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                                ~°•°~

   It was dark no lights could be spotted ....but she could hear a echo ...she walked into it ..she doesn't know why but she wasn't afraid..so she keep going forward until she heard a voice clear in her main :"I'm the magic in you... I'm here to guarantee you your pleading....You will live again.. you will have a chance to change the future...to save them all....."
 

 They won ..they won the war against Voldemort, a name that tasted like ash on her tongue, had taken everything, Her home, her family, her very future .It's over you heard them said..it a fresh start to all of them but whoever is them is ?  they are all dead .

Her home was ash. Her family—dust. Her friends—names carved into headstones.

   Emilia Grey, though her mother had always called her Elara, was once just a girl. A daughter, a student who laughed too loudly in crowded halls. But war had stripped all that away. Now, she was survivor, fighter, reluctant hero. And what had it left her with? Nothing but a heartbeat that refused to stop when every other had.That is the price she had to buy for being a witch .

 Now she is a broken soule she live her days but she is not alive she just keep going ,People ask if she's doing better, and she really never knows how to answer. Because she still wake up to a world without them.
She still carry the weight of a broken heart inside her chest ,she still have to face a million  moments  without them by her side where it hits her like it's only just happened, the hardest part isn't just that they're gone, It's that they're never coming back,That no matter how  tightly she hold onto their memory, how much she dream of them, ache for them, talk to them in quiet moments  they won't walk through the door again. There won't be a new photo, one last hug to carry her through.

   So what does better even mean? Does it mean she sometimes smile now?that she can get through the day without breaking down ?

That she had gotten used to the silence where their voice used to be?Or maybe it means learning how to live with a heart that's been cracked open.                                 

 Maybe it means finding little pockets of peace in between the pain. Maybe it means letting the love stay, even when they're gone. Maybe "better" is just a lifetime of learning how to live with their loss.   

     After many sleepless nights,she closed her eyes not before crying herself to sleep, she find herself in a pitch dark ,she didn't know where she is. She's lonely and all alone she screamed but no sound could be heard just a heavy silence,and when she lost all her hopes she hear a faint echo calling her she run and run toward it until her feet hurt but that's didn't stop her from running she knows that's she have to find out what's or who is calling her,

Suddenly she hear :
   "I'm the magic in you... I'm here to guarantee you your pleading......"

The echo grew louder, until it wasn’t a sound at all—it was a pulse beneath her ribs, a heartbeat not her own.

Light split the darkness. Her body tore forward, pulled through a river of stars and shadows, until the world slammed back into her lungs.

Then, suddenly—air. Cold, sharp, alive.

Cobblestones scraped her palms as she pushed herself up, gasping. The air was sharp with coal smoke and the faint sweetness of summer. Lanterns glowed above narrow streets, and laughter drifted from somewhere distant.

It was not her world. Not the ruins she had left behind.

The year was 1975.

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Some of the main characters :

Regulus Black 🐈‍⬛

Émilia grey 

The marauders 🐾🐁🦌🌕

Sirius black:

 Remus John Lupin :

James fleamont potter :

Peter Pettigrew :

Lily Evans :

Severus Snape :

Chapter Text

As Elara stumbled to her feet, the world swam around her. The air shimmered, and a wave of dizziness threatened to send her back to the ground. Panic clawed at her throat. Where was she? When was she?

Her skull throbbed—a dull, persistent ache, the echo of whatever impossible magic had dragged her here. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple, breathing through the nausea. The cobblestones beneath her palms were cold, solid, real.

Gathering what little strength she had, she pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky beneath her. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she was utterly and terrifyingly alone.                                                                 

Her vision swam, and for one harrowing moment she thought the darkness would reclaim her. Then the haze cleared.

Instead,Before her towered a castle she knew as well as she knew her own name. Its stone walls glowed in the golden wash of sunset, turrets spearing the sky, banners fluttering in the evening breeze. Hogwarts.

Her breath caught. It couldn’t be—yet there it stood, as grand and unyielding as it had been in her childhood.

    A wave of disorientation washed over her. How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was the agonizing pain from running and the sensation of falling. And now… here.

   Elara’s knees weakened as she stared, disoriented awe tightening in her chest. But then, from around the corner, voices rose—laughter, bright and careless, echoing through the twilight.

She turned.

A group of teenagers spilled into view, their robes and clothes slightly out of date, their hair and posture marked with the unmistakable stamp of another era. Their faces glowed with mischief and vitality, their laughter lighting the air like fireflies.

  Elara's heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drum against the sudden silence that followed the teenagers' laughter. She watched them, They were the key, she realized, the only connection she had to this strange, new reality. But how could she approach them? What could she say?

 Her gaze fell on her own attire, a simple, modern outfit that screamed "out of place." She was a stranger in a sea of familiar faces, a ghost from a future they couldn't comprehend.

With a deep breath, she pushed aside her hesitation and took a tentative step forward. "Excuse me," she called out, her voice trembling slightly.

 The teenagers stopped, their laughter fading into a chorus of curious murmurs. They turned, their eyes widening as they took in her appearance.

 One boy stepped forward first—tall, striking, his dark hair falling into storm-gray eyes that seemed to weigh her with both wariness and a flicker of concern. He cocked his head : "Are you lost, love?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of concern. Elara managed a weak smile. "I... I think so," she replied, her throat suddenly dry. "I don't know how I got here."

The group exchanged glances, a mixture of bewilderment and intrigue on their faces. 

 Then another boy moved forward, this one with wild black hair that refused to be tamed, sticking up in every direction. His grin was softer than she expected, warm and strangely familiar ,  took another step, and with a soft voice said "Welcome to Hogwarts, then."

Elara's breath hitched. Hogwarts. She was really here.It was real. This was real.

The boy’s smile widened, as if trying to reassure her. “Don’t worry—we’ll help you. What’s your name?”

Her lips parted before she could think. “Émilia,” she said, her voice steadier this time.

“Émilia.” He nodded once, then swept a hand toward the others. “I’m James. That’s Sirius—” he gestured to the dark-haired boy with the gray eyes—“and this is Remus, Peter.”

They each gave her varying degrees of nods and smiles, curiosity still sparking in their expressions. James tilted his head toward the castle.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside—you must be freezing.”

Elara hesitated. The warmth of their concern should have comforted her, but it only deepened her fear.

Because this was wrong. Impossible.she wasn’t just lost. She was out of time.

Excitement and fear warred within her. She was —thrown back into a Hogwarts that wasn’t hers. The truth of it crashed over her in a dizzying wave. 

Pain flared sudden and sharp in her head, slicing through the fragile calm she clung to. Her vision blurred, edges of the world smearing into darkness. She swayed, trying to hold on, but her body betrayed her.

Chapter Text

 The last thing Elara saw before the darkness closed in was the blur of four concerned faces.

James Potter’s glasses glinted in the waning light, his messy hair sticking up in every direction as his mouth shaped words she could no longer hear. Sirius Black leaned closer, his storm-gray eyes sharp with concern—though mischief still lingered in their depths, like a fire that never quite died. Remus Lupin’s brow furrowed, thoughtful even in panic, while Peter Pettigrew surprised her most of all: no tremor of cowardice, just a grim steadiness she would not have expected.

Their faces swam before her eyes as darkness consumed her, and all the sounds  faded into a distant echo.

As Elara lay unconscious, the Marauders sprang into action. James, ever the leader, barked orders. Sirius, with his quick wit, suggested they get her to the hospital wing. Remus, the most level-headed of the group, carefully checked her pulse. They carefully lifted Elara, her form fragile. They rushed her through the bustling corridors of Hogwarts. Their footsteps echoed through the stone hallways. Their sense of urgency was palpable.

When they burst into the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was already striding toward them, wand drawn.

“What on earth—?”

“She just collapsed, Madam,” James panted. “Out by the gate. We don’t even know her .”

Pomfrey’s eyes flicked to Elara. Her expression softened, just barely. “Lay her down, quickly. Move aside, all of you.”

The Marauders obeyed. For once, they were silent.                                              

As Elara lay in a hospital bed, the Marauders waited anxiously. They exchanged worried glances. They were unsure of what was wrong with her. They were even more curious about who she was.

They didn't know that This moment would mark the beginning of a bond between Elara and them, It would change the course of their lives.

—————

When she awoke, she was lying on a crisp white bed in a massive room, with sunlight streaming through the large windows,"the blinding light. Ugh" Elara thought . The sterile scent of the hospital wing still hung in the air, but it was mixed with the faint aroma of something floral, like lilies.                           

Her head throbbed, and a dull ache resonated throughout her body. Disoriented, she blinked, trying to piece together the events that led her here. The last thing she remembered was the concerned faces of the Marauders, a blur of worry and urgency. Now, she was alone, the silence amplifying the pounding in her head. The room was quiet, save for the gentle ticking of a clock on the wall.

As her vision cleared, she noticed a vase of lilies on the bedside table, their pristine white petals a stark contrast to the pale sheets. A small, handwritten note rested beside them, its message a mystery.

She reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly, and began to read. The note, written in elegant script, simply read:

"Rest well. We'll be back soon. - J, S, R, P."

A small smile tugged at her lips, unbidden. The warmth of it surprised her. They knew nothing about her, yet they had carried her here, stayed by her side, even left her flowers. In another life—in her life—these boys were echoes, legends, names spoken with awe and grief. But here, now, they were real, alive .

As she lay there, she began to take stock of her surroundings. The room was large, with high ceilings and tall windows that offered a view of the Hogwarts grounds. The bed was comfortable, and the sheets were impeccably clean. A small table held a pitcher of water and a glass, and on the opposite side of the room, she noticed a few armchairs. The familiar scent of antiseptic and potions filled the air, that sterile, herbal scent that always screams "Madam Pomfrey."       

At the far end of the room, there's a desk where the school's medi-witch, works. Madam Pomfrey is a stern but caring woman with a no-nonsense attitude. She has a kind face, often framed by a tightly wound bun of graying hair. Her eyes are sharp and observant, always taking in everything that's happening around her. She's known for her efficiency and her ability to heal almost any injury, from broken bones to potion-related mishaps. She's a stickler for rules and expects her patients to follow her instructions precisely. Despite her strict demeanor, she has a warm heart and genuinely cares for the well-being of the students. She's a comforting presence in the often chaotic world of Hogwarts.

 Shelves filled with potions, bandages, and other medical supplies surround the desk.The overall atmosphere is one of calm and cleanliness, designed to promote healing and recovery.                                           

She closed her eyes and started to wondered how long she had been unconscious?. ...and what is she going to do from now on?           

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and the Marauders entered the room. James Potter, was the first to approach her, a worried expression still etched on his face. Sirius Black, ever the charmer, offered a reassuring smile. Remus Lupin, with his thoughtful gaze, seemed to be assessing her condition, while Peter Pettigrew, his usual nervous self, stood a bit behind the others. "Émilia, you're awake!" Sirius exclaimed, relief flooding his features. "How are you feeling?"

Elara, still feeling weak, managed a small smile. "I'm fine, really. Just a bit shaken up."

“Shaken?” James echoed, brow furrowed. “You collapsed like you’d been hit by a Bludger. What happened out there?”

"I'm fine really," she said

Sirius let out a sigh of relief. "Thank Merlin. We thought you'd been cursed or something."

"What happened out there?" James asked, his eyes filled with curiosity. "One minute we were talking , and the next, you just... dropped."

Elara hesitated, unsure of how much she should reveal. Her throat tightened. What could she say? That she had fallen out of time, that she knew their lives better than they did themselves? "I... I'm not entirely sure, maybe I was so exhausted.."

Remus’s sharp eyes lingered on her, as if he sensed the hesitation she fought to hide "are you all right now?"

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat, drawing their attention. "I think it's time for you boys to leave. She needs her rest."

Sirius, James, and Remus exchanged reluctant glances.They clearly didn’t want to leave her side. Peter, however, seemed relieved by the nurse’s words.

“We’ll be back to check on you later,” Sirius promised, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

With a final wave, the Marauders slipped out, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving Elara alone with Madam Pomfrey.

"They care about you very much, you know," Madam Pomfrey said .

Elara flushed. “I barely know them.”

“Perhaps,” Pomfrey said, lips twitching faintly, “but Hogwarts has a way of binding people faster than you’d think.”

As the door closed behind the boys, Elara drive in Thought the Marauders.

Once, they had been names in whispers and memories—legends painted by stories of laughter and loss. But here they were, alive, flesh and blood, hovering over her bed as if she were one of their own. 

James Potter: the golden boy, all charm and Quidditch glory, yet beneath it all a fierce loyalty that would burn to ashes.

Sirius Black: a storm in human form, reckless and dazzling, but loyal to the bone until it destroyed him.

Remus Lupin: sharp-eyed, kind, burdened with secrets heavier than most could bear.

And Peter Pettigrew. The shadow trailing in their light. The one history had painted as coward and traitor.

Elara’s stomach twisted. They had no idea how their bond would shatter. That their laughter would curdle into grief. That Peter—their friend, their brother—would be the one to hand James and Lily to the slaughter..

Their bond was forged in shared experiences, from the trials of adolescence to the secret of Remus's lycanthropy. They were united by a shared sense of adventure, a love of mischief, and an unwavering loyalty to one another.

Their friendship was a tapestry woven with laughter, pranks, and a deep, abiding affection. They stood by each other through thick and thin, offering support and understanding. They were each other's family, a sanctuary from the pressures of the world. This bond, built on mutual respect and shared vulnerability, was the bedrock of their power.

The Marauders' power wasn't just about their combined strength. It was multifaceted, stemming from their unique abilities and the strength of their unity. They were incredibly skilled wizards, each possessing their own talents.

James was a gifted duelist and Quidditch star. Sirius was a master of charm and a natural rebel. Remus, despite his affliction, was intelligent and wise. And Peter..well, Peter had his uses.

Their greatest achievement was the creation of the Marauder's Map, a magical artifact that revealed the secrets of Hogwarts. This map was a testament to their ingenuity, their shared knowledge, and their ability to work together. It was a symbol of their power, allowing them to navigate the castle undetected and pull off elaborate pranks.

Their power, however, was ultimately a double-edged sword. Their reckless behavior and disregard for rules often led them into trouble. And their close-knit bond, while a source of strength, also made them vulnerable to betrayal.

In the end, their story serves as a reminder that even the strongest friendships can be tested, and that even the most powerful individuals are not immune to the darkness that lurks within the world.       

Peter Pettigrew, the "weakest link" in the Marauders' chain, is the key to the problem. He's susceptible to manipulation, driven by fear and a desire for acceptance.

Preventing his betrayal means understanding what motivates him and finding a way to change his path.                                                    

The main issue is the prophecy about Voldemort's downfall, which ties into the Marauders' fate. Voldemort, seeking to eliminate the threat, will target the Potters, and Peter, as the Secret Keeper, will be the one to reveal their location.                                

She pressed her fists into the blanket, trying to steady her breathing. If she could change anything, it had to be that.

She needs help, even though she didn't want to accept it but she needs Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

                                             ~•°•~

Elara couldn't wait to tomorrow morning to seeks the help of professor dumbledore so she would need to find a way out of the hospital wing undetected.

 This might involve waiting until Madam Pomfrey is occupied or asleep. She might use a Disillusionment Charm to make herself less visible , and that's exactly what she did.

She found herself in a dimly lit corridor. The air was cool and carried the scent of old parchment and distant potions. She moved swiftly, her footsteps muffled by the thick stone floors. She had to be careful, She would need to avoid being seen by any teachers or prefects patrolling the halls . as she knew Filch, the caretaker, was always lurking about, and the last thing she needed was to be caught.

This could be tricky, as the castle is known for its moving staircases and changing passages. She wish that she had  a map,  the Marauder's Map ,uh how foolish of her, it's in the hand of its owners.

So she rely on her knowledge of the castle's layout.

She glanced at the suits of armor that lined the walls, their polished surfaces reflecting the flickering torchlight. They seemed to watch her as she passed, their silent presence adding to the tension. The portraits, too, were awake, their eyes following her as she hurried along.

She knew the way to Dumbledore's office, like the back of her hand .

She turned a corner, and the corridor began to spiral upwards. The stone steps seemed to shift slightly under her feet as she ascended.

Finally, she reached the familiar gargoyle guarding the entrance. "Lemon drops," she whispered, remembering the password. The gargoyle sprang to life, and the stone statue leaped aside, revealing a hidden staircase. Elara ascended the stairs, her heart pounding with anticipation and a touch of fear.

As Elara ascended the hidden staircase, the air grew warmer, carrying a faint scent of lemon drops and something else... something akin to old books and magic. The staircase spiraled upwards, the stone steps worn smooth by countless footsteps over the years. Finally, she reached a heavy oak door, adorned with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

Taking a deep breath, Elara reached out and knocked, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. She waited, her hand still hovering near the door, wondering if she should knock again. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing a circular room filled with an array of curious objects. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Elara stepped inside, her eyes widening as she took in the sight. The office was the same , a marvel of organized chaos, with shelves overflowing with books, portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses lining the walls, and strange instruments whirring and clicking on every surface,like the silver instruments that whir and spit out smoke. His office was houses a variety of magical items, including the Pensieve, a device used to view and store memories; the Sword of Gryffindor;...

In the center of the room, behind a large desk, sat Dumbledore, his long silver beard gleaming in the light. He looked up, his blue eyes twinkling, and a gentle smile spread across his face. "Ah, Émilia," he said, his voice warm and welcoming. "I was wondering when you might arrive."

Chapter Text

Elara found herself in a tense situation. She stood before Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts.

The moment she saw him, a wave of icy disdain washed over her. His silver beard, once a symbol of wisdom, now seemed like a mask, hiding the darkness within. She remembered the countless young lives lost, the sacrifices made in the name of a greater good that always seemed to benefit him most. He had the power to end Voldemort, to bring peace, but he chose not to. He let the war rage on, using the students as pawns in his grand game.

Every word he spoke, every gesture, felt like a calculated move, designed to manipulate and control. She saw the glint of ambition in his eyes,  He was a master of deception, weaving intricate webs of lies to maintain his image. She knew that trusting him was a fool's errand, a dangerous path that would lead to ruin.

Her hatred was a cold, hard knot in her chest, a constant reminder of his betrayal. 

She knew she had to be careful, for he was a master of manipulation. He would try to use her, to bend her to his will, but she would not let him. She would play her part, she would follow his orders, but she would never forget the cost of his ambition,she would never let him get close enough to hurt her again,she would never trust him. And She would never forgive him for the lives he had sacrificed, for the trust he had broken. 

As she approached, his eyes met hers, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Was it surprise? Amusement? Or perhaps, a spark of the same darkness that she had come to despise? The air crackled with unspoken words, with the ghosts of past betrayals and the uncertain promise of the future.

She steeled herself, pushing down the surge of anger and resentment. She had a task to accomplish, a goal to achieve. And if she had to seek the help of the man she loathed, so be it. The fate of everything depended on it.

Elara, steeling herself against the headmaster's gaze. "Professor," she began, her voice betraying none of the turmoil within, "sorry to disturb your rest ." She forced a respectful tone, a carefully constructed facade to mask her true feelings. 

 "I was wondering when you might arrive."he said, his voice warm and welcoming.

"Please have a seat "

She crossed the room carefully, lowering herself into the seat. The armrests were cool under her palms, grounding her against the rush of heat in her chest

"So, Miss ....," Dumbledore began, his blue eyes twinkling, "grey" she replied.

"to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He steepled his fingers, a familiar gesture that always made Elara uneasy.

She knew he was a master of observation, and she couldn't help but feel like she was under a magnifying glass.

 His gaze fell on her, quiet but probing, and she felt it at once: a pressure against her mind, soft but insistent, like fingers tugging at a curtain.

Legilimency.

Her eyes narrowed. “Professor,” she said coolly, her voice steady despite the rising spark of panic, “if you would kindly refrain from reading my thoughts, I would be most obliged.”,she could block him whenever she want, but he doesn't need to know that.

The pressure vanished at once. Dumbledore raised a brow, lips twitching into a smile that might have been approval—or amusement. “As you wis.”

Their gazes locked. Neither looked away.

Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him in suspicion. He simply nodded at her softly.

Taking a deep breath, Elara decided to get straight to the point.

"Professor if u have a chance to make things right will you take it or will you turn your eye the other way? "

" A chance? Hemm that's really a complex question, Miss Grey," Dumbledore mused, stroking his long, silver beard. "The path to righting wrongs is rarely straightforward, you see. It often involves making difficult choices, weighing the consequences, and sometimes, yes, even turning a blind eye to certain things in order to achieve a greater good." He paused, his blue eyes searching hers. "But to answer your question directly, I believe that if given the opportunity, one must always strive to make things right, even if it means sacrificing something in the process." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "The key, Miss Grey, is to discern what truly constitutes 'right' and what price one is willing to pay for it." He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What makes you ask?"

"Well, Professor," Elara began, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, "I believe there are times when the ends do not justify the means. And I fear that in our pursuit of a greater good, we sometimes lose sight of the very values we claim to uphold." She paused, gathering her thoughts.

"I've seen firsthand the damage caused by decisions made in the name of a greater purpose, decisions that have left scars on innocent people." She met his gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "So, I ask you again, Professor: If you had the chance to undo the wrongs, would you take it, or would you allow them to remain, believing it was necessary for the greater good?"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant as he considered her words. "A very poignant question, Miss Grey," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "The burden of leadership often weighs heavily on the conscience, you see. One must make choices that may seem harsh or even cruel in the moment, all in the hope of achieving a better future."

He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless decisions. "If I were given the opportunity to undo the wrongs, to erase the pain and suffering caused by those choices... it would be a tempting offer, indeed." He paused, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "But the past is a complex tapestry, Miss Grey. To unravel one thread may unravel the entire fabric. Sometimes, the lessons learned from the wrongs are just as important as the good that comes from them." his gaze returning to her. "So, to answer your question directly... it would depend on the specific circumstances, of course. But I believe I would choose to learn from the past, to use the knowledge gained to build a better future, rather than erase it altogether."

Elara nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on Dumbledore. "So, you believe that even the most grievous mistakes can serve a purpose?" she asked, her voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "That the suffering of others can be justified if it leads to a greater good?" She paused, her brow furrowing in thought. "But what of the victims, Professor? What of those who bear the scars of those mistakes? Do their sacrifices simply become footnotes in the grand narrative of progress?" She leaned forward, her voice gaining intensity. "I find it difficult to accept that notion, Professor. It feels as though their pain is being minimized, their lives rendered insignificant in the pursuit of a larger goal." She paused, taking a deep breath to compose herself. "I struggle with the idea that we can justify inflicting harm on others, even if we believe it will lead to a better outcome."

Dumbledore listened intently, his expression unreadable as Elara spoke. When she finished, he steepled his fingers and gazed at her thoughtfully. "You raise a valid point, Miss Grey," he said, his voice gentle. "The suffering of individuals should never be disregarded. Their pain is real, their experiences matter. To suggest otherwise would be a grave injustice." He paused, considering his words. "The pursuit of a greater good should never come at the expense of compassion or empathy. It is a delicate balance, you see. One must strive to achieve a better future without sacrificing the well-being of those who are affected along the way." He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Perhaps the key lies in acknowledging the sacrifices, in honoring the victims, and in ensuring that their suffering is not in vain. We must learn from our mistakes, Miss Grey, and strive to create a world where such sacrifices are no longer necessary." He smiled warmly. "It is a difficult path, I know. But it is a path worth pursuing."

Elara took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked at Dumbledore, her gaze unwavering. "Professor," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I... I'm not from this time." She paused, searching his eyes for any sign of disbelief. "I'm from the future. A future where Voldemort... where he..." She struggled to find the words, the memories of her own time flooding her mind. "He took everything, Everyone I cared about , “A future Where he takes everything I love. Where all of this”—she gestured around the office, at the castle beyond—“burns.”

She swallowed hard, her voice gaining strength. "this time I have  to prevent that from happening again.  I can't stand by and watch the future unfold as I know it will, not when I have the power to change it, even if it kills me "

She looked at him, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. "I know it sounds impossible, Professor, but I have to fight him. I have to try."

Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly, but he remained composed, his expression thoughtful. "Fascinating," he said, his voice calm. "A time traveler, you say? And your purpose is to alter the course of events, to prevent a future you wish to avoid?" He stroked his beard, considering her words. "This is no small task, Miss Grey. The threads of time are delicate, and meddling with them can have unforeseen consequences."

He looked at her intently. "Miss grey, your determination is admirable, and I understand your concerns," Dumbledore said, his gaze unwavering. "So Tell me, what is it you intend to do? what is it you believe you must do to succeed? What is the specific threat you seek to neutralize?" He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "And what sacrifices are you prepared to make to achieve your goal?" He paused, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of wisdom and concern. "For in the fight against darkness, one must be prepared to walk a dangerous path."

Elara hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "The specifics are... complicated," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before she met his eyes again. "But the core of it is Voldemort. He rises, he gains power, and he destroys everything in his path. I have to stop him from ever becoming that threat." She paused, taking a deep breath and she looked up at him, her voice filled with a newfound determination. "As for sacrifices... I'm prepared to do whatever it takes, Professor. I've already lost everything once. I won't let that happen again." She met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a fierce resolve. "I know this is a lot to take in, but ......"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and concern. "A formidable challenge indeed, Miss Grey," he said, his voice laced with a hint of gravity. "To fight against a rising darkness requires not only courage but also wisdom, knowledge, and a clear understanding of the forces at play." He paused, considering her words.

"how do you intend to do that, miss grey ?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward slightly. "Preventing the rise of Voldemort is a task that has occupied many brilliant minds."

 "I will help you, of course. I cannot promise that your path will be easy, but I will offer what guidance I can."

He rose from his chair and began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "First, we must understand the nature of your enemy. We will delve into the history of Tom Riddle, learn his weaknesses, and anticipate his moves.We must study the boy to defeat the monster.  We will also explore the potential dangers of time travel, for as i said, meddling with the past can have unforeseen consequences." 

He stopped pacing And turned to her, his blue eyes glinting like starlight. “And we must also find you a suitable place to stay. Revealing your secret to all would be most unwise.” ."

She listened intently as he spoke, her mind already racing with possibilities.                      "I agree, Discretion is key. I'm willing to be patient, to do whatever it takes to keep my secret safe , and Please—protect the Marauders. Whatever happens, promise me that.”

"Protecting the Marauders ." Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "They are, indeed, a remarkable group of young men. But tell me, what specifically do you plan to do? Knowledge of the future can be a powerful weapon, but it can also be a heavy burden.we must tread carefully. Altering the past is a dangerous game. Time, as you know, is a delicate thing. Altering events can have unforeseen consequences, and the ripples of your actions may be felt in ways you cannot predict. How do you intend to use this knowledge to safeguard them?"

She took a deep breath, her gaze steady, "I'm still working on the details," Elara admitted, "but I have a few ideas.... I have to try, for the sake of those I care about, and i know Voldemort's early years were marked by several key events, moments where he made crucial choices , If I can use them against him, if I can change even one—maybe I can save them."

"Miss grey, your determination is admirable," Dumbledore said, his gaze unwavering. "However, be warned,  the path you've chosen is fraught with peril. "

"I understand the risks, Professor," Elara replied, her voice firm. "But I believe the potential rewards are worth it. "

"Very well," Dumbledore said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Miss grey, knowledge is not enough. You will need wisdom, courage, and a strong moral compass to navigate the challenges ahead. And, of course, you will need friends."

"I'll keep that in mind, Professor," Elara said, a grateful smile touching her lips. "I know I can't do this alone, and I'm fortunate to have some wonderful friends already." She paused, then added, "so am I going to be sorted again?"

"Indeed, Miss Grey," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle in his eye. "Sorting is a tradition, a chance for the Sorting Hat to assess your current self, your aspirations, and your potential." He leaned back, his gaze thoughtful. "However, considering your unique circumstances, we might approach this a bit differently. Tell me, which house do you believe you truly belong in, and will help you with your mission?"

Elara hesitated, her gaze drifting towards the ceiling as she considered her answer. "That's a difficult question, Professor," she admitted.But then she thought of fire. Of standing tall even in the face of despair. Of Harry. Of James. "I suppose, if I had to choose, I'd say Gryffindor. Bravery and standing up for what's right are incredibly important to me. Even though I value knowledge, I believe that courage is what truly allows us to make a difference in the world." She took a deep breath, then added, "and being a Gryffondor will help me get close with potter, black and the others ."

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Indeed," he said, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "It seems you have a good sense of what you must do. As for your belongings, they will be waiting for you in your room in the Gryffindor Tower. Now, go forth, and embrace the adventure that awaits you!" He gave a final nod, his gaze filled with encouragement. "Go, and may your journey be filled with wonder. And remember, the greatest magic of all is love. Never forget that." 

Elara turned and began to walk away, leaving Dumbledore alone , as she walked  ,she couldn't help but feel the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was just a student, after all, yet here she was, tasked with a mission that could change everything. The faces of her friends, her family, flashed before her eyes, reminding her of the people she was fighting for. She took a deep breath, reminding herself of Dumbledore's words: courage, wisdom, and love. With renewed determination, she pushed forward, ready to face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Having received what she needed from Dumbledore, she hurried towards the Gryffondor tower, her mind racing with a mix of relief and anticipation.

The stone steps of the tower seemed to twist and turn endlessly, each one echoing with her hurried footsteps.

Finally, she reached the familiar, imposing portrait, of the fat lady,Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, but then the realization hit her: she didn't know the password.

 For a long moment, she simply stood there, palm pressed to the cold frame. The fatigue hit her all at once. She had escaped the hospital wing, faced Dumbledore himself, and survived the truth. But this—this ridiculous oversight—might be what stopped her.

She had been so focused on the meeting with Dumbledore, on the weight of the information she carried, that she hadn't even considered the password. She pressed her ear against the cold wood of the door, hoping to hear a clue, a whisper of the secret word. Silence.

“Think, Elara,” she muttered under her breath, trying a few hopeful guesses. “Courage… Chivalry… Lionheart—oh, for Merlin’s sake…”

She tried a few guesses, words that seemed fitting, words that felt important, but each attempt was met with the same unwavering stillness. The door remained stubbornly closed.

Frustration mounted. She was fucking tired,

Just as Elara was about to retreat, defeated, the heavy oak door of the Gryffindor Tower swung inward. A girl with fiery red hair, cascading down her shoulders, stepped out.

Elara's breath hitched. It was Lily ,She was in the presence of Lily Evans, the mother of Harry Potter, though she was just a student herself, a vision of vibrant energy and kindness.Lily Evans, The name sent a jolt through her.

She had seen her face before—photographs, memories that didn’t belong to this time—but seeing her alive was different. It was like watching a ghost breathe.

Elara froze, her mind reeling. She hadn't expected this, a direct encounter with someone so intertwined with the future.

Her carefully constructed plans seemed to crumble. What could she possibly say? How could she explain her presence,  The weight of the secret she carried threatened to suffocate her.

Lily's bright green eyes met hers, a flicker of curiosity in their depths. A warm smile graced her lips. "Are you alright? You look a bit lost," she asked, her voice melodic and inviting.

Elara stammered, searching for the right words, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I don't know the password," she confessed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Lily's smile widened, and she chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in the gentle breeze. "Oh, that's easily fixed," she said, stepping aside to allow Elara to enter. "The password this week is 'Fortuna Major'." She turned to the portrait, a stern woman in a silk gown, and spoke the word. The portrait swung inward, revealing the cozy common room beyond.

As they entered, Lily turned back to Elara, her eyes sparkling with a friendly curiosity. "Welcome to Gryffindor! I'm Lily, by the way. Are u new i have never seen u before?What's your name?" Elara, still slightly stunned by the encounter, managed a shaky, "Émilia grey, but u can call me elara, and yeah l had just get her  from Italy " Lily nodded, her red hair bouncing with the movement. "Well, Elara, it's lovely to meet you. Don't worry about the password; you'll get the hang of it.".

The Gryffindor tower is a majestic, circular structure, one of the highest in Hogwarts. Its exterior is built of ancient, weathered stone, bearing the marks of centuries of magical activity. The tower is topped with conical turrets and adorned with numerous arched windows, offering breathtaking views of the surrounding grounds.

Inside the tower ,  reveal a cozy, circular common room. The room is filled with plush armchairs, tables, and a roaring fireplace that always seems to be lit. Tapestries depicting heroic Gryffindor figures adorn the walls, and a grand staircase leads up to the dormitories, 

The overall atmosphere is warm, inviting, and brimming with the spirit of bravery and chivalry.

Elara's dormitory was a haven of comfort, a space shared with two other girls, Clarissa Addams and Amelia Stewarts. The room was filled with four-poster beds, each draped in crimson and gold curtains, creating a sense of privacy and warmth. Soft, ambient light filtered through the windows, illuminating the room's cozy atmosphere.

As Elara entered, she found Clarissa and Amelia engaged in a lively conversation, their laughter echoing through the room.

“New girl!” Clarissa said cheerfully, waving from her bed. “Welcome to chaos.”

Elara managed a small nod, her exhaustion pulling at her limbs. “Thanks. I think I’ll turn in early.”

The walls were adorned with Gryffindor banners and tapestries, celebrating the house's rich history and values. A large, antique wardrobe stood in the corner, housing their belongings, while a small, ornate vanity table held their personal items. The air was filled with the scent of lavender and old books, a familiar and comforting aroma.

Not having the heart to join in on the two girls conversation, elara opened her trunk and pulled out her nightdress before going to the washroom which was to a side of the room to undress and brush her teeth.

When she returned, she found that the other two girls, Clarissa Addams and Amelia Stewarts had fallen asleep.

As the clock ticked past midnight, Elara, feeling a wave of sleepiness wash over her, decided to follow suit.

The room was plunged into a soft, dim glow as she extinguished the lamps. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of sheets and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the girls. 

-------

Elara was the first one to wake up among her other dorm mates. 

So she got dressed, packed her bag and checked it over five times, just to make sure she had everything,And set off to the Great Hall.

 finally made it to the Great Hall.

It was almost empty with only a few students and a couple of teachers as it was still a bit early for everyone to come downstairs for breakfast. 

Elara's plan was to eat her breakfast quickly before the Hall got crowded and leave immediately for classes.

Only when she was done with her breakfast did she realise that she didn't have her timetable yet, and that she would have to wait for everyone to come downstairs so that the teachers can go around giving out timetables.

"Well, shit," she muttered under her breath as she placed her goblet of pumpkin juice down. 

Slowly, agonisingly, the Great Hall filled up with chattering students.

Elara sat there at her seat at the Gryffindor table, hoping against hope that the teachers would have seen that she had been sitting there for ages and simply skip to give her her timetable first.

But since when did it go perfectly her way?

A few first-year boys sat down opposite her,

"It's a nightmare," one of them groaned. "How many times did we get lost?"

"I lost count after seventeen," his friend sighed. 

"I bet it was Slytherin," the first boy grumbled. "That old loony would think of pulling such a sick prank,"

Elara raised her eyebrows pointedly and dropped her gaze to her plate. 

It was actually Rowena Ravenclaw's suggestion to add moving stairs, so she had read in Hogwarts: a History by Bathilda Bagshot. 

Elara didn't feel the need to tell the boys that little fact. It was there in their books, which they had to read one day or another for school. Then they'll know that they were wrong. They might not even remember it until then.

Salazar Slytherin was actually a bit more careful and chose the dormitories on the bottom floors with no need to interact with the staircases on a daily basis. So did Helga Hufflepuff. They placed their students' comfort above other things.

From what she had read so far about the founders, Isabella felt that Rowena Ravenclaw's idea of moving staircases come from her idea of making the students' minds sharp and staying on alert all the time, hence she chose a tower for the dormitories.

But when it came to Godric Gryffindor, all elara could think was an enthusiastic, bearded old man, brandishing a sword and yelling at the top of his lungs, 'Dare on, Ravenclaw! I want the other tower!!'

Because his students are brave enough to battle their way through the hellish maze of a castle.

As she waited for the teachers to get up from their table, she felt someone sit down beside her. 

"Hey,"

She looked up. It was lily ,

"Good morning, did u sleep well? "she said brightly. 

Elara nodded, a constructing feeling growing in her chest. 

"Hullo!" 

"Hi!"

Elara felt the attention threatening to overwhelm her. It was not just that she was being put on the spot suddenly, but also because her head had started hurting badly. 

"I'm Dorcas," the tallest of the three girls who had surrounded her said. "Dorcas Meadows. And that's Alice prewett. All three of us are fifth years,"

She recognized Alice Prewett instantly, her round face resembled Neville Longbottom's, she was full of energy, laughing, unlike her older counterpart in St. Mungos after being brutally tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange

 "wat brings a mysterious newcomer to our humble abode in the second day ?"

But before she could reply another shouting was heard 

"Oi! Evans!" 

That snapped Lily out of her reverie.

"What do you want, Potter?" she snapped, annoyance lacing her words.

James looked around, rather frantically and then spotted elara. 

"You are suffocating our little friend here," he said grinning widely.

"Friend?" Lily scoffed. "Do you even know her name?"

James seemed to have forgotten her name, for he seemed to fumble with his words.

Peter seemed to fumble with his words, cheeks pink as he stammered, “W-well—”

“Émilia,” Sirius cut in smoothly, draping an arm over Elara’s chair with a grin. “Our damsel in distress from the other night.”

“Damsel?” Elara echoed dryly.

“Heroic rescue, near-death danger, tears—very dramatic,” Sirius said solemnly, though his eyes were full of mischief. “Ask Peter. He cried.”

“I did not!” Peter squeaked.

"Yeah," James smirked. "Tell them, Peter, Remus,"

Peter squeaked out a hasty “Yes".

Lily ignored Peter's squeaky yes and stared straight at Remus, who sighed , shooting Elara a subtle, apologetic glance before saying, “We… met her before. And we helped her. Sort of.”

“That settles it!” James announced triumphantly, as though the matter were closed. He tipped his head toward Lily with a mischievous grin,  "Now, hurry along Evans. Snivellus is looking for you,"

"Call Sev that one more time," Lily snarled threateningly, pulling her wand out. "And I'll hex you into a thousand bits and then feed you to the Giant Squid,"

James grinned. “Promise?”

Elara closed her eyes, stifling a groan. Of all the mornings… If she just stayed quiet, just waited, McGonagall would swoop in, and she could escape this battlefield.

Luckily, her prayers were answered when McGonagall arrived behind their little group and dismissed them.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Evans,” Professor McGonagall said crisply, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “That’s quite enough.” She turned to Elara, handing her a slip of parchment. “Miss Grey—your timetable.”

Relief surged through Elara. “Thank you, Professor,” she said quickly, snatching up her bag and springing to her feet before anyone could trap her in further theatrics.

She slipped out of the cluster of Gryffindors, her heart still hammering from their whirlwind energy. How did they live like this every day? 

Chapter Text

Elara didn’t look back as she walked away, the voices of the others fading like echoes in a dream she longed to forget. The timetable trembled slightly in her fingers — not from fear, but from the burden of what she carried, the weight of what she knew and could never say.

The castle swallowed her in cool shadows, its stone corridors wrapping around her like a shield. No more questions. No more attention. Just blend in, survive, and do what she came here to do.

“Miss Grey!”

Her steps faltered. The sound of her name in that clipped, precise tone made her chest tighten.

Elara turned, carefully arranging her expression into polite neutrality. Professor McGonagall advanced with the sharp authority of someone who wasted neither time nor patience.

“A word, if you please.”

They stepped aside into a quiet alcove by a tall arched window. The morning light cut golden stripes across the floor, dust motes drifting like suspended secrets.

“You’ve been placed in fourth year,” McGonagall said, her lips pressed thin but not unkind. “Though Professor Dumbledore assures me your transfer is… exceptional in nature, you are still expected to uphold the standards of this institution. Hogwarts can be both welcoming and overwhelming. If you need guidance, speak with your Head of House.”

“Thank you, Professor. I’ll manage,” Elara said softly.

McGonagall’s eyes lingered, sharp and searching, as if she could peel away Elara’s composure and glimpse what lay beneath.

“Very well. Then we must see to your supplies. You’ll need books, robes… and a wand.”

Elara’s hand tightened around the trembling timetable.

“I have a wand,” she said quietly.

Something unreadable flickered across McGonagall’s face. “Then you will allow Ollivander to confirm its suitability.”

Elara hesitated just long enough for the silence to matter. “…Of course.”

McGonagall’s expression hardened, but she said no more. With a flick of her wand, the world twisted. Stone dissolved into sunlight, and in the blink of an eye, they stood on the cobbled street of Diagon Alley.

The alley stirred awake around them. Shopkeepers swept thresholds, shutters banged open, and the mingled scents of ink, herbs, and fresh bread threaded through the air. For most, it was wonder. For Elara, it was memory—sharp, fragile, half-forgotten.

McGonagall moved briskly, robes snapping like a banner in the wind, scattering respectful nods in her wake.

“Ollivanders first,” she announced.

Elara followed, eyes low, her heart thrumming like a caged Snitch.

The shop was narrow and dim, its shelves teetering with countless boxes stacked in both chaos and precision. Dust hung in the air like a breath half-held. The bell chimed as they entered, and almost immediately, a soft, rasping voice answered.

“Professor McGonagall… and Miss Grey, I presume.”

Garrick Ollivander emerged from the shadows, pale eyes glittering with unsettling insight. His gaze found Elara and lingered there, more a study than a greeting.

“You already have a wand,” he said. It was not a question. “Let me see it.”

Elara hesitated, then slipped her hand into her robes and drew it out. The wand was dark, slender, etched with angular runes. Its sheen was not quite wood, not quite stone, but something that remembered being alive. She laid it gently on the counter.

Ollivander did not touch it at once. He leaned closer, his expression shifting slowly from curiosity to intensity.

“…Ah.”

McGonagall’s eyebrow arched. “Well?”

“Curious. Very curious indeed.” He lifted it with delicate reverence. “Not one of mine. Not British at all. Something older.”

His pale eyes glimmered. “Not ebony, not hawthorn… no. Blackthorn. Rare. Dangerous to harvest. And this—” He tilted it, the runes catching the light. “A basilisk scale,polished to thread,bound with the tail hair of a Thestral ”

McGonagall’s sharp inhale cut the silence. “That is forbidden—”

“Forbidden, yes. But not impossible.” Ollivander’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “And unregistered, I suspect. Not from the Ministry, nor from my workshop.”

McGonagall’s mouth thinned into a blade. “Dumbledore will want to know.”

“I expect he already does,” Elara murmured.

Ollivander’s lips curved, though it was not a smile. “Such wands are dangerous, yes. But then, danger depends on the hand that wields it. Purpose… or desperation.”

"this wand does not serve lightly. It remembers. It demands. And it always collects its due."

McGonagall’s mouth had drawn into a taut line. She took the wand from Ollivander’s thin fingers, handed it back to Elara, and swept toward the door without further comment.. “Come, Miss Grey.”

The bell jingled again as they stepped back into the light of Diagon Alley. They walked in silence, past cauldrons, quills, and cages that rattled with restless wings. 

---

The marble steps of Gringotts loomed ahead, pale and imposing against the morning sky. Goblins in tailored suits scurried about, their sharp eyes narrowing as they caught sight of McGonagall. Elara felt the weight of their stares, but she kept her head low, as though the shadows of her hood might shield her from their scrutiny.

Inside, the great banking hall stretched like a cavern of gold and ink, chandeliers glittering above the polished floor. Goblins perched behind desks, quills scratching with the ruthless precision of creatures who never misplaced a single knut.

McGonagall wasted no words. “Vault access has been arranged for you. Withdraw what you need and no more.”

A goblin with a pinched face and spectacles beckoned them forward. Elara followed him wordlessly, every step echoing too loudly on the marble tiles. The clatter of the cart that carried them deeper underground rattled her bones.

When the vault door groaned open, the flickering torchlight revealed a modest pile of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Not wealth, but enough.

Elara collected a small pouch’s worth, her movements careful, deliberate. Her fingers brushed the cool edges of the coins, and for a moment she felt a strange pang—like touching relics of a life that wasn’t truly hers.

McGonagall’s eyes flicked toward her. “That will suffice.”

Back in the sunlight, they moved briskly through the bustle of Diagon Alley. One by one, the necessities were gathered: cauldrons from the iron-scented shelves of Potage’s, textbooks that smelled of dust and ink from Flourish and Blotts, robes fitted with efficient precision at Madam Malkin’s. At each shop, Elara kept to herself, letting McGonagall’s presence deflect the curious glances that trailed after them.

But when they passed a narrow alley branching off the main street, Elara’s steps faltered. The shadows there seemed thicker, older, pressing against her with a familiarity that pulled at something deep inside her chest.

Knockturn Alley.

A flicker — a smell of smoke, a scream, a memory not her own — brushed her mind like a ghost’s hand. She blinked it away, but The wand at her side shivered, as though answering some unspoken call.

“Eyes forward, Miss Grey,” McGonagall said sharply.

By the time they reached the apothecary, her thoughts were a storm. She collected jars of dried roots, phials of glittering powder, and a vial of something blacker than ink, all the while pretending not to feel the faint pull of the wand tucked against her side.

At last, McGonagall declared the errands complete. “We’ll return now. Classes begin for you tomorrow, and I expect punctuality.”

They walked toward the apparition point, the crowd shifting around them in a tide of chatter and color. 

McGonagall raised her wand, Then the world twisted, Diagon Alley vanished, and she was standing once more in the cool shadow of Hogwarts’ ancient walls.

McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, her expression brisk but unreadable. At last,  spoke, her voice low and clipped.

“You are not like other students, Miss Grey. For everyone’s sake, I trust you’ll remember that. Especially when you’re tempted to forget.”

Elara’s grip tightened . She lifted her gaze toward her , For a moment, sorrow flashed across her face—old, bitter, unshakable.

“I never forget, Professor,” she said.

For a moment, McGonagall’s lips pressed tighter still — then she turned, her robes swirling as she strode down the corridor.

Elara lingered in the quiet. Her wand pulsed faintly in her hand, the runes etched into its length catching the torchlight like whispers of fire. She closed her eyes, drawing in the silence, and whispered so softly that only the stones could hear:

“If the wand remembers… then so will I.”

And the stones, ancient and listening, seemed to hum in reply.

Chapter Text

let’s give this wand a full Ollivanders-style profile ⚡

---

Wand Profile

Wood: Blackthorn

Core: Basilisk fang, bound with a single strand of Thestral tail hair

Length: 13 ¾ inches

Flexibility: Unyielding

---

Description:

This wand is wrought from blackthorn, a wood long associated with warriors and those destined to face great adversity. Its shaft twists as though grown, not carved, bearing the faint etchings of runes hidden within the grain.

Encircling its length is a silver serpent, a symbol not merely decorative but resonant with the wand’s nature — vigilant, protective, and merciless to those who approach unworthy hands.

At its crown rests a faceted black stone, clasped by claw-like prongs. This gemstone serves as a reservoir of magical force, amplifying the wand’s spells in ways often described as unnervingly potent.

The core — an extraordinary pairing of basilisk fang and Thestral tail hair — makes this wand profoundly rare. The fang lends it a fierce, dangerous power, while the Thestral hair binds it to truths unseen by ordinary eyes. Such a core ensures the wand’s loyalty is hard-won, demanding a master of cunning, resilience, and fearlessness in the face of the unknown.

---

⚡ Temperament

Not a wand for the faint-hearted. It chooses masters with ambition and command, often those unafraid to walk among serpents or delve into the forbidden. Once claimed, however, its allegiance is absolute, and its spells strike with precision and deadly intent.

---

Chapter Text

That night, in the Gryffindor common room, the Marauders sprawled across the sofas like they owned them — which, in a way, they did.

They lounged across the scarlet sofas like kings without crowns. Sirius stretched, boots on the armrest; James balanced an Exploding Snap card on the edge of his nose; Remus sat half in shadow, a book open but unread on his knee.

Elara chose the chair by the fire — not too close, not too far — the flames painting her wand in flickers of red and gold where it rested on her lap.

“Fourth year,” James mused, spinning a stolen Exploding Snap card between his fingers. “That means you’ll be in Potions first thing tomorrow.”

“Lucky you,” Sirius said dryly. “Slughorn loves fresh blood.”

“Only if she can brew without singeing her eyebrows,” James shot back.

Elara arched a brow. “I can brew. Can you read the instructions without upside-downing them first?”

Sirius barked a laugh while James clutched his chest in mock injury.

“Oh, she’s got bite, mate,” Sirius grinned.

Remus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the firelight catching the pale scar along his jaw. his tone gentler but no less pointe “You handle yourself well enough, Grey. But Hogwarts isn’t always forgiving. If you’ve got secrets, best keep them close.”

Elara lifted her gaze from the fire to meet his. “I always do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was watchful. The Marauders, she realized, were measuring her — not unkindly, but like predators curious whether the newcomer was prey, ally, or something altogether different.

Her wand warmed in her palm. It remembers. It demands.

And as the firelight danced across their faces — James’s easy grin, Sirius’s reckless charm, Remus’s quiet scrutiny, Peter’s nervous eagerness —she thought They didn’t know her , But she knew every detail of their fates:

James, destined to die.

Peter, destined to betray.

Remus, destined to suffer.

And Sirius… destined to fall into darkness.

Elara made herself a promise:

I won’t let them fall.

Even if the wand, and fate itself, demanded otherwise.

————

Next morning 🌅:

The Gryffindor common room was slow to wake. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, painting golden bars across the red carpet. Elara was already dressed when the others stirred, her timetable folded neatly in her pocket.

She tied her robes with practiced precision, slipping her wand into its holster with a flicker of unease. It hummed faintly against her wrist, as though impatient.

Not now, she thought firmly. Behave.

By the time she descended the spiral stairs, the Marauders were waiting. James leaned against the banister, hair in his usual impossible disarray. Sirius lounged beside him, his tie loose, his grin sharp. Remus held a book tucked beneath his arm, while Peter fussed with his bag straps.

“Well, well,” Sirius said, his grey eyes sweeping over her. “Up before us? That’s rare. Thought only Remus enjoyed torturing himself like that.”

“I like to be prepared,” Elara said evenly.

Remus’s lips twitched. “You’ll need it. First class: Potions. With Slytherins.”

Sirius groaned. “Brilliant. Nothing says ‘good morning’ like my dear brother glaring across a cauldron.”

Elara’s steps faltered. Regulus. Of course. She schooled her face into calm as they descended into the cool, stone corridors that led to the great hall for breakfast.

---

The Great Hall was a symphony of noise.

Laughter. Clinking silverware. The rush of wings as owls swept overhead.

No rubble. No shadows of fallen students. Just voices, footsteps, life.

It was alive — utterly, achingly alive.

Elara lingered in the doorway, her chest tight. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with a blue-gray morning sky, clouds stirred by the first breath of autumn wind.

She could almost smell the future in it — damp grass, wet stone, the beginning of something that would end too soon.

For a heartbeat she saw another ceiling, cracked and blackened with smoke, and her throat closed.

She blinked hard, forcing the vision away, and forced herself forward. Students jostled past her with casual indifference, robes brushing against her shoulders, laughter echoing without care , some sparing her a curious glance, most not noticing her at all. 

The Marauders moved ahead, already part of the current of noise and motion. Elara trailed after them, her pulse hammering as she reached the Gryffondor table. 

It hurt more than she’d expected, to see this place whole — not a ruin, not a grave. A memory that hadn’t yet been made, vivid and fragile, slipping through her fingers even as she tried to hold it.

---

The dungeons smelled of damp stone and ash, torches sputtering weakly against the chill. Elara stepped into Slughorn’s classroom, her breath misting faintly in the cold. Rows of battered tables stretched before her, and shelves of pickled things glimmered dully in the torchlight, their cloudy eyes watching.

The Potions classroom, now under the watchful eye of Professor Slughorn, was a vibrant and inviting space. Unlike the dim, imposing dungeons of Snape, 

The Slytherins were already seated. They turned at her arrival, gazes narrowing with habitual suspicion, but one pair of eyes struck harder than the rest.

Regulus Black.

He sat at the center of the room, posture perfect, robes immaculate, every detail of him precise where Sirius had been chaos. His dark hair fell neatly across his forehead; his pale, cold eyes did not waver when they landed on her.

He examined her once, quickly, like a blade assessing the weakness of armor. Then he looked again, sharper this time, and she felt the weight of his disdain.heavy as chainmail — not as curiosity, but as judgment.

Slughorn a jovial man with a fondness for famous students, greeted Elara with a welcoming smile. "Ah, Miss Grey, a pleasure to have you in my class! I'm always on the lookout for talented young witches and wizards"

A few Slytherins exchanged amused glances. One did not.

A curl of Regulus’s lip. “Grey,” he echoed softly. “How fitting."

“Cauldrons out, my dears! Today, a Sleeping Draught — simple in theory, a disaster if mismanaged.” slughorn annonce.

The students paired off, the room filling with the scrape of benches and rustle of ingredients.

No one moved toward Elara,No one dared toward Regulus.

she did not move toward them too. Which left only Regulus.

So it was inevitable.

He stared at her for a long beat, as if considering whether to bother. Then, with deliberate precision, he pulled out the bench beside him.outward with precise finality.

“I don’t need help,” he said, tone flat as stone.

Elara sat anyway, placing her bag on the table. “Neither do I.”

Eyes scanning the faded instructions chalked on the board. She could brew this potion in her sleep — had brewed it before, in another life,

They worked in silence, the scrape of knives and soft bubbling of potion the only sound between them. Regulus’s movements were sharp, exacting — not a gesture wasted. Elara matched him pace for pace, refusing to falter.

When she adjusted the flame beneath their cauldron, his hand darted out, halting her. “Too high.”

“It’s fine,” she replied, clipped.

“You think you know better than me?” His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a threat.

“I know enough not to scorch the draught.”

Their hands hovered over the handle for a moment, heat from the fire brushing their skin. Neither gave way.

At last, Regulus drew back, his expression unreadable except for the frost in his eyes.

“You’re new,” Regulus said finally, voice low enough to vanish beneath the scrape of knives chopping roots. “a Gryffindor ,Strange — I thought I knew all the faces worth remembering.”

Elara’s stomach tightened, though her tone remained even. “Maybe I’m not worth remembering.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, humorless and sharp. “Oh, you are. I just can’t decide why.”

She forced her hands steady as she sprinkled crushed asphodel into the brew. It bloomed  purple, exactly as expected.

His stare didn’t shift. “You don’t belong,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Not here. Not with them.”

Elara’s heart gave a hard thud. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly—

But Regulus Black wasn’t guessing. He was certain.

The potion between them deepened into the precise shade of dark purple, perfect. Neither looked at it. Their attention was locked, sharp as glass on the verge of shattering, sharpened into a silent declaration, 

The battle had already begun.

---

When class ended, the students filed out in a low tide of chatter and footsteps. Elara gathered her things slowly, deliberately, aware of eyes still on her.

Regulus waited in the corridor. He stood just beyond the doorway, leaning against the wall as if he had all the time in the world. His gaze found her the instant she emerged.

“You’re not clever enough to hide what you are,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. “And sooner or later, you’ll slip. When you do, I’ll be watching.”

Elara stopped a few paces away, her wand heavy against her wrist. She met his stare with equal calm. “Then you’d better keep your eyes open, Black. You might learn something you don’t like.”

The air between them felt brittle, as though the torches themselves held their breath. The castle’s distant murmur—chatter, footsteps, shifting stone—seemed far away, muted by the pressure of his gaze.

Regulus inclined his head at last. Not respect. Not concession. Recognition. A predator acknowledging another predator.

Then he turned, his robes whispering against the stone, and walked away.

Elara stood rooted, her pulse racing beneath the mask of her composure. She had faced worse enemies than Regulus Black. She had watched worlds collapse, fought monsters born of darkness itself. And yet… there had been something in his eyes. Calculation, yes, but also certainty. He hadn’t questioned for an instant—he knew.

Her wand thrummed against her wrist, sharp and insistent, as if echoing his judgment.

Elara pressed her palm against it, forcing the pulse down. Not now. Not him.

But the truth was unavoidable: of all the dangers she had prepared for, she had not expected Regulus Black to be the one who might unravel her first.

---

Chapter Text

Afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through the high windows, students pressing shoulder to shoulder in the corridor. Elara kept to the edge, clutching her bag straps , trying not to breathe too shallowly in the crush.

The crowd shifted—then something slammed into her shoulder. Hard.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall. “Watch it,” she snapped, wheeling around.

Regulus Black stood there.

Not a stumble. Not an accident.

 He turned to face her slowly, grey eyes glinting like flint struck to spark. “I did.”

Her breath caught. “Then you’re clumsy.”

“No,” he said, voice silk over steel. “Testing.”

She froze. “Testing what?”

“That temper,” he murmured. “That mask. You hide it well — but you’re too sharp around the edges. Too polished. Like glass that’s already cracked.”

Students bustled past, oblivious. For a heartbeat, it felt as though the corridor belonged only to them.

Elara forced her chin up. “If you’re so eager to find cracks, Black, you’ll waste your life staring.”

“Maybe.” His lips twisted faintly. “But I’ll be the first to see you shatter.”

Then he was gone, already vanished into the crowd, dark hair swallowed by green and silver robes , leaving her skin prickling where his shoulder had struck.

---

That night, in the Great Hall, the line sharpened.

The Great Hall should have felt safe. The clatter of plates, the steady hum of conversation, the golden light spilling down from the enchanted ceiling — it was a picture of warmth. But Elara couldn’t shake the chill .

Regulus’s voice followed her up from the stone corridors, sharp as glass: You’ll slip. I’ll be watching.

The Marauders’ laughter rang around her, James loud and brash, Sirius tossing grapes into Peter’s goblet, Remus hiding his smirk behind a book, Though the laughter around her barely touched her ears. She unwrapped a piece of toast, her hands steady only because she forced them to be. but her mind snagged on the weight across the room.

Her eyes flicked across the hall, unbidden. The Slytherin table stretched long and gleaming in green and silver.               

Students leaned together in little knots of conversation, sharing food and secrets in equal measure.

And there, sitting straight-backed in the center, was :

Regulus Black , his pale eyes fixed on her, steady as a pin through parchment. He didn’t look away, not when Sirius made a crude joke, not when one of his friends clapped his shoulder , His gaze held hers like a hook under the ribs, pulling taut no matter how she turned away.

Sirius’s voice cut through. “Oi, Grey,” he teased, following her gaze. “Don’t mind him. My brother’s just jealous I got all the charm in the family.”

Laughter spilled around her, bright and careless.

But when Elara looked back, Regulus was still watching.

And then his lips moved, silent but deliberate, she read the word clear as if he’d spoken it aloud.

Suspicious.

Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against porcelain.

The corner of his mouth tilted, not quite a smile — more a promise. Then he lowered his eyes back to his food , as though she’d already been dismissed.

Elara’s chest tightened. He hadn’t raised his wand, hadn’t spoken a word loud , Yet somehow, he had made the crowded, noisy hall feel as precarious as the silence of the dungeons.

She tore her toast in half, pulse quickening.

Regulus Black had marked her. And he wasn’t going to stop watching.

---

The feast dwindled to crumbs and candlewax. Students spilled out of the Great Hall in noisy clusters, laughter echoing along the stone corridors. Elara slipped into the tide of red-and-gold robes, shoulders hunched as though she could fold herself smaller, quieter. The air smelled of roasted pumpkin and damp stone.

She told herself not to look back. She did anyway.

Regulus Black had risen from the Slytherin table. He wasn’t rushing to catch up with his friends — he wasn’t even pretending to. His stride was measured, deliberate, and always a few steps behind hers.

By the time the Gryffindor crowd funneled toward the staircases, Elara’s pulse was sharp in her throat. She cut away down a side corridor, hoping to shake him.

But the soft echo of footsteps followed.👣👣

At the next corner, a hand closed around her sleeve and yanked. She stumbled sideways, shoulder colliding with the wall, the scrape of cold stone biting through her robes. The torch nearby guttered in its bracket, shadows stretching jagged across his face.

 wand half-raised, but Regulus was already there, close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted against her cheek. The sharp scent of smoke and polished leather clung to his robes. His grip slackened, but he didn’t move aside.

“Touchy,” Regulus murmured. His voice was silk threaded with iron. “What are you afraid of, Grey?”

Elara’s wand snapped up, the tip sparking faintly in the flickering light. “Move.”

Instead, he shifted just enough to lean against the wall, arms folded with deliberate ease. The gesture screamed casual, but his eyes betrayed him — sharp, bright, cutting, as if he could strip her down to truth with nothing more than a glance.

“I don’t like puzzles wandering into my world,” he said. “Especially Gryffindor puzzles.”

Regulus gave a soft, cold laugh. “No. You don’t smell like one of them.”

The words made her skin prickle. One of them — meaning the Gryffindors, the bright, reckless crowd she was trying to blend with.

 His gaze flicked to her wand . “A Gryffindor with a wand   like that? No. You’re not one of them. You’re something else. Something dangerous.”

Elara smirked, but her chest burned. “Funny. I didn’t realize Hogwarts appointed sixteen-year-olds as judges of character.”

“You don’t belong here,” he said again, low and certain . “You walk in here acting like you own the place. Like the rules don’t apply to you. That makes you a threat. And I don’t like threats.”

The words hung in the air, sharper than any hex.

For a moment, Elara almost forgot he was just a boy—this was the Regulus she remembered from history: clever, calculating, already marked for a path that would destroy him. And here he was, standing before her, seeing too much.

She forced her voice calm. “Then you’d better get used to me, Black. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

 “We’ll see about that.” Something flickered in his eyes—doubt, curiosity, suspicion.

 “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’ll find out. And when I do…” His eyes narrowed, lips curving into the faintest ghost of a smile. “…don’t expect my brother to save you.”

Elara’s  mind screamed for her to walk away, but her feet rooted in place.

“And don’t expect me to be afraid of you,” she whispered back.

The tension stretched — brittle as spun glass, ready to break with the slightest touch. For one terrible second, she thought he might press closer, might force the standoff into something neither of them could take back.

— But then Regulus stepped away, the space between them suddenly wide, cold. His expression smoothed into perfect indifference, the Slytherin mask settling neatly back into place.

“Interesting,” he said softly. “Very interesting.”

And without another word, he turned, footsteps retreating into the dark, leaving Elara alone with the thundering in her ears.

The shadows clung to her after he left, the corridor suddenly too quiet, too empty. Elara pressed her palm flat to the cold stone, trying to still the tremor in her wand hand.

She had faced monsters, prophecies, and the shadow of Voldemort himself. Yet Regulus Black — clever, ruthless, and only sixteen — had managed to strip her calm bare in a single conversation.

Not just because he saw too much.

But because in his suspicion, in his certainty, she had glimpsed a truth she didn’t want to name.

Regulus wasn’t wrong.

He was dangerous.

And so was she.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor dormitory was quieter than she expected.

The fire in the common room had long since shrunk to embers, a soft orange pulse against the stone walls. The hush of sleeping students filled the air — the creak of an old bedframe, the sigh of curtains stirring in the draft. Even the portraits had gone still.. A few first-years huddled over a chessboard, whispering in excitement.

Elara climbed the staircase with deliberate steps, her body heavy, her mind buzzing like a hive. Every footfall seemed to echo with Regulus’s words, sharp and inescapable:

       You don’t belong here.

The corridor to her room felt endless. Her reflection trailed her in the dark panes of the tower windows — pale, sleepless, eyes too sharp to pass for ordinary. She pushed the dormitory door open and slipped inside. Curtains hung heavy around the other beds; the faint, even breathing of her roommates threaded through the quiet.

She moved soundlessly, a ghost among them, and sank down on her mattress. Her hands trembled as she tugged the hangings closed.

Her wand lay warm against her wrist, the pulse of it faint but alive — like a second heartbeat. It had never done that before. It felt restless, aware.

As though it, too, remembered the encounter in the corridor..

 Her magic had always been steady, controlled. But now—it was restless. Stronger, somehow. The past had changed her, or maybe it was the time itself, resisting her presence.

She unstrapped it and stared at it for a moment, the tip glimmering faintly in the dark. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “Please.” tucking it beneath her pillow.

The hum subsided, but the air didn’t ease.

When she finally lay down, the silence pressed close — heavy, suffocating, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Her eyes shut. Her mind didn’t, her heart refused the command.

Her thoughts ran like wildfire — James’s grin, Sirius’s careless laughter, Remus’s quiet eyes, Peter’s nervous devotion. Their voices were still so alive. And yet she saw them overlaid with memory, with truth:

James sprawled lifeless on the floor, eyes wide and unseeing.

Sirius laughing on the wrong side of a cell, madness fraying the edges of his smile.

Remus alone, beneath the moon , bloodied, broken.

Peter’s hands shaking as he reached for betrayal.

Her stomach turned , she squeezed her eyes shut.

Not this time. Not again.

Sleep came slow and brutal..

--

It began with smoke.

The dream bled into being like a wound reopening.

She stood in the ruins of a house — blackened walls, splintered beams, the stench of ash and something far worse. The air shimmered with heat, heavy with loss.

A shadow moved through the rubble — tall, skeletal, robes whispering across the floor like the sweep of a blade. His face gleamed pale as bone, and when he turned, his eyes burned red as open wounds, his voice cold and absolute.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light split the dark.

Bodies fell in its wake — one, two, then more, until the ground was littered with the people she loved. Faces Elara knew too well — her friends, her family, her future. Every scream carved itself into her marrow. The green light came like thunder .

James collapsed with a strangled shout, wand still raised. Lily’s scream cut off halfway through her son’s name. Sirius crumpled, hands bound, eyes wide with disbelief. Remus clawed at his chest as the curse caught him, whispering her name before the world went silent.

Elara stood alone.

The wand in her hand shook violently. Her throat locked; her body refused to move.

Voldemort’s laughter ringing like a bell across the emptiness.

“You cannot change what has already been written,” he hissed, voice slithering into her ear. “Fate does not bow to you, little girl.”

Elara tried to raise her wand, but her arm was leaden, her voice locked. Around her, the fallen stared with empty eyes, accusing, endless.

You failed us.

The words echoed from every corner, from every mouth that would never speak again.

She stumbled back, choking, and the green light rose again, ready to swallow her whole.

She screamed without sound —

———

“Elara!”

She bolted upright. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her skin slick with sweat.

The dormitory was dark again, the nightmare peeled away — but the smell of smoke lingered, the phantom ache of grief still lodged in her ribs.

She pressed her wand to her chest until the tremor in her hands eased.

“Just a dream,” she murmured. “Just a dream.”

Her wand thrummed under her pillow, hot against her palm as she gripped it tight.

Her chest ached with the remnants of the dream, . She pressed her forehead to the pillow and tried to steady her breath, but the vow burned sharper than ever:

I will not let it happen again. Not to them. Not to anyone.

And in the dark, her resolve forged itself anew — even if Regulus Black, with his sharp eyes and sharper instincts, stood in her way.

---

She didn’t return to sleep.The night had teeth, and she couldn’t bear the thought of closing her eyes.

Instead, she pushed the heavy blanket aside, the chill of the tower’s stone walls clinging to her skin as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Her bare feet found the rug, worn soft by countless Gryffindor students before her.

The dormitory was quiet, the faint snores of her roommates filling the silence. She slipped from the room, the creak of the old wooden steps seeming louder than ever as she made her way down into the common room.

The fire had burned down to embers, but the warmth still lingered. Shadows stretched across the walls, and the room felt bigger, emptier without the chatter of students. She lowered herself into one of the armchairs, pulling her knees close to her chest, and held her wand in both hands.

It pulsed once. Twice...

And in the rhythm, she thought she heard whispers—nothing clear, nothing she could grasp, but there was meaning hidden there. Her magic was trying to tell her something, more alive than it had ever been.

Her thoughts tangled. Was this because she had traveled back? Because the future pressed against her every choice? Or was it the knowledge she carried—the weight of deaths not yet written, of betrayals not yet committed?

 she—she was a intruder, the ripple in the story.

Her grip tightened around her wand.

If fate wanted to resist her, thenit would have to bleed for every inch.

—————

 She leaned forward in the armchair, staring at the last flicker of flame as though it might hold answers.

A sound broke the quiet — the soft creak of a stair, the hesitant shuffle of bare feet on stone. Her shoulders tensed. She turned, wand half-raised, before she realized who it was.

Remus

He paused halfway down the stairs, his jumper tugged on hastily over his nightclothes. The firelight caught the pale scars that lined his face, softened them, made them almost gentle. His eyes — tired but sharp — flicked from her wand to her expression.

“You couldn’t sleep either,” he said quietly, as though wary of disturbing the silence of the common room.

She lowered her wand, forcing her grip to relax. “Not tonight.”

He came closer, settling into the armchair opposite hers. For a moment, neither spoke. The embers crackled softly, casting the room in shifting orange shadows.

“Nightmares?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

She shook her head. “Not exactly. Just… thoughts.”

He studied her for a long time, his gaze steady in that way only Remus could manage. It was as though he could read the spaces between her words, hear the secrets she didn’t speak.

“You always look like you’re carrying the weight of something,” he said gently. “Even when you’re smiling.”

The words pierced sharper than she expected. Her chest tightened, but she kept her eyes on the fire. “Maybe I am.”

he murmured. “You don’t have to.”

She looked away, swallowing hard. “Someone has to.”

Remus leaned back, folding his arms. He didn’t press, didn’t push — just waited. That was worse, somehow. His patience left room for the truth to claw at her throat.

Her wand pulsed again, humming in her lap. She swallowed hard. “Do you ever feel… like your magic has a mind of its own? Like it knows something you don’t?”

That gave him pause. His brows furrowed, thoughtful. “Sometimes. Especially after—” He stopped himself, the words unfinished, but she knew what he meant. After the moon. After the change.

Their eyes met across the dying fire. For one moment, she thought about telling him everything — the truth, the war, the futures waiting to swallow them all. But the words lodged in her throat, heavy with danger.

Instead, she whispered, “It feels stronger. Wilder. Like it’s… restless.”

Remus didn’t flinch. He just nodded, quiet understanding in his expression. “Then maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”

The fire gave a soft pop, sending sparks into the air. She looked down at her wand, still glowing faintly against her skin, and for the first time, she wondered if it wasn’t only her magic that had changed — but her.

---

The silence stretched, warm but heavy. The fire cracked again, and she thought it might be the only sound between them. But Remus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, eyes steady on hers. “But you’re not alone. Whatever it is—whatever you’re carrying—you don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

The words hit harder than she expected. Something in her chest ached, sharp and raw. She had told herself again and again that she had to keep everything secret, that one word too much could unravel everything. And yet—Remus’s quiet offer cut through all her walls.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, almost pleading.

“Then help me,” he said softly. “Help me understand.”

Her fingers tightened around her wand, knuckles white. The hum of magic was almost a vibration now, like her own heartbeat answering the pressure in her chest. She blinked quickly, but her eyes burned anyway.

“If I told you…” Her voice broke, trembling into the dark. “If I told you, it would....no I can't ..I....i'm sorry .”

Remus leaned back a little, not with rejection, but with that same quiet, steady patience he always carried. “Then don’t tell me. Not until you’re ready. But don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. I see you.”

Her breath caught. Those words—I see you—landed like an anchor. He did. He always did.

“I don’t deserve this,” she murmured.

“Deserve what?”

“Kindness.”

Something flickered in his gaze. A shadow, a memory. And then he gave the faintest, saddest smile. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

The room blurred for her. Her throat ached with all the words she couldn’t speak—the warnings, the grief, the truth of who he would become and what he would lose. She wanted to tell him everything, to promise him safety, to take away the pain she knew was coming. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

So instead she whispered, “Thank you.”

Remus nodded, as if he understood the weight in those two words. He sat back in his chair, eyes drifting to the embers. “Try to sleep, if you can. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

She smiled faintly, though her chest was still tight. “I’ll try.”

And for the first time in a long while, she almost believed she could.

---

Dawn came gray and thin, creeping through the high windows.

Elara hadn’t noticed when Remus had fallen asleep in his chair, book still open across his lap. She rose quietly, draped a blanket over him, and slipped back upstairs.

By the time she descended into the common room, the space was bustling. James was trying to corral Sirius, who was still half-dressed and insisting he could eat breakfast without a tie. Peter trailed behind them, adjusting his bag straps nervously.

And then there was Remus, already ready, standing near the fire with a book tucked under his arm. And buried his nose in a another book while smirking at their antics He caught her eye the moment she entered.

It was nothing dramatic — just a flicker of recognition, “Morning,” he said, quiet enough that only she would hear.

Her lips tugged into the smallest of smiles. “Morning.”

“grey !” James spotted her first, grinning. “Finally awake. Thought you’d decided to skip breakfast — rookie mistake, trust me. The toast goes fast.”

She forced a small smile, though her stomach turned at the thought of food. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She let herself be pulled along,Something had shifted, subtle but sure. She wasn’t alone in the dark anymore.

And as they stepped out into the golden-lit corridors of Hogwarts, the weight on her chest felt just a little lighter.

---

But as soon as she entered the hall, the air shifted.

The long Slytherin table gleamed under the enchanted ceiling, and there he was again: Regulus Black. Straight-backed, composed, already eating with deliberate precision. His gaze lifted before she even sat down.

Their eyes met across the hall.

It was the same as last night — sharp as a hook, piercing through the chatter, the warmth, the thousand distractions between them. He didn’t need to speak. His look alone pressed the word back into her skull: Suspicious.

“grey ?” Sirius nudged her, following her gaze. His tone was breezy, but his eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re actually letting him get to you.”

She tore her eyes away, reaching for a goblet she didn’t want. “He’s not.”

But the lie tasted bitter.

Because when she dared a glance back, Regulus was still watching, unblinking. A predator at rest, patient, certain.

And for all her promises to herself, all her fire and defiance, Elara felt the shadow of last night’s dream crawl up her spine again. Voldemort’s voice, cold and certain: Fate does not bow to you.

Maybe not. But Regulus Black was not fate. He was flesh and blood — and he had already marked her.

Sirius noticed it before anyone else.

Regulus hadn’t looked away. Still, calm, unshaken — his gaze resting squarely on Elara, as if Sirius himself didn’t exist.

“Oi!” Sirius’s voice cracked across the Great Hall like a whip. Heads turned instantly. “Enjoying the view, little brother?”

A ripple of murmurs broke through the chatter.Even James straightened, his grin fading at the shift in the air. The enchanted ceiling seemed to dim, clouds rolling in where sunlight had been.

The Slytherins stiffened. Regulus lifted his eyes lazily, meeting Sirius’s glare with infuriating composure.

Slowly, deliberately, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and set it neatly beside his plate. Then he rose..

Regulus smoothed his robes, every motion calm, practiced. Then, with that same cutting poise, he said — not loudly, but clearly enough for the surrounding tables to hear:

“Perhaps you should teach your friend better table manners, Sirius. Or are you too busy embarrassing yourself to notice?”

Gasps rippled across the Gryffindor benches. James shot to his feet. “Watch it, Black.”

But Sirius was already standing, his hand braced on the table, fury sparking in his eyes. “Careful, Reggie. People might think you’re obsessed with her. Can’t take your eyes off, can you?”

A ripple of laughter broke from the Gryffindors. A few Slytherins hissed in reply their wands half-drawn beneath the table.

Regulus’s expression didn’t falter. His gaze slid back to Elara — sharp, assessing, the faintest curl at his mouth betraying amusement. And then, finally, he looked at Sirius.

“Not obsession,” he said softly, each word deliberate. “Caution.”

The word hung in the air, heavy as stone.

Elara’s breath caught.

Sirius’s fist clenched. For a moment, it looked as if he’d leap across the tables and start a brawl right there under the enchanted ceiling. But James grabbed his sleeve, tugging hard. “Not here, Pads.”

Regulus inclined his head, almost in mock courtesy, before returning to his seat. He didn’t look at Sirius again. His eyes found Elara once more, just long enough to make his point — and then he calmly resumed his breakfast as though nothing had happened.

The noise of the hall swelled back, whispers darting between tables. But for Elara, the warmth of the Gryffindor table had thinned, the laughter grown hollow.

Because the message was clear.

Sirius wanted to protect her.

Regulus had already marked her.

And neither of them was letting go.

---

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor table erupted as soon as Regulus sat back down.

Whispers darted like sparks, ricocheting from bench to bench. A few Gryffindors jeered, their voices raised in support of Sirius, while others kept their eyes locked on Elara, wide with curiosity. Across the hall, the Slytherins bent their heads together, hissing like snakes disturbed from their coil, poisonous.

Elara sat frozen, hands clenched around her goblet. The sweet pumpkin juice inside had sour against her tongue, like it had curdled in her mouth.

Not obsession. Caution.

The words replayed in her mind, steady and deliberate, each syllable like a curse sinking into her skin.

James leaned across the table, his eyes fierce but his voice lowered just enough to keep it within their circle. “Ignore him, Grey. He’s fishing.”

But Sirius wasn’t listening. He was half out of his seat, jaw tight,His hand twitched toward his wand pocket, his chest rising and falling like a caged animal ready to bite, muscles straining as if every nerve demanded he storm across the hall and prove something with his fists.

“He doesn’t get to look at her like that,” Sirius snapped, his voice edged with something more dangerous than anger. “He doesn’t get to warn me about her, like she’s—” His words cut off, his throat working, the fury almost too big for language.as though the words refused to take shape , like it  came from somewhere older, deeper — the kind of pain that had a family name.

“Sirius—” Elara began, but her voice broke on his name. She steadied it, forcing it to sound calm. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” He whipped toward her, eyes blazing. “Grey, that was a threat. He doesn’t make idle comments like that unless he means something by it. He’s—”

“—your brother,” Remus interrupted quietly.

The words landed like a dropped stone. For a heartbeat, Sirius’s fury faltered, the storm breaking against the truth. His mouth snapped shut, and he sank back down onto the bench, knuckles still white on the tabletop.

“Not anymore,” he muttered darkly, staring hard at his untouched plate.

Remus’s gaze flicked to Elara, sharp, searching. He’d seen it—the way she’d stiffened, the flicker of recognition in her eyes when Regulus spoke. He didn’t voice it aloud, but his silence pressed harder than words , but she felt the question pressing between them: What aren’t you telling us?

Peter, ever eager to defuse tension, leaned in. “You shouldn’t take it seriously, Elara. He’s probably just jealous, or—trying to get under Sirius’s skin.” He gave a nervous laugh. “It’s what Slytherins do best.”

But Elara didn’t answer. Her pulse pounded too loud, her chest too tight.

Sirius cut in, pacing at her side like a tethered dog ready to lunge. “Next time he tries, I’ll—”

“You’ll get detention,” Remus interrupted sharply, his book tucked under his arm. His gaze flicked to Elara, thoughtful, too perceptive. “He knows how to bait you, Sirius. And…” His eyes lingered on Elara for just a second longer than the others. “…he knows how to bait her too.”

she straightened her shoulders, slipping into the mask she’d worn for so long. “He’s just a boy who likes the sound of his own voice. Nothing more.”

It was a lie, and she knew at least one of them could see it. But it was the only shield she had.

Because she knew Regulus. Or rather—she would know him. She had seen his name etched into history, swallowed by shadows.

She knew him , Not like Sirius did, with fury and betrayal. Not like James did, with careless dismissal. Not like Peter, with nervous suspicion.

She knew him from the end.  From the Cave And now, across the hall, that  boy — younger, unscarred — was watching her as if he could already see the ending.

Because here and now, he was sixteen, sharp-eyed, dangerous—and he had turned that gaze on her.

Regulus had spoken the truth — not to the hall, but to her. He wasn’t obsessed. He was cautious. And if he was right, then every step she took to protect the Marauders only drew his eyes sharper.

Not obsession. Caution.

---

The rest of breakfast blurred. She forced down a piece of toast she couldn’t taste, nodded at James’s chatter without hearing a word, let Sirius’s grumbling fill the space around her.

But her eyes betrayed her.

They slid across the hall, again and again, no matter how fiercely she fought it.

Regulus never once looked away.

He ate slowly, calmly, speaking occasionally to the boy beside him, but his gaze returned to her with surgical precision—steady, dissecting, patient.

Each time their eyes met, something inside her coiled tighter.

When the noise of scraping benches filled the hall and students began streaming toward their first classes, Elara moved to rise—but James’s hand landed on her shoulder.

“Not so fast.”

She froze.

The Marauders had closed in around her without her noticing. Sirius at her left, Remus just behind, Peter lingering nervously at her right. A wall of protection—or interrogation.

James leaned down slightly, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry. “You want to tell us why he’s looking at you like you’re his next essay assignment?”

Sirius’s laugh was humorless, sharp. “Essay? More like target.” His hand twitched toward his wand pocket.

Elara’s stomach twisted. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Don’t,” Remus said softly. Just that. One word, quiet but firm, and her denial shriveled under it.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but the weight of his gaze made it hard to breathe. 

Sirius swore under his breath, shoving back from the bench. “That’s it. I’m going over there—”

“No.” Elara’s voice cut sharper than she meant, desperate. His head snapped toward her, shock flashing across his features.

She swallowed, softer this time. “If you go, you’ll only give him what he wants.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

James’s brow furrowed. “What he wants? You sound like you’ve studied him.”

Her heart lurched. Too much. She’d said too much.

“I just—” she stammered, fumbling for ground. “I’ve seen enough Slytherins to know when someone’s baiting you. Just like Remus had said ,That’s all.”

Remus didn’t look convinced.

James exchanged a glance with him, then sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Fine. But if he so much as blinks at you wrong again, Grey, you tell us. We’ll handle it.”

Sirius muttered something that sounded a lot like I’ll handle it, but he didn’t move.

Elara nodded stiffly, her stomach twisting tighter with every heartbeat. “I’ll tell you.”

Another lie.

Because the truth was, Regulus wasn’t Sirius’s problem. 

He was hers.

---

As the Gryffindors swept out of the hall, laughter and chatter bubbling around her, Elara felt the weight of another gaze following her from behind.

She didn’t have to look to know.

Regulus Black was still watching.

---

Elara had always thought the hardest part of coming back would be the Marauders—keeping them alive, when she knew exactly how and when the world would try to take them. But she hadn’t accounted for Regulus Black.

She couldn’t look at him without seeing two versions of the same boy.

The first: the sharp-eyed Slytherin who shadowed her steps now. Every inch of him immaculate, every word calculated, every silence more dangerous than speech. He carried the Black family name like a shield and a chain, and he wielded it with precision. He was cunning, merciless in his pursuit of weakness, and far too intelligent for her comfort.

The second: the boy she remembered from the end. Pale, wasted, kneeling in the shadows of a cave filled with death. A boy whose courage had come too late to save him, but not too late to matter. She had seen his name on the tapestry in Grimmauld Place, scorched into silence. She had heard Sirius’s voice crack when he spoke of him. Regulus Black had died fighting the very thing he once swore to serve.

And both versions lived inside the same pair of storm-grey eyes now fixed on her.

How was she supposed to forget that?

She knew his future. She knew the Dark Mark would one day brand his arm. She knew he would walk willingly into Voldemort’s service. And yet—she also knew he would turn, alone and terrified, against the monster who had swallowed his family whole.

Every look he gave her now carried the weight of that knowledge. When his lips curled in scorn, she saw the boy who would steal a locket from a cave of horrors. When suspicion sharpened his words, she remembered the whisper of Sirius’s grief: “He was just a kid.”

That knowledge cut her in two.

Because to fight him now was to fight a boy she already knew she would mourn.

Because Regulus Black was not yet the boy who would die in the cave.

He was not yet the traitor, the spy, the sacrifice.

He was simply Regulus—sharp, restless, dangerous, alive.

And that made him far more dangerous to her than Voldemort ever could be.

--------

 Regulus’s perspective :

Regulus Black did not rush.

He never did.

While the Gryffindor table had roared with laughter and outrage, while Sirius had bristled like a dog on a chain, Regulus had sat back down and finished his meal in silence. Each movement — cutting his toast, lifting his goblet — measured, unshaken. The mask of composure was second nature now, a skin he wore so tightly it almost felt real.

Almost.

Because beneath it, his mind was not still.

His eyes followed Elara Grey until the last glimpse of her red robes vanished through the doors of the Great Hall.

He followed the name in his head like a map he hadn’t finished reading.

He had caught the tremor in her hand when her fork slipped.

He had seen the way her chest tightened when he mouthed the word. Suspicious.

And she was.

Something about her didn’t fit.

He’d known it from the moment he saw her — the way she carried herself, the quiet calculation in her eyes. She was no ordinary Gryffindor. No reckless chatter, no easy laughter. Her wand, the way she held it, the way it almost clung to her like soldiers who’d seen too much.She wasn’t naïve. She was trained.— not normal. Not safe.

He rose from the Slytherin table last, letting the others filter out ahead of him. His housemates whispered as they walked — about Sirius, about Gryffindors, about Quidditch. Regulus let the noise wash past, his mind fixed elsewhere.

Sirius’s words, loud and mocking, still scratched at his ears. Obsessed. The Gryffindors had laughed, of course. They always laughed. 

They didn’t understand.

This wasn’t about Sirius. It was about her.

He could feel it — the way the air seemed to tighten around her presence, — like a faint hum in the air when she passed. Power. Old, restrained, scarred.

the way his instincts sharpened when she entered a room. He trusted those instincts. They had kept him alive in the viper’s nest of his family, in the shadowed corridors of Slytherin politics, in the whispers of the Dark Lord’s followers.

He thought of her again — the flicker of pain she hid when he brushed too close, the faint scar at her wrist...

You’re hiding something, he thought, lips curving faintly. And I’ll find out what..

His lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile as he reached the dungeons. Sirius could sneer, could shout, could bare his teeth all he wanted. It didn’t matter.

Because Regulus wasn’t looking at his brother anymore.

He was watching the girl who thought she could slip unnoticed into their world.

And Regulus Black never stopped watching.

------

Chapter Text

Regulus did not shadow her openly. That was Sirius’s way — brash, loud, reckless. No, Regulus preferred silence. Distance. The kind of attention that pressed against the back of the neck without ever needing to raise a wand.

Elara Grey left the Great Hall with the Gryffindors, her posture straight, her pace measured. But he saw what the others missed — the twitch of her fingers at her sleeve, checking for her wand. Alert. Nervous. She felt him.

Good.

----------------

Potions was their first class, down in the dungeons where the torches smoked and shadows clung to the walls. Slughorn, as always, welcomed them with booming cheer, more interested in his own anecdotes than his students’ nerves.

 A gift, really.  Slughorn liked to chatter and boast, letting students slip into their own conversations so long as the cauldrons didn’t explode.

Regulus slid into his usual desk, quill and parchment set with surgical neatness. He didn’t look when Elara entered with the Gryffindors. He didn’t have to. He knew the moment she sat two rows back, her presence distinct in the air.

Subtle, then. Always subtle.

When Slughorn rambled about the properties of wolfsbane, Regulus let his head turn, just slightly, as though bored — and caught her eyes. He let his gaze drop, deliberately, to her hands. The faintest twitch of her wand arm where she held her quill. Then he looked away, as though nothing at all had happened.

But when he glanced back moments later, her grip had tightened.

Strike one.

Later, when students gathered ingredients, he lingered by the cupboard. As he brushed past her shoulder, his lips never moved, yet his voice was there — low, threaded through the hum of the dungeon.

“Your stirring’s off. Almost like you’re thinking of something else.”

He didn’t pause for her reaction. He didn’t need to. He saw the faint stiffening of her back, the way her ladle faltered before finding its rhythm again.

Strike two.

At the end of class, the students spilled into the corridor like water breaking a dam. Regulus drifted just close enough to follow, never so near as to be obvious. At the stairwell, Sirius swooped in, arm slung across her shoulders, laughter spilling about some new prank. She laughed too, bright and careless — but her eyes betrayed her. They flicked back, scanning. Searching.

And when her gaze found him, leaning idly against the wall as though he’d been waiting all along, he allowed the faintest curl of a smile.

Strike three.

She tore her eyes away, jaw tight, moving faster up the stairs. Sirius never noticed. But Regulus did.

And that was enough.

Because Regulus didn’t need spells or curses to test her. All he needed was  The weight of silence and suspicion, applied in just the right places.

Sooner or later, she’d slip. They always did.

---------

Transfiguration

The classroom smelled of chalk and ink, McGonagall’s sharp heels clicking against the flagstones as she swept between desks.

Elara set her jaw as she placed her matchstick on the desk. Transfiguration had always come naturally, but today, her hands felt clumsy, her concentration split.

Focus.

 Around her Students wrestled with stubborn beetles and matchsticks, muttering under their breath.

But Elara’s beetle had transformed almost instantly. Polished silver gleamed under her fingers, its surface catching the light. Too fast. Too flawless.

The girl next to her gawked. “How’d you do it first try?”

Elara forced a small shrug, murmuring something about practicing over summer, though she knew how thin it sounded.

She quickly scuffed the edge with her nail, scratching a line into the metal. When McGonagall passed, she only nodded, her lips twitching almost imperceptibly. Approval. Suspicion. Both at once.

McGonagall moved down the aisle, correcting postures and muttering brisk 

approvals.

The weight of eyes prickled at the back of her neck—not the professor’s this time, but her classmates’. Some envious, some suspicious, one or two hostile. Gryffindor or not, she had marked herself different.

Careful, she reminded herself. Not too much, too soon.

But her wand thrummed with an energy she hadn’t called for, as if it wanted to show more. As if it resented being restrained.

 Restraint was survival.

---

Whispers in the Halls:

Elara walked with her year, surrounded but alone, whispers trailing her like smoke.

“Did you see her wand work ?”

“McGonagall smiled at her.”

“Sirius’s brother was watching her at breakfast—”

Her stomach twisted tighter with every half-heard fragment.

By the time she reached the next staircase, she felt the air shift. A prickle at the back of her neck.

She looked up.

Regulus Black stood at the landing above, expression unreadable. He wasn’t moving toward her, not even pretending to. Just standing, watching the stream of students climb past him.

His eyes locked on hers, sharp and unwavering.

Her hand twitched toward her wand before she caught herself. She forced her gaze away, pushing into the crowd, her chest burning.

But the echo of his stare followed her down the corridor, colder than shadow.

------

Slytherin Common Room:

The Slytherin common room glowed green in the torchlight, shadows rippling like water across the walls. Voices rose and fell — laughter, boasting, the scrape of chess pieces. Someone conjured a burst of sparks from the tip of their wand, and their friends jeered, clapping them on the back.

Regulus sat apart. Not so far that it looked deliberate, but far enough that the noise seemed muffled, distant. A book lay open in his lap, unread.

Mulciber leaned across the back of the sofa, voice low and grating. “Did you see the way Potter and his lot were circling her? Like vultures.”

“Pathetic,” Rosier sneered from the hearthrug. “A girl shows up, and suddenly Gryffindor boys forget how to breathe.”

They laughed, sharp and mean, but Regulus didn’t join in. His eyes stayed on the page he wasn’t reading, every muscle carefully still.

“Bet she won’t last the week,” Mulciber said. “She looks soft. Too soft.”

Soft.

Regulus’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of the book. She hadn’t looked soft when she stood in that corridor, wand steady, eyes meeting his without flinching. She hadn’t looked soft when she told him to move, her voice calm when it should have cracked.

No. Not soft at all.

Rosier’s laughter cut through again. “Besides, Gryffindors don’t last long. Not when the world starts choosing sides.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the boys, low and hungry. Regulus finally closed the book with a quiet snap.

“Gryffindors don’t last,” he said evenly, “because they don’t think. They charge. They burn out.”

The others smirked, nodding. They took it as agreement, as disdain. None of them noticed the faint flicker in his expression, the shadow of thought behind his eyes.

----------

Later, when the common room thinned and the torches guttered lower, Regulus climbed the stairs to the dormitory. His roommates were already sprawled in their beds, voices muffled under curtains.

The silence pressed closer here, heavier, and with it came the memory — the way she had looked at him, unshaken, unafraid.

Most people flinched. Most people stammered. She hadn’t.

And worse — she hadn’t lied. Not the way others did, with easy words and empty bravado. No. Her defiance had teeth.

He sat at his desk, a candle flickering low beside a pile of parchment. His homework lay untouched. Instead, his quill scratched in neat, deliberate lines across a page not meant for Slughorn or Binns.

*Observations :

Elara Grey. Transferred late. No trace in school records before this year.

House: Gryffindor. Behavior: not Gryffindor. Controlled. Calculated.

Wand: unusual. Old. Too old. Obeys like an extension, not a tool.

Instincts: heightened. Watches shadows. Only the guilty look for shadows.

He paused, tapping the quill against the parchment. Her face rose in his mind — calm, too calm. The sort of calm people wore when they were balancing glass and couldn’t afford a crack.

Sirius thought it was a game. James would too. The Gryffindors lived in noise and bravado; they couldn’t see past their own brightness to notice the quiet edges. But Regulus had been raised in the dark. He knew the weight of secrets. He knew the difference between ordinary and not.

And Elara was Not in the loud way Sirius was, not in the chaotic way James was. No — she was the kind of dangerous that came wrapped in silence. The kind you underestimated until it was too late.

Regulus set down his quill, staring at the page.

His instincts whispered that she was a threat. But another part of him — quieter, more treacherous — whispered something else. Something about the look in her eyes when she’d stared him down. Not fear. Not exactly. Something harder. A defiance he hadn’t expected.

It unsettled him.

He leaned back, folding his arms, gaze fixed on the candle flame.

If she was hiding something, he would find it. He had to. Because in this castle, secrets were weapons — 

The quill hovered again, and he added one last line before extinguishing the light:

Grey is not what she claims. Will watch. Will test. Will not stop.

The parchment folded neatly, tucked away in the bottom drawer. Out of sight, but not forgotten.

Regulus stretched his hand across the cool stone of the desk, his expression smoothing back into its practiced calm.

Elara Grey thought she could walk into his world unnoticed.

Not in his watch.

-------

Weeks Later

If Elara had thought the moment at breakfast would fade into the ordinary rhythm of school, she was wrong. Regulus Black did not forget.

He lingered, always just close enough to remind her that the bond between them—whatever it was—had not broken.

He was everywhere.

In the Great Hall, when chatter rose like smoke and laughter rang off the stone walls, his gaze cut through the din, sliding over her like a blade drawn across glass—cold, deliberate, impossible to mistake. He rarely looked for long, never enough to draw notice from anyone else, but she felt it each time, a pinprick against the skin, a weight at the back of her neck.

In the library, she would glance up from her parchment to find him at a nearby table, ink staining his fingers, eyes fixed on her as though daring her to falter.

Even in the corridors, when the press of students was thick and noisy, she felt it — that watchful presence. Regulus did not speak to her , but his silence was heavier than words.

———

The courtyard was empty, the air heavy with the late afternoon hush that came after rain.

Silver light pooled across the flagstones, damp and shining, catching in the curls of mist that clung to the arches. Hogwarts always seemed older after rain — its stones darker, its whispers closer to the surface, as though the castle itself remembered.

Elara Grey stood beneath one of the arches, her robes dark against the pale stone, her wand balanced loosely in her hand. The air smelled faintly of moss and something metallic — the kind of scent that came before lightning, before change.

She had come here to breathe, to think — to escape the noise of the day and the constant, invisible pressure of eyes. But she should have known by now: she wasn’t the only one who sought quiet.

“Grey.”

The voice was smooth, low — and unmistakable.

She didn’t turn at first. The syllable lingered, stretching like the echo of a spell through the air.

“Black.” Her reply was even, almost soft. “You’ve developed a habit of finding me.”

Regulus Black stepped from the shadows of the archway opposite her, as though the castle had shaped him from its darker stones. His uniform was immaculate as always, every line precise. But there was something restless in his stance — something sharp beneath the calm.

“I don’t find you,” he said, walking forward, boots clicking softly on the wet stone. “You leave too much trace to need finding.”

Elara tilted her head, her grip tightening around her wand. “You make it sound like I’m trying to hide.”

“Are you not?” His tone was polite, almost conversational — and that was the danger of it. His calm was a blade kept hidden until it was too late to dodge. “You walk through this castle like someone who’s afraid of being seen. Only people with secrets do that.”

She met his gaze then — cool, steady, but her heart stuttered against her ribs. “And what’s your excuse, Regulus Black? You watch people like you’re cataloguing them.”

He smiled faintly, and that smile was worse than anger. “Observation keeps me alive.”

“Does it help you sleep?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. The silence between them thickened, drawn taut.

Overhead, a single drop of water fell from the stone ledge and splashed against the flagstones, breaking the stillness like the first beat of a drum.

To the Marauders, Regulus was a nuisance — Sirius’s “priggish little brother,” the Slytherin golden boy.

To Elara, he was something else entirely: the first to look past her name, her robes , her carefully measured steps, and see the fracture lines beneath.

She told herself that his eyes were cruel, that they lingered out of nothing more than spite. He claimed to hate her. She believed him.

But hatred sharpened the eye, and his eyes never left her.

---

Chapter Text

The Charms classroom was warm with candlelight, the scent of chalk and dust hanging in the air. The students bustled noisily in the back rows, wands clattering against desks. Beside Elara, a Gryffindor girl with freckles hummed under her breath as she flipped pages of outStandard Book of Spells.

Elara sat straighter, her own wand resting on the desk like a coiled warning. She told herself to breathe, to let the rhythm of lectures and wand movements ground her.

Professor Flitwick’s squeaky enthusiasm filled the room, explaining the precision required for today’s exercise --

 Than he waved his wand. At once, a set of heavy iron goblets appeared on every desk.

“Today,” he announced, “we move beyond levitation and into transfiguration of matter. A challenge, yes — but one I expect my fourth-years to attempt with focus. Your goal: change this iron into wood.”

A tricky charm, usually reserved for older years, but he loved testing advanced groups.

Groans rippled through the room. A few students shifted nervously, others muttered under their breath.

Elara set her books down, her pulse steady. She had practiced transfigurations far harder than this in the years that technically hadn’t yet happened. Iron to wood was child’s play — if she let it be.

Around her, quills scratched, wands clattered, sparks misfired. One student’s goblet twisted into a warped lump, another’s cracked down the middle. Flitwick darted between desks with encouragement and squeaks of correction.

Elara lifted her wand, whispering the incantation with crisp precision. The goblet shuddered, its gray sheen rippling. In less than a breath, the metal dulled, softened, and stretched into a perfectly carved wooden cup, smooth and polished as if shaped by a craftsman’s hand.

Professor Flitwick stopped mid-step, eyes wide. “Excellent, Miss Grey! Astonishingly well done. Ten points!”

A ripple of whispers followed, heads turning, eyes narrowing.

Elara lowered her wand carefully, pretending at calm. She hadn’t meant to show off — the spell had simply responded, as if eager.

And She could feel the stares prickling against her skin — 

A soft laugh drifted from the far side of the room. Not loud. Not cruel. Just deliberate.

Regulus sat two desks over, posture straight, his own goblet only half-transfigured — streaks of dull iron cutting through pale wood. 

He leaned back in his chair, wand spinning idly between long fingers his gaze was fixed on her — the kind of look that wasn’t meant to be caught, but absolutely was.

Their eyes locked for a fraction too long.  Her freckled neighbor whispered,

“How’d you do that so easily?”

Elara forced a shrug. “Practice.”

Her pulse pounded so hard she barely heard Flitwick’s praise.

“Too clean,” he said under his breath, just enough for her to hear.

Elara’s fingers tightened on her wand. “What?”

His eyes flicked toward her goblet, then back to hers, sharp and unflinching. “No hesitation. No flaw. Not even a tremor. Not the work of a fourth-year.”

She forced a smirk, though her heart gave a hard twist.

“ maybe you just can’t stand someone being better.”

Regulus’s lips curved, not in a smile but something colder. “No. I can stand that. What I can’t stand is a puzzle .”

Regulus didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His goblet wavered on the desk, the spell breaking. Metal bled back through the wood, but he didn’t care. He was too busy watching her.

When the bell rang, students scraped chairs back and crowded toward the door, complaining about their half-finished work. Elara gathered her things slower than the rest, her movements deliberate. And she  slipped her bag onto her shoulder and pushed through the tide, hoping the noise would drown her thoughts.

But she felt it — that awareness, the prickle between her shoulder blades.

She didn’t look. She didn’t need to.

The shuffle of footsteps always three beats behind hers. Not close enough to accuse. Not distant enough to ignore.

When she ducked into the stairwell, her hand brushed the cool stone banister. The shadows seemed deeper here, the torches dimmer.

“grey.”

Her name, spoken softly, like a spell.

She turned.

Regulus posture relaxed,  His housemates were gone, the stairwell briefly theirs alone.

“You’re very good at Charms,” he said conversationally, as though they were simply two classmates making idle talk.

Her fingers tightened on her bag strap. “What do you want, Black?”

A faint tilt of his head, a shadow of a smile. “Only to understand.”

She hated how her throat constricted. “Understand what?”

“Why you’re pretending to be ordinary.” His gaze flicked down, just briefly, to her wand arm. “When you’re anything but.”

The stairwell groaned as it shifted, stone grinding against stone. Students shouted somewhere above, the noise echoing down, but for one suspended moment, they were locked in stillness.

Elara’s breath caught. She forced her voice to steady. “Maybe you’re just imagining things.”

Regulus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe.”

He turned, leaving her pressed against the wall, her heartbeat thunderous.

But just before the shadows swallowed him, he said softly:

“Careful, Grey. Secrets have a way of slipping.”

---

Elara – Later that night

The Gryffindor dormitory was warm with the crackle of the fire, but Elara lay awake in her four-poster, eyes fixed on the canopy. The soft breathing of the other girls should have been soothing, but her mind refused to rest.

She had slipped. She had shown too much.

The goblet, flawless wood. Flitwick’s praise. The whispers. And worst of all, his voice — cool, cutting, amused at her expense.

She had known better. She should have stumbled. Should have let the goblet wobble halfway into splintered wood like the others. But when the wand was in her hand, the spell had come so easily — her body knew it, her magic surged, and she hadn’t stopped herself.And he had noticed.

Other students had stared, yes, but their whispers had been envy, not suspicion. His gaze had been sharper, colder. Not how did she do that? but why could she do that? He hadn’t looked at her like a classmate showing skill — he had looked at her like an intruder.

If she slipped again, if she kept showing what she knew… someone would unravel her. Someone clever enough, observant enough — someone like Regulus.

Her wand pulsed , and she clenched her fist around it.Her fingers curled tight around it. Its pulse beat in rhythm with her own heart, restless, eager. It wanted to move. To burn, to wield. To be what it had always been for her.

 No. She couldn’t afford mistakes. 

She turned onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut. Tomorrow she’d dim it. Tomorrow she’d stumble. Tomorrow she’d vanish into the ordinary.

Even if it meant dimming the fire she had carried back through time.

Because if she didn’t, Regulus Black would see right through her. And he already saw too much.

------------

Regulus – That same night

In the Slytherin dormitory, shadows swayed against the green-glass ceiling as the Black Lake filtered the moonlight. Most of the boys were asleep already, but Regulus sat upright in his bed, for the last hour. His thoughts were elsewhere. On her.

He replayed the moment again and again: her wand raised, her spell too clean, too polished, not a flicker of hesitation. Fourth-years didn’t transfigure iron that neatly. Fifth-years struggled. Even sixth-years often stumbled. But she had done it like she’d been practicing for years.

And then there was her reaction — the way her hand had tightened, the way her words had been too sharp when he’d called her on it. Not the protest of someone falsely accused. The protest of someone who was hiding something.

Regulus leaned back against his pillows, staring up at the canopy. His family had taught him from the start: the world was full of liars, and survival meant seeing through them before they saw through you. He trusted his instincts — and his instincts told him Elara Grey wasn’t who she pretended to be.

The strange steadiness of her magic. The way she carried herself. The flicker in her eyes when he pressed her.

He turned his head toward the window, watching the faint drift of shadows from the lake above.

no she wasn't  — but he would find out.

---------

The Next Day – In Class

The classroom buzzed with tired chatter as Professor Slughorn waddled to the front, beaming. “Today, my young witches and wizards, you’ll attempt a strengthening solution. Nothing too ambitious — but tricky, oh yes. Tricky indeed.”

Cauldrons hissed as students set out ingredients, knives clattering against boards. The potion required timing, precise cuts, and a steady hand with the heat — the kind of thing most fourth-years muddled through with mistakes.

Elara set her supplies neatly. Her fingers itched with the urge to do it properly. She knew the recipe in detail — she’d brewed it years from now in a world far darker than this one. Her instincts and Every motion in her body urged her to finish it cleanly, perfectly.

But she couldn’t. Not with his eyes on her.

So she stumbled. Her knife slipped once, leaving a jagged cut. She stirred too widely, letting the mixture cloud. She bent close to the flame, blowing as though uncertain.

Ordinary. Just ordinary.

Around her, classmates were groaning over scorched potion bases or lumps of undissolved powder. She kept her cauldron  steady, unimpressive. Not failure, not brilliance. Safe .

“Good, good,” Slughorn called as he waddled past, peering into cauldrons with encouragement. “Room for improvement, Miss Grey, but not bad. Not bad at all.”

Relief flickered through her chest. Safe. Unnoticed.

Or so she thought.

From across the aisle, she felt it. That same weight.

Regulus.

His potion bubbled a shade too dark, his brow furrowed in concentration, but his eyes weren’t on his cauldron. They were on her.

When she brushed her sleeve across her brow, feigning effort, his lips twitched almost imperceptibly — not a smile, but something close. As if he’d caught her in the act.

“Clockwise.”

Elara stiffened. She hadn’t noticed—she’d stirred counter. A deliberate misstep. Too deliberate.

She didn’t turn. “Mind your own cauldron.”

“Already perfect,” he murmured.

Her jaw clenched. “Then congratulations.”

The rest of class dragged on, steam rising in bitter waves. Elara forced herself to keep steady, to look neither too strong nor too weak.

But when the bell rang and she began to pack, Regulus drifted closer in the crowd. He didn’t speak at first — just walked beside her until they reached the corridor.

Then, low enough that no one else could hear, he murmured:

“You make mistakes too deliberately.”

Elara froze mid-step, her hand tightening on her bag strap. “Excuse me?”

His eyes gleamed, pale and steady, catching the torchlight like glass.

“Yesterday, you were flawless. Today, you slipped too easily. No one shifts that much overnight. Unless…”

He leaned a fraction closer, voice a whisper only for her. “…they’re trying not to be seen.”

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to scoff. “You’re imagining things, Black.”

“Am I?” His gaze lingered on her face, searching, probing. Then, with that same infuriating calm, he straightened and walked ahead, leaving her standing in the corridor, breath shallow, heart hammering.

And as he vanished into the crowd, Elara realized something colder than fear.

She hadn’t thrown him off the scent.

She had deepened it

------------

Elara thought :

It was supposed to be simple. Blend in. Stay quiet. Do just enough to pass without drawing notice. But the moment she’d lowered herself yesterday, she’d only sharpened Regulus’s gaze. Today, when she’d pretended to stumble, he’d seen right through it.

“You make mistakes too deliberately.”

The words clung to her like frost.

She couldn’t win. If she excelled, he noticed. If she failed, he noticed. She was caught in a trap she couldn’t slip.

Her wand , warm against her palms. It thrummed faintly, as though mocking her restraint. She wanted to rise into the magic she knew, to wield it as she had in the world she’d left behind. But here, that power made her strange. And strange made her a target.

---

Regulus – That Same day

At first, he had thought it arrogance — a Gryffindor overreaching, desperate to prove herself. But no. Arrogance cracked. Arrogance blustered. Arrogance left seams.

She left none.

Yesterday, she had been flawless. Too flawless. The kind of precision that came from years, not months. Today, she had been clumsy — but performing clumsy. The cuts too uneven, the stir too wide, but her hand steady all the while. Mistakes made with intention, not error.She hadn’t slipped. She had acted.

And when he’d called her on it, she hadn’t laughed or brushed it off. She’d gone rigid. A flicker in her eyes, quick and sharp. Guilt. Fear.

She wasn’t Gryffindor at all — not in spirit. She moved like someone raised in shadow. A snake in lion’s robes.

He was taught to see the edges of people — to know when something didn’t fit, when a puzzle piece was being forced into place. Elara Grey didn’t fit. And puzzles in his world weren’t harmless.

---

Chapter Text

The classroom door loomed ahead like the mouth of something ancient and waiting. Defense Against the Dark Arts always carried a heaviness with it — as if the stones themselves remembered every curse that had been flung against these walls. Chalk dust clung to the air. Damp crept in from the cracks, the faint tang of moss seeping from the open windows where the September wind pressed its cool fingers inside.

Elara slipped through, shoulders angled tight, and found her seat midway down the row. Not too far to seem eager. Not too far back to vanish. Just another Gryffindor girl in red-and-gold, head bowed, hair shadowing her face.

But she could feel it before the door had even swung shut. That awareness that crawled across her skin like static.

Regulus.

He entered with the Slytherins — neat, composed, untouchable. Every button of his uniform closed to the throat, wand holstered as if it belonged there permanently. He did not look at her. Not directly. His gaze swept the room as though cataloguing threats, and when it brushed over her, only for the briefest moment, Elara’s spine locked straight, betraying her.

The curse on the post had struck again this year. Professor Dyllis — that was his name. A wizard whose robes hung loose on a too-thin frame, whose eyes were shadowed in a way that made her think of closed doors. His lessons spilled like scattered papers, but he had friends in high places. Elara remembered the whispers from her original timeline. He wouldn’t last long. Few ever did.

Still, he was no Umbridge, and that alone made him tolerable.

The topic scrawled across the board in sharp white strokes read:

Counter-Curses: The Shielding Charm

The fourth-years stirred, excitement fizzing in their voices. A real chance to test themselves. To clash openly, wand against wand. Elara’s stomach tightened. She knew this spell too well — had driven it into her bones in another life, another war. She could do it blindfolded, battered, broken.

Which meant she would have to fail. Again.

“Pairs!” Dyllis clapped his hands, the sound jarringly cheerful. “You’ll face one another — not with hexes, mind, only disarms. Safe, controlled. Defense is the heart of this class.”

The shuffle of feet, scrape of chairs. Names called, students matched. Elara prayed to be overlooked. To be placed with a Hufflepuff, or a Ravenclaw too shy to press. But of course— — it had to be him.

“Elara Grey. Regulus Black.”

The air between them snapped taut, as though the wards themselves had shifted. 

They stepped into the open floor, wands in hand, students circling to watch. Regulus looked at her not with hostility, but with that unbearable calm — He didn’t smirk, didn’t sneer. He only inclined his head with the barest courtesy, his eyes unreadable storms.

Her pulse thudded in her throat. Fate, or maybe something worse, had set them against each other.

“Bow,” the professor instructed.

They did.

“Wands ready,” he  said.

Regulus raised his with perfect composure. Elara mirrored him, fingers tight around the wood that pulsed, restless, in her hand.

“grey, first.”

She raised her wand, murmured the spell softly, and sent a clean Disarming Charm his way.

“Expelliarmus!”

His shield bloomed white, flawless, dismissing her attack as though brushing away dust. His eyes did not waver from hers.

“Mr. Black.”

The first clash was clean, textbook — wands sparking, energy snapping between them before dissipating. The professor nodded approval, already turning to watch another pair.

But Regulus didn’t lower his wand. His gaze sharpened. “Again.”though the professor hadn’t asked for it.

His spell was faster this time, precise as a knife. She blocked . Her wand thrummed in her grip, surging as though eager to break free.alive.

“Expelliarmus!” His tone cut sharper, his spell stronger. Not a student’s spell, not really. Something honed, practiced in quiet corners.

Elara’s counter burst brighter than she meant, the recoil trembling up her arm. The impact cracked through the air, loud enough to draw glances.

She tried to rein it back, but her magic surged again, a raw tide spilling over her control. The next clash sent sparks flaring, rattling the nearest desk. One of the Ravenclaws squeaked in alarm.

“grey! Black!” Professor Dyllis snapped, whirling on them. “This is an exercise, not a duel! Control yourselves.”

Gasps broke around the circle.

Then — she forced her shield to collapse, letting the charm sputter out as though her grip had faltered. Her wand clattered to the floor.

“Oh—” she gasped, feigning clumsiness, cheeks heating with false embarrassment. She bent, snatched it up, kept her eyes firmly on the floor.

But when she straightened, Regulus hadn’t lowered his wand.

He studied her the way one might study a riddle written in smoke. Quiet, unblinking, dissecting.

“Careless,” he murmured, voice pitched for her alone. “Almost convincing.”

Her skin went cold.

He had seen it , Like a snake that had tasted the air and decided the scent was worth pursuing , The raw force in her spell. The slip in her control. The truth she had fought to bury.

 “You don’t duel like a student.”

“And you don’t duel like someone who wants to win,” she countered.

His eyes darkened. “You think I’m holding back?”

“I think you’re testing me.”

He smiled then — slow, deliberate. “And you think you’re not being tested?”

---

Elara – Shaken

The rest of the lesson blurred. Spells cracked across the room, shields shimmered, students laughed when wands flew from clumsy hands. But Elara heard none of it.

Her grip on her wand went bone-white. The wood pulsed against her palm like a living thing, mocking her pretense. She had trained herself to stumble, to hesitate, to hide. But her body had betrayed her. Instinct had moved too swiftly, too sharply instead of the caution of disguise.

And of course he had noticed.

He always noticed.

Every time she thought she had regained ground, every time she tried to vanish into the crowd, Regulus found the crack and pressed it open. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with that steady, unyielding gaze that felt more dangerous than open hatred.

Because he wasn’t trying to humiliate her. He was trying to understand her.

And that terrified her more than jeers ever could.

She slipped from the classroom as soon as the bell dismissed them, her bag clutched high on her shoulder. Her steps were too quick, too loud against the stone. She told herself she was escaping — but the echo of his eyes followed her up the stairwell, watching even when he wasn’t there.

---

Regulus – Private Thoughts

He left the Defense classroom at his own pace, unhurried, listening to the din of students dispersing. He didn’t need to chase her. He had already seen enough.

The shield she raised had not been a mistake. It had been too strong, too pure, too instinctive. For the barest moment, her magic had surged free — older than her years, sharper than her mask. And then, the collapse. The fumbling. The act.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Because it confirmed what he already knew: Elara Grey was hiding herself. Deliberately. She was not weak. She was not clumsy. She was… something else entirely.

Regulus threaded his hands behind his back as he walked the corridor, robes trailing like shadows. Most would take her stumbles at face value. They’d believe the surface, as they always did. But he had been trained To question. To find what others wanted hidden.

And she wanted this hidden very badly.

That thought should have amused him, should have filled him with the cold satisfaction of having caught another in their lie. But it didn’t.

Instead, he found himself replaying the flicker of her shield, the set of her jaw, the tension in her hand as she clutched her wand like it was lifeline and secret both.

There was power in her. Real power. And power always came with purpose.

What was hers?

The question lingered long after he reached the quiet of the Slytherin stairwell.

And though he told himself it was strategy, calculation, survival — the truth slid beneath his ribs in silence:

He wanted to see it again.

----------

The corridors bled empty after Defense, students scattering in noisy currents toward the scent of roasted chicken and pumpkin juice. Laughter and chatter bounced along the high stone walls, filling the gaps where silence tried to cling.

The Great Hall itself roared with life. Candles floated in shimmering rows overhead, their wax dripping into nothingness before it ever touched the tables. Platters refilled themselves with a shimmer of magic, plates clattered, goblets clinked.

To Elara, it all pressed too loud, too close. The scrape of forks against pewter grated at her nerves, each voice too sharp. She sat wedged between Sirius and James at the Gryffindor table, the noise around them like a storm she couldn’t outrun. Her fork hovered above her plate, unmoving.

James leaned across, brow furrowed with curiosity more than concern. “So — what was that? Half the class says you nearly blasted Regulus across the room.”

“Don’t blame her,” Sirius cut in, quick, fierce, eyes glinting. “Didn’t you hear? That snake started it. Always does. Git can’t resist showing off.” His voice dipped into a growl. “Next time he tries—”

“Next time you’ll land us all in detention,” Remus interrupted smoothly. His tone was quiet, but firm enough to pin Sirius in place. Then his eyes slid toward Elara — not accusing, not demanding, just watching. Quiet patience that pressed harder than words.

Elara forced her shoulders straight, conjuring a mask of casual dismissal. “It was nothing. A shield too strong, that’s all. Mistimed.”

A lie. Fragile as spun glass.

Peter blinked at her, uncomprehending. James accepted it, grumbling something about “Slytherin dramatics.” Sirius scowled, suspicion carved deep into his expression, protective fury simmering hot. Only Remus stayed silent, gaze steady, as if he could see through every crack she tried to patch.

Her food went untouched. Her stomach churned.

When the feast ended, the tide of Gryffindors spilled from the hall, their laughter echoing off the stones. Elara lingered behind, letting Sirius and James barrel ahead, their chatter filling every corner. Remus cast her one last glance — thoughtful, searching — before the crowd swept him away.

Her fingers curled too tightly around her bag strap. She told herself she wanted space, that she needed air. But the echo of Defense lingered in her bones, a tremor she couldn’t shake.

And he was waiting.

Regulus stepped from a side passage as she rounded the corner, shadow peeling into form. Torchlight caught the sharp line of his cheek, the silver pin at his collar. He stood straight, poised, as if the corridor itself belonged to him.

“Grey.” His voice was calm, composed. He inclined his head in greeting, as though this were a chance encounter. “A word.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m late.”

“You’ll survive.” He stepped forward, not close enough to threaten, but enough to block the way. “Your duel today. Curious display.”

Her eyes flicked away. “It was practice. That’s all.”

“No.” His tone remained soft, almost polite, but the single word landed sharp. “It was not.”

She stilled. Her laugh came brittle, cracking in the hollow air. “Black, not everything is a conspiracy.”

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head, studying her as one might study a chessboard. “But your magic burned hotter than it should. Stronger. Wiser. As if it had teeth.” He paused, watching the pulse leap at her throat. “Fourth-years don’t carry that weight.”

Her silence was answer enough.

Regulus let it linger, the quiet thickening between them. He didn’t press. He measured. He watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the tremor in her hand against her bag strap. How much could she bear before the mask cracked?

Finally, his voice dropped low, close enough that the torchlight seemed to lean in. “You should be careful, Grey. Power like that… it leaves a trail. Someone will follow it.”

Her eyes snapped to his then, sharp and blazing despite the tremor in her hands. “And will it be you?”

For the first time, his composure faltered. Just slightly. The words struck truer than she could know.

A slow smile curled at his lips, practiced, precise. “If it is, Grey, you’d best hope I’m more merciful than others.”

He stepped aside with perfect grace, as though dismissing her, though the snare had already closed. As she brushed past, he felt the hum of her magic ripple, restless as a storm chained too tight.

-----

Night fell heavy, the sky split with sharp stars that gleamed like watchful eyes. Wind tore cold across the tower parapets, pulling strands of Elara’s hair loose, stinging her cheeks. She leaned into it, bracing her palms against stone, breath shallow. Here, at least, the air was clean. Here, no one asked.

Except.

“You come here often.”

Regulus stepped from the stairwell, robes drawn close, wand casting a faint silver glow. The light carved his features into shadow and bone, precision sharper in the moonlight.

“Last I checked,” she said, forcing steadiness, “the stars don’t belong to Slytherin.”

“No.” His voice was soft, almost amused. “But secrets do.”

Her chest tightened. “You think everything is a secret.”

“You are a secret.” His gaze fixed on her, unblinking. “You know why? Because I’ve watched you in lessons. You don’t hesitate when the questions are too advanced. You don’t guess — you remember. That’s not learning, Grey. That’s recalling.”

The wind whipped between them, sharp, merciless.

Elara spoke first. “You don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“Don’t I?” Regulus’s voice softened, and that was worse than accusation. “You don’t belong here, Grey. I can feel it. The air changes when you walk into a room. Even the castle listens.”

“Maybe it remembers me,” she said before she could stop herself.

That caught him — not in confusion, but in recognition. The smallest flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked. “You talk like someone who’s already lived this once.”

Her throat tightened. “And you talk like someone who’s already died.”

The words hung between them — fragile, dangerous, too close to truth.

For a heartbeat, she saw both versions of him overlapping — the boy before her, all control and poise, and the man she remembered dying in the dark, his hand clutching a locket that had poisoned him.

“Why do you care?” she asked finally, her voice breaking just enough to be human. “Why chase me, when you could ignore me like everyone else?”

Regulus looked at her for a long, unblinking moment — the kind of look that stripped away pretense.

“Because you’re the only one here,” he said, “who looks at me like you’ve already grieved me.”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it until now.

Elara turned from him, eyes locked hard on the horizon. The stars blurred, her vision burning. She pressed her lips together, fighting the words that threatened to slip free.

Regulus lingered in the silence, silver light washing across stone. He didn’t press further. He didn’t need to. He had planted the thought like a blade in the dark.“Until next time, Grey.”

When he left, the stairwell swallowed him whole, and the tower was hers again. But the echo of his voice clung tighter than the wind

When the last sound faded, 

She whispered to no one,

“I already did grieve you.”

---

Gryffindor Common Room – Restlessness

The fire cracked and flared. Gryffindors sprawled on chairs and rugs, voices rising over a game of Exploding Snap. Someone was singing — badly — to the strum of a bewitched lute.

She sat with a book open on her knees. The words blurred, unread. Her friends teased her about her “book moods,” and she laughed on cue, but it was thin, empty. but inside her mind replayed the moment in Defense — the flare of her shield, the weight of his whisper. Almost convincing.

The mask wavered. She closed the book with a snap, excused herself, and slipped upstairs. Behind drawn curtains, she curled into herself, forehead pressed to her knees.

“I’ll be careful,” she whispered into the dark. “I’ll be careful.”

But she already knew. It wasn’t careful enough.

––––

Slytherin Common Room — Shadows

The fire burned low, casting green light across stone carved with serpents. A knot of boys lounged near the hearth, voices sharp and careless as they rehashed the day’s duel.

“Grey nearly blasted the desk in half,” one boy snickered. “Typical Gryffindor — reckless and loud.”

“Or desperate,” another sneered. “Circling Black’s brother long enough. Maybe she wants attention.”

Regulus didn’t look up from the book in his lap. He let them chatter, let their shallow theories fill the air like gnats. None of them had seen what he had seen. None of them had the eye for the seam in the fabric, the place where the mask slipped.

He could correct them. He could plant seeds of suspicion, spread her secret like kindling through the house. It would be easy. Natural. What any loyal son of Slytherin might do.

But he did not.

Instead, he turned a page, the sound crisp in the hush, and said only, “Gryffindors always overreach. It’s hardly worth discussing.”

The conversation shifted toward Quidditch, exams, petty rivalries. He let it.

Regulus let them. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the spark in Elara’s eyes when she asked if he would be the one to follow her trail.

She had steel, that girl. More than Sirius, more than his foolish Gryffindor pack. Steel sharpened by something deeper, something older.

And he wanted to be the one to uncover it.

Not the others. Not the professors. Not the Dark Lord himself.

This secret belonged to him

While the castle slept, two truths coiled tighter in the dark: Elara’s dread of exposure, and Regulus’s hunger to unravel her. Neither spoke them aloud. Not yet. But the threads had been set — and the weave was already straining.

---

Chapter Text

Elara twisted in her sheets, breath caught in her throat as if the air itself had turned against her. The dream dragged her under with ruthless precision, each scene stitched from memory and fear.

She was back there again—her mother’s wand shattering in her hand as the curse struck. Her father’s voice broke mid-shout, The garden burned. The smell of singed grass, of blood and earth, tangled until she couldn’t tell them apart.

She saw Colin Creevey’s camera melt in his hands , laughing in the corridor one moment, lifeless the next. Fred’s eyes, glassy and wide, staring into nothing ,his laugh vanish into silence. Younger students circled by flames, their voices cut short as though the fire had devoured sound itself as if The fire roared high enough to swallow the stars . 

Every time she ran, shadows closed in. Every time she tried to scream, her throat sealed. And always, always, the green light found her.

She wrenched upright, gasping. The dormitory was black and still, its canopy curtains trembling in a faint draft from the half-cracked window. The moonlight spilled cold across the floorboards. Her pulse raced, the taste of ash still thick on her tongue.

Her body remembered what her mind refused to forget.

For a long moment she sat motionless, gripping the edge of her blanket, eyes wide as though something might crawl out from the dark corners of her room. Around her, the other Gryffindor girls breathed softly in sleep—oblivious, peaceful, untouched. The quiet should have been comforting. It wasn’t. It pressed on her, heavy as guilt.

You came back to change this, her mind whispered, cruel and exact. You came back so they’d live.

But the voice that answered was smaller, cracked: And if I can’t?

She shoved the thought away. Lying still felt unbearable, like sinking into earth that hadn’t yet decided to let her breathe. So she swung her legs out of bed, bare feet finding the chill of stone. The moon was fat and low beyond the window, its reflection fractured by frost on the glass.

She hesitated, then reached under her pillow, fingers brushing the cool leather of her notebook. The one she never let anyone see. She drew it out and flipped to a blank page.

By wandlight, her quill trembled as it moved.

> Mum’s garden—three lilac bushes.

>Father’s green coat.

>The sound of bees in July.

     Don’t forget.

    Don’t let them go.

Her handwriting grew ragged, words bleeding into each other. The memories spilled faster than she could catch them—each one a fragment of what she’d already lost once. every detail, every scrap of memory she could anchor to ink , The smell of sugar from Honeydukes. Fred’s hands covered in soot. Neville’s clumsy grin. A snatch of Molly’s song. The way the castle had screamed when the curses struck the walls.

Her writing grew jagged, letters overlapping, torn into the page:

Don’t forget. Don’t let them go. Don’t forget don’t forget don’t forget.

The ink smeared under her shaking hand. By the time she looked up again, grey light was creeping into the sky. Her eyes burned, dry and aching. She hadn’t slept a single hour.

When dawn came, it didn’t feel like a reprieve. It felt like exposure.

————

By breakfast, exhaustion clung to her like a shroud.. 

Elara walked through the Great Hall as though through a dream —She slid into her usual seat beside the Marauders, shoulders tense beneath her robes. Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter were already in their morning chaos: toast flying, parchment scattered, laughter too big for the hour.

But the moment she sat, the noise faltered.

“Merlin, Grey,” Sirius drawled around a mouthful of toast, eyes sweeping over her pallid face and the bruised half-moons beneath her eyes. “You look like you’ve been snogging dementors in your sleep.”

James snorted, flicking crumbs at him. “Maybe she’s just studying too hard. You know, responsibility. You should try it sometime.”

Elara gave them both a thin smile — polite, detached. “Long night. Nothing exciting.”

Only Remus didn’t laugh. His gaze lingered, steady and soft, the way moonlight lingers on glass — gentle, but impossible to ignore. “Nightmares again?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

Her knife paused halfway through the butter. The question landed with careful precision. He didn’t say it like an accusation — more like an invitation.

Elara forced a shrug. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Remus tilted his head, studying her longer than she liked. “Sometimes the worst dreams are the ones worth mentioning.”

That nearly cracked her. Nearly. She wanted to ask how he knew, what he saw when the full moon rose and the world turned cruel. But she couldn’t afford the connection. Empathy was dangerous; it made her human. Humans got attached. Humans died.

Her throat tightened. She turned away quickly, pretending to butter her toast.

The Great Hall’s golden morning light burned too bright; every clatter of cutlery was a needle in her skull. Laughter grated, sharp as glass. She poked at her porridge without tasting it, her ears half-ringing until Alice’s breathless voice cut through.

“Merlin—” Alice’s fingers clenched the Daily Prophet so tightly the paper crinkled. Her lips parted in horror.

Elara’s gaze snapped up, dread already coiling in her gut. The headline blazed across the page, black ink screaming louder than any nightmare:

“Werewolf Attack Strikes Again – West McKinnon Mauled.”

It felt like someone had pressed a hand against her chest, squeezing the air out.

Alice bit her lip, whispering, “Poor West… he didn’t deserve this.”

“No one does,” Elara said before she could stop herself. Her voice sounded wrong — too calm, too precise — like reciting an old line from a forgotten play.

And than Her eyes—traitorous, unbidden—flicked  to Remus Lupin. He was very still. His teacup rested untouched, both hands wrapped around it like an anchor. His gaze was fixed on the table, but Elara saw the faint tremor in his fingers. Guilt radiated from him, quiet and devastating — the kind of guilt that didn’t need confession.

For a moment, their eyes met.

He looked at her as though she were the only one who knew the truth. And maybe she was. Because she had read the same headlines, had seen the same shame settle in his shoulders — and she remembered how long it would take before he learned forgiveness for something that was never his fault.

Her throat burned. She turned back to her plate.

James and Sirius leaned in close, whispering furiously. Sirius’s jaw was tight, his expression caught somewhere between anger and helplessness. Elara caught the fragments — “bloody Ministry… witch hunt…” — but the words drowned under the echo in her head..

You came back to stop this.

The porridge curdled in her mouth. Her stomach rebelled. She pushed the bowl away, hands trembling.

Remus stood first, gathering his things in silence, his movements careful — rehearsed, almost ritual. He didn’t look at her again. The others followed, leaving a trail of uneaten food and unspoken things.

Elara stayed behind.

The Great Hall emptied slowly, laughter fading into the corridor beyond. When she finally rose, the Prophet lay open on the table beside her, headline glinting in the bright, merciless light.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the page. For one wild moment, she wanted to tear it apart — to rip the lie and the truth both to shreds, to make the world stop pretending not to see what it refused to fix.

But instead, she folded it carefully. Pressed it flat. Slipped it into her bag like evidence.

Because she needed the reminder. Of what was coming. Of what she still hadn’t changed.

————

Defense Against the Dark Arts :

Professor dillys's voice droned like a distant bell. The classroom was lit by cold daylight pouring through the high windows, but Elara felt colder still, her limbs heavy from sleeplessness and sorrow.

“Today,” he snapped, “you will practice live counter-hexing. Pairs.”

Chairs scraped. Students shuffled. Elara’s stomach sank as names were called. When hers was paired with Travers , a murmur rippled through the room. His smirk spread, lazy and venomous.

“Lucky me,” he drawled. “Let’s see what the Gryffindor darling’s made of.”

Elara lifted her wand, though her grip felt clammy. Her body screamed for rest, but pride—and something darker, something stubborn—held her spine straight. “I’m ready.”

The duel began.

travers's first hex sizzled toward her. She blocked it. The second, too. Sparks flew, scattering like fireflies against the stone walls.

But he pressed harder, faster. A slicing charm whistled past her shoulder, close enough to sear the air. She deflected, heart hammering, but her wand arm trembled. Sleep deprivation dulled her reflexes; her shield charms frayed at the edges.

He saw the weakness and grinned.

“Come now, grey—show us that Gryffindor fire.”

Another curse shot forward. She countered, . Another, Another. Her breath came short, each block slower than the last.

 Her vision blurred—and for one reckless heartbeat, her eyes found Regulus Black ,  standing with perfect poise, storm-grey eyes locked on her. Too sharp. Too knowing.

Something inside her whispered: You can’t afford to stand out. Not again. Not today.

Her hand faltered. She forced her shield smaller, weaker.

And one slipped through.

The hex struck her side with a white-hot burn. Pain exploded, sharp and shocking. Her knees buckled. She stumbled back, hand flying to her ribs—wetness blooming beneath her fingers.

Blood.

Gasps erupted around the room. Professor barked something, but Elara didn’t hear it. The world tilted, sound muffled, as if she were sinking underwater. She swayed, clutching at air, but her vision tunneled.

Her last sight before the darkness closed was a pair of storm-grey eyes across the room—Regulus Black, no longer composed, no longer aloof, staring at her as though something inside him had cracked.

Then the ground rushed up to meet her.

—————

The class dissolved into chaos. Feet shuffled, voices clashed—curiosity, alarm, glee.

The professor cursed, snapping for someone to fetch Madam Pomfrey. He knelt over Elara, pale and trembling against the floor, blood staining her robes.

“Move back!” Professor Dillys barked. Someone rushed forward with a handkerchief; someone else gagged.

Regulus stood still , gaze fixed on the pale shape of her against the stone floor. Her breath came shallow, too quick. 

Barty’s voice came from beside him — faintly startled. “Merlin, she’s bleeding—”

“I can see that,” Regulus said, too sharply.

Regulus couldn't moved . His chest was tight, his breath sharp. He should have been calculating, detached , This was nothing but a Gryffindor’s stumble, an inconvenience—

He hadn’t planned to care. He had been watching only out of habit, the way one watches a storm from afar. But when she faltered, when blood stained her robes, For one wild instant, he had thought—

And the thought itself unsettled him more than her collapse.

I don’t want this.

The thought jolted through him, unfamiliar and unwelcome ,

Not I don’t want her power revealed. Not I don’t want a scandal.

No. Raw, desperate: I don’t want her hurt.

A hand reached toward him — Mulciber’s, mocking. “You’re going soft, Black?”

Regulus’s gaze snapped to him. The look he gave could have frozen fire.

“Watch your mouth.”

Mulciber blinked, unsettled.

His hand twitched uselessly at his side, , as if reaching for her might betray something he wasn’t ready to name. Her lashes fluttered, skin clammy, lips pale. Something ugly and unfamiliar twisted inside him at the sight.

When they lifted her onto a stretcher, her head lolled, hair spilling across the sheets. Regulus turned away before anyone could read his face.

In the shadows , he pressed a hand to his sternum, as though he could force the feeling back into silence.

But it lingered, heavy and undeniable.

Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with puzzles or patience or masks,

And Regulus Black, who prized control above all else, discovered the one thing he could not master.

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing :

The Hospital Wing smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic potions, that strange blend of comfort and sterility Elara had never learned to trust. The scent clung to the back of her throat, sharp and too clean, as if it meant to scrub out anything human.

 She drifted in and out of feverish half-sleep, caught between flashes of memory and the heavy pull of healing draughts.

 The world came back in fragments: the rustle of robes, the sting of potion dabbed against raw skin, the scrape of a chair shifting too close. Her ribs burned, but worse was the hollow cold in her chest when she remembered the way Travers’s curse had struck.

 When she stirred properly, it was to voices — hushed, taut, pressing close to her bedside.

“Don’t crowd her,” Remus’s voice, low and steady, though tension threaded through every syllable.

“She nearly bled out on a classroom floor,” Sirius shot back. “I’ll crowd if I bloody well like.”

“You’re not helping,” James muttered. He sat slouched in a chair beside her bed, hair sticking up worse than usual, his glasses pushed crooked up the bridge of his nose. His knees bounced with restless energy, though his eyes stayed glued to Elara.

She shifted, lashes heavy , breath catching at the sharp stab in her ribs. a soft sound escaping before she could stop it. At once, three heads snapped her way.

“grey?”

Remus’s voice cut through the haze first, low and tight with worry. She blinked, finding him at her bedside. James hovered behind, arms crossed as if holding himself together. Sirius paced at the foot of her bed like a caged dog.

“You’re awake,” James said,

"Barely,” Sirius muttered, but his voice cracked on the word, betraying him. His shoulders slumped as though some impossible weight had lifted. He tried to mask it with a scowl. “About bloody time. You scared the life out of us.”

Elara tried to sit, but a sharp flare of pain lanced through her ribs,bright and merciless,  she fell back with a hiss. “I’m fine,” she whispered, though her voice cracked.

“Fine?” James leaned closer, incredulous. “You collapsed in the middle of class with half the Slytherins watching. Travers nearly carved you in two. That’s not fine.”

Elara swallowed, wincing. “It looks worse than it is.”

Sirius barked a laugh, sharp and ragged. “Grey, you crumpled like a rag doll and painted the floor red. That’s your idea of fine?”

Heat flushed up her neck. Shame pressed against her chest, crowding out the words she might have used to argue.

Remus’s gaze lingered longer, searching her face as though he could read the truth beneath the bravado. His hand twitched against the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t touch her. “Nightmares, exhaustion, now this,” he murmured more to himself than her “You’ve been running yourself into the ground."

“I haven’t—” she began, but her throat closed around the denial.

Her chest squeezed. She had no answer—none that wouldn’t unravel her secret. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

James dragged a hand down his face, sighing hard enough that his glasses nearly slipped off. “You don’t have to handle it alone. That’s what friends are for.”

Sirius crossed his arms tightly, as though bracing against something. “So the next time you feel like fainting mid-duel, maybe warn us first, yeah? Before we all think  you die , and give us all a collective heart attack.”

Something in his voice wavered at the end, something too raw. Elara’s lips twitched despite the heaviness in her chest. “I’ll… try to schedule it in advance.”

The  boys groaned almost in unison, but some of the heaviness lifted from the air.

“You shouldn’t have been paired with him in the first place , next time I see him , I’ll—” Sirius said,

“You’ll do nothing,” Madam Pomfrey swept forward, brisk and immovable, her presence filling the space like a gale. “She needs rest, not your dramatics. Out, before I throw you out.”

They muttered under their breath but quieted, their weight settling back around her bed rather than leaving.

Elara let herself sink back into the pillows. For a while, she let their presence hold her steady: James slumping beside her, Sirius stretching out at the foot of her bed, Remus upright but alert. A fragile circle of warmth, protecting her from everything outside these walls.

And yet — beneath the warmth, unease coiled. Her chest ached not only from the wound but from the weight of secrets. She didn’t deserve their loyalty. Not when she carried two timelines on her shoulders.

Her eyes drifted closed again, though unease lingered beneath the surface. She couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her, even when the room was quiet..

—————

 That Night:

The castle at night was a labyrinth of stone and silence. Moonlight carved pale bars across the floor, stretching long and thin between tapestries. Regulus Black moved through them like a ghost, cloak drawn tight, each step measured and too loud in his own ears.

He should have gone back to the dungeons, to his House, to the safety of masks he knew by heart, he should let gossip do its work, let her weakness be its own undoing. That would have been simple. Logical. But logic had abandoned him the moment Travers’s curse struck. His path had curved back, inevitably, to the Hospital Wing.

He didn’t enter. He only stood in the shadows of the archway, staring through the sliver of door left ajar.

Inside, the scene burned itself into him: Elara pale against the white sheets, her face slack in uneasy sleep. Bandages glowed faintly under the moonlight where her robes had been peeled back. Her wand pulsed faintly on the bedside table, restless as though it mirrored her spirit, its rhythm echoing too close to the beat of his own pulse.

And around her—the Gryffindors. His brother slumped awkwardly in a chair, one arm flung carelessly over the armrest. Potter sprawled half-asleep, spectacles crooked. Lupin sitting straight-backed, gaze alert even in the dim light. A circle of warmth around her. A circle Regulus would never step into.

His nails bit crescents into his palms. Sirius looked so at ease there, as though he belonged—when Regulus knew he never had.

But it wasn’t Sirius that hollowed his chest. It was her. The fragile rise and fall of her chest. The way her lashes cast faint shadows on too-pale cheeks. 

She was reckless. Stupidly so. He should sneer at her foolishness, let it ruin her. But the image of her crumpling, lifeless for that one heartbeat—

Why do you care?

He had asked himself this a dozen times since the duel. Each time, the answer had sharpened, closer to cutting.

At first he told himself it was strategy. That she was dangerous, unpredictable—better alive where he could watch her. Then he told himself it was pride , she had dared to stand against him, and he wanted her strong enough to fight again...

Lies. Every one of them.

The truth clawed at him now, vicious and unrelenting.

He hadn’t wanted her to fall. He hadn’t wanted her to bleed. Not for strategy. Not for pride. Not for the tangled politics of their world.

He hadn’t wanted her hurt.

The rawness of it hollowed him. 

This wasn’t control. This wasn’t calculation. This was weakness, and weakness was unforgivable.

And yet—when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her collapsing. All he heard was the sound she’d made when Travers’s hex struck.

Regulus bowed his head, hair falling forward to shadow his eyes. His chest ached with something he could not—would not—name.

But the word pulsed there anyway, treacherous, quiet as a whisper:

Not hate.

---------

Elara woke beneath silver moonlight. The steady rhythm of Marauders’ breathing filled the space around her: James soft and uneven, Sirius loud and sprawling, Remus calm and measured. They had stayed. 

Warmth pressed against her heart. And yet… the air felt shifted, charged , as if the shadows themselves had been watching. Her gaze slid toward the half-closed door, where she thought — just for an instant — she saw the flicker of a cloak retreating.

Her pulse raced.

Someone had been there.

Her hand pressed against her bandaged ribs. A strange calm washed over her, threaded with unease. Whoever it was, they had not entered, had not harmed. Only… watched.

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling. The Marauders slept around her like anchors, steady and solid. Yet in the space between heartbeats, she could almost feel the presence, storm-grey and silent, carved into the darkness just beyond reach.

She closed her eyes, but sleep came only in fragments, pierced by the echo of a stare she could not shake.

-----

Regulus Black rose before dawn, though he hadn’t slept.

The dungeons were quiet, air heavy with damp stone and the faint tang of river water seeping through cracks in the walls. His roommates slept soundly . Only his bed was untouched—sheets still smooth, blankets perfectly folded, as though he had never lain there at all.

He sat at his desk, quill still between his fingers though the parchment before him was blank. The ink had dried at the tip hours ago. He had tried to write—anything, a letter, an essay, the neat calculation of runes that usually calmed his mind. But the words would not come.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood blooming across pale fabric.

Her blood.

Regulus pressed the quill down too hard. The nib snapped, leaving a blot of ink that bled into the parchment. His jaw tightened. He should have been able to control this. Control was what he excelled at—what defined him.

Masks. Precision. Composure.

And yet—

His family had taught him to recognize threats. But no one had taught him how to recognize this.

He pushed back from the desk, pacing the length of his dormitory. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, grounding and not nearly enough.

It should have been simple. She was a Gryffindor, reckless and foolish, entangled with people he should despise. She was Sirius’s friend—reason enough to want nothing to do with her , He should not care. She was a puzzle, a danger, a girl he had sworn to unravel. 

So why did the memory of her collapse hollow him out? Why had his chest tightened until he could barely breathe when she fell?

Not hate.

The words from the night before coiled in his skull, unwelcome, undeniable.

He braced both hands against the stone wall, leaning forward until his forehead touched cool rock. He wanted to smother the thought, strangle it before it could grow into something dangerous.

But it was already there.

He remembered the way her lashes had fluttered faintly against her cheek, how her breath had come too shallow, too quick. And he remembered the faint tremor in her voice when she had said I’m fine.

He knew lies. He knew them better than truth. And that had been one.

He remembered the smear of crimson on her robes and how, for one raw heartbeat, he had thought she might not rise again .And he had wanted—not her downfall, not her ruin, not even the bitter satisfaction of a rival’s weakness. He had wanted her to stand.

The shame of it burned.

If anyone saw it—if anyone knew—they would tear him apart. His House, his family, the Dark Lord’s followers who whispered in corridors already measuring his worth. Affection was weakness. Attachment was ruin.

And yet the truth pulsed inside him like a wound: he cared.

His reflection in the glass of the window looked back at him—pale, hollow-eyed, lips pressed thin. For once, he did not recognize himself.

Regulus tore his gaze away, straightening his shoulders until the mask slid back into place.

When he left the dormitory, his stride was crisp, his robes immaculate. By the time he reached the common room , his face was smooth marble, unreadable. No one would know he had stood in the dark and pressed his hand to his chest as though holding something fragile from shattering.

No one would know he had whispered her name once into the silence, and hated himself for it.

———————

Dawn crept into the Hospital Wing in pale streaks, turning the glass panes gold. Elara surfaced slowly, the world settling into focus around her , the faint ache still tugging at her ribs.

She wasn’t alone.

James was half-slumped in the chair beside her, chin tilted onto his chest, spectacles askew. Sirius had taken over the foot of her bed entirely, one arm flung across his eyes, boots kicked carelessly onto the mattress as though the cot belonged to him. And Remus—he sat upright still, head bowed over a book, a quill tucked between his fingers though the ink had long dried.

A lump rose in her throat. They hadn’t left.

The movement of her stirring was enough. James jerked awake, pushing his glasses up with a bleary smile. “Morning,” he whispered, as though they were conspirators in some quiet rebellion.

Sirius groaned, peeling his arm off his face. “Finally. Thought we’d have to drag Pomfrey over to prod you awake.” He sat up, raking a hand through his hair, trying to make his relief look like annoyance.

Remus closed his book, eyes steady and far too perceptive. “How’s the pain?”

Elara shifted carefully, biting back a wince. “Manageable.”

“Which,” James said, “is Gryffindor for ‘hurts like hell but I won’t admit it.’”

Sirius smirked faintly. “At least she’s honest enough not to say fine again.”

She meant to roll her eyes, but her gaze snagged on them—on the way they had all planted themselves around her bed like guards, each in their own way. She felt suddenly small beneath the weight of it. Small, and undeserving.

“I didn’t ask you to stay,” she murmured.

James’s grin softened. “Don’t have to ask.”

“Besides,” Sirius added, “we’d only get in trouble if you keeled over again without witnesses. Better to keep an eye on you.”

The joke should have landed lighter. Instead, it dug , she smiled instead, a quiet, fragile curve of lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

James grinned. Sirius snorted. Remus’s mouth quirked, though his eyes stayed shadowed.

For a while, the four of them simply sat in the golden hush of morning, as though the war outside, the curses, the nightmares, couldn’t reach them here , And Elara clung to the moment, knowing it couldn’t last.

Until Madam Pomfrey swept in, her brisk footsteps cutting through the tension. “Out, all of you. She needs rest, and you lots need to go to your classes .”

The Marauders muttered protests, but Pomfrey’s glare brooked no argument. One by one, they filed out—James throwing her a reassuring grin that didn’t reach his eyes, Sirius clapping her hand before stalking off, Remus offering a quiet nod, Peter a worried glance.

The ward fell silent again.

Elara exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against the bandages at her side. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy. The exhaustion of her sleepless night and the duel pressed down all at once.

As she drifted back toward sleep , she thought she felt a presence—eyes on her. Again.

But when she forced her lids open, the doorway was empty.

————

The Slytherin common room glowed faintly green, the Black Lake throwing wavering light across the stone. Most students had gone to breakfast; the hearth crackled in the hush.

Severus Snape sat in an armchair, book in hand, his dark gaze lifting when Regulus stalked in, his steps sharp, his jaw tight. He’d been pacing  for hours, the image of Elara’s bloodied robes gnawing at him until he thought he’d go mad. He needed—something. A release. A target.

 “You’re in a temper.”Snape drawled, his voice soft and cutting.

Regulus stopped short of the fire, his fists clenched. “travis  went too far yesterday.”

Snape’s lip curled. “He was only dueling. If your… little Gryffindor couldn’t handle it, that’s hardly his fault.”

Something snapped inside Regulus.

“She’s not—” His voice cut off, the word echoing too loud in the stone chamber. He shut his mouth, teeth grinding, but Snape’s sharp eyes narrowed with interest.

“Not what?” Snape prodded softly, dangerously.

Regulus stood near the window, his reflection fractured in the thick pane. His shoulders were rigid, hands clasped behind his back in a posture he had learned from watching his father — controlled, contained, unreadable. But the glass betrayed him. The faintest crease cut between his brows, a flicker of thought crossing his face he hadn’t meant to show.

“She’s not weak,”he said at last, clipped and unwilling.

Snape tilted his head, watching him like a hawk. “Strange. You speak of her as though you care.”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy. Regulus’s stomach twisted. His first instinct was denial, sharp and vicious—but the word wouldn’t come. The words were poison. Regulus’s silence gave him away.

Snape’s smirk was faint but cold. “Careful, Regulus. Attachment makes people reckless. You know that better than anyone.”

Regulus’s pulse snapped hot against his skin. Reckless , The word cut like a curse. Recklessness was Sirius’s sin — it was Gryffindor folly, a stain on the Black name. It was everything Regulus swore never to become. He clenched his jaw until it ached.

He spun sharply on his heel, cloak snapping in his wake, the echo of his boots striking hard against the stone. “Mind your own business.”

Snape did not follow. He didn’t need to. His words hung in the air like smoke, clinging, impossible to shake.

The corridor beyond the common room was colder, emptier, yet Regulus could still feel them tightening around his ribs, a chain he hadn’t chosen. Careful, Regulus.

He walked faster, as though distance might loosen the grip. But the truth pulsed beneath his fury, beneath his denial — a truth he couldn’t cauterize, no matter how he tried.

He did care.

And that made her dangerous in ways he had no defense against.