembling herself but keeping her voice steady.
"It's okay. I've got you. I'm right here."
Shya shook her head against her.
"No— Talora— it's calling me— I can feel it— I can't hold it anymore— something's wrong— something's so wrong—"
Talora stiffened.
"What's calling you?"
Shya's fingers curled into fists around her.
"Under the castle," she whispered, voice breaking. "Tally, I can feel it. I feel it pulling at me. Pulling at… everything."
Talora slowly pulled back enough to see her face.
Shya looked shattered — eyes red, pupils huge, lips trembling, chest rising too fast.
"Bob," Talora whispered, "you can't go down there. Not alone."
Shya squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks again.
"I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I'm fine. It hurts. It hurts and I don't know why."
Her voice broke with a sound Talora had never heard before — not anger, not fear, but pure despair.
Talora felt something inside her crack.
She grabbed Shya's hands in both of hers.
"Then I'm coming with you."
Shya's eyes snapped open.
"No— Talora, it's dangerous—"
"So are we."
Shya's breath caught.
Talora leaned in until their foreheads touched.
"You are not going down there alone. If something is calling you, then it's calling me too. We go together."
Shya choked on a sob.
"I'm scared."
Talora's voice softened, breaking.
"I know. That's why I'm coming."
Shya squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping onto the blanket.
Talora pulled her tight again, holding her like the world was trying to pull her away.
Outside, the wind shifted — a low, ancient sound.
Pandora lifted her glowing head.
Haneera — resting by the door — rose to her feet, ears pricked.
Something below the castle stirred.
Something that had waited a thousand years for this moment.
When Shya finally pulled away, her eyes were swollen and raw — but clear.
She whispered, barely audible:
"It's below."
Talora nodded.
"Then let's go."
They didn't bother getting dressed properly — just threw on robes over their nightclothes. Shya tied her hair back with shaking fingers. Talora wiped the last tears off Shya's cheeks.
Hand in hand, they slipped out into the hallway.
Just the two of them.
Just the Bobs.
Together.
Down the spiral stairs.
Through the sleeping Tower.
Through empty corridors lit only by moonlight.
Down past the moving staircases.
Past the sleeping portraits.
Pandora padded at Talora's feet, glowing faintly like a lantern in the dark.
Haneera walked pressed to Shya's side, low growl rumbling deep in her chest.
The castle seemed to guide them forward.
Doors unlocked before they reached them.
Torches brightened.
Floors hummed beneath their steps.
Shya's breathing steadied.
Talora's grip tightened.
By the time they reached the second-floor bathroom, Shya was trembling again — not from fear this time, but from recognition.
Talora squeezed her hand.
"I've got you."
Shya looked at her, tears fresh, voice a whisper:
"Together?"
Talora nodded.
"Always."
Shya swallowed.
Turned toward the sink.
And whispered:
"Open."
The stone shuddered.
Hinged.
Lowered away into darkness.
Talora grabbed Shya's sleeve.
Shya grabbed Talora's hand.
And together—
They jumped.
The slide swallowed them.
There was no time to breathe, no time to scream.
Just cold stone rushing past their skin, robes whipping around them, the world narrowing into a single, endless drop.
Their fingers stayed locked.
Shya's grip was ice.
Talora's grip was anchor.
The air tore past them.
Pandora and Haneera skidded after them — claws snapping sparks on the stone — their howls slicing through the dark.
And then—
Impact.
A rush of freezing water.
A shock up their legs.
The tunnel pressed in around them, ribs of ancient stone curving overhead like the inside of some enormous, sleeping creature.
The air smelled like old magic.
Like old death.
Shya staggered first, hair plastered to her cheek, breath trembling. "It's the same," she whispered. "It's exactly the same as the nightmare."
Talora squeezed her hand — hard.
"Don't look back. We keep going."
Haneera shook out her fur, growling low and steady, body tense as a bowstring.
Pandora pressed against Talora's calf, her glow shivering like she sensed something vast watching them.
They started forward.
Every step sank deeper into the hum in Shya's bones — calling, pulling, whispering like a distant voice underwater. Each breath she took made the tunnel feel smaller, heavier. Her pulse refused to slow.
Talora kept herself between Shya and the walls, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
"You're not alone," she murmured.
Shya didn't answer.
She couldn't.
The air shifted around them — a slow, deliberate pressure, as if they had crossed a threshold into something ancient enough to recognize them.
The torch sconces lining the walls flared to life one by one.
No flame.
Just pale, steady light.
More like eyes than torches.
Talora swallowed hard. "It's… responding."
Shya's breath shook. "It's been waiting."
The tunnel widened, opening into the great cavern with the serpentine pillars. The air grew colder — metallic, thick.
Shya stopped short.
The basilisk lay exactly where legend said it would — enormous, coiled, frozen in eternal stillness.
Not stone.
Not alive.
Something in between.
Its scales shimmered faintly beneath the strange light, casting long shadows that curled across the water like claws.
Talora whispered, "Bob… look."
There — near the basilisk's head — the water was moving. Slowly.
A pulse.
A light.
A glow from beneath the surface, like embers under glass.
Shya felt her knees buckle.
"That's it," she whispered. "That— that's what's been calling."
Talora caught her before she could fall.
Her breath hitched, her voice shaking but firm.
"Okay. Breathe. We're here. We'll figure this out."
Shya stared at her trembling hands. "I can't breathe. I can't think. I feel like something is ripping open inside me."
Talora looked at her, eyes filling with fear she refused to show on her face.
"Then let me hold it with you."
Shya shook her head violently.
"No— Talora, you don't understand. It's not just pain. It's— it's breaking. I'm breaking."
Talora cupped her face, forcing Shya to meet her eyes.
"Then break in my arms."
Shya choked on a sob.
A sound that dug itself into Talora's chest.
And then Shya collapsed against her, clinging, trembling so violently Talora had to brace her own legs to stay upright.
"I can't do this," Shya whispered.
"I can't— I can't— it's pulling me apart—"
Her voice dissolved into sobs.
Talora held her tighter, tears slipping down her own cheeks despite her best efforts.
"I've got you," she murmured.
"I've got you. I'm right here. Always here."
Pandora whined softly, circling them.
Haneera leaned against Shya, head under her hand, as if trying to ground her soul back into her body.
Shya lifted her head only long enough to whisper:
"It wants me."
Talora swallowed. "Then it takes both of us."
Shya blinked in disbelief, tears shimmering.
"I won't let anything take you alone," Talora whispered. "Never again."
And something shifted.
A current under the water.
A pull.
A hum across the stones.
The glow beneath the basin brightened, spreading outward like veins of fire.
The basilisk's frozen scales flickered once.
Shya gasped, clutching Talora's robe.
"It's starting," she whispered. "I can feel it— it's waking—"
Talora tightened her arm around her waist.
"Then so are we."
The water vibrated.
The torches flickered.
The entire chamber breathed — a long inhale.
Shya's tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her hands shook uncontrollably.
Her breath came out in sharp, broken bursts.
"It hurts," she whispered, voice cracking.
"It hurts so much—"
Talora pulled her into her lap on the slick stone floor, rocking her subtly, forehead pressed to Shya's temple.
"I know. Let it hurt. Let it out. I'm with you. I'm with you."
Shya sobbed harder — each sound sharp, raw, pulled from the deepest wound she'd ever tried to hide.
The chamber responded.
Water rippled outward from them in perfect rings.
The torches dimmed, then flared.
The basilisk's shadow stretched across the floor, long and thin and trembling.
Pandora's glow flickered like a candle in wind.
Haneera bristled, stepping between the girls and the waterline, growling at something unseen.
Shya gasped—
"It's here."
Talora's grip tightened almost painfully.
"Then we stay together."
Shya nodded through tears.
"Together."
The light beneath the basilisk surged.
The chamber shook.
Something old, something buried, something starved for centuries began to rise —
and the ritual called them forward.
Their souls recognized it before their minds did.
Their blood hummed.
Their skin prickled.
The magic pressed in around them like a heartbeat.
Talora held Shya's face in both hands.
"I'm with you," she whispered.
Shya's tears fell into the shimmering water.
The chamber responded.
And the descent
became
inevitable.
The light beneath the basilisk surged again — a slow, tidal pull that rippled through the cavern.
The chamber felt alive now. Watching. Listening.
Shya's breathing was ragged, each inhale trembling through her ribs.
Talora held her tighter, one arm steady around her waist, the other braced on the cold stone.
"Bob… look."
The water around the basilisk began to rise — not like a tide, but like it was being lifted.
Drawn upward by invisible threads, swirling in slow, perfect rings.
A low hum filled the chamber.
Old.
Constant.
Deep.
The sound didn't echo — it resonated inside their bones.
Shya stiffened.
Her fingers curled painfully into Talora's robe.
"Tally… it's inside my head."
Talora's breath hitched. "What is?"
"The hum." Shya pressed a shaking hand to her temple.
"It's— it's not sound. It's feeling. Like it's pushing into me— like it knows me—"
Her voice broke. She curled inward, shaking.
Talora grabbed her face, forcing their eyes to meet. "Stay with me."
"I'm trying," Shya whispered, tears blurring her vision.
"It's just— I feel like I'm splitting open."
Talora swallowed hard, her thumb brushing under Shya's eye. "Then we break together."
A sudden surge —
the swirling water shot upward and arced into the air like a serpent, hanging weightless above them.
Talora looked up, breath catching.
The water wasn't water anymore.
It glowed.
A pulsing gold-white like molten sunlight shot with silver threads.
Life.
Light.
Creation.
The very leylines Fawkes had woven into the basilisk's stasis.
Except now… something else was waking inside it.
Something darker, older, hungrier.
And it recognized Shya.
She staggered back, gripping her chest.
"I can't— Talora, I can't breathe—"
Her knees buckled.
Talora caught her before she hit the stone.
Her hands shook, but her voice stayed firm.
"Look at me."
Shya tried — but her gaze kept dragging toward the suspended water, toward the glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
"It wants me," she whispered.
Talora's stomach dropped. "Then I go with you."
Shya sobbed — a sharp, desperate sound.
"You shouldn't."
"You're my Bob," Talora said fiercely. "You think I'm ever leaving you?"
Shya broke, collapsing into her again.
Tears soaked into Talora's collar.
Her breath trembled against Talora's throat.
Talora's own eyes burned hot.
She pressed a kiss to the top of Shya's head — a sister's promise, a soulmate's anchor — and whispered:
"Hold on to me."
Shya nodded, shaking violently.
The glow overhead brightened suddenly —
and the basilisk's body began to fracture.
Not crumble.
Not decay.
It split open like an eggshell.
Veins of golden light tore through its scales, spiderwebbing outward in lines of impossible symmetry.
The hum rose in pitch, vibrating the very marrow of their bones.
Talora held Shya as the serpent's shell cracked, light bursting from every seam.
Haneera barked sharply, fur sparking with shadow.
Pandora's glow intensified, ears flattened tight.
The chamber groaned.
And then—
A voice entered the air.
Not spoken.
Not sung.
Felt.
A whisper in a language neither girl knew —
ancient, resonant, heavy as a god's heartbeat.
Shya gasped, clutching her head, eyes wide with terror.
"Bob — Tally it's in my skull—"
Talora grabbed her wrists, pressing their foreheads together.
"Listen to me. Not it. Me."
Shya's nails dug into Talora's skin.
"I don't think I can."
"You can," Talora whispered. "Because I'm with you."
Her voice cracked.
"Always with you."
The suspended water trembled—
then split cleanly into two streams.
One gold.
One silver.
They hovered before the girls, spiraling slowly, humming with power that made the stones vibrate.
Shya stared at them, transfixed, trembling.
"It knows us."
Talora inhaled, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"It chose us."
Shya shook her head so violently her braid snapped loose.
"No— Bob— I can't— I can't—"
"You don't get to leave me like this," Talora whispered.
Shya froze.
Talora lifted her bloodied palm — the cut from only minutes ago, still raw.
Shya stared, chest heaving.
Talora offered her hand, voice steady:
"My blood.
Your blood.
Our blood."
The words were simple.
Human.
But the chamber reacted instantly.
The glow surged.
The hum deepened.
The basilisk's fractured shell pulsed.
Shya's breath hitched, a strangled sob leaving her chest.
"BOB— this isn't normal magic— this is way bigger— way older—"
"I don't care," Talora whispered.
"I'm not letting you shatter alone."
Shya stared at her.
And for the first time in days —
her mask cracked from the inside.
She took Talora's hand.
And the ritual began.
Their palms pressed together — blood mixing —
and the water surged downward in a spiral of gold and silver.
It wrapped their joined hands.
It wrapped their wrists.
It climbed to their elbows like liquid flame.
Shya tried to pull back — instinctive, terrified — but the magic held her.
Talora held tighter.
"Bob— breathe— breathe—"
"I can't—" Shya gasped, tears running freely.
"It's inside me— it's— I can't—"
Then their mouths opened.
Not by choice.
Their voices blended.
Harmony and dissonance.
Moon and sun.
Void and blaze.
But the words were not theirs.
They were runes.
Ancient.
Violent.
Sacred.
A language mankind had forgotten
but magic still remembered.
The vow carved itself into the air:
"Þur blooda samad.
Þur skugga.
Þur ljosa.
Þur endi—
andun endalaus."
Their eyes rolled back.
Their bodies arched.
Their hands fused with light.
Haneera howled — long, mournful, warning.
Pandora shrieked, pawing the stone.
The basilisk shattered completely.
A column of radiant dust shot up —
then exploded into a storm of light.
Two bursts split from it:
one gold, one silver.
They struck the girls in the chest.
Shya arched, mouth open in a silent scream — the void in her eyes widening.
Talora cried out — light blazing from her skin like a newborn star.
The chamber shook.
The vow sealed.
The world broke open.
And the girls collapsed—
Unconscious.
Hands still tangled.
Light still pulsing faintly beneath the skin of their joined palms.
Haneera whined sharply, nosing at Shya's shoulder, her golden eyes wide with panic. Pandora barked once, high and desperate, pawing at Talora's sleeve. Then, as if guided by something older than fear, both familiars turned and ran — paws splashing, claws striking stone — sprinting toward the distant tunnels.
The familiars ran.
Screaming.
Racing for help.
Because they knew—
The ritual wasn't done.
It had only begun.
Their howls echoed through the castle.
Far above, professors stirred in their sleep. Fawkes lifted his head.
And Dumbledore's eyes opened.
The vow is already complete.
The basilisk is long gone.
Only the echo of something ancient remains.
The chamber was breathing.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But the air pulsed in slow, impossible waves.
Shya and Talora lay together on the cold stone floor where slick water pooled around them in glowing ripples—gold pooling around Talora, silver pooling around Shya. Their hair floated slightly, as if underwater. Their bodies were perfectly still.
Their palms were open.
And on each:
Talora — a sun.
Shya — a crescent moon.
Both sigils shimmered, faint but steady, pulsing to a rhythm nothing mortal lungs could match.
Haneera and Pandora burst into the chamber first, paws skidding on the stone—
They made it three steps.
Then both familiars collapsed.
No cry.
No warning.
Just… down.
Haneera's legs folded beneath her; Pandora crumpled like her light had been snuffed out. The air around them buzzed once in warning—an electric hum—and then went silent again.
They did not move.
They did not stir.
They simply lay unconscious beside their witches.
Cassian and Roman sprinted into the chamber a heartbeat later, out of breath and half-dressed, wands shaking in their hands.
They saw the girls—
—and everything else vanished.
"Shya!" Cassian shouted, voice breaking as he splashed toward her and fell to his knees, water soaking his clothes. "Shya—Shy—wake up—"
He shook her shoulder lightly, terrified to harm her.
She didn't move.
Her chest rose and fell, slow and even, but she did not stir. Her lips were parted as if mid-breath, her eyelashes trembling faintly from the glow beneath her skin.
Water rippled with silver light around her.
Roman crouched beside Talora, breath coming hard, hands trembling as he touched the pulse point on her neck.
"She's alive," he whispered, almost in disbelief. "She's—she's breathing, Cass. But—what the hell happened?"
Cassian didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
His eyes were locked on Shya's palm.
The silver crescent burned there.
Not drawn.
Not scarred.
Alive.
The sigil pulsed.
Shya's fingers twitched once—
barely—
as if something inside her was settling into place.
The boys went cold.
"Cass… her skin is warm," Roman whispered. "Like—too warm."
Cassian swallowed hard. "She wasn't like this earlier."
No one spoke again.
They didn't know how.
A gust of heat exploded from the center of the chamber—
FWOOM—
—and Fawkes appeared in a burst of red-gold fire.
The phoenix hovered mid-air.
His wings spread fully.
His flame-bright eyes widened.
He chirped—once, soft and distressed.
Then, slowly…
He bowed.
Not to Dumbledore.
He wasn't there yet.
Fawkes bowed to the girls.
Cassian felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
"What is—" his voice cracked, "—what is Fawkes doing?"
Roman stared. "Phoenixes don't bow to anyone."
Cassian's pulse hammered. "Then… who are they bowing to?"
No answer.
Fawkes flapped once, twice—
then landed beside Shya and Talora, lowering his head like a guardian.
Footsteps echoed down the tunnel.
Dumbledore stepped into the chamber, wand bright, pajamas hidden beneath a deep navy robe embroidered with stars. His expression was composed—until he saw them.
He stopped as if struck.
Not by fear.
By recognition he could not quite place.
"Merlin," he whispered.
Not an exclamation—
a prayer.
Snape rushed in behind him, wand raised, breath ragged from running.
"What in—" He froze mid-sentence. His eyes swept over the scene with sharp intelligence.
He saw the puddles of gleaming gold and silver.
He saw the faint distortion in the air.
He saw the sigils.
But he did not understand them.
His voice tightened. "Headmaster… that magic—"
"I know." Dumbledore's voice was thin. "I feel it too."
He walked forward slowly, as though approaching a sleeping giant. His eyes fell on Shya's glowing palm.
The crescent moon burned faint and silver.
Talora's sun shimmered gold.
Dumbledore inhaled sharply—
tiny, almost imperceptible—
but Cassian saw it.
"Do you know what those are?" Roman asked, voice cracking.
Dumbledore's eyes stayed fixed on the marks.
"…I've seen something like them," he admitted quietly. "A very long time ago."
Snape frowned. "…Where?"
Dumbledore didn't answer.
He didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
Because the memory wasn't clear.
Only blurred shapes of an old book, forbidden pages, a youthful argument with Gellert Grindlewald—
sigils half-drawn in margins, marked "Do not invoke."
He swallowed.
"They are older than the basilisk," he murmured.
"Older than Hogwarts."
Snape paled slightly.
The weight of the words settled heavy.
The air tasted metallic.
Faintly poisonous.
Like basilisk venom.
Snape recognized the lingering trace instantly—his muscles remembering the agony of being bitten years ago. His breathing hitched.
"This is… residue," he said, eyes narrowing. "But the basilisk—"
"—is gone," Dumbledore finished.
The echo of basilisk magic clung to the walls like a ghost, but the creature itself wasn't dead.
It had been erased.
Snape's voice dropped low. "Headmaster, this isn't possible. You cannot… unmake a basilisk."
Dumbledore stared at the sigils.
"I believe," he said softly, "that something else did."
The torches flickered blue-white.
The water around the girls began to hum—
a soft vibration, like the beginning of a spell.
Dumbledore moved fast.
"Get them out. Now."
Snape nodded instantly.
Cassian scooped Shya up in his arms without hesitation, panic etched into every line of his face.
Roman lifted Talora, careful and desperate, holding her as if she might dissolve in his grip.
Their familiars remained unconscious on the floor.
When Snape reached for Pandora, she twitched—
a faint glow sparking in her fur.
Haneera's golden eyes fluttered, then dimmed.
"Severus," Dumbledore warned, "be delicate."
"I am delicate," Snape snapped, but his voice trembled.
He lifted Pandora and Haneera both, one arm under each, and rose steadily.
The chamber lights flickered.
For a moment, the girls' sigils glowed brighter—
almost blinding.
Fawkes let out a distressed cry.
Dumbledore raised his wand.
"Go!"
They didn't run—
They fled.
The chamber shuddered behind them, stone groaning, as if the very walls rejected the magic that had just been born inside them.
Water sloshed.
The torches blew out.
A distant rumble shook dust from the ceiling.
They tore through the tunnels, slipping on stone, hearts pounding.
Cassian clutched Shya closer with every step, whispering under his breath:
"Stay with me. Stay with me. Please—"
Roman pressed Talora's head into his shoulder to keep her safe from the walls, his breath shaking.
Snape's robes billowed behind him as he carried both familiars, jaw set in grim determination.
Dumbledore walked last, wand held high—
not to lead the way,
but to watch the shadows behind them.
For the first time in years,
the Headmaster of Hogwarts
looked genuinely afraid.
Madam Pomfrey nearly screamed when they burst inside.
"What—what on earth—?!"
"Prepare isolation beds," Dumbledore said, voice unsteady but authoritative.
Pomfrey cast half a dozen diagnostic spells.
Every single one shattered on contact with the girls' skin.
Sparks flew.
Sheets trembled.
Windows cracked.
Pomfrey staggered back, gasping.
"What—what ARE they?!"
No one answered.
Shya's hair floated slightly above the pillow, as if drifting in invisible water.
Talora's eyelashes glowed gold.
Their palms were lit with symbols the room itself seemed unable to dim.
Haneera and Pandora were placed at their feet—both unconscious, breathing shallowly as the first faint signs of metamorphosis began beneath their fur.
Cassian refused to leave Shya's bedside.
Roman refused to leave Talora's.
Snape stood stiffly at the foot of the room, unable to stop touching his left arm—the arm the basilisk once bit—as if the echo of that old wound hummed in reaction.
Dumbledore stared at the girls with haunted eyes.
He did not recognize the sigils.
He could not recall why they felt familiar.
Only that seeing them again made something deep in his chest ache.
He whispered, to no one:
"…I pray Hogwarts can contain what they have become."
The torches flickered.
Outside, snow fell silently.
Inside, ancient magic hummed beneath two sleeping girls, pulsing like the heartbeat of something waking for the first time in centuries.