Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The prologue 

The storm had not ceased for three days. Lightning forked endlessly across the night sky, striking the ancient towers of Estervale Keep, the ancestral home of one of the oldest wizarding bloodlines—forgotten by many, but feared by those who still remembered. Wind howled through the broken battlements, as if mourning alongside the man kneeling alone in the Great Hall, heart shattered beyond repair. Elias Esterwale, last of his name, bore a soul unlike any before or after. While most witches and wizards would be blessed to find one soulmate in their lifetime—tied to them by a faint, magical thread visible only through a rare, ancient spell—Elias bore four threads, each pulling in a different direction, each leading to a destiny that could reshape the world. And together, they had. In the golden age of magical awakening, Elias's soul-threads had led him to the four visionaries who would become the Founders of Hogwarts: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. Each soulmate connection was a sacred bond, more than love, more than fate. A soulmate's thread shimmered with the color of their magic, and when the hearts drew close, the thread would become almost tangible—like a ribbon of starlight, pulsing in time with both heartbeats. The closer the souls were, emotionally and physically, the stronger the thread became. Those bound by such threads shared glimpses of each other's thoughts in moments of vulnerability. They could sense one another's emotions across vast distances. Their magic, when combined, was exponentially more powerful—ancient spells whispered that soul-bonded witches and wizards could alter reality itself in moments of perfect unity. Elias had never expected to bear more than one thread. In fact, most believed it impossible. But fate had chosen differently. When the five of them met, it was as if the world stopped. The bond they shared—the power, the love, the ambition—they shaped it into something eternal: a castle forged of stone and spellwork, carved into a Scottish cliffside and hidden from the unworthy. A place where magic could be passed on, protected, and nurtured. Hogwarts. But soulmates are not always aligned in purpose. In time, ideals clashed. Godric believed in courage and righteousness. Helga, in kindness and equality. Rowena sought knowledge and intellect above all. Salazar... he believed magic must remain pure. That Muggles, and those born from them, posed a threat. Elias had tried to keep them together—torn by love for each of them. But the division ran deep, and the threads that once shimmered in harmony now tugged against one another like fraying rope. Salazar had grown quiet. Distant. The once fiery devotion he'd held for Elias faded into something darker—resentment, perhaps. Jealousy. Or worse, heartbreak. In the end, Elias made a choice. He stood beside the three who still believed in unity. He believed that the future of magic must be inclusive, not isolated. That love was not meant to be used to conquer, but to build. And so, Salazar left. No duel. No words. Just silence... and the echo of four threads stretched painfully thin. Elias had hoped time would heal the breach. That Salazar would return. But one moonless night, with no wand in hand and no spell to save him, Salazar Slytherin ended his own life, severing the thread in the cruelest way possible. The moment it snapped, Elias collapsed to the floor, screaming as if the soul was being ripped from his chest. Nothing in the magical world compared to the severing of a soulmate bond. It wasn't just emotional—it was spiritual. It left scars no healing charm could touch. The pain became a phantom inside the heart, echoing for the rest of one's life. And for Elias, that life would not last much longer. He stood now in front of a small cradle—a silver-haired child sleeping peacefully within, the last legacy of a love that had broken history itself. The baby, his and Salazar's son, cooed softly in his sleep, unaware of the centuries of burden that already wrapped around his destiny like invisible chains. Elias leaned over the cradle, brushing the boy's soft cheek with a trembling hand. His own threads, once vibrant and beautiful, now glowed dim and brittle. Helga was gone. Godric and Rowena had drifted apart. And now Salazar... The light was gone from the world. "You'll never know them," Elias whispered. "But I pray... one day, someone will remember." And with that, Elias Esterwale vanished. Some say he walked into the Forbidden Forest and never returned. Others claimed he turned himself into starlight and joined the echoes of his soulmates in the wind. What remained was silence. The Esterwale name faded into whispers—rumors, ghost stories told by old pureblood families. But fate never forgets its chosen. And far in the future, as a new war rises, a girl will awaken bearing not one... but five soulmate threads. Her name is Ella Esterwale. And the threads are pulling again.

Ella Esterwale did not know where she came from.

She had never heard the name Esterwale uttered in her presence, nor seen it etched into stone or whispered with reverence in shadowed corridors. To her, she was simply Ella, raised in the warm, chaotic home of Eliza Maren, a woman who wore ink-stained clothes and smelled faintly of oil paints and cinnamon.

The story of her birth was always the same.

Her mother, Sarah Whitmore, had been an art student in university, wild and kind and filled with light. Her father, Joshua, was the heir to an old business empire in London—quiet, thoughtful, and secretly obsessed with horses and archery. An unlikely pair to outsiders, but inseparable once they met. They had married young, and shortly after, Ella was born under a spring sky in a cottage surrounded by wildflowers.

There are some memories Ella could not recall—but the ones she had were soft and golden.

The warmth of her father's arms as he guided her hand on a bowstring.

The laughter of her mother as she painted Ella's tiny palms in red and pressed them against a canvas.

The music of the countryside—the wind, the birds, the creaking saddle of her pony.

And then... nothing.

She was two years old when the car accident happened. Sarah and Josh had gone into town for a rare evening out. A drunk driver. No survivors. No relatives to claim Ella. The trust fund her parents left behind ensured she would be well cared for, but money couldn't decide who would love a child.

It was Eliza who stepped forward.

Sarah's closest friend—an artist in her own right, barely out of her twenties and utterly unprepared for motherhood. But something about that solemn little girl with the silver-flecked eyes made her stay.

"It was like looking into a mirror made of stars," Eliza often said.

The first few years were... awkward.

Eliza was impulsive, chaotic, and ill-equipped for parenting. Ella, on the other hand, was calm. Serious. Wise in a way that unsettled most adults. She never cried for no reason. She observed everything. She asked questions no child should ask.

But somehow, they worked.

Eliza grew into a mother, and Ella grew into something between a daughter and a quiet guardian. They built a strange but beautiful home together in London. Paint-splattered walls. Late-night tea. Bookshelves stuffed with fantasy and mythology. Warm fires and quiet mornings. No one ever told Ella she wasn't loved.

By the time she turned ten, Eliza's career had started to blossom. Her art—a haunting blend of surrealism and emotion—caught the attention of gallery curators across Europe. When she was invited to exhibit her work in a private gallery in southern France, Eliza had hesitated.

But Ella, standing in the kitchen with her legs crossed and tea in hand like a little philosopher, had nodded and said, "Let's go see something new."

So they went.

A small town near Avignon, where lavender fields stretched like oceans and old stone houses whispered stories through their cracks. Their home was a converted mill, its high windows flooding with morning light. Eliza painted in the loft; Ella read in the garden, or wandered the riverbanks with a sketchbook.

She was eleven now. Still quiet. Still silver-eyed. Still... different.

She hadn't noticed the way animals seemed drawn to her. Or how her emotions sometimes sparked strange flickers of wind. Or how, at night, she would dream of places she had never seen—vast halls of stone, four towers, a ceiling of stars.

Nor had she noticed the faint shimmer beneath her skin.

The thread.

A soulmate thread is not always visible. Not unless called forth with ancient magic, or when another soulmate is near. But when one is born bearing multiple threads, fate has a way of bending the world around them.

And in the sleepy stillness of a lavender evening, five threads—thin as whispers, bright as lightning—began to stir from Ella's heart, reaching out across the world.

Unseen. Unfelt.

But not for long.

That evening, a knock echoed through the old wooden halls of their countryside home.

It had rained earlier, and the lavender outside still glistened with droplets. Eliza opened the door to find the same man who had spoken to them briefly after the playground incident. He stood politely, raincoat draped over one arm, a briefcase in the other.

"Ms. Maren," he said gently. "May I come in? I know this is unorthodox, but... I believe we need to speak. About Ella."

Eliza hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I promise, I mean no harm. I'm not from the government. I'm... something different," he added with a small, tired smile.

Something about the way he said it convinced her. She stepped aside.

The fire crackled in the living room. Ella sat on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, clutching a book—though her eyes hadn't moved across the page in minutes. Eliza brought them tea as Richard sat across from them in the armchair.

"My name is Professor Richard Voclain," he began. "I teach at an institution called Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, located here in France."

Eliza blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"

"You see," he continued gently, "there is a world hidden within your own. A world of magic. Wizards. Witches. Creatures you've only heard of in fairy tales. That world is real."

He glanced at Ella, then back at Eliza.

"Your daughter is part of it."

Silence.

Ella lowered her book. Eliza looked pale, almost frozen.

Richard reached into his coat and pulled out a slender stick—a wand—and with a small flick of his wrist, the teacups gently lifted off the table and hovered in the air, steam curling in the candlelight.

Eliza gasped, grabbing the armrest.

With another wave, the cups returned, untouched.

"I know how mad it sounds," Richard said softly. "But what happened at school wasn't a trick or a fit of emotion. It was raw, untamed magic. And very strong magic, at that."

Eliza swallowed hard. "You think I'm... what? Some kind of witch?"

Richard shook his head. "I assumed you might be Muggle-born—a non-magical person born with magic. But it appears Ella's power didn't come from you."

He looked at Ella with a furrowed brow, as though searching for a puzzle piece.

"Which makes me wonder where it did come from. Her magic is... old. Deeply rooted. Not the kind we often see anymore."

Ella's voice was a whisper. "So I'm... not normal?"

Richard turned to her gently. "You're magical, Ella. And there's nothing wrong with that. Quite the opposite."

Eliza leaned forward, voice shaky. "So what now? What does this mean for her?"

Richard smiled. "It means she has a choice. Beauxbatons is a school where children like Ella learn to harness their gifts. We teach potions, spells, magical creatures, magical history... I teach Potions, myself."

"Potions?" Ella whispered, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"Like science, but with a touch of wonder," he replied, grinning.

He set a parchment envelope on the table. Elegant silver script shimmered across its surface.

To Miss Ella Whitmore,

The Watermill House, Avignon, France.

"I'll leave this with you," he said. "Talk it over. There's no rush. She'd be welcome at the academy when the term starts this autumn."

He stood. "Thank you for your time, and your hospitality."

And then, with one final, deliberate flick of his wand, the fire in the hearth flared a brilliant blue and then returned to normal. Just like that, he was gone into the night.

The house fell into silence after the door closed.

Ella stared at the letter.

Eliza watched her carefully, her mind swirling. Her artist's brain—built to dream, to imagine—was trying to stitch reality back together.

Ella looked up. Her eyes were wet.

"Eliza..." she whispered. "Are you scared of me now?"

Eliza blinked. "What?"

"I—I'm not normal. I'm weird. I talk to snakes. I throw people without touching them. What if..." Her lip trembled. "What if you don't want me anymore?"

The words pierced Eliza like a blade.

"Oh, Ella."

She rushed to the couch, dropping to her knees in front of her. She cupped the girl's cheeks in her hands.

"Listen to me," she said, voice thick. "I don't care if you're magical, or normal, or from Mars. You are mine. You are my heart, Ella. You're the reason I get up in the morning."

"But everything makes sense now," Ella whispered. "The weird things... the voices... the way people stare. I thought I was broken."

"You are not broken," Eliza said fiercely. "You are extraordinary."

A tear rolled down Ella's cheek, and Eliza wiped it gently.

"You think I'd ever stop loving you? Because you're special?" She pulled her into a hug, cradling her tightly. "Nothing—nothing—could make me stop."

They stayed like that for a long time.

Ella, silent and warm against her chest. The rain tapping against the window. The silver-lettered envelope glowing softly in the firelight.

In that moment, for the first time in years, Ella didn't feel like she was drifting.

She felt seen.

The carriage ride through the cobbled alleys of the French magical quarter was something out of a dream—or a fevered hallucination. Ella's nose was practically glued to the frost-dusted window as she watched the world bloom in strangeness outside.

Floating streetlamps flickered like soft will-o'-the-wisps. A trio of witches in velvet cloaks paused at a chocolatier, steam rising from cups that stirred themselves. Overhead, a brass sign twisted with its own mind, advertising broom enchantments with animated flair. The magical community wasn't hiding today. It was very much alive.

Eliza, sitting beside her, clutched her coat tighter around herself, trying to appear unfazed. But Ella could feel her godmother's hand trembling slightly where their fingers touched. Richard, ever the calm and charming guide, gave a small smile. "Welcome to Rue des Énigmes. Paris' lesser-known magical street. Quieter than Diagon Alley, but older. Some shops here go back to Merlin's time."

Ella didn't answer, couldn't. Her heart was too full. She couldn't believe this was real.

Magic wasn't just some secret tucked away in her heart anymore. It was in the air, the cobblestones, the scent of spell-laced pastries and leather-bound spellbooks. It was here. Waiting.

Their first stop was the wizarding bank, La Banque Mystique, the French counterpart to Gringotts. It lacked goblins—who, as Richard explained, maintained exclusive banking rights in Britain—but instead employed stern, impeccably dressed magical bureaucrats called "Les Veilleurs." A tall, narrow-eyed wizard helped Eliza convert Ella's trust funds into magical currency. He offered no smile, only a stiff nod and a ring-stamp of approval.

Ella received a small enchanted coin pouch that whispered totals when tapped twice. "Secure, warded, and charmed for inflation protection," the wizard muttered. "Your funds are now accessible throughout France's magical regions. Next."

Then came the wand shop.

It didn't have a name. Just an elegantly worn sign that read:

"Baguettes Anciennes - Artisan des Liens Perdus"

Richard explained softly, "Old Wands—Wands of Forgotten Bonds. Very old, very particular. Heirloom-level quality."

Ella stepped in—and the world changed.

The air was thick with dust and something far more electric. Shelves towered to the ceilings, filled with thin boxes stacked so tightly they resembled books in an ancient library. The scent was a blend of oak shavings, dragon oil, and the sort of stillness that only old magic holds.

An elderly wandmaker with white eyebrows like curled feathers greeted them politely, though distractedly. "Bonjour. Please, don't touch anything. Wands choose their—"

A crash.

A thunderous crash.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of boxes tumbled down from the farthest shelf. A low gust of wind swirled from nowhere. The wandmaker's eyes widened.

"Oh non..." he whispered, shuffling past them with surprising speed. "What in Merlin's name..."

But before he could reach the pile, a single wand box, ancient and covered in a film of time, floated slowly through the room. The dust surrounding it shimmered like flecks of starlight. The box hovered, humming, and stopped inches in front of Ella.

It opened itself.

The wand inside was beautiful—its wood pale as moonlight, wrapped with the slightest spiral of silver that shimmered when tilted. When Ella reached out, something ancient and warm surged into her chest.

The hum of recognition.

The wandmaker gasped. "Impossible..."

After a long silence, he cleared his throat and turned to Richard and Eliza. "This wand... has never accepted anyone. It was made over three centuries ago by my great-great-great-grandfather and another guest wandmaker—Gervaise Ollivander."

Richard blinked. "Ollivander?"

"Yes, from Britain," the old man said. "They worked together once. The wand was made from vine wood, traditionally associated with deep intuition. The feather of a rare northern owl was meant to balance it, but the two cores rejected each other again and again. The wand would splinter, fray, burn."

He opened the box wider. The wand's core shimmered with complexity. "They added veela hair—and still it failed. Until one day, Ollivander brought something forbidden: a twin dragon heartstring, from two bonded dragons. Against all logic, all alchemy... the wand accepted it."

"They stored it away, afraid of its instability. But now..." His gaze fixed on Ella, voice reverent. "It has chosen you."

The air in the room felt sacred.

Ella held the wand—and the magic in her blood sang.

The first few days at Beauxbâtons were like stepping into a painting that moved.

Perched in the Pyrenees, the school was a grand chateau of pale marble and endless towers, surrounded by enchanted gardens and whispering forests. Floating staircases, crystalline chandeliers, and glass halls that shimmered with illusion made every hallway a new discovery.

Ella was placed in Maison de l'Étoile, one of the school's three Houses, known for ambition, charm, and discipline. She fit like starlight in the night sky.

She made friends quickly—her dormmates Léa and Mireille, both half-bloods, adored her. Léa was clever, prone to sarcastic wit, while Mireille was a Veela quarter-blood with a soft spot for magical creatures. They clicked over shared laughter and spell misfires.

Ella thrived.

Her spells were precise, her charms elegant. She was a natural with potions—thanks to Richard's early guidance—and displayed eerie talent in magical dueling. She even took to magical theory with a curiosity that impressed her professors. Though quiet, she wasn't shy—her silences were thoughtful, magnetic.

And then—Quidditch.

It was autumn when Ella first mounted a school broom and everything inside her stilled into place.

The wind against her face, the rush of air, the tilt of balance—it was freedom. Like horseback riding with wings. Her hands remembered her father's guidance, the way he'd adjusted her posture and whispered: "Feel the wind. Let it carry you."

She joined the House team as a Chaser by second year. Her aim was frightening. Her passes sharp. She moved like wind curved to purpose.

Crowds chanted her name.

Ella Esterwale, the half-Muggle prodigy who flew like she'd been born in the sky.

Yet for all the wonder, Ella's heart always belonged to one place: Eliza.

Whenever breaks came, she'd run into her godmother's arms, stories tumbling from her like coins from a bursting pouch. Eliza would listen, paint-streaked fingers tucked under her chin, pride beaming from every feature.

They would spend lazy afternoons in the garden behind their cottage—Eliza sketching while Ella practiced floating pebbles or sending enchanted paper cranes dancing across the sky.

Sometimes they'd argue, as all families do. Ella would storm off. Eliza would sigh and bake bread. But by sunset, Ella would curl into her side, whispering: "I don't want anyone else. Just you."

"I know," Eliza would say. "Just me, then."

Three years passed.

Ella grew. Sharpened. Softened. Bloomed.

She learned to speak to snakes in private and kept it secret. She dreamt sometimes of strange, burning places. Of threads tugging at her chest. But she told no one.

She was Ella. Bright. Fierce. Loved.

And though she did not yet know the storm that awaited her, the threads had already begun to weave.

Chapter Text

I woke up in the middle of the night again—another nightmare.

It had been happening ever since I came home for break. Every time I slept, I felt like someone was calling me, pulling me downward, like I was underwater. My lungs would tighten. My chest would ache. I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t know what it meant.

I sat up in bed, the silence around me pressing in from all sides. The room I’d lived in since coming to France was unchanged—soft lavender walls, a single oak desk, books scattered over the surface. The familiar sight brought a tiny sliver of comfort. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet.

My eyes searched the nightstand. There it was. My wand.

I sighed, staring at it.

Its origin had always been a mystery. When I first received it, I had been too new to the wizarding world to question anything. But now—now that I had studied wandlore, now that I knew how wand alchemy worked—it raised more questions than answers. Four different core elements… combined in one wand. I hadn’t read of such a thing anywhere. It should’ve been impossible.

My heartbeat, which had been frantic just moments ago, was slowly settling. But sweat still clung to my face. I got up and walked to the bathroom attached to my room, flicking on the light as I entered.

The tiles were cold—far colder than the wooden floor of my bedroom. The chill sent a shiver through me.

I leaned against the bathroom sink, my fingers curling around its edge as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My blue eyes looked tired. Shadows had formed under them. Even tonight, I hadn’t slept properly. My shoulder-length black hair was a mess, tangled from tossing and turning. I ran a hand through it, lost in thought.

It always lasted like this—an hour or two after waking from the nightmare. That lingering feeling.

But I never remembered the dream itself. Just the sensation. It was… odd.

Sometimes, I wondered if I even belonged in the wizarding world. Being Muggle-born was hard enough—but then came these strange feelings, things no one else seemed to experience. The prejudice wasn’t as harsh in France as I’d heard it was in other places, but even here, whispers followed me. Whispers about the “dirty blood” in my veins.

Apparently, magical people still hadn’t figured out how human anatomy actually worked.

I was fifteen now. When I was thirteen, during my Christmas break after my first year at school, I received another letter—this time from Hogwarts. The famous school in Britain.

I had just returned home when the owl flew in. Eliza had screamed when it appeared out of nowhere, flapping wildly and refusing to leave. I’d come running downstairs to find her swinging a spatula at the bird, shouting like a madwoman. The sight had been hilarious, but I was smart enough not to laugh. Eliza held a grudge like no one else and had plenty of embarrassing stories about me to use as payback.

The owl dropped the letter in my hands and darted back out.

I opened it, half-expecting it to be a mistake. It was an invitation to attend Hogwarts. But something was wrong. The letter was addressed to "Ella Esterwale."

That wasn’t my name.

I was Ella Jones-Whitemore—Jones from my father, Whitemore from my mother. Either they’d gotten the surname wrong, or this was for someone else entirely.

In any case, I wasn’t going back to London. France was my home now. My home with Eliza.

My mother and father were little more than distant memories. My life now revolved around Eliza, magic, and occasionally—Richard.

Richard was technically my teacher, but over the years, we had grown closer. He was reserved, but had a quiet mischief about him that made him more human. A little more like a father than a professor. When I returned to school for my second year, I told him about the letter.

He hadn’t seemed surprised. Most Hogwarts letters arrived when a witch or wizard turned thirteen, he explained. And since I was from England, it made sense that I'd receive one. He even said it wasn’t unusual that no professor had come to explain things to my Muggle parents—though it still felt strange to me.

He asked to see the letter.

When I handed it to him, his expression shifted. Something about it disturbed him. He stared at the parchment longer than necessary, and I couldn’t read what he was thinking. I was only fourteen—too young to understand.

Not long after, Richard left for London. Said it was for a business school visit. I didn’t know what to make of it. When he returned, the topic of the letter was dropped, and everything went back to normal.

Over the years, I’d become close to Richard. He often guided me through Potions, a subject I excelled at naturally. I worked hard—not because I had something to prove as a Muggle-born—but because I didn’t want to fall behind. Still, I wasn’t buried in books all the time. I made room for flying and friends, too.

And then there was Eliza and Richard.

Something was going on between them.

Richard had always been drawn to her. I had been too little to notice before, but now, at fifteen, I understood these things better. The way he looked at her. The way her eyes softened when he entered the room.

I smiled to myself, almost choking on the thought as I splashed cold water on my face. My breath caught from the shock of it.

I had no idea what time it was. The urge to cast Tempus rose in my chest, but I held back. I still wasn’t allowed to perform magic outside school.

So I stayed there, gripping the sink, staring at my reflection in silence. Waiting for the feeling to fade.

The feeling eventually faded. I returned to my room. After drying my face, I looked toward the window. It had started to brighten. Hmm… I guess it might be around 5 in the morning. I knew I wasn’t going to fall back asleep, so I decided to go out for a run.

Keeping myself busy always helped with this feeling, and running was my favorite activity. I changed into my track pants and a sports T-shirt, pulling on my sweatshirt since it felt chilly outside.

I grabbed my iPods from the table. Honestly, some parts of Muggle technology were far better than the magical options available. I loved Muggle music compositions.

I knew Eliza would wake up a bit later.

I went downstairs—third stair from the bottom had a little creak, as usual. I headed to the door and put on my shoes. We lived in a good neighborhood. Just two houses on our street, spaced well apart with plenty of road to jog around.

I put on some AC/DC and started vibing to the music. Rock was currently my favorite thing to listen to. There’s just something about it—it brings out this raw, untamed energy in me. Helps me focus on one thing at a time. I have a bad habit of multitasking way too much.

After a couple of miles, I was starting to sweat despite the cold wind. The weather was better today. Usually, it would snow around this time, but for the last two days, the skies had been clear. My legs started to sting with the burn of a good workout.

I returned home. Eliza still hadn’t woken up. I guess it was one of those days where she sleeps in. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading back to school. Fourth year already.

Things were starting to get exciting—some of the topics I’d been studying on my own would finally be taught this year. I was looking forward to it. I’m fifteen now.

I went back to my room and took a hot shower. The heat from the water warmed me up, and I was feeling much better than how the day had started.

I went down to get breakfast started. Something simple like scrambled eggs would do… but then I remembered it was my last day at home. I decided to go for the pancake mix instead. Eliza had a sweet tooth.

Making pancakes for each other had become our kind of thing. I was on my third pancake when I heard Eliza’s footsteps.

"Good morning, sunshine," Eliza said sleepily, still yawning.

"Good morning. Looks like today’s one of those days where you sleep till noon. Good to see you up early though. I made pancakes." I smiled a little.

"Hmm, smells good. I was working on a piece last night—it took me long enough, but I’m still not satisfied. Let’s see how it turns out though," she said, walking toward the kitchen counter—definitely going for coffee.

"You want coffee?" I asked.

"Yes, please. Black for me."

"Oh, I know, Ella. Your love for black coffee… I honestly don’t know how you drink that—ugh."

"Oh come on, it’s not that bad. Better than your overly sweetened sugar-water. Coffee only kicks when you take it black."

"Whatever you say."

I took the pancakes and eggs and arranged two plates—one for me and one for Eliza. Eliza had already poured coffee for me.

"Mom, I’ll be back at school tomorrow."

I rarely called Eliza “mom.” It usually only came out when things were about to get heavy. She was already looking toward me, listening.

She sighed. "Yeah, I know, Ella. I just… miss you. My paintings keep me busy, but it’s difficult when I’m all alone with my thoughts."

"I know, Mom. I was planning on going shopping today. I need a few supplies for school. You mind coming with me? I was also thinking about getting a pet."

"Of course. Let me get ready, then we can go. But let’s not get any weird animal as your pet, okay? You magic people have some strange ideas about what counts as a pet."

"Okay, Mom," I laughed. I somewhat agreed with Eliza on this one. I mean… who keeps a frog as a pet?

The morning air in the magical market district was crisp and buzzing with energy. Sunlight filtered through enchanted lamps that floated lazily overhead, casting warm glows over shop windows filled with levitating quills, shifting cloaks, and singing teacups. I always loved this part of the city—half cobblestone charm, half organized chaos.

Eliza walked beside me, sunglasses perched on her head and a loose shawl draped over her shoulders. She had this artsy vibe that made her look like she belonged in a perfume ad. I was about to say something when a familiar voice rang out over the chatter of the crowd.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite troublemaker.”

I turned around to see Professor Richard—his coat half-buttoned, his glasses slightly askew, and that same crooked smile on his face.

“Kiddo,” he nodded at me. “You’re taller.”

“You’re shorter,” I shot back, grinning.

He laughed. “Still cheeky, I see. That school hasn’t ironed you out yet.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Eliza stepped up beside me, and I swear, the air shifted.

“Good morning, Richard,” she said, smoothing her shawl. Her tone was polite but softer than usual.

“Morning, Eliza,” Richard replied, standing a little straighter, his hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets. “You, uh, look… well.”

I raised an eyebrow at Eliza. She narrowed her eyes at me in warning.

“Oh-ho,” I said under my breath, just loud enough. “Someone’s blushing.”

Eliza elbowed me in the ribs gently. “Shush.”

Richard looked between us, flustered, clearly catching the exchange but pretending he didn’t.

We were just about to step into La Boutique Magique—a supply shop I loved for its enchanted parchment that never smudged—when the sound of voices suddenly escalated. People nearby turned, and instinctively, the three of us did too.

A man was running toward us, his face pale with panic. But it wasn’t just his expression that caught my eye.

There was a string—thin, red, glowing faintly—coming from the center of his chest, fluttering in the air like it was being tugged forward. He wasn’t just running aimlessly. He was following something.

The crowd parted slightly as a young woman came from the opposite direction, scanning faces frantically. The string from the man’s chest extended straight to her—connected. Vibrating softly, like it was alive.

Then they saw each other.

The man stopped abruptly, chest heaving. The woman gasped, covering her mouth. Then, in a heartbeat, they collided in a tight, desperate hug. Tears streamed down their faces. Laughter and sobs mixed together.

Around us, people whispered. Some smiled. Some looked away, almost painfully.

“They’re soulmates,” I heard someone say.

The couple clung to each other for a long moment before slowly walking away, hand in hand. The string faded into a warm shimmer and disappeared.

I stood frozen, eyes wide. I turned to Richard, my mouth open. “What was that?”

But Richard wasn’t looking at me.

He was staring at Eliza. And not just staring—longing. His expression was so raw, I felt like I’d walked into something private.

He blinked suddenly, catching my eye, and his composure returned with a sheepish smile.

“They’re a pair of soulmates,” he said simply.

I blinked. “Wait. That’s real? Like—real real?”

Eliza looked just as stunned as I felt.

Richard nodded, pushing his glasses up. “Very real. In the magical world, most witches and wizards are born with a soulmate. It’s believed Muggles might have them too, but without magic, they can’t see or feel the thread.”

He glanced toward where the couple had disappeared. “Each pair is connected by an invisible string—a thread of magic that links their souls. There’s a spell that can reveal the direction of your soulmate, but it only works if they’re close enough. The thread begins to fade if the soulmate is too far for too long.”

“That’s… kinda tragic,” I murmured.

Richard shrugged. “Some people feel a pull when their soulmate is near. Some never get that far. It’s rare. And incredibly lucky.”

“Why don’t they teach this in school?” I asked. “I’ve never heard a single professor mention soulmates.”

“Oh, they do,” Richard said. “It’s just one of those things everyone in the magical community kind of grows up hearing. The spell to sense the thread—it’s usually taught around your fourth or fifth year. You’ll learn it soon.”

Eliza cleared her throat. “Have you… ever followed your thread?” she asked softly.

Richard looked caught off guard. He scratched the back of his neck, gaze dropping. “Uh… not exactly. I mean… I feel her sometimes. Like… like a warmth in my chest. But I’m not sure. It’s complicated.”

I turned to Eliza. Her expression was carefully neutral, but I could read the flicker of something behind her eyes—disappointment, maybe. But she smiled anyway.

Huh.

I let the silence linger for a moment before breaking it. “So… hypothetically… if I did the spell and my soulmate was like three continents away, would I have to move?”

Richard chuckled. “You could always write them a letter.”

“Romantic and practical,” I teased.

But inside, I was buzzing. Soulmates? Threads? Hidden magic tied to love and destiny? This was a whole part of the world I didn’t know existed—and I wanted to know everything.

I touched the center of my chest absentmindedly, wondering.

Could someone out there feel a pull toward me too?

Chapter Text

The soft chime of a bell echoed overhead as we stepped into the familiar shop—a cozy, sprawling space nestled between two bakeries that always smelled like cinnamon and spell oil. The air inside was warm, rich with straw and feathers, and laced with the musky scent of magical creatures. The walls were lined with cages and enchanted perches, softly glowing stones, and wooden crates that occasionally rattled with mystery.

“Good morning!” came a voice from behind a cluttered counter. The shopkeeper was a short, balding wizard with wiry spectacles and a smile too wide for his face. “Welcome to Beaux Créatures! What brings you in today?”

“We’re here for a familiar,” I replied, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Ah! An important choice, Mademoiselle. A familiar is more than a pet—it’s a bond, a magical link. We’ve got several categories: aerial companions, magical rodents, amphibians, felines, and the rare and curious ones.” He gestured theatrically toward the aisles, where tiny signs hung like floating lanterns.

Eliza leaned closer to me and whispered loudly enough for Richard to hear, “As long as it’s not a three-headed snake or a glittering goblin-rat, I’ll survive this trip.”

I snorted. “You’re no fun.”

“I like breathing,” she said with a laugh, already wandering toward the feline section with Richard. I noticed how her hand accidentally brushed his. Again. And again. Hmm.

Eliza turned a corner, only to let out a loud yelp—“AH!”—and practically jumped into Richard's chest when a snowy owl flapped its wings and hooted with disdain.

He caught her, steadying her by the shoulders. Their eyes locked. His hands lingered. She cleared her throat and backed away. “You could have warned me,” she muttered.

“You were very… focused,” he said, smiling nervously.

I rolled my eyes. “Merlin’s beard, just kiss already,” I muttered under my breath and walked off, pretending to be fascinated by a cage of puffskeins.

I wandered deeper into the shop, letting the background noises blur behind me—Eliza’s protests, Richard’s chuckles, the shopkeeper humming to himself. I passed past the felines, ignoring a haughty Kneazle who turned his head away from me, and paused near the avian section. Hawks, ravens, owls… all magnificent, but none stirred anything inside me.

Until I felt it.

A strange warmth flickered at the edge of my awareness. Like a candle had lit inside my chest, burning toward something just around the corner.

I followed the pull, heart thrumming. And there—nestled in a simple wooden box lined with soft wool—was a tiny creature. Barely feathered, small enough to curl in my palm. It didn’t even look up when I approached, just huddled there, shivering slightly under the golden heat-lamp.

“Oh,” I whispered.

The shopkeeper must have followed me. His tone softened. “That one… hatched three days ago. A rare kind—phoenix-falcon hybrid. Only one egg in the clutch. The mother died before the hatch. Since then, the poor thing’s barely touched food. I honestly thought we’d lose it. No spark left.”

But the moment I knelt down and reached out—just my fingertips brushing the side of its downy chest—the hatchling stirred. Slowly, it blinked open one bright, deep orange eye. Then another. A croaky, broken chirp escaped its beak.

And it leaned into my touch.

The connection was instant. My throat tightened, something unexplainable blooming inside me. No magic surged, no grand light show… just a quiet, soul-deep certainty.

“I’ll take him,” I said gently.

“Are you sure?” the shopkeeper frowned. “He’s weak. He might not make it through the week.”

I nodded. “He will.” I didn’t explain how I knew. I just did.

Eliza and Richard appeared beside me, their previous awkwardness replaced with concern.

“He’s beautiful,” Eliza said softly, crouching beside me.

“Stubborn little thing,” Richard muttered. “Reminds me of someone.”

I shot him a look. “Don’t get sentimental, Professor.”

The shopkeeper handed me a parchment scroll with care instructions and a tiny satchel of enchanted seed mix. I paid in coins I’d tucked away over the summer, refusing Eliza’s offer to cover it.

“He’s mine,” I said simply.

As I cradled the bird in the crook of my arm, he chirped again—clearer this time. His head lifted, and for just a second, his down shimmered like starlight.

The shopkeeper chuckled. “Well, would you look at that. He’s claimed you, too.”

I smiled down at him, feeling that odd, fluttering warmth again. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

The bird chirped again. Just once.

We stepped out of the shop into the golden glow of late afternoon. The streets were quieter now, the earlier soulmate commotion faded into memory. In my arms, the baby bird nestled into the folds of my coat, his warmth seeping through the fabric and into my chest like a tiny ember trying not to go out.

Richard walked beside us, hands shoved in his pockets, stealing glances at Eliza when he thought no one noticed. Of course, I noticed. She did too.

“So,” Richard said, clearing his throat. “Tomorrow, then? Fourth year already. You’ll do well, Ella.”

I smiled, hugging the bundle in my arms a little closer. “You say that like I won’t accidentally hex someone on the first day.”

He laughed. “Just don’t hex me.”

“No promises, Professor.”

Eliza nudged him playfully. “She’ll behave. Probably.”

We stopped at the edge of the Floo portal, where the warm green fire danced inside the tall hearth that would take us back home. Eliza turned to Richard. “Thanks for walking with us.”

“Of course. Always,” he said, softer this time.

They both paused. Stared. Smiled awkwardly.

I coughed. Loudly.

“Anyway,” I said. “I should name him.”

They both looked down at the bird in my arms. He was half-asleep now, breathing softly, his tiny chest rising and falling beneath pale, featherless fluff.

“I think I’ll call him… Ray.”

“Ray?” Eliza asked.

I nodded. “As in ‘Ray of Hope.’”

Richard’s smile turned wistful. “That suits him. And you.”

Ray stirred, blinking up at me, and I swear I felt something—a pulse, a recognition, like his soul was threading itself into mine.

“See you tomorrow,” I told Richard as Eliza and I stepped toward the fireplace.

He nodded. “See you, Kiddo.”

I rolled my eyes fondly.

With Ray nestled securely in my arms and Eliza beside me, we stepped into the green flame, vanishing in a flash of firelight.

Something felt... off.

Not wrong. Not bad. Just... different.

I stood by the window of Eliza’s flat, watching the early morning fog creep across the cobbled streets of the magical quarter. Paris was quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that pressed gently against your ears, like the world was holding its breath.

Ray stirred softly in the basket beside me, tucked into a nest of wool and dried lavender. He still looked fragile—thin, with downy feathers that hadn’t quite grown in—but his breathing was stronger now. Steadier.

And yet... my own heart refused to match his calm.

It fluttered restlessly, like a trapped bird, each beat whispering, something is coming.

I didn’t know what. Or why. I only knew that something in me had shifted. A sense of being watched by the world, or fate, or maybe just the stars. I pressed a hand to my chest and stared into the mist.

“Ella?”

Eliza’s voice pulled me back.

I turned. She was already dressed for the day, hair swept up in a loose bun, wand tucked into her sleeve. She looked calm, but I noticed the pinch around her eyes—the kind you get from pretending not to be sad.

“It’s time,” she said softly.

I nodded, throat tight.

We’d already packed my trunk. My books, robes, cauldron, wand. Ray’s tiny enclosure was enchanted to travel safely. Everything was ready. Still... I lingered, my feet feeling strangely heavy.

Eliza knelt beside Ray, brushing a gentle hand over his head. “He’s stronger already.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “He’ll be okay. I think he likes the sun.”

“You’re like that too,” she said, smiling faintly. “Always looking for light.”

We stood in front of the enchanted mirror in the hallway, the one that acted as a portal for students traveling to Beauxbatons. Only registered students could pass through; it shimmered now, the glass rippling like the surface of a lake under starlight.

Eliza sighed, brushing my curls back with her fingers. “Fourth year. You’re growing up too fast.”

“Still your kid though,” I muttered.

She pulled me into a hug. “Always.”

I hugged her tightly. “I’ll write every week. Maybe more.”

“You better.”

We held on for a moment longer. Then, before either of us could cry, I stepped back, adjusted Ray’s basket under my arm, and took one last breath of home.

“See you soon,” I said.

And with that, I stepped through the mirror.

---

The moment I crossed, a rush of warm air and mountain wind greeted me.

I was back.

Beauxbatons Academy of Magic sat nestled in the cradle of the Pyrenees, sunlight dripping through frost-dusted peaks and evergreen trees that swayed as if welcoming me home. The grand castle sparkled in the early light—towers rising high, draped in flowing blue and silver banners. It was beautiful. Familiar. And yet... that strange tightness in my chest hadn't gone away.

The enchanted stone path beneath my boots lit softly as I walked toward the main courtyard, Ray peeking out from under the folds of his carrier.

“Ella!”

A high voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned just in time to be tackled by two sets of arms.

I laughed as I nearly lost balance, stumbling into a hug that smelled like vanilla, cedar, and far too much enchanted hair oil.

“Camille! Jules!” I gasped.

Camille Lefèvre grinned, her curly dark hair bouncing as she stepped back, hands still on my shoulders. “You’re taller. Ugh. Rude.”

Jules Marchand was quieter, but smiling. “And you have a bird?”

I held up Ray’s basket. “His name’s Ray. He’s recovering. Be nice.”

“Oh! You got a familiar!” Camille gasped. “Was it your first choice?”

“Actually... he chose me.”

Camille made an exaggerated swoon. “Of course he did. That’s very you, Ella.”

“I missed you two.”

“We missed you more,” Jules said quietly, his soft green eyes warm. “It’s good to have the trio back.”

We linked arms and headed toward the castle together, the wind catching the hem of our robes.

But as I laughed with them, I still felt it—that invisible thread, tugging at something deep inside me.

Breakfast in the Grand Hall was a feast as always. Loaves of warm bread, enchanted fruits that peeled themselves, and floating pots of jam and honey drifted lazily down the tables, offering themselves like polite ghosts. Teachers sat at the head, a long curved table that overlooked the students below.

Richard caught my eye as he sipped from his always-overfull coffee mug. He gave me a subtle wave, and I responded with a salute using my croissant.

Students were arriving in clusters, both returning and new. The first years sat at the far end of the long marble tables—nervous, fidgety, and clinging to their satchels like lifelines. Beauxbâtons didn’t sort students into Houses. We were taught everything together—no divisions, no labels. Just talent and effort.

Still, it was easy to tell who was new.

Among them, one girl stood out.

A little blonde girl, perhaps eleven. Delicate, pale, eyes too sharp for her age. Her hair glowed like snow under sunlight, and when she looked around, she didn’t seem overwhelmed like the others. She seemed… aware. Like she was listening to a secret conversation the rest of us couldn’t hear.

Her gaze flicked across the room—and landed on me.

I froze. Just for a moment.

Then she looked away.

And the strange tug in my chest returned.

Chapter Text

The wind was sharp and fragrant with pine as we made our way across the east lawn to the magical creatures paddock. Professor Maillard stood tall at the front, his robes fluttering as he gestured to the large creature beside him—a majestic hippogriff.

Its feathers gleamed silver-blue in the morning sun, eyes sharp and intelligent. Around me, other fourth-years murmured in awe, while the first-years clustered behind the low wooden fence, eyes wide and nervous.

“This,” Maillard announced, “is a hippogriff—creatures of dignity and pride. They demand respect. Bow first. Wait. If they bow back, and only then, you may approach. Otherwise… well, ask your classmates from last year.”

The older students chuckled.

I shifted, adjusting my stance in the grass. A few fourth-years whispered about who would be first to try a greeting, but my attention wandered.

That’s when I saw her.

A small girl, maybe ten or eleven, standing just behind the front row of first-years. She had pale blonde hair tied with a sky-blue ribbon, and a robe that looked slightly too large for her narrow frame. Her fingers clutched the strap of her satchel tightly.

She wasn’t watching the hippogriff.

She was watching me.

Her gaze was wide, uncertain. Like she was studying me—but didn’t quite understand why.

I blinked, puzzled.

“Ella, you’re up,” someone whispered beside me.

But before I could move, Jean—ever the show-off—stepped forward, chest puffed out like a rooster. He bowed too quickly, barely respectful. The hippogriff snapped its head back in warning.

“Step away slowly,” Maillard warned.

But Jean panicked. He stepped back too fast, stumbled—then, from the crowd, someone stupidly hurled a stone at the beast.

The hippogriff shrieked, fury erupting from its throat as it tore free from its tether. Wings snapped open with a blast of wind. First-years screamed. The beast charged—

Not toward Jean.

Toward the watching crowd.

Toward her.

I saw her freeze, eyes wide in fear, as students around her scattered like birds.

The girl tried to run, but her foot caught the edge of her robe. She fell hard to the ground.

My feet were moving before I thought.

“Move!” I shouted, shoving through the crowd, wand clutched in one hand.

She was on the grass, arms covering her head. The hippogriff thundered closer.

I sprinted and slid to a stop in front of her, raising one hand and bowing low to the beast.

“Easy,” I whispered.

The hippogriff huffed, wings still tense, but it stopped—watching me carefully. I bowed again. Slowly, the beast dipped its head back, accepting the gesture.

Behind me, I heard Professor Maillard muttering spells to contain it.

I turned to the girl. She was trembling, eyes glassy with unshed tears. A scrape bloomed on her left knee, blood trickling down her leg.

I knelt beside her. “Hey,” I said softly, “you alright?”

She blinked up at me, cheeks pink. Then she nodded—barely.

“What’s your name, little one?”

She hesitated, then stammered, “F-Fleur.”

“Fleur,” I repeated gently. “Pretty name. You’re bleeding. Let’s get you to the infirmary, alright?”

She gave another small nod. I helped her up, letting her lean on me as we walked off the training ground, past wide-eyed first-years and whispering students.

Fleur said nothing, but every few steps, I felt her glancing up at me.

Her grip on my sleeve was small and light. But she didn’t let go.

And somehow… I didn’t mind.

I barely saw Fleur after that day with the hippogriff.

We’d pass each other sometimes—in the greenhouse tunnels, or near the enchanted stairwells. Every time, her eyes would widen, her cheeks turning the color of soft strawberries, and she’d whisper a shy “Hello, Miss Ella” like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to speak louder.

I’d smile back, maybe wave, maybe say, “Hi, Fleur.” That was all. But there was something in the way she looked at me. Something quiet and strange, like curiosity wrapped in silk.

We didn’t talk much, but… I remembered her.

---

A week later, our Advanced Enchantments class shifted focus to something entirely different.

Professor Lute arrived, her long dark cloak trailing starlight as she wrote on the board in sweeping gold letters:

Filamentum Animae
The Soul Thread Spell.

“The moment has come,” she said, turning to face us. “This is the spell that reveals the threads that connect your soul to others. Not everyone who performs it will see threads. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It means you must cast the spell correctly. Concentration is everything.”

The entire classroom went still.

My chest tightened.

I’d heard about this spell before—in stories, whispered myths, romantic books. But now it was real. We were really going to learn it.

Professor Lute handed out enchanted scrolls with the full spellwork.

---

Spell Name: Filamentum Animae
Incantation: “Vincta Cordium Revela”
Gesture: A spiral out from the heart, palms open.
Focus: Picture what connection feels like—not a person. A bond. Let the soul respond.

---

Over the next few days, the classroom was filled with glowing threads and breathless gasps.

Saira, with her ever-bright energy, managed a flickering baby-blue thread on the second day.

Jules—who always pretended not to care—saw one thread extend all the way to the music corridor and stared after it like she’d seen a ghost.

Me?

Nothing.

I tried. I really did.

Again and again, I traced the spell, spoke the words, visualized that tug inside—the need to belong, to be seen, to be known.

But nothing happened.

No threads. No light. No shimmer.

Just the hollow feeling of failing while everyone else moved ahead.

By the fourth day, I was exhausted. I couldn’t hide my frustration anymore. I slammed my scroll shut before class even ended and muttered something about fresh air before storming out.

I felt like something inside me was broken. Like I didn’t belong in this world—not really. Everyone else could reach out and see who they were meant to find. But not me.

Saira and Jules tried to cheer me up that night with sweets and stupid jokes, but my heart wasn’t in it. I gave them a weak smile and told them I was tired.

I skipped dinner.

And when the lights dimmed in the dorm and the castle settled into sleep, I grabbed my wand and cloak and slipped out the back stairwell.

---

The highest tower of the academy is rarely used at night.

It’s quiet there. Still.

The wind was biting when I stepped onto the open balcony, and the stone beneath my feet was cold, but I didn’t care. From here, I could see everything—the starlit sky stretching forever, the fields and forest below washed in moonlight. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

I stood at the edge, took a long breath, and whispered, “Vincta Cordium Revela.”

Nothing.

Again. Louder. With more focus. “Vincta Cordium Revela.”

Still nothing.

I tried again.

And again.

I didn’t know how long I kept going—maybe hours. My arms ached. My voice was hoarse. The stars shifted above me.

I bit my lip to keep from crying. “Please,” I whispered. “I just want to know I’m not alone in this world. That someone… anyone… is out there.”

One more time.

I drew the spiral from my heart, opened my palms, and whispered with everything inside me:

“Vincta Cordium Revela.”

The wind held still.

And then—light.

A faint shimmer bloomed from my chest, soft as morning fog.

I gasped.

One thread appeared.

Then two.

Then four.

They stretched from my heart like delicate beams of magic—bright, alive, glowing.

One to my right—golden and steady.
Two directly ahead—one crimson, one silver.
And one curling off to the left—slender, quiet, pale.

I froze. My heart hammered in my chest. I couldn’t breathe.

Four threads.

Four soulmates.

I didn’t even know that was possible.

And then—just like that—they vanished.

I stared at the space where they had been, my skin tingling, my pulse racing.

The first rays of the sun crept over the distant hills.

The tower bells chimed the hour.

And I ran—barefoot, cloak flying behind me—down the stairs and across the halls, searching for the one person who might understand what I’d just seen.

Richard.

I didn’t stop running.

My feet pounded against the old stone floors of the academy corridors, breath catching in my throat. The sun hadn’t risen fully, and the castle was still half-asleep, but I didn’t care. My heart was thundering, my mind spinning.

Four threads.

I had seen four soul threads.

It shouldn’t be possible.

I reached the east faculty wing, nearly slipped on the last step, and bolted straight to the wooden door with a bronze nameplate:

Professor Richard Whitmore

I banged on it hard. “Richard! Richard, please!”

Light shifted beneath the door. I heard hurried footsteps. A lock clicked.

The door swung open—and Richard stood there, robes loose, hair ruffled from sleep, wand in hand, eyes sharp with alarm. “Ella?! What happened—are you hurt?”

“Richard,” I gasped, but the words jammed in my throat.

His eyes scanned my face, and when he saw the tears there, something in him cracked. He pulled me into the room without another word and shut the door behind us.

“Tell me. What is it?” His voice was steady, but I could see it—the worry, the panic flickering behind his eyes.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and tried to speak, my voice breaking. “We—we learned the Soul Thread Spell today. Filamentum Animae.”

He froze.

Just for a second. But I noticed.

His jaw clenched, eyes widening a fraction—like I’d said something dangerous.

“You did?” he asked softly.

I nodded. “Everyone else got something. I couldn’t… not for three days. I thought something was wrong with me.” My voice dropped. “But I tried again. Tonight. I went to the high tower. I kept casting it. Again and again. I—”

I swallowed.

“Richard,” I whispered, “I saw four threads. Not one. Not two. Four.”

His expression didn’t change—but his hands slowly lowered to his sides. I saw it again—his breath hitching, his eyes scanning me like he was seeing me for the first time.

“Can you show me?” he said at last, voice gentle. “Please. Cast the spell again.”

I nodded.

My heart was still racing as I stepped into the middle of the room. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and brought my palms to my chest.

“Vincta Cordium Revela,” I whispered.

The magic flared instantly.

It burst from me like a living light.

Four threads surged from my heart—luminous, alive.

I opened my eyes and looked down at them, shimmering in the low light of the office.

The first thread to my right was gold—rich, warm, and glowing like sunlight.

The second, stretching directly ahead, was silver—cool, sharp, steady.

The third, beside it, pulsed crimson—vivid and intense, like blood and fire, flickering like a heartbeat.

And the last thread, curling to the left, was pale lavender—soft, whispering, barely visible, like moonlight over snow.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Each thread hummed with its own kind of energy. A different pull. A different rhythm. I didn’t even know how I knew that—but I did. I felt them.

Richard stood frozen, staring at the threads.

He moved closer—studying each one like it might vanish if he blinked. His lips were parted slightly, breath shallow.

“Four…” he murmured. “By the stars…”

I looked at him, voice trembling. “What does it mean? Am I broken? Or cursed? Or—”

He turned away and sat down heavily in his reading chair. For a long moment, he said nothing. He just looked down at his hands.

“Richard?” I whispered. “Please.”

He looked up.

And I saw it in his eyes—something deeper than concern. Guilt.

He rubbed his hands over his face and then leaned forward.

“Ella,” he said quietly. “There’s something I need to tell you. And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I thought I was protecting you. I truly believed you weren’t ready, that keeping it from you would keep you safe. But you’re not a little girl anymore. And I can’t hide this from you anymore.”

My mouth went dry. “Hide what?”

He looked at me—straight into my soul.

“Your name,” he said. “Your real name… is not Ella Jones. Or Ella Whitmore.”

He leaned forward, voice almost breaking. “You are Ella Eastervalle.

Chapter Text

“My name is what?” I whispered, staring at Richard like he’d lost his mind.

“Estherweil,” he said softly. “Your real name… is Ella Estherweil.”

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. My body trembled, mind scrambling for air. “No. No, that’s not possible,” I said, rising to my feet. “My parents were Diana Jones and Whitmore. I’m Muggle-born! I’ve always been—”

“I know what you’ve been told,” Richard said gently. “But it’s time you knew the truth.”

My voice cracked. “What truth?”

He sighed and walked over to his cabinet, pulling out a deep blue folder, aged at the edges, sealed with wax that shimmered like starlight. He placed it in front of me.

“Do you remember when your Hogwarts letter arrived?”

I nodded, slowly. “It came late. Glitched. You said it was a clerical error.”

“I lied,” he said. “Hogwarts letters are never wrong. So I went there myself to investigate. I met with Dumbledore.”

My heart skipped. “The headmaster?”

“Yes. And when I told him your name, his face changed. Because he knew it. The name Estherweil is buried in the oldest magical texts, in the lineage charts no one talks about. The Estherweils were one of the oldest and most powerful magical bloodlines to ever exist.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“But… they vanished. Completely.”

“Yes,” Richard said gravely. “Because they had to.”

He opened the folder and showed me an old family tree. Names faded with time—but one stood out: Elias Estherweil.

“He was your ancestor. And he was born with something almost no one in history has ever had—four soul threads. He was connected to four different soulmates, Ella. Four. And each of those soulmates was powerful in their own right. But one of them was Salazar Slytherin.”

My breath caught.

“Yes, that Salazar. Founder of Slytherin House.”

“But… he—he died,” I stammered. “By suicide. No one knows why.”

“They do,” Richard said, voice heavy with ancient sorrow. “But they don’t speak of it. You see… Elias chose someone else. Not Salazar.”

I blinked. “You mean—he didn’t choose Salazar as his bonded soulmate?”

Richard nodded. “Salazar believed in keeping magic pure—between those born with it. The others Elias was connected to had different beliefs. Elias refused to choose purity over love.”

I pressed a hand over my chest.

“Salazar couldn’t bear it. He believed that if Elias wouldn’t stand with him, then Elias stood against everything he built. So… he ended his life. In grief. In rage. In betrayal.”

I sank back into the chair, my hands trembling. “That’s why the Estherweils vanished?”

“Yes. After Salazar’s death, the magical world fractured. Rumors swirled. People feared another soul-weaver would emerge. So they hunted the Estherweils down, scattered their legacy. Buried it.”

Richard paused, his eyes fixed on mine.

“And then… you were born.”

I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff I hadn’t even known existed.

“There’s a prophecy,” Richard said softly. “It speaks of a descendant of Elias Estherweil—a girl born with four soulmates once again. She will rise when the magical world stands on the edge of war.”

I felt cold all over. “War?”

“Yes. The signs are already there, Ella. Lord Voldemort is stirring again. His ideologies are seeping through the cracks, just like before—purity, fear, hate. There’s another prophecy about the child who will defeat him. But the truth is, these two prophecies are linked. Your choices… the bonds you make with your soulmates… they will shape the very war to come.”

I couldn’t speak.

“You must be careful,” he said. “No one can know you have four soulmates. If they do, they’ll either try to control you—or destroy you before your bonds form.”

He stood again, this time retrieving a small black velvet box.

Inside was a shimmering silver chain holding a pendant of onyx, runes swirling just below its surface.

“This,” he said, “is a soulveil. It will hide your threads from others and even from yourself. It won’t break them—but it will shield them. Until you’re ready. Until we are.”

He held it out to me.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered.

“I know,” he replied.

I took it.

And as the pendant settled against my skin, I felt it—the threads vanish like smoke in the wind. That terrible emptiness again.

“I’m going to train you,” Richard said quietly. “To defend yourself. To feel magic in your bones. You’re strong, Ella. But now… you need to become unbreakable.”

I nodded, barely able to hold back the flood in my chest.

“Richard,” I whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it all. My hands were clenched at my sides, my chest tight with something I couldn’t even name. “I want to be with them. My soulmates. I… I feel like I’m incomplete without them. How can I live like this? How can I go on pretending I’m whole when I’m not?”

His eyes softened with that quiet kind of grief—the kind that only comes from watching someone you care about break.

“I know, Ella,” he said, walking toward me slowly. “I know.”

I shook my head, tears threatening to fall. “You don’t understand. I can feel one of them. I think she’s here. In Bouxbaton. In this academy. I think her name is Fleur. I’m not sure… but I feel her, Richard. I feel her near me. It’s like—like something in my chest leans toward her every time I’m around her.”

He froze for a heartbeat. “Fleur?” he asked, almost too carefully.

“She’s one of the younger students. New batch. She’s quiet. But I—I don’t know how to explain it, I just know.”

“Oh, Ella.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry. But you can’t let her know. Not now. Not yet.”

My breath hitched. “But why?”

“Because you're not ready. And she’s definitely not ready. You need to hide it, Ella. You must. That necklace—the one I gave you—it's not meant to sever your threads. We would never do that. It's meant to shield them.”

I touched the silver chain around my neck, the cold onyx pressing into my collarbone like a silent promise.

“Will I still feel them?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he said softly. “And they will feel you. But they won’t be able to see the thread. Not unless you remove the pendant. The tracking spells, the ancient soulmate binding rituals—they won’t work on you now.”

I swallowed hard. “So Fleur won’t know.”

“No. But the thread will still pull. Quietly. And maybe… that’s enough for now.”

I nodded, even though it felt like my heart was splintering.

“Promise me something, Ella,” Richard said, voice suddenly firm. “Promise me you’ll wear that necklace at all times. No matter how much it hurts. Promise me you’ll protect your secret.”

“I promise,” I said. “I’ll wear it. I won’t take it off.”

He exhaled slowly, some weight lifting from his shoulders. “Good. Because starting tomorrow, things are going to change.”

I glanced up at him, confused.

“I’m going to introduce you to a few of my old friends,” he said. “Witches and wizards who served as Aurors during Voldemort’s first rise. Some from France. Some from Britain. They’ve seen the worst this world has to offer, and they survived. I trust them.”

He gave me a meaningful look. “You will be trained, Ella. Properly. Defense, spellwork, magical sensing, even combat. You’ll continue your regular schooling here at Bouxbatons… but beyond the curriculum, you’ll train with me—and with them.”

“Why?” I asked. “To protect myself?”

“To protect everyone,” he said. “You’re not just Ella Jones anymore. You’re Ella Estherweil. And your thread is tangled in the fate of this world. You were born for more than just surviving. We need to make sure you’re ready to fight.”

I nodded, slowly, fingers still curled around the pendant.

Somewhere in this school… my soulmate was walking the same halls.

And I couldn’t even tell her.

Richard’s hand was warm on my shoulder as the hidden stone door slid open.

The chamber beyond felt alive—walls etched in glowing runes, air sharp with wards old enough to remember the last war. Four figures waited in the center circle, their eyes tracking me like hawks.

Richard cleared his throat. “Ella, these are the people who’ll help keep you breathing.”

He pointed first to a slim woman in a slate-grey dueling coat.

“Capitaine Éloïse Moreau—former Head of French Magical Threat Response. Curse-breaker, shield-master, and the reason half the dark cults in Marseille are dust.”

Éloïse inclined her head. Her steel-blue eyes missed nothing.

Beside her stood a tall wizard with copper-brown skin and quiet intensity.

“Commandant Théo Bellerose—French Recon black-ops, wandless specialist. If you blink, he’s gone; blink twice, he’s behind you.”

Théo offered a small, courteous bow. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle Estherweil.”

Richard’s voice dropped into something equal parts respect and exasperation.

“From Britain—Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. Veteran Auror. Legendary paranoia. He’s forgotten more about dark wizards than most people ever learn.”

Moody’s magical eye whirled; the normal one pinned me. “Constant vigilance, girl.”

“And finally,” Richard smiled, “Nymphadora Tonks—”

“Just Tonks,” she chirped, hair cycling bubble-gum pink as she waved. “I’m Moody’s trainee, not a full Auror yet. Here to learn and maybe cause minor property damage.”

The four of them formed a semicircle. No pity, no doubt—only appraisal.

Richard leaned close. “They know who you are. They’ll protect you. Trust them.”

Moody rapped his staff-cane once. “Talk later. Test now.”

He stepped into the dueling ring. “Wand out, Estherweil.”

My pulse spiked. I tugged on my borrowed dueling coat, drew my wand, and nodded.

“Rules?” I asked, voice steadier than I felt.

“Stay conscious,” Moody said, grin like a scar.

---

Sparring Trial

“Begin.”

A red streak—Stupefy—sizzled toward my chest before I’d inhaled.

“Protego!” I barked; the shield held but the impact numbed my arm.

I countered with Expelliarmus, rolled right, fired Incarcerous.

Moody split the ropes mid-air, flicked a silent hex; purple sparks scorched my sleeve.

“Good reflex,” he muttered. “Footwork’s late.”

I pivoted, murmured Ventus!; a gale whipped across the floor, forcing him to plant his wooden leg. Théo’s low whistle echoed off the warded walls.

Moody’s reply was a rapid three-spell chain—Petrificus, Confringo, Bombarda—that hammered my shields until pain rang in my wrists. I staggered but stayed up.

I feinted left, slashed my wand, conjured twin silver blades of Sectum-arcana (illegal, but Richard had shown me the theory). Moody barked a laugh, banished them into sparks, and in the same breath dropped low, sending a sweeping leg-hex that yanked my feet from under me.

I hit stone hard, vision doubling.

“Up,” he growled.

I sprang—too slow. Expulso detonated beside me. The concussion ripped air from my lungs and sent me skidding. Blood tasted like iron.

Still breathing. Still fighting.

I forced myself upright, drew deep, flung Protego Totalum with every scrap of will. The dome flared brilliant—then buckled under his next curse, cracking like ice.

Moody flicked his wand; ropes of blue energy cinched my wrists and knees. I struggled once—twice—strength gone.

“Enough,” Richard called.

Magic fizzled; the bindings fell. I dropped to hands and knees, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes.

Moody offered a scarred hand. “You’re raw,” he said, “but there’s fire in you. Gave me better grief than most trainees.”

I took his hand, muscles shaking. “Still lost.”

“For today,” he corrected. “We’ll fix that.”

Éloïse stepped forward, conjuring a cooling charm over my bruises. “Endurance is built one scar at a time, petite étoile.”

Tonks knelt, grinning. “Welcome to boot camp, Estherweil. We break you; we build you; then you terrify the bad guys.”

Richard squeezed my shoulder—pride and protectiveness warred in his eyes. “Training starts at dawn,” he murmured. “And dawn is five hours away.”

I wiped blood from my lip, met Moody’s storm-bright stare, and nodded.

“Let’s hunt some shadows,” I said.

The days bled into each other like old parchment soaking in ink—familiar, heavy, and stained with purpose.

A year had passed.

Three hundred and sixty-five days since Richard had first placed the necklace around my throat, the ancient runes pulsing against my skin with magic meant to hide me—from fate, from prophecy, from those who’d tear the world apart just to use me.

Three hundred and sixty-five days since I had begun the training that would unmake me—and shape me into something stronger.

Mornings started before the sun. Duels with Moody that ended in bruises. Silent movement drills with Théo in dark, fog-thickened forests. Hours of concentrated spell work under Éloïse’s watchful gaze. Nights studying battle histories and dark curses with Tonks, our laughter rare but precious.

I learned.

I bled.

I survived.

And yet… a part of me felt like it was slowly drowning in silence.

---

At school, I smiled less. My friends still invited me to meals, whispered jokes in the library, nudged me during classes. I answered. I listened. I laughed, sometimes. But I was not the same.

I couldn’t be.

They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know that magic hummed under my skin in ways ancient and wild. That I bore the blood of Elias Estherweil, the soulbound legend. That I had four soulmates—and one of them walked these very halls.

Fleur.

Every time I saw her—a fleeting smile across the courtyard, a polite wave in Potions, the glimmer of unspoken warmth in her bluebell eyes—it felt like being torn in two.

Her presence was soft, like moonlight sneaking in through curtains. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t chase me. But she noticed. She always noticed.

And I…

I always turned away.

Because I had to.

Because the necklace would hide me from detection spells, but not from recognition. Not from the soul's knowing.

Because if Fleur knew what we were...

She’d be in danger.

Just like the rest.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the Room of Echoes—the hidden cavern where we trained—I would press my forehead to the cold stone walls and let the tears fall.

I wanted to speak to her.

To sit beside her in the courtyard.

To ask her what she dreamed of.

To tell her who I was.

But I couldn’t afford that softness. Not now. Not yet.

I told myself it was worth it. That pain today would mean protection tomorrow. That love, if real, would survive the wait.

And so I bore it. The ache. The silence. The distance.

When spells grew too heavy in my bones and my wand hand trembled from exhaustion, I reminded myself:

“You are their shield.”

“You will take every curse before it reaches them.”

“You were born with fire. Use it.”

I whispered Fleur’s name into pillows and cast silencing charms around my bed. I imagined what the others were like—my unknown soulmates—what they were doing, what dangers they were walking into without even knowing I existed.

Every drop of magic I mastered, every ounce of strength I gained—it was for them.

So that when fate came knocking, I would not flinch.

I would stand.

And they would live

Chapter Text

It had been two years since the training began.

Two years since I let go of childhood.

Two years of blood, fire, silence, and secrets.

And now—I was strong.

I could deflect three curses in a blink. Break down spells in the time it took someone to blink. Heal deep wounds, brew perfect antidotes, and slip into dark magic theory like silk.

Moody no longer held back in our duels.

He couldn’t afford to.

Because I could hurt him now.

Because the world I was preparing for wouldn’t hold back either.

But strength came at a cost.

There were days I barely remembered how to laugh without first checking who was watching.

How to rest without guilt clawing at the edge of my mind.

How to look Fleur in the eye without my soul screaming to reach for her.

And yet—she was still there.

Always nearby.

Always glowing in some quiet corner of the world.

Still trying to offer me small smiles, lingering glances, soft hello’s in the hallway that I always pretended not to hear.

Until today.

---

It had been a long day. The kind that sat heavy on your shoulders before it even began. The air was damp with that strange, perpetual mist that never fully lifted from BoxFeathers Academy. It clung to the stone walls and softened the edges of everything—like the world had blurred just enough to keep you disoriented.

I walked alone through the east courtyard, the leather strap of my satchel biting into my shoulder. I had a book in my arms—an old Defense text Alastor insisted I reread, annotated in his terrifying handwriting—and a headache that pulsed behind my right eye. Everything smelled like rain-soaked ivy and stone.

And then I heard it.

Not yelling, exactly. But that particular silence that meant something cruel was being said. A ring of students had gathered near the old stone well. They weren’t laughing, but they weren’t stopping anything either. That silence—the cowardly kind, the kind that wraps around you when you want to pretend you’re not watching—cut through me sharper than any curse.

I didn’t even have to see her to know it was Fleur. It's like I knew her whereabouts all the time. Fluer delacour, hier to veela clan .

Still, when I did, my breath caught in my throat.

She stood with her back to the well, arms stiff at her sides, her wand lying abandoned on the stones. Her face was pale, drawn. That shine in her eyes—it wasn’t from Veela magic. It was the look of someone trying very hard not to cry in front of people who’d love nothing more than to watch her shatter.

A tall boy stood in front of her. His voice was too loud, performative. “You think you’re better than everyone? Huh? common just a date you don't have to act like you don't want to. I see how you use your magic to attract boys”

My hand tightened around the spine of the book.

He didn’t stop. “Look at her, pretending she’s all innocent. She’s got magic crawling under your skin like poison. That’s what she does.”

Fleur didn’t move. Not a flinch. But I saw the way her knuckles whitened.

And I snapped.

The book hit the stone with a soft thud as I crossed the courtyard in long strides, not even thinking. My wand was in my hand before I realized I’d drawn it.

“Back away from her,” I said.

My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the crowd like a slicing spell.

The boy blinked. “What—?”

“I said back off.”

He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Ella, Remember it.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Just a moment. And then, without breaking eye contact, I raised my wand.

“Dardolentia.”

The curse hit him square in the chest. Not dangerous. Just painful enough. He yelped, stumbled backward, and landed hard on the stones.

No one laughed.

I stood there, wand still raised, until he scrambled up and skulked away, rage burning in his cheeks. The ring of students dispersed quickly—no one wanted to be the next target. Good. Let them run.

I finally turned to Fleur. Her hands were shaking now. She looked even smaller close up. But her eyes met mine with an intensity that startled me. I bent, picked up her wand, and offered it to her.

She took it with a trembling hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” I said, quietly. “You were crying.”

“You saved me… again,” she whispered, and my chest clenched.

“I’ve seen you before,” she continued. “The greenhouse. Last year. I never forgot that. I wanted to find you.”

I nodded slowly.

She smiled through her tears. “I’m Fleur.”

“I know,” I said, before I could stop myself. My voice was too soft. Too revealing.

She blinked at me. “You do?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how damp my sleeves were. “You… told me your name ,” I muttered. It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Fleur tilted her head. “You... you used to avoid me.”

“I what ?" I was shocked of her accusation. I wasn't without blame but I thought I was subtle . I guess not

She looked at me for a long moment. " Before you used to nod or smile whenever we passed by, but later it was like you would find ways to run away whenever I was near"

I swallowed the ache forming behind my sternum.

Her speech pace grew ,I can tell she was nervous " I am sorry may be I was wrong, I mean why would you avoid me we are not friends of anything, merlin you should think me self obsessed,it just that I .. "

"Fluer stop, it's ok I don't think like that about you okay?. I just was going through some stuff back then . I has nothing with you ok" i lied. How could I tell her that I was her bonded on and was binding it because just being bonded to me could bring her lot of trouble.

“Can we… be friends?” she asked, her voice hesitant, hopeful.

I stared at her hand, held out like a peace offering. I should’ve said no. I should’ve walked away. I’d spent the past year building walls to protect her—from the world, from what I knew, from myself.

But her hand was warm. And her eyes were so full of trust it made my throat burn.

So I took it.

“Friends,” I whispered.

And for the first time in a long, long time… I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

“So next week all students are going to Village ,maybe we can meet there .I want to properly thank you ,” she said .

"You don't have to"

"No ,please I want to" she said firmly

“Alright,” I replied. “But it’ll be my treat.”

She beamed.

We agreed on a time. She walked away with a bounce in her step, and I stood there, trying not to smile.

Failed.

As I made my way back, heart far too light, I didn’t see the way Fleur had paused behind me. Still standing. Still watching.

Rooted to the spot as if something precious had just begun.

The corridor was quieter than usual when I returned. Pale light filtered through the enchanted windows of the East Wing, casting long golden streaks over the polished stone floor. I could still feel the last traces of anger buzzing under my skin from earlier — that boy, the way he had sneered at Fleur, like she was some creature to be hunted, not a girl already weighed down by enough.

As I rounded the corner, I spotted them — Adèle and Linette — sitting cross-legged on the carpeted window ledge, their half-finished notes floating lazily around them, quills stuck behind their ears like little plumes of mischief. They looked up the moment they saw me, and I didn’t even get a word in before Adèle raised an eyebrow.

“Where were you?” she asked, eyes sharp with curiosity. “You vanished right after Practical Potions.”

“I—” I exhaled, dropping into the space between them. “Fleur. She was being cornered by some boys near the Tower Hall. I stepped in.”

Linette’s eyes widened. “Wait. Fleur as in Fleur Delacour?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

Adèle nearly dropped her ink pot. “Ella, do you even know who she is?”

I shrugged, not quite in the mood for theatrics.

“No, I’m serious,” she said, voice hushed now. “She’s not just any girl. She’s the heir to the French Veela clan. Her mother is on the High Council, and her grandmother was part of the resistance during the last war. You don’t mess with Veela blood.Thise boys are going to pay a lot  If her family finds out—”

“I know,” I cut her off gently. “But she was alone. And scared. I couldn’t just… walk away.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Linette leaned closer with a wicked little smile. “So... Ella. Be honest. You have a crush on her, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, shut up. Don’t start.And she is 2 year younger than me ”

“So what ,Just saying,” Adèle teased, bumping her shoulder into mine. “It’s always the brave rescues that lead to something more.”

“Nothing like that,” I muttered, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Now, are we going to History or not?”

We headed down the curved stairs toward the lecture hall, the air getting heavier with the dull hum of conversation. Magical History class was as painfully dry as ever — today’s lecture was on goblin rebellions in the late 1300s. I could probably recite the whole thing backwards in my sleep. Professor Mélieux’s voice had that slow, sandpaper tone that made time crawl, and every few minutes, I caught Adèle trying to stifle a yawn behind her ink-stained sleeve.

Halfway through, Linette leaned in and whispered, “You’re still coming to the weekend trip, right? I want to get chocolate frogs before they sell out again.”

Adèle added, “And I need a new phoenix feather quill. The old one’s moulted like mad.”

I hesitated, scratching idly at the corner of my parchment.

“I… am going. But not with you two.”

Adèle’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Oh?”

Linette grinned. “Wait, wait. Don’t tell me. You’re going with Fleur.”

I tried not to blush. “It’s not like that. She just… wanted to thank me.”

“Sounds like a date,” Linette singsonged.

“Shut up,” I muttered, feeling heat rise in my cheeks as I ignored their smug looks and turned back to my notes.

---

Saturday morning arrived with a quiet kind of chill in the air — the kind that lingered in your bones even after the rain had passed. The skies above were clear, a crisp blue stretching over the castle roofs, and the cobblestone paths glistened faintly from last night’s drizzle.

I was early.

I always am, especially when I’m nervous.

The clock tower above the Square rang out its heavy bells, echoing across the lane. Ten-fifty. We had agreed to meet at Le Vieux Chêne, the little wooden-roofed café at the far end of the magical village — part sweet shop, part tavern, always warm inside.

I rubbed my hands together and breathed into them. I’d pulled on a pair of high-waisted blue jeans and a fitted V-neck top under my grey jacket. Simple. Muggle. Practical. The wind tugged gently at my hair, shorter now — just brushing my jaw — and as I stood there, I caught my reflection in the frosted glass window. My eyes looked… expectant. Like they knew something I didn’t want to admit.

Then I saw her.

Fleur, walking up the lane with three other girls, their laughter echoing softly through the street. Her pale blonde hair shimmered in the light like threads of silver silk, swaying with her every step. She wore a cream wool coat and a soft blue scarf looped delicately around her neck. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I saw her laugh — a real one, head tilted slightly back, eyes lit up.

I wished, quietly, that I could be the reason for that kind of smile.

She spotted me before I could look away. Said something to her friends and then made her way toward me alone.

“Salut,” she greeted, soft and warm.

“Hey,” I smiled. “You’re early.”

“So are you.”

I gestured to the door. “Shall we? Though we’re too young for wine or butterbeer, sadly.”

Fleur chuckled. “I know. I’m not that naïve.”

Inside, Le Vieux Chêne was glowing with golden light. The air was rich with cinnamon and roasted caramel. A few students from our year were already tucked into corner booths — some gave me polite nods, others smiled faintly. I nodded back but didn’t stop.

Fleur and I took a seat at a table near the fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows on the polished floor, and a low buzz of conversation wrapped around us like a cocoon.

She noticed the thick book I had brought. “Advanced Magical Defense? That’s… not light reading.”

I shrugged, sliding it aside. “I like to stay prepared.”

“You always read during village trips?”

“Only when I’m not being interrogated by my friends,” I said, and she smiled again.

She hesitated, then asked, “So… what do you do for fun?”

“Quidditch,” I said easily. “And music. I listen to a lot of muggle rock.”

Her eyes brightened. “Do you miss it? The music, I mean?”

“Not really,” I said, fishing my iPod from my jacket pocket and placing it on the table. “I’ve figured out how to make it work, even with magic interference. Little charm. Bit of trickery.”

She leaned forward, eyes wide. “That’s incredible.”

I didn’t say anything. Just watched her, the way the firelight reflected in her eyes. There was something about her — not just beauty, not just magic. A kind of loneliness, maybe. The same kind I carried.

“I like poetry,” she said after a pause. “And dance. Not many people know that.”

I smiled. “You’re more artistic than you let on.”

She tilted her head. “And you’re more nerdy than I expected.”

We both laughed

We sat like that for a while — trading stories, quiet jokes, little glances. The hour slipped by so quickly I barely noticed.

“I had a good time,” Fleur said as we stood at the café door. “Thank you. For today. For… before.”

I looked at her — truly looked. “Anytime.”

As we parted, I felt something curl warm in my chest. I didn’t dare give it a name. Not yet.

---

The moment I stepped back through the academy gates, the spell of that morning broke. The pitch was already buzzing with noise — Quidditch practice in an hour. And then Richard had summoned me for something after dark. Something important, no doubt, involving Aurors and contingency plans and secrets I still hadn’t uncovered.

I exhaled slowly.

The weight returned.

Fleur would be starting her fourth year soon, and I’d be moving into my sixth. Final exams. War preparation. There was too much to balance, and Fleur — Fleur was light in a world that was growing darker by the day.

And she didn’t know.

Didn’t know about the soulbond. About me. About us.

I just hoped — begged the threads of fate — that she hadn’t learned the bonding thread spell yet. I wasn’t ready. Not for that.

Not yet.

Later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I let myself think of Eliza. I missed her — her warmth, her wisdom, the way she always knew what to say when my heart felt like it would tear itself open.

And then there was Richard.

Him and Eliza.

Something between them I didn’t quite understand, but I had my suspicions.

The quiet of night makes my mind wonder. Who my other soulmates would be? Richard said that there is high chance that they might be on opposite side of war. Is it someone from voldemorts circle or one of their children.i don't know. My hear crushes,how am I going to stay strong ? The pull towards fluer is so strong that I nearly give up everytime ,if my soulmates are on bad side how would I ignore them would I be able to ignore them. I know where my morals and but my heart is torn just thinking of possibilities. 

I turned to my side and closed my eyes.

Soon, I told myself. Soon I would go home.

And when I did I would pour my heart to Eliza ,she knows how to calm my strom… I’d have to tell her everything.

Even the parts I wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Chapter Text

The summer wind had a sweetness to it that made the stone corridors of Beauxbatons feel almost bearable. The sun had spilled gold across the castle grounds, turning even the battered courtyard walls into glowing amber. Our exams had ended an hour ago, and students were streaming out like freed birds—laughing, shrieking, collapsing dramatically onto the grass in that strange mix of relief and exhaustion.

I leaned against the warm marble edge of the fountain just outside the Hall of Enchantments, the breeze gently tousling my hair. Adele had flopped beside me with a theatrical groan, shielding her eyes with one arm as if she had fought in battle. Linnette perched on the rim, elegant even when tired, pulling off her boots and wriggling her toes.

“I think,” Adele declared, “that if they don't post results for another week, I’m going to send a Howler just for emotional damage.”

“You'll pass,” I said automatically. “You always do.”

She snorted. “Not like you, Miss ‘I could ace a spell in my sleep’.” Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “And don't deflect. You know you did brilliantly, like always.”

I gave a small smile, but didn’t respond.

Linnette shifted closer, her eyes scanning my face like she was looking for something. “You know, Ella... you’ve changed.”

My heart stuttered, but I forced a neutral expression. “Changed how?”

“Not in a bad way,” she said gently. “You just... seem sharper. More focused. You’ve always been intense, but now it’s like you’re carrying something all the time.”

“She’s right,” Adele said. “And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. People are starting to talk, you know.”

“Talk?” I tilted my head, pretending ignorance.

“You’ve been looking—” Linnette’s lips curled in mischief. “Really good lately. Like, suspiciously radiant.”

I scoffed. “Radiant? I look like I haven’t slept in days.”

“That’s your secret. The tired-but-powerful look,” Adele chimed in. “Anyway, three people have asked me if you’re seeing anyone.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re joking.”

“I wish. One of them was that seventh-year from Charms—Sorin? The one who always smells like peppermints.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve barely spoken to him.”

“Still. Eyes are on you, Ella.” Linnette nudged me with her shoulder. “Even my sister mentioned you the other day. Said you looked mysterious. That’s like high praise from her.”

“Mysterious, brooding, radiant…” Adele teased. “You’re becoming a main character.”

“Please stop.”

Adele laughed, then leaned back and gazed at the clear sky. “You know, it’s weird. Everyone talks about soul threads and destiny like it’s a fairy tale, but I read somewhere that most people never find their soulmates. They just… date, live, die.”

“Yeah,” Linnette agreed. “It’s rare. And even when someone finds their thread-mate, it’s not always a happy ending.”

Adele wrinkled her nose. “That’s depressing. I just hope if I ever find mine, he’s not an arse.”

“You’d hex him if he was,” I said, lips twitching.

“Oh, definitely. But until then,” she stretched, “I’ll take flirty sixth-years who bring me roses.”

“Wait—you didn’t tell us that part!” Linnette gasped.

I let myself smile, listening to their playful banter, but I could feel the conversation turning. Sure enough, Adele gave me a sidelong glance.

“What about you, Ella? Ever think about doing the Thread spell?”

My body stiffened before I could stop it. I kept my voice even. “No. I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

They blinked.

“You don’t believe in threads?” Linnette asked, surprised.

“I think…” I hesitated, then chose my words with surgical care. “I think the idea that we’re bound to one person—one fate—is… suffocating. I’d rather choose who I want to be with than let a thread dictate it.”

That wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. But every word scraped something raw inside me.

Adele frowned. “You really don’t want to find your thread-mate?”

“No.” I looked away. “And I don’t want to be bound to anyone.”

I hated how harsh it sounded. I hated how much it hurt to say it—because every word betrayed the truth I carried like a wound. I had found my thread,atleast one of my thread. And I was lying to everyone I cared about to protect it. To protect her.

A breeze picked up, cool and scented with lavender from the nearby hedges. I turned slightly, letting the air sweep across my face. It didn’t help the burning behind my eyes.

“El—look.” Adele tapped my arm and nodded over my shoulder.

I turned.

Fleur stood a few paces away.

Her pale hair was loosely tied, strands catching the wind like silk. She wore a soft, unreadable expression—her eyes distant, lips curled in something between a smile and a sigh. For a moment I thought maybe she hadn’t heard.

But then her gaze met mine. Steady. Gentle. Unfathomable.

“Oh, hey,” she said lightly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The earth tilted slightly beneath my feet. “You’re not. I—didn’t see you.”

“It’s break now.” Her voice held that graceful softness I’d come to crave. “We’re all going home. Maman’s here to pick me up.”

My mouth was dry. “Right. That’s… good.”

“I hope you’ll write,” she said. “Now that we are… friends.”

My heart splintered. I nodded quickly. “Of course.”

She smiled. “I’m going now. Do you want to walk with me to the portal?”

“Yes.” The word escaped before I could think.

I waved awkwardly to Adele and Linnette, who were eyeing me with curiosity. Richard was already waiting by the travel circle when we reached the lawn. As we stepped down toward the gate, a tall, elegant woman stood by a silver carriage, her presence as commanding as Fleur’s. And beside her—an elderly woman with sharp eyes and silver hair pinned in a twist, examining me with keen interest.

“Maman, Grand-mère,” Fleur said, brushing her hand along my sleeve, “this is Ella.”

Fleur’s little sister burst from the carriage before anyone could speak. “Fleuuuur!”

Fleur laughed and scooped the tiny girl into her arms.

“This is Gabrielle,” she said with fondness, “Gabrielle, say hello to my friend Ella.”

Gabrielle, who looked no older than eight, tilted her head, eyes wide. “You’re pretty. Can you carry me?”

Fleur’s mother blinked. Her grandmother stifled a smile. Fleur looked mortified.

I laughed. “Of course.”

The moment I lifted her, Gabrielle squealed and immediately reached for the small pendant around my neck—the soul thread charm I hadn’t removed in months.

“What’s this?” she chirped.

Panic tore through me.

“It’s… just something my mother gave me,” I said quickly. “I never take it off.”

Fleur’s grandmother tilted her head. Watching. Listening.

I gently handed Gabrielle back and stepped slightly behind Fleur.

“Well,” Fleur said softly, brushing hair from her eyes, “we should go.”

“I’ll… see you soon,” I said, not sure whether I meant it or hoped it.

“You’ll write.”

“I will.”

I didn’t want to let go of the moment. I wanted to hug her—wrap my arms around her and explain everything. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

As we began to part, a voice called from across the lawn.

“Ella!”

A girl from my class—a shy, pink-faced fourth-year—hurried toward me. In her hands was a wrapped box of chocolates and a folded note.

“These are for you,” she whispered. “I—well, you can read the letter later. But please… write back?”

I stood there frozen, chocolates in hand.

Fleur’s mother blinked. Her grandmother raised a single brow.

Fleur looked… different. Not angry. Just unreadable. Her gaze dropped to the box, then to my face. She offered a smile—but it was a practiced one. Quiet. Guarded.

“I should go,” she said.

“Right,” I whispered.

As they disappeared through the gate, I stood there, chocolates in my hand, a thousand apologies caught behind my tongue.

And all I could think was:
How much longer can I keep lying to her?

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time I stepped out of the station and into the quiet stretch of gravel where Richard had parked his car. The train ride from the Academy had been long and stifling, and I could still feel the faint pulse of lingering magic under my skin — a restlessness, like bottled lightning waiting for a storm. But the sight of Richard’s muggle car — a clunky, navy blue Peugeot with faded leather seats and mismatched hubcaps — made something in my chest settle.

Of course he would drive a car. Of course it would look like that.

My trunk was already tucked into the boot, and Richard stood leaning against the side of the car, sleeves rolled, arms crossed, the summer light catching in the streaks of grey lining his brown hair. When he spotted me, his face softened, the lines around his eyes folding into a smile.

“Well, well,” he said, pushing off the car. “Look who survived another term with all limbs intact.”

“I think one of them isn’t mine anymore,” I replied, flexing my fingers with an exaggerated grimace. “Might belong to a cursed teapot we were dueling in Defense class.”

He snorted and opened the passenger door for me. “That’s why I told Eliza to let you come home by broom. Safer.”

“Oh, please,” I laughed, slipping into the seat. “Last time I flew, a thunderbird mistook me for her chick.”

The door shut with a creak, and a moment later, we were rolling out onto the narrow country road. Trees lined either side, heavy with green, their shadows flickering across the dashboard like long-forgotten memories.

For a while, we drove in comfortable silence, the wind tangling in my hair through the half-cracked window, the car rattling slightly over potholes like it might fall apart with one hard bump.

“So,” Richard finally said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “what’s your strategy for breaking the news to Eliza?”

I groaned, slumping in my seat. “Oh, you mean the part where I casually mention, ‘Hey, Eliza, remember when you told me to stay away from dangerous prophecy-soulmate nonsense? Yeah, turns out I have four of them, and also I joined a secret magical training program without telling you.’ That part?”

“I was thinking something more subtle,” he offered, lips twitching.

“Like fainting dramatically and hoping she forgets why she’s angry by the time I wake up?”

“Or,” he chuckled, “you could just tell her the truth. It’s usually worked for you.”

I turned toward the window, watching the trees blur into brush strokes of gold and green. “She’s going to be furious.”

“She loves you,” he said quietly. “Even if she yells.”

“Oh, I know she does,” I murmured. “That’s why the yelling works so well.”

The corners of his mouth twitched again. “Want me to soften the blow?”

I tilted my head. “Like stand in front of me with a frying pan as a shield?”

“I’ve done more dangerous things in my life.”

We both laughed. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the whir of the tires and the faint music of birds echoing across the fields. The golden light filtered through the windshield, painting Richard’s face in soft warmth, and a thought flickered in my head like a spark waiting to catch.

I waited a beat. Then another. Then said casually, “So. What’s the deal with you and Eliza?”

Richard visibly stiffened. His hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white. His eyes didn’t leave the road.

I grinned slowly. “You’re not going to pretend I haven’t noticed, are you?”

“I—what—I don’t—”

“Richard,” I interrupted, laughing now. “You’ve basically lived with us , you are always at home, not that I mind. You make her coffee before she wakes up, you both have a system for sharing the paper, and I caught her wearing your jumper last Christmas.”

He gave a resigned sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “We… haven’t really talked about it.”

I leaned back, amused. “So you two are in that fun limbo where everything is obvious but nothing is acknowledged? ”

“I suppose,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

I turned serious then, folding my arms, watching him carefully. “You should tell her, Richard about the thread. Eliza doesn’t like liars… and hiding something that important? It feels almost the same.”

“I’m not lying,” he said quietly.

“I know,” I said. “But you’re not telling the truth either.”

He was silent.

I tapped the armrest, voice softer now. “I’m going to get an earful for keeping the soulmate thing quiet for a year and a half. Trust me. Don’t add yours to that bonfire.”

He glanced at me, something unreadable behind his glasses. “You’re very mature for your age, you know that?”

I gave him a crooked smile. “Comes with carrying too many secrets.”

Then I looked out the window, fingers curling against the glass.

“These threads of my heart… they’ve already begun weaving themselves,” I murmured. “Where they go next — whether they tangle and strangle or wrap me warm like a blanket — that’s up to them. My only job is to make sure they don’t break.”

Richard said nothing, but I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye, and his silence said everything.

We drove for a while longer, winding past wheat fields and stone fences. When we passed a tiny village with a leaning postbox and ivy-choked chimneys, he cleared his throat.

“There’s something I wanted to update you on. Political stuff.”

“Joy,” I said flatly.

“Harry Potter’s returned.”

I blinked. “To England?”

“To Hogwarts,” he said, tone shifting to something more measured. “Dumbledore wrote me. Voldemort came back… sort of. Possessed Professor Quirrell, apparently. Tried to get the Philosopher’s Stone. Harry stopped him.”

I sat up straighter. “Wait, that Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?”

“Yes.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “So. The scale has tipped.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s always a scale,” I murmured. “Voldemort and Harry. Two ends. But I’m… the last weight. Where I fall… victory follows. But I’m not the only wild card.”

“You mean your soulmates?”

I nodded. “Even I don’t know where they’ll land.”

He sighed. “Dumbledore thinks Harry’s growing into something special. Says he’s got two close friends — Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. The latter’s a muggle-born.”

The name hit me like a splash of cold water. Hermione. My heart did a strange little skip, and for no good reason, I felt unease slip into my throat like ice water.

“Are you alright?” Richard asked, frowning.

“Yeah. Just… nerves,” I said shaking it off. “maybe I have read that name somewhere before.”

He nodded, unconvinced. “You’ve done your share of research. You know Voldemort’s coming back. We just don’t know how.”

“And why didn’t the Killing Curse destroy him?” I asked suddenly. “I mean, if it rebounded, he should be dead. Not just... bodiless.”

Richard’s brows furrowed. “Maybe the curse lost some of its power when it hit Lily first. Her sacrifice… it did something. Protected Harry.”

I stared ahead, fingers tightening. “No. I mean, yes, her magic did something. But that doesn’t explain how he lived. There’s a missing piece. Also I need to find more about my family , specially my great-great-great whatever grandfather Elias”

“If there is,” Richard said gently, “we’ll find it. We always do.”

The trees opened up suddenly, revealing the familiar outline of our cottage up ahead — ivy curling up the bricks, the smell of rosemary and old magic already whispering from the garden.

“We’re home,” he said.

And I… wasn’t sure I was ready.

But I smiled anyway.

The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the house I had called home for as long as I could remember. The gravel crunched softly beneath the tires, and for a brief moment, everything was still. My hand hovered over the door handle, heart thudding with the weight of all I had to say. And all I couldn't say yet.

Before I could move, Eliza was already stepping out of the house, apron dusted in flour, brushstrokes of color still drying on her fingertips. She looked just the same—radiant in her serenity, yet fierce in the way her love always wrapped around me like armor.

“Eliza,” I breathed as I stepped out of the car.

She caught me in a hug so warm it almost made me forget what lay ahead. Her arms were tight around my shoulders, and then she pulled back only enough to press a kiss to my forehead.

“There’s my darling girl,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve gotten taller. And thinner. Are you eating enough? No, don’t answer—I already know.”

I laughed, the sound tight in my chest. “You always know.”

Richard stepped out, adjusting his coat, and Eliza greeted him with a fond but brisk side-hug. “Thank you for bringing her back in one piece, Richard.”

“Pleasure, Eliza. Though I can’t take credit—she’s the one who kept me sane on that ride.”

We moved inside. The smell of fresh cake wafted from the kitchen, mingling with linseed oil and lavender. The walls hummed with the quiet peace of home.

“I baked your favorite,” Eliza announced proudly, setting a chocolate-almond cake on the table with a flourish. “Though I probably burnt it because I was thinking about the painting and not the timer.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said, grinning as I took a bite. “Mmm—completely forgiven.”

We laughed, shared a few light stories—one about a pixie infestation in the herbology greenhouse, one about Richard accidentally enchanting a classroom broom to sweep only leftward in circles. The kitchen was filled with light and ease, until Richard glanced at the time and stood up abruptly.

“I should head out. Eliza, thank you for the cake.”

He glanced at me as he pushed in his chair—pointedly. I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly stuck.

Eliza caught the exchange instantly. Of course she did.

She narrowed her eyes at me the moment Richard stepped out the door. “What was that look about?”

I sucked in a breath, then smiled, innocent as sin. “I'll tell you in a bit. But first—come with me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” I replied playfully, and tugged her by the hand toward the record player. “They’ve been teaching us dancing at school. Said the French should be graceful.”

I dropped the needle onto an old vinyl—one of her favorites. A gritty, pulsing rock song filled the room, and she laughed, the sound free and young.

“You’re mad,” she said.

“I’m your daughter,” I reminded her.

We started dancing, clumsy at first, feet tangling, laughing through it all. Her fingers were warm in mine, her steps familiar. We twirled beneath the skylight as sunlight spilled onto the tiled floor. For a few moments, the world outside could not touch us.

But then the record crackled into silence. I let it fade.

“Eliza,” I said softly, motioning to the couch. “Sit with me?”

She hesitated—then sat. Her face gentled, lines of joy softening into lines of worry.

“What is it, my sweet girl?” she asked, brushing my cheek.

I took her hand, threading my fingers through hers. My breath felt heavy.

“There’s a lot I need to tell you.”

And I did.

Everything. Slowly, carefully. I told her my real name—Esterwale. I told her about Elias, the ancestor whose shadow reached centuries forward. About the prophecy. About the soul threads. About the war rising in England like smoke on the horizon. About Fleur, though I never said her name with too much weight. About how the threads of fate had begun to pull on me like unseen tides.

I told her everything.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

Then she did.

“No.”

Her voice was sharp, cracking with panic. She stood, pulling her hand from mine. “No, Ella. I won’t allow this. You’re not going back. Not to that school. Not to that war.”

“Eliza—”

“No!” Her breath hitched. “You are all I have. Do you hear me? I raised you. I kept you safe when no one else would. And I will not lose you to some ancient madness or wizard’s war. No. We’ll leave. We’ll disappear. Like muggles. You don’t have to go back.”

She stormed to the front door, locked it with a loud click. As if that could lock the world out.

I stood frozen, lips trembling, but my eyes dry. She was panicked. She wasn’t thinking clearly. But gods—her love was suffocating and fierce and utterly mine.

I loved her for it.

But I couldn’t obey.

My voice came quiet. “You can lock every door, Eliza. But you can’t lock the threads that tie me to them.”

Her back was still turned. “I don’t care about the threads.”

“I do,” I whispered. “Even if I didn’t, my heart would still go to them. One already has. And I would fight any damn war to keep her safe.”

Eliza didn’t reply.

So I walked away.

Up the stairs, down the hallway where the scent of paint grew stronger with every step. Her studio door was open, the golden dusk light filtering across the floorboards like a memory.

I walked in.

It smelled like citrus oils and turpentine and her.

Canvas after canvas lined the walls, some hung, some still leaning against the corners. Nature scenes—a lavender field in bloom, a storm-tossed ocean, a single apple on a weathered table. Portraits—one of a young couple laughing by the sea, another of a stoic woman with tears caught in her lashes.

And then—me.

I paused before it.

It was a painting of me as a child, the day I held my first wand. My arms outstretched, eyes wide with wonder, joy blooming across my face like morning light. The magic sparkles caught mid-air, frozen in oil and love.

I remembered that day.

She had caught it all—every ounce of that moment. The awe. The light. The beginning.

And now… I wasn’t that girl anymore. But the magic? It was still mine. And I couldn’t leave it behind.

Even if Eliza begged me to.

Even if it broke both our hearts.

I don’t remember when my fingers reached for the old canvas. Only that the silence of Eliza’s studio had wrapped around me like a shawl—familiar and forgiving. The bristles of the brush were rough, the colors dry and stubborn from disuse. Still, I smeared them across the blank surface, not knowing what I was trying to create, only that I needed to move. Needed to bleed something out of me that words had no shape for.

Each line I carved into the canvas felt instinctive, like my hand knew what I couldn’t yet say aloud. Shapes unfolded, deep blues and greys pooling, blurring. I didn’t look up. Didn’t try to name what was forming. The light outside shifted, but I didn’t notice.

Only when I heard a soft birdsong from beyond the open window—a quiet trill breaking the hush—did I look up and realize the sun had arrived.

The studio, with its paint-splattered wooden floor and sky-lit windows, glowed faintly gold now. Morning had arrived silently, without permission. And when I glanced down at the canvas, I finally saw it.

A lake stretched across the whole frame, still and silver. Trees clustered at the edges like quiet guardians. It looked peaceful, yes. But there was something missing. There was no sunlight dancing on the water. No warmth in the sky. Just a hushed stillness—too full to be serene, too empty to feel alive.

I was about to set the brush down when the creak of the floorboard by the door reached me. I turned.

Eliza stood there in her cotton robe, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her eyes—warm and so familiar—were filled with the storm she hadn’t dared release last night.

I met her gaze and exhaled slowly. “I would never leave without telling you, Eliza,” I said softly, my voice low and hoarse from lack of sleep. “Even if I go… I will always try to come back to you.”

I hesitated—just for a beat. Then added with purpose, “To you, Mom.”

That one word stretched between us like a bridge. Eliza blinked fast, but the panic in her face began to soften. She walked slowly over to where I sat, eyes skimming the canvas as she knelt beside me.

She reached out, tracing the edge of the lake I’d painted without quite touching it.

“You have real talent for this, you know,” she said gently.

I smiled and shook my head. “Not as good as you. You taught me everything I know.”

She tilted her head. “There’s something missing here, though,” she murmured, squinting at the painting. “It’s beautiful… but it feels empty.”

I didn’t answer.

Eliza reached for a brush herself. Dipped it into a warm hue of golden yellow. Her strokes were gentle, like whispers over a wound. She began to layer soft warmth into the corners of the canvas—touches of red where the sun might rise, a shimmer of light touching the water’s edge.

I watched her, entranced. It was as though she was weaving hope into the scene. The lake, once ghostlike, now breathed with morning light.

“Threads are color in my life, Eliza,” I whispered.

She paused mid-stroke. I turned to find her eyes brimming. She blinked once, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. Without a word, she lowered her head onto my shoulder.

We stayed like that.

The paint still wet. The world outside slowly coming to life. And us, curled inside this small sanctuary of art and love and fear.

I squeezed her hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Mom,” I whispered. “Richard’s with me. And I’ll be careful. I promise. We have time. I’ll use it well.”

She nodded slowly against my shoulder. “Okay,” she said. Her voice was small but steady.

We stayed like that for a few more minutes, wrapped in the quiet, until I finally nudged her up with a small smile. “Come on. Let me make breakfast.”

Her eyes crinkled just a little. “Pancakes?”

I laughed. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the mother here.”

She rolled her eyes fondly and followed me out of the studio.

And for the first time since yesterday, the weight pressing down on my chest felt just a little lighter.