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masterlist letterboxd book!recos tumblr!recos miscellaneous

fandoms i'm willing to write for. . .

the chronicles of narnia. harry potter. phantom of the opera. twilight. marvel. dc comics. house of the dragon. the vampire diaries. star wars. slasher flicks. disney. ghibli studios. pokemon. lord of the rings. the mighty ducks.

THE SILENCE BEAT LOUDER THAN ANY SCREAM. The four Gryffindors were rooted where they stood, breaths hitching in their throats as the stone floor glistened with the flickering fire. The torchlight shone upon the wet wall, making the crimson words bleed.

"It's written in blood," Hermione was the first to recover, voice trembling.

Harry stepped forward, ignoring your expression that screamed at him not to. His shoes splashed against the layer of water flooding the corridor, staring down at the horrific reflection, and looking up, his face pale.

"Oh no," he breathed out, staring at Mrs Norris, the caretaker's cat, who hung stiffly from a torch bracket. Her eyes were wide and stared into nothingness.

For a few seconds, the four of you didn't move. Even the restless Bowie was stunned into total silence, which was rare for him, especially with the intense dislike he had for the bloody cat.

"Let's get out of 'ere," Ron said. You silently agreed, ready to pull your friends down the hall when Harry hesitated, awkwardly shuffling where he stood. "Shouldn't we try and help—"

"Harry, trust us," you spoke resolutely; his eyes shifted onto yours immediately. "Ron's right. We don't want to be found here."

He pondered over it for a moment, ready to leave with you when—

But it was too late. As luck would have it (who were you all kidding, counting on luck given your history with the fickle lady), the rumble of hundreds of feet broke the spell. From either end of the corridor came the sound of hundreds of voices of well-fed people overlapping one another and feet climbing the stairs; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. The four of you stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students, pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet. "Enemies of the heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

Unsurprisingly, it was your cousin, making a spectacle of himself yet again. Seems the tickling charm wasn't enough to get through to his gel-encased head. You'll have to devise an elaborate plan with the twins the next chance you got, you thought, your hair flickering to a dangerous red at its roots.

Draco Malfoy pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive with malicious delight, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the terrifying sight of the hanging, immobile cat.

A bloody sadist, that one.

"What's going on here? What's going on?" Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. At first, he was ready to confiscate a fanged frisbee or two, or perhaps chase after some nose-biting teacups, mind already preening at the fantasy of inflicting some corporal punishment. But when he saw Mrs Norris, he fell back, clutching his face in horror.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs Norris?" he shrieked, and suddenly, you were so sure that his idea of corporal punishment just went from minor slaps on the wrist, to full-blown shackles and beheadings.

In his rage, his popping eyes fell onto Harry, who stood closest to the scene.

"You!" he shrieked. "You! You've murdered my cat!"

"Filch—" you started, already tugging at the back of scarhead's robes.

"I'll kill you! I'll—"

"Argus!"

Dumbledore arrived on the scene, followed by a flurry of teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and yourself, and detached Mrs Norris from the torch bracket. It was a pitiful sight, really. So pitiful that no matter how much you hated that cat (and you really, really did hate her), you couldn't bring yourself to feel triumphant, nor to look into its eyes for that matter.

Even Bowie, who shared more encounters, and double the disdain you held for her, burrowed deeper into your pockets.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You too, Mr Potter, Miss Black-Lupin, Mr Weasley, and Miss Granger."

You barely withheld a sigh. It was always you four. And Bowie. It seems almost foolish now to think that your plans for the night had been to nick a snack from the kitchens, get some sleep in, then head back to that blasted wardrobe. This is why you ought to just never map out a schedule anymore.

To make matters worse, Lockhart stepped forward eagerly, volunteering his office for Dumbledore's use. "My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free—"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore. The silent crowd let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after the headmaster; so did Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape.

The four of you trailed after them; Harry, Ron, and Hermione hung their heads low in shame, probably in an unconscious attempt to hide from the crowd. Meanwhile, you peered at the students, caught the twins' eyes, and despite the growing tension, you sent them a subtle wink. They wanted the gossip, and you were ready to hand it right to them — well, a filtered version of it, depending on its contents.

Upon entering Lockhart's darkened office, there was a flurry of movement across the walls; you blinked upon seeing several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her.The four of you exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: it was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making daft suggestions.

You wondered if this was what the Muggles did when examining bodies post-mortem. That was a rather macabre thought, but it was one you welcomed with genuine curiosity. Perhaps Hermione would know, you pondered, glancing over at her direction, only to purse your lips at the prominent admiration that shone glistened her eyes as she watched the DADA professor with rapt attention.

Between Lockhart's "It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmorgrifian Torture," to Filch's dry, racking sobs, a part of you wanted to trade positions with the cat simply to escape them.

". . .I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," said Lockhart, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography. . ."

The droning went on, and on, while his portrait counterparts nodded animatedly in agreement as he went. You exchanged a fed-up look with Ron, then watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose upon Hermione's attentive expression. The girl was mad.

You subjected your attention onto Bowie instead. The little bugger was noticeably calmer than he was moments ago, and that brought you great comfort. It was odd seeing your fierce protector shaking in fear, and so unlike himself.

For a moment, he burrowed himself back into your pocket. You peered into it, only for him to hop out right after. In the little twigs he had for hands, he held onto two crumbs of the tart you had shared with him from earlier. He had saved it for when his appetite returned, it seemed. For a moment, he gazed down at the two crumbs, deep in thought, his beady eyes flickering from one, to the other. After a moment more of contemplation, he held one crumb up to you.

You were touched by the gesture; you both knew that a crumb would do very little to soothe your hunger, yet he offered his share with you nonetheless.

"That won't really fill me as much as it would you, now would it?" He chittered incredulously in response. There he was, being a selfless friend, and you still dared to refuse. He puffed out a stubborn breath, then aimed the one crumb at your cheek in retaliation. How ungrateful of you, he thought, munching on his own.

At long last, Dumbledore straightened up.

"She's not dead, Argus," he said softly. "She has been petrified."

"Ah! I thought so!" you heard Lockhart exclaim, eliciting yet another sigh from you and Ron.

"But how, I cannot say. . ."

"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tear-stained face to Harry, whose eyes grew exceedingly wide in alarm. He was a helpless case, you surmised, looking down at Bowie, who huffed out a sigh.

"No second-year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. Yet, your thoughts strayed to Hermione's Immobulus charm on Neville the previous year. It was no petrification, but, surely had she willed it otherwise, you had no doubt in her ability to succeed.

"It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced—"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face swelling to a disgusting purple shade. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! What either of them had written on the wall! He found — in my office — he knows I'm a — I'm a—"

Argus' face worked horribly, while you leaned forward, not even bothered to hide your intrigue.

"He knows I'm a Squib!" he finished, and immediate understanding washed over you. It was no wonder now why he fantasized subjecting every last student to his shackles. It was disgusting, really, to actively fantasize such a thing over students. But, it made all the more sense why he was a bitter old man against everyone — even those who stuck by his rules.

"I never touched Mrs Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone's — well, almost everyone — eyes on him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. He sought desperately to meet your gaze, to seek comfort in you, as he usually does. But, it seemed you were preoccupied with this bit of information you would be sharing with Tweedle Dee and Dum. "And I don't even know what a Squib is!”

"Rubbish!" snarled Filch. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"

Oh, you just found the bloody leprechaun's pot of gold, you did. You hid your astonished smile with a cough, looking off to the side.

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and instantly, gone was your amusement, and you were filled with instant dread; surely, Snape had nothing to say that would frame Harry to look any less suspicious.

"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth, as though it pained him to say it, or as though he doubted those words himself. Nonetheless, the four of you were stunned. "But, we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. I, for one, do not recall seeing Potter at supper."

Bollocks.

"That was my doing, Severus!" Lockhart eagerly interjected, more than happy to contribute something to the discussion — and for once, you thanked Godric for that. "Harry was helping me answer my fan mail."

Snape appeared appalled by the mere thought; that's when Hermione adds on, "That's why we went looking for him, professor — [Name], Ron, and I — we'd just found him, and we were heading back to the Common Room when we found Mrs Norris.

He looked nowhere near content with that answer, but didn't prod further. Not over Harry, that is. His eyes slid away from your friend, clearly frustrated that Lockhart had provided the boy with an airtight, albeit ridiculous, alibi. His dark, sweeping gaze then landed squarely on you.

Bloody Godric's bollocks.

"How remarkably convenient for Potter," Snape drawled softly, taking a slow step toward you. The torchlight threw harsh, hollow shadows across his sallow face. "But that does not explain your absence from the Hallowe'en feast, Miss. . . Black-Lupin."

He dragged out your name, rolling the words over his tongue like they tasted foul, making the syllables sound like a disease.

"I looked toward the Gryffindor table," Snape continued, his voice dropping to a silken whisper that commanded the silence of the room, "and found it blessedly free of your presence. So, tell me. . . where exactly were you while Mrs Norris was being attacked?"

Filch let out a ragged, furious wheeze. "She was probably helping him! Nasty, rule-breaking—"

"Silence, Argus," Severus murmured, eyes never leaving yours. You grew exceedingly conscious of the weight of all their eyes; even the Lockharts on the wall stopped and openly stared. "Well? We are waiting."

Ron shifted nervously beside you, and Hermione bit her lip.

You felt the cold weight of the wand in your pocket — the same wand that you pointed at possible threats-turned-friends. You could lie. You could say you slept through the feast. But you were your fathers' daughter. You didn't do easy lies.

You lifted your chin, meeting Snape's cold stare with your eyes that bled mercury.

"I was in a wardrobe, Professor," you said smoothly. You felt Hermione's frustration, Ron's confusion, and Harry's immense cluelessness.

Meanwhile, Snape's eyes narrowed. "A. . . wardrobe."

"Yes," you continued, your voice entirely steady, though your heart hammered aggressively against your ribs. "I got a bit lost. There was an entire woods back there, and it was snowing. I ended up having a lovely cup of tea with a girl, and a faun — and when I finally found my way back to the Common Room, Ron gave me a treacle tart. Then we went looking for Harry."

​Ron let out a strangled sound that was half-cough, half-whimper, horrified that you had just chosen to mock the most terrifying teacher in school over a petrified cat.

​A muscle feathered in Snape's jaw. The sheer, unadulterated insolence of your answer hung in the damp air.

"You think this a joke, Black?" Snape hissed, dropping the Lupin entirely to associate you directly with the arrogance he despised. "A cat has been brutalized. Blood has been painted all over an ancient wall. And you stand there spinning fairy tales of an enchanted woods and fauns to my face?"

The potioneer listed madness after madness — you had some nerve mocking him. It was nerve he recognized terribly well, reigniting a decades-long bitterness that coiled around every crevice of his being. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your staggering cheek."

"I'll have her expelled!" Filch shrieked, pointing a knobby finger at you. "Making a mockery of my sweet cat! She's as guilty as Potter!"

"Neither of them is guilty, Argus," a calm, quiet voice resonated as ​Dumbledore stepped away from the cat. The Headmaster looked at you over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. There was something distinguishably reassuring about him, like a truth that no matter how mad it appeared, he would know — and unlike others, he would believe you.

​Snape sneered. "Headmaster, surely you aren't going to accept such blatant disrespect—"

​"I accept that Miss Black-Lupin has a vibrant imagination," Dumbledore interrupted gently, though his bright blue eyes remained fixed on yours. His words didn't feel mocking, nor did they frame the matter as though madness one would ought to pity rather than fight.

Dumbledore's eyes flickered down to the hem of your robes, then to the slight tears that ripped into the sleeves. You realized with a sudden drop of your stomach that the hem was still damp with melting Narnian snow, just as little cracks of wood — almost undistinguishable to the naked eye — of winter trees clung onto the small punctures.

The Headmaster looked back up at your face. The faintest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile curved along his mouth. He knew. He didn't know how, but he knew you had been exactly where you said you were.

"Our world is a vast one, Severus," Dumbledore spoke softly, turning away from you to look at the Potions Master. "And I find that the most absurd truths are often dismissed by those who are only looking for a lie."

"Miss Black-Lupin was not here when Mrs Norris was attacked. Of that, I am certain."

The mere fact someone — the Headmaster, of all people — believed you was a reality that astonished you beyond colors or expressions. Wisps of your hair turned an unnatural shade of orange at the thought, confused, and in utter disbelief. Who would have thought that Dumbledore would believe you where your closest friends hadn't — where they couldn't.

Snape appeared as though he had swallowed a lemon, unwilling to back down, especially when you wore that smug little expression that mirrored that of the father you never knew. Nonetheless, he bowed his head stiffly. "As you say, Headmaster.

"Innocent until proven guilty," Dumbledore murmured, returning his sights onto the petrified feline. "We will be able to cure her, Argus. Madam Sprout has a very healthy growth of Mandrakes. But until then. . . I strongly recommend caution."

The aged professor ended gravely before dismissing you and the others to return to your dormitories. You huddled together, exiting in a clumped line, when Dumbledore called out to you, giving you one last, knowing look. "Though, I do advise you, Miss Black-Lupin. . . to perhaps wear a warmer coat the next time you go exploring."

"The castle drafts can be quite unforgiving this time of year."

You all left as swiftly as you could without actually running. Upon reaching a floor up from Lockhart's office, you all steered into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind you. Bowie chittered in alarm with all the darkness; unlike you, he remembered your vow to the one Lucy Pevensie on returning to meet her come midnight.

The four Gryffindors stood in the dim moonlight filtering through the mullioned windows. Ron was pacing, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale face. Hermione was wringing her hands, muttering under her breath about expulsion and dark magic.

Meanwhile, Harry just leaned against the dusty teacher's desk, appearing as though the floor might just drop beneath him at any moment.

You watched him. You knew that look — the look of someone being eaten alive by a burden, or a secret.

"Snape's going to have us watched," Ron groaned, sinking into a chair. "And you, [Name]! Are you mental? A faun? A tea party? He looked like he wanted to poison your morning pumpkin juice!"

"She was just trying to deflect," Hermione said quickly, offering you a nervous, sympathetic look. "It was quick thinking, really. Confuse him and throw him off just enough so he stops interrogating us. Even Dumbledore played along."

She sounded breathless, amazed even, by the spectacle. But you only sighed. She was still attempting to ground your experience in logic, or tactic. But that truly wasn't the case.You ran a hand through your hair, which had gone a dull, grey hue.

"I wasn't deflecting, Hermione," you breathed out, watching as Ron stilled in his pacing, and Hermione froze.

"What d'you mean?" Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper in the dark room.

You walked over to lean against the desk right next to him. You looked at your three friends, then at Bowie, and took a deep breath. "I meant every word I said. I wasn't at the feast because I found a room. A large, spare room that seemed to just appear out of nowhere."

"Inside it, I found a wardrobe, and I walked inside it—"

"Why the bloody hell would you get inside a wardrobe?"

You ignored Ron in favor of carrying on, lost in your retelling, while Harry hung onto your every word. "But it kept going. The coats turned into pine branches, and the next thing I know, it was a whole forest, blanketed in snow."

Hermione let out a small, breathless laugh. "[Name], be serious. The castle is unplottable. You can't just have a pocket dimension sitting inside a piece of furniture—"

​"I had tea with a faun named Mr. Tumnus," you interrupted gently, your gaze fixed on Harry, who was staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes. "And I met a little Muggle girl. Her name is Lucy. She stumbled into it just like I did. I promised her I'd go back tonight at midnight to make sure Tumnus was safe from the White Witch who rules the place."

"You're barmy. . ." Ron breathed, staring at you like you grew two more heads. "You fell asleep in some empty classroom — maybe even by the lake — and had a mental dream! That's what happened."

"My boots were wet from the snow, Ron," you tiredly countered. "Why else do you think Dumbledore let me go? He knew. Somehow — I don't bloody know how — but somehow, the old man knew."

Silence fell over the classroom. Hermione appeared deeply troubled, already mentally recounting all the texts she'd come across for any possible explanation over the matter. Ron. . . well, Ron just looked overwhelmed. He thought his idea of you falling asleep by the Black Lake made the most sense. But with everything that's been going on as of late, sensibility and logic weren't exactly rules Hogwarts went by.

And Harry. . . Harry didn't appear the very least doubtful. He looked at you with a heavy, mixed expression, but one that swirled with relief. It was the desperate, heavy sort that made your heart ache.

"Harry?" you asked softly, reaching a hand out and placing it on his shoulder.

Had he not been consumed by the weight of everything else that's been happening, he would have gone red in utter fluster. But instead, he swallowed thickly, sending a glance toward Ron and Hermione, then back at you.

"Before we found Mrs Norris," Harry whispered, his voice trembling. "I heard voices. In the walls."

The three of them had heard him murmuring something like that before everything went wrong, but to hear him deliberately bring it up — fully conscious and so surely, the weight of it all felt almost crushing.

Hermione gasped softly and took a step forward, but Harry just kept his eyes locked onto yours.

His eyes alone spoke for themselves. You didn't need words to understand what he wished to express, for in the greens of his irises roared everything he so wished to put into words, but couldn't. But you understood. Amongst everyone there, he knew that you would understand him best. Nonetheless, he went on.

"It spoke of blood," his brows furrowed at the memory, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles went white. "It said it wanted to rip into something — or into someone — that it wanted to kill."

Harry looked utterly shattered, a twelve-year-old boy buckling under the weight of his own mind, of the memory of something so dreadfully real, yet unbelievable. He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to hear any of it. But when had he ever asked to be dragged into all these. . . festivities he simply seemed to attract?

"Should I have told him — Professor Dumbledore, I mean." He looked so, utterly lost, and your heart clenched for him, "Should I have told him what I heard?"

"No," said Ron adamantly. For the first time since hearing you speak, he turned his sights onto someone else. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, mate, even in the wizarding world."

"Ron's right," Hermione piped in, "Harry, if anything, this might make your case look all the more suspicious. If anyone were to know. . . I can't even begin to fathom just what everyone might think. It's bad enough that you were the first and closest to Mrs Norris when everyone arrived."

There was a momentary pause that no one could seem to fill. It was heavy, anxiety-ridden, and consuming. In the darkness of that empty classroom, the shadows danced as Hermione paced with her lit wand.

"Y'know," Harry suddenly said, eyes downcast. "I thought. . . For just a moment, I thought I was going dark. Or mad. What really is the difference?"

He forced out a shallow laugh, though it sounded more flat than anything. Faced with his vulnerability, you didn't hesitate before reaching out and grabbing his hand — drenched with a cold, nervous sheen.

"You aren't mad, Harry." You sounded so sure. How could you sound so sure, he thought. This was a conflict he had with himself, yet, you were simply sure. It made his mind wander, but he was instantly grounded by your touch, instead focusing on the assuring amber hue your hair color had taken on. "If I can walk through a blasted wardrobe into a frozen world and drink tea with a faun—"

A hint of a smile curved his lips at that, triggering your own. "—then you can hear a murderous voice without being mad. We don't have all the answers yet, but we'll figure it out. We always, eventually, do."

Harry released a long, shaky breath. The crushing isolation he had felt all evening slowly began to lift. He wasn't alone in experiencing the supposedly impossible. He squeezed your hand back, a small, genuine smile breaking through his fear.

"Right," he nodded, in a way, drawing strength from your sureness. "A winter woods and murderous voices. We'll figure it out."

Somewhere in the distance, the clock tower began to chime.

Ding.

Dong.

It rang resonantly, the only notable noise in the evening's utter silence. While the others' eyes met in alarm, you inhaled sharply as Bowie poked your side. He tapped a twig to (what you assumed was) his wrist. It was midnight, you realized, pulse suddenly picking up in speed. Lucy would already be waiting by the lamppost.

"I have to go," you muttered, more to yourself than your friends. You pulled your hand back from Harry's, unknowingly making him frown. In an instant, you checked your pockets and led Bowie inside, securing both him and your wand as you bounded towards the door.

"You're not going back there, are you?" Hermione hissed, scandalized. "Now? After a cat has just been petrified?"

"I made a promise, 'Mione," you said, creaking the oak door open and stepping out. "I'll be careful. You four just stay in the Common Room. Please, don't go elsewhere tonight."

You couldn't deny the irony in your saying that. After all, who was it that was sneaking off — at midnight — to a possibly dangerous land, and with some murderous entity on the loose? You could only imagine your father's anxiety had he known what you've been up to. But you had a promise to keep. Firm with this resolve, you crept into the shadows of the castle. The closer you got, the more your fear of the bloody warning faded, as the thrill of returning to Narnia bled through.

Like second nature, you found your way back to the very corridor you'd gotten lost in. In an instant, a pair of ceiling-high doors appeared with a deep, resonant rumble. The floor gently shook beneath you as you stared up at it in awe. You pushed past it with intent, maneuvering past the piles of discarded items. From old dueling dummies to ancient broomstick models, the room was littered with plenty of trinkets. Yet, the pull of the wardrobe was innate, tugging at you with a force that was undeniable. It wasn't long before you found yourself standing before its magnificence yet again.

Pulling it open by its handles, you found a winter coat hanging from within. You surmised it to be the room's natural understanding of your needs, and without wasting a moment more, you shrugged your school robes off, and in its place, wriggled into the fur coat. You assisted Bowie into its relatively spacious pocket, where he gripped onto your wand with a promise of guarding it with his life.

Putting one foot in front of the other, you entered the threshold of the wooden wardrobe, instantly recognizing the pungent smell of mothballs that hit your nose upon entry.

Just a beat later, it gave way to the sharp, clean bite of pine and a gust of chilling, winter air. You failed to contain a grin as it nipped at the flesh of your cheeks, taking the biting cold as your cue to push deeper into the endless wardrobe. The smooth wooden floorboards beneath your boots seamlessly transitioned into a thick, crunching carpet of snow.

You moved with purpose, navigating the dense thicket of frosted branches until the familiar, soft golden glow of the lamppost pierced the gloom. Standing directly beneath it was a shivering Lucy, bundled in her pajamas and a coat that was far too thin for the weather.

"Oh, Lucy!" You rushed forward, dropping to your knees in the snow to pull her into a tight hug. You rubbed your palms briskly up and down her arms in a desperate attempt to generate warmth. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. So much had happened at the castle tonight,  I simply couldn't get away—"

"Hey, [Name], it's alright!" She interrupted, beaming up at you. Her slightly crooked teeth were on full display, completely unfazed by the violent chittering of her jaw. "I haven't been waiting long! But, I'm sure Mr Tumnus has, so let's go!"

The pair of you chatted on the way to the faun's home. While she went on about her interrupted game of hide-and-seek with her siblings, and their utter refusal of her story, you spoke of your friends' mixed reactions to your adventure. You told her of your one friend, who instantly believed you — to which she joked, "Maybe he likes you!" though was only met with a dismissive smile — then of the other two, who needed a lot more convincing. You didn't spare her too many details on the events that occurred after your return, particularly surrounding the blood and petrification. Nonetheless, she happily listened about it all, giving her own comments and inputs every so often.

Eventually, you reached the familiar steps leading up to Tumnus' cave. He opened his door slowly after your knocks, evidently astonished to see you both again so soon — if not, at all.

"You came back?" he gasped, ushering you both inside and slamming the door shut against the night. "Are you mad? Both of you?"

"We were worried!" Lucy insisted, pulling off her wet gloves. "After what you said about the Witch. . . we couldn't just leave you."

"And," you added, pulling off your coat, "we felt a bit responsible. Since you didn't kidnap us, we didn't want you getting in trouble for it."

Tumnus stared at you both, his goat ears drooping with emotion. "I am safe. For now. No one knows you were here. . . yet."

He gestured to the armchairs.  The walls that shielded you from the winter breeze had been a welcome comfort, as were the untainted cups of tea he served. Yet, there was something colder about it all the same. Perhaps it was the fear that lay beneath the mirthful charm he was putting up for your sake, or maybe it was the clutter that spoke of a desperate need to escape.

"It wasn't always like this," Tumnus sighed, noticing Lucy shiver and the way you eyed him with concern. He knelt by the hearth, picking up two flint stones. "Narnia was a free land once, you know? We danced, we feasted. But the White Witch. . . she rules by fear. She has eyes everywhere."

Clack. Clack. He struck the stones together. A tiny spark jumped and died in the cold ash.

"She calls herself the Queen," Tumnus muttered, striking the stones again with trembling hands. "But she is a tyrant. Dark times. . ."

Clack. No spark.

Bowie poked his head out of your pocket. He watched Tumnus struggle, then looked up at you with a judgmental tilt of his leaf-ears. Pathetic, his posture seemed to say, to which you met with a look that told him to behave.

You watched the Faun's fumbling hands. The cold was seeping into Lucy's bones; her teeth were starting to chatter. You, yourself were in dire need of warmth yourself, and in that moment, you made a decision.

"Allow me, Mr Tumnus," you said softly. He looked up, confused, holding the rocks. "Oh, no, I just need a bit of dry moss—"

"You don't need moss," you said, stepping forward. You reached into your robes and withdrew your wand. It was sleek, polished wood, humming with a power that felt alien in this world of deep, natural magic.

Tumnus and Lucy watched, baffled, as you pointed the tip at the dead logs.

"Incendio," you spoke, the incantation rolling off your tongue, warm and familiar as a jet of spiraling orange flame erupted from the tip of your wand. It struck the wood with a whoosh, and instantly, a roaring fire sprang to life, crackling as if it had been burning for hours.

The heat washed over the room. Tumnus fell back on his haunches, his jaw dropping as Lucy gasped, her eyes reflecting the sudden blaze. You twirled the wand casually and slid it back into your pocket. Bowie let out a pleased squeak, climbing out to bask in the instant heat.

You understood the astonishment that hid beneath their silence, and while the pair of you didn't linger for too long this time around — aware of the dangers that threatened Tumnus' safety — you took the time to explain the peculiarity of your case — from your metamorphic abilities, to the wand that your bowtruckle held securely in your pocket. You explained Bowie's nature as a fantastic beast, of Hogwarts, a school meant to train all those who were capable of magic, and the very nature of the magic that thrived in secrecy from Muggles.

Tumnus was in awe of the possibility of a world where sorcery was a gift bestowed upon many, where creatures lived peacefully alongside humankind, and where a ruler was chosen by the people in good will. For here in Narnia, he said, such was not even a possibility — not unless. . . Though he never got to completing his train of thought, as if purposefully hiding something.

Nonetheless, Tumnus reminded you both of your limited time, hesitantly sending you off after a few moments of rest. However, the moment you and Lucy stepped back out into the Narnian winter, the cold seemed to slam into you twice as hard.

You offered up your coat for the younger girl to use, and despite her adamant refusal, she ended up wearing it on the short walk back to the lamppost.

"We should hurry," you murmured, hugging your own frame and pulling your outermost garments tighter around yourself. In your breast pocket, Bowie burrowed deeper into the fabric, trembling against your collarbone. You had warned him of the chill that came with less layers, yet, the stubborn creature much preferred to stick close to you over joining your coat as Lucy put it on.

"The air feels. . . heavier than it did an hour ago, don't you think?" Your teeth chattered as you spoke, the dropping temperature making it so your fingers grew stiff and clammy. Lucy nodded, her cheeks flushed red even as she leaned into the warmth of your coat. She was nowhere near prepared for this weather, she thought, appreciating the protective hand you hovered over her shoulder. You both grew hyperaware of the still trees, and the white mass that surrounded you, able to see just a glimpse of the trail of footprints you both had left on your way to Tumnus.

With only short words shared between you both due to the sheer chill of the air, you trudged back through the thick snow, curving your path towards the soft, golden glow of the lamppost with little trouble. However, as the iron post came into view, Lucy suddenly gasped, her small night slippers sliding to a halt.

"Look!" she whispered, pointing at something that stood just at the edge of the glowing light of the lamppost.

Looking lost, a boy stood in the spot Lucy had been pointing toward. He was shivering violently, his arms wrapped tight around a pitifully thin blue dressing gown. He looked entirely alone, but his dark eyes were scanning the tree line with a strange, frantic hunger, as if searching for something he had just released from his grasp.

"Edmund!" squealed Lucy. "Oh, Edmund, you got in too! Isn't it wonderful?"

Before you could stop her, she bolted across the clearing, apparently familiar with this bed-headed boy. He whipped around at the sound of her voice, his defensive scowl snapping into place the moment he saw her. He didn't open his arms to catch her; instead, he peeled her off him with a sharp, annoyed huff.

"Where have you been?" he snapped, his voice cracking from the cold.

"Why, I was with Mr Tumnus! And [Name]!" Lucy beamed, completely immune to his miserable temper. She spun around, gesturing proudly toward the trees. "I told you it was real, Edmund. Look!"

You recognized the undeniable pride in her tone — not in an arrogant sense, but an utterly joyous one. You recognized it because, to an extent, that was what you felt when Harry told you he believed you. But, you're sure that should he or Hermione and Ron be granted the same opportunity you had — to enter Narnia — then, you would feel that exact same way, if not, more.

You slowly stepped out of the shadows of the fir trees, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Meanwhile, Edmund glared, ready to mock whatever imaginary friend her sister had dragged out of the woodwork. But the moment his dark eyes landed on your face, the sneer gently lifted. He froze, his breath catching in a white plume of frost.

On the other hand, you paused, your hand instinctively dropping from your pocket. You recognized that face.

King's Cross Station. The steam, the rushing crowds, the parting families. A disheartened young girl with a stuffed puppy — Lucy — and the boy standing beside her. The boy with the dark hues who feigned disinterest, yet wore a disappointment so heave it had tugged at your heartstrings.

"It's you," you breathed, the biting Narnian wind suddenly feeling a little less sharp. You stepped fully into the lamppost's light. "The scowling boy from the station."

Edmund blinked, entirely disarmed. A part of him wanted to deny your words, or to prove it wrong, but he didn't. He looked at your Hogwarts uniform — the grey skirt, the long-sleeved top and vest, your disheveled hair, and then back to your eyes. The walls he had put up against Lucy completely crumbled, and it partially frustrated him, not knowing why.

"And you," he murmured, his voice barely audible despite the silence across the woods. "You smiled at Lucy. And then you just. . . vanished."

He didn't add that he had craned his neck looking for you through the sea of people, or that his older brother had teased him relentlessly for staring. He didn't need to. The quiet awe in his voice said enough.

"I had a train to catch," you said softly, offering him that small, understanding smile you had given his sister that day.

"Who are you?" he asked. The defensive sneer was completely gone, leaving him staring at you as though your presence here was a far greater impossibility than the magical, snowy forest surrounding him.

And so, you spoke your name.

"I'm Edmund," he answered in reply, finally dropping his gaze. He stuffed his freezing, bright red hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, shifting his weight in the snow.

The quiet moment was suddenly broken by a sharp, agitated clicking sound.

"What on Earth is that?" Edmund gasped, staring just over your shoulder. "Is that a. . . a walking branch?"

"This is Bowie," you said gently, placing a finger over the bowtruckle's leafy head in an attempt to calm him down. But Bowie didn't settle. He leaned further out, his beady, black eyes fixed on Edmund, rattling furiously.

You narrowed your eyes. Bowtruckles were deeply sensitive creatures to their environments, and Bowie was acting like he had just smelled poison. The soft recognition you shared with him slowly faded, in its place, replaced by a sharp, undeniable instinct of suspicion. You were naturally intuitive, and had a great sense for people who were hiding something, and Edmund Pevensie looked like a boy drowning in a secret. The air around him felt strangely charged, smelling faintly like something sickly sweet, completely at odds with the pine and frost.

You took a slow, deliberate step closer. "What's that on your face?"

Edmund flinched, a reaction so strong it was as though you had struck him. His hand flew to his mouth, wiping frantically at the corners of his lips. A dusting of powdery white sugar cascaded down his chin. "Nothing! It's just. . . It's just snow."

"Snow doesn't stick like that," you noted dryly.

"Oh, come on, you two!" Lucy got in between you both, at first, giddy that Edmund had seemed to like you, but exasperated  as you were headed straight into an argument. "Let's go back and tell Peter and Susan!"

"They'll have to believe us now!" She pulled you both toward the thicket of trees-turned-coats. Edmund followed, but he dragged his feet. Just before reaching the wardrobe's threshold, he cast one last, desperate look over his shoulder, staring into the dark woods, where the sledge tracks were rapidly filling with fresh snow.

You let go of Lucy's hand for a second, falling behind to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

"You met someone out there, didn't you?" you whispered, low enough that Lucy couldn't hear.

Edmund stiffened, glaring at you with all the false bravado he could muster. "Don't be daft. I didn't see anyone."

"You're a terrible liar, Pevensie," you murmured, your mercury eyes flashing with a daring, challenging glint. "Don't you worry. I won't snitch to your sister. But if you're planning on sneaking back somehow. . ."

You bumped your shoulder lightly against his freezing one, feeling him tense, then slowly relax against the contact.

"I'm coming with you."

And just like that, you had unknowingly sealed your fate.

CELINE’s ANNOTATIONS !

he demonstrates this and reinforces that trust over and over, from this first meeting with edmund, future encounters with the witch, or lockhart, or some other character with hidden intentions.

fun fact: in the original rendition of this story, i wrote for harry, hermione, and ron to suspect the mc of being slytherin's heir. in revamping it, i realized how important it would be for her to share a more trust-founded relationship with them, and how this act of betrayal would hinder their growth, especially when she returns from the events of narnia :(

headcanon: you were intuitive by nature. maybe it was in your blood, or maybe it was really just how you came to be. but, with a bowtruckle by your side, this very intuition sharpened, as bowie was equally -- if not more -- capable of reading his environments as you were.

it's why you knew -- the moment bowie had grown to love and be so at peace with edmund (in the future) that your heart would be safe in his grasp.

mc finally met edmund (properly)!! yay!

1986, King Aslan 2, California

It was a night of drifting clouds, of gazing up at the star-lit sky, utterly wonderstruck. It was a night of a crescent moon, so bright, and silvery, and beautiful—though nowhere near as enchanting as the bride on that elegant night, on an elegant ship—the King Aslan 2. In a carefully appointed dining room, it was a night for silk and candlelight, for white cloths and silverware and red wine, for fine crystals and one glittering diamond, for tuxedoed waiters, for carnations and gardenias and roses.

And for one man and one woman, it was a night for love.

It was a night for exchanged promises, for vows made eternal, for teary eyes and watery smiles, and wedding rings. It was a perfect night. It was a moment made eternal, frozen in a picture-perfect memory they would forever hold close to their hearts.

It was, indeed, a perfect night, but that was then. . .

11 Years and 9 Months Later (Present Day)

The hills of Napa Valley shone with sun-drenched rows of vines, dancing in the summer breeze. Parker Knoll, tucked between golden hills and stubborn olive trees, bustled with activity. To own and grow a vineyard had only ever been a dream for you back then. But now, as you gazed upon the rolling acres, tracing the perfectly arranged vines with bunches of purple, red, and green, you knew you were wholly content. In no time, your vineyard had become one of the most established in the country. And knowing you had done it all while single-handedly raising your daughter gave you every right to be proud.

However, with summer heat at its peak and Helena away at camp, the sprawling estate felt lonelier than ever. While you did have Tumnus—your daughter's nanny—and your dog, Paul Anka, to keep you company, the silence left in Helena's wake had grown almost deafening.

With little to take your mind off her absence, you threw yourself entirely into the estate. You kept a close eye on the drainage systems, ensuring they didn't overflow or get clogged. You strictly monitored the condition of the oaken posts and the wire networks, just to keep the heavy grapevines off the soil. To end each day, you would ride along the dusty paths on Philip, Helena's stallion, keeping a watchful eye over the sunlit acres and taking it all in with the absolute contentment of knowing they were entirely yours. It had become your predictable, repetitive cycle. Still, you made sure to carve out a few hours each evening to de-stress. 

You would curl up either in your bed, or on the couch to binge a raunchy movie or two, armed with a bowl of buttery popcorn and maybe even a bottle of wine, if you were feeling particularly indulgent.

You'd become a homebody with no plans and no friends, you thought miserably as you rode out into the vineyard on horseback, once again patrolling the area in the golden hours of the day. But, at the very least, you were earning yourself and your daughter enough for comfort despite it all. And that's what counted—

The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulled you out of your thoughts. A sleek, silver sedan was parked near the main tasting room, looking distinctly out of place amidst the wood, the dirt, and the rustic backdrop of Parker Knoll. Leaning against the driver's door was Caspian. He was your newly hired publicist and, as you often heard in staff whispers, a fatally attractive man. Only slightly younger than you, he was a vision with dark, sweeping hair and a million-dollar smile that belonged—if not on a billboard—on television. Caspian possessed an effortless, old-world charm that had slowly been wearing down your defenses over the summer.

Dressed in a crisp, linen shirt and tailored trousers, he seemed impeccably styled, entirely impractical, and thoroughly out of place for a working vineyard.

“I thought I might find you here,” he called out, his voice a rich, velvety timbre that commanded attention without having to shout. He stepped forward as you guided Philip toward the gravel drive. “You know, for a woman who runs a multi-million dollar wine empire, you certainly spend a lot of time playing in the dirt.”

“The same dirt that pays for your convertible,” you teased, pulling back on the reins to bring Philip to a halt.

The man chuckled, a warm and genuine sound, before reaching into his leather satchel. “And my convertible is well-earned. I've just secured Parker Knoll a centerfold feature in Wine Spectator for their autumn issue.”

“Just came to deliver the good news in person.” If his achievement wasn't enough, then his smile sure charmed you then.

“You drove all the way from the city just to tell me that?” you asked, an amused smile playing across your lips as you patted Philip's strong neck. You felt the weight of his gaze burning your side, tracing every crevice of skin that had been layered with a sheen of sweat from the ride. 

“Any excuse to see you,” he replied smoothly, closing the distance between you. He reached a hand up, attempting to stroke Philip's mane in an effort to appear natural, and reasonably close to you. Your stallion, however, was having none of it. Philip snorted loudly, tossing his massive head and taking a sharp step back, nearly knocking Caspian off balance. 

Your publicist withdrew his hand in a swift motion, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his pristine sleeve. A fleeting flash of a sneer threatened to mar his perfect features, though he withheld the reaction with you so close by. He recovered quickly, offering you that winning, public-relations smile once more as he composed himself.

“He doesn't like me much, does he?” Caspian forced out a chuckle, eyeing the horse with clear apprehension.

“He's my daughter's horse. It just takes him a while to warm up to new people,” you snuck in a little white lie (or two) somewhere in between those words. 

“Well,” Caspian said, looking up at you, his dark eyes softening with an unmistakable affection that made your heart pulse just a little faster. “As long as his owner's mother is willing to give me a chance. Let me take you to dinner tonight? To celebrate the feature, of course.” There was a hint of a smirk tugging the corner of his lips as he spoke, fully aware that he was nowhere as subtle as he initially hoped to be. 

“Maybe somewhere with white tablecloths and absolutely no mud.”

Meanwhile, on another continent entirely, rain clashed against the tall, arched windows of Pevensie Tailors, blurring the grey streets of London into a dreary, monochromatic watercolor. Inside, the shop was a hushed sanctuary of professionalism, smelling faintly of rich wool, tailor's chalk, and lavender.

Edmund knelt quietly before a tri-fold mirror, adjusting the hem of a charcoal-grey trouser for a blushing, and nervously sweating groom.

“She wants everything to be perfect,” the young man babbled, pulling at his stiff collar. “We've been planning this for two years. I just– I want to be able to look at the altar and know I got the most important day of our lives right—that her younger self gets everything she's dreamt of and more, you know?”

Edmund offered a polite, practiced smile around the pins he held between his pursed lips. “You will look impeccable, Mr Davies. The Italian wool drapes beautifully.”

But as Edmund stood from his crouched position, and smoothed his hands over the groom's lapel, an old, familiar ache tightened in his chest. Two years of planning, he thought. You hadn't even taken two weeks before going from engaged, to bound for life. Or so the promise was meant to go. The pair of you had been childhood friends and sweethearts, your love so bright and intense that you had impulsively wed on-board a boat bound for New York. There had been no perfectly-fitted suits, or a pristine gown for either of you, just the salt spray in the air, the wind that combed through your hair, the flowers that already came with the boat, and a wild, blinding certainty that you were two halves of one soul.

And yet, here he was, over a decade later. Edmund Pevensie, crafting the armor of happily-ever-afters for strangers, while his own had completely unraveled. Neither he, nor his siblings missed that irony. He had buried himself in this work shortly after the separation—a divorce that came tragically soon after October 11th, when his beautiful twin daughters were born. It was on slow days such as this that he couldn't help but wonder about his darling Helena. Was she any taller than Amelia was? Were her cheeks painted with the same freckles that splotched over her sister's? How was she? How were you—

He stepped back to give the groom some space to admire the fitting. Edmund had spent his days obsessing over the smallest seams and the finest stitching, a cruel and quiet irony considering how he had completely let his own marriage rip at the seams. 

The chime of the shop's grandfather clock rang out in the silence, pulling from his musings. The heavy velvet curtains at the back parted, and his sister, Susan, stepped into the showroom, a spool of satin ribbon in her hands.

“You have that look on your face again, Ed,” she noted softly, her perceptive eyes catching his reflection in the mirror after the groom-to-be had gone to change. She didn't mention the open locket that lay carelessly over his desk, nor did she speak of the girl whose picture gazed up from its confines. “It’s too quiet around here without her, isn't it?”

Edmund sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he gathered his tailoring pins. “It's only been a week since her flight to Maine. I'm just. . . not used to the flat being so empty—or quiet.”

“The summer camp will be good for Amelia,” Susan offered, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She'll make friends, get some fresh air—none of this London gloom. It was a complete accident finding a camp all the way in America, but it may just be the very adventure she needs.”

Edmund only hummed in reply. Amelia deserved this. She deserved to enjoy her childhood away from the dreary setting he had grown around—the same one that had been slowly seeping the life out of him the moment he realized just how dim Cornelia Street truly was. Again, he couldn't help but let his mind wander. . . In the end, no matter the distance, and no matter how much time had passed, his heart remained frozen in a moment he could only wish to return to, and turn back time to change.

At Camp Walden, the lush green of the forest danced vibrantly alongside the cool, sunlit sparkle of the lake. A fleet of canoes waited patiently on the shore, ready to be rowed out beneath the glaring summer sun. Inside the mess hall, girls of all heights and styles buzzed with energy, clad in their matching camp uniforms piling into two lines to claim their dinner.

In one line stood Helena, while Amelia waited in the other. Their worlds had officially collided a few days into camp during a fierce fencing duel. The bout ended in Amelia's favor, snapping Helena's long-standing streak as Camp Champ. But the true shock came when they pulled their masks off, unveiling what they believed to be the impossible. Stripped of their armor, the pair of them were faced with their own, uncanny reflection in the eyes of the other—the same dark hair inherited from their father, the exact same eyes as their mother, and the same splotchy freckles that dusted the apples of their cheeks.

Amelia grew incredulous at Helena's refusal to acknowledge their glaring resemblance, with the latter stubbornly insisting they couldn't be more different. Inevitably, the bitter denial only fueled a horrid rivalry that burned endlessly, intensifying twice-fold with every passing day.

Eventually, the tension peaked at a boiling point upon the ruthless prank war that followed not long after a nighttime poker game. It all culminated the pair's immediate exile to the camp's Isolation Cabin, where they were sentenced to spending the remaining six weeks of camp together. That meant doing absolutely everything side-by-side—eating, bunking, exercising, and boxing—all without uttering a single word to one another, when they were meant to be bonding.

At bedtime, the silent war raged on. Helena would snuggle down with her stuffed animal, Reepicheep, while Amelia meticulously wrote letters. Some to her aunts, most to her father, and a fair few to her mother. Uncaringly, Helena would reach up to switch the lights off, irked by the blinding intensity, and Amelia would snap them back on. For days, the same routine embedded itself into the two girls who—despite their glaring resemblence—genuienly couldn't be more different.

Until one day, a storm hit camp without warning. The crackling sound of thunder grumbled in the distance, accompanied by the crashing, deafening sound of pouring rain. Lightning flashed uncontrollably off the shabby walls of the isolated bunk. Helena, in flannel pajamas and a sweatshirt, was pinning her beloved postcards and photographs above her cot. Meanwhile, Amelia played solitaire; she would flinch every now and then as the skies roared above.

They would sneak a glance at one another from time to time, unwilling to admit that they were both desperate to speak with the other.

Suddenly, a gust of wind tore past the window, sending Helena's photos flying. Without missing a beat, they both rushed to secure the windows, with Amelia bending to pick up Helena's fallen Reepicheep.

“Anything ruined?” she asked, gazing down at the pile of photographs that lay in a crumpled pile.

Helena held up a damaged photo with a bitter smile, “Only the beautiful Leo DiCaprio.”

It was a pity, really. The guy was among her favorites, and while you preferred other Hollywood stars, like Matt Damon, she appreciated how you would binge his movies with her all the same.

“Who?” The other girl’s question astonished Helena, who blinked at her in utter disbelief. “You've never heard of Leonardo DiCaprio?”

When Amelia shook her head, Helena gaped at her unashamedly. She couldn't believe it.

“How far away is London, anyway?” 

Amelia thought about it for a moment. “From here, three thousand miles.”

She saw the way her bunkmate's eyes bulged even wider at the digits. “But, sometimes, it feels even further. How far away is your home?”

“California's way at the other end of the country,” Helena plucked a photograph from her wall, admiring it for a moment before handing it to the other girl. “Here's a picture of my house. We've got this incredible porch and—”

But Amelia wasn't paying attention. Instead, her eyes had zeroed in on the woman who stood in the picture with her back to the camera. “Who's that?”

“That's my mom. She's my best friend. We do everything together.” Helena smiled at the reminder of you, but then, she also remembered how greatly she had missed you. The pair of you had never been away from one another for this long before, and thinking about it, a tinge of sadness was starting to eat away at her. The silence that overcame them was sudden, and so, she looked at the other girl, who appeared rather pensive. “What's the matter?”

Amelia rubbed at the goose bumps that decorated her arms, eyes darting to the window, then, the door, and anywhere else that wasn't Helena's eyes, really. “It's just chilly in here, that's all.”

She seemed rather spooked out, perhaps by the storm, the Parker girl thought. If so, it was understandable. Her mother was the same way—flinching when thunder struck, and burying herself under a mountain of blankets. It's among the reasons why you always insisted on watching movies and stuffing yourselves full during rainy nights. That way, neither of you would be alone—though, she wasn't really afraid of storms herself, Helena would note. Despite that, she kept quiet, simply because she enjoyed spending time with you. But, something that usually helped was comfort food. Grinning, Helena went to her trunk to grab a pack of Oreos, and offered the bag to her bunkmate. “Want some?”

“I love Oreos,” Amelia said, a smile finally creeping onto her face. But then, she hesitated, and an air of bashfulness surrounded her. “Y'know, at home, I eat them with peanut butter.”

“That's so weird,” Helena scoffed out an incredulous breath. “So do I!”

“You're kidding!” Amelia laughed, an instant relief flooding through her chest. “Most people find that disgusting.”

“I know,” the other girl agreed, eyes crinkling. “I don't get it. It was my mom who introduced the combo to me, by the way.”

She rummaged around her belongings, and eventually, came up with a half-empty jar of peanut butter. She passed it to Amelia, who replied, “Can you believe it? My dad introduced it to me, too!”

Helena hummed at the coincidence, not thinking too much of it. Although, it was curious how Amelia spoke only of her father, while she could only speak of her mother. “Amelia, what's your Mom like?”

“. . .I don't have a mother, actually.” Amelia took a bite of an Oreo and peanut butter. “I mean, I had one once, I suppose, but my parents divorced years ago.”

“Right on,” Helena shook her head in amused agreement. “It's scary the way no one stays together anymore.” “Tell me about it,” said Amelia before munching on her biscuit.

It hadn't been a minute before Helena broke the silence yet again. “How old are you?”

Absent-mindedly, Amelia answered. “I'll be twelve on October eleventh.”

Helena choked on a mouthful of cookies, coughing desperately in an attempt to catch her breath. “So will I!”

Amelia turned to her in mind-boggling disbelief. “Your birthday is on October eleventh? How weird is that?”

“Extremely,” said Helena, who, at that point, had gotten restless. She paced around their small cabin, the rickety floorboards creaking with every step. “Hey, it stopped raining!” “Want to get a popsicle or something?” 

The girls stepped out on the porch. Indeed, the rain had stopped. But where Helena rushed down the steps, Amelia lingered by the doorway, studying the other girl—really looking her up and down as she toyed with her locket. Unable to help herself, Amelia asked, “Helena? What's your father like?”

Helena was silent for a moment. Her dad had always been a touchy subject, but it was only fair, after she asked about Amelia's mom. 

“I never met him,” she replied eventually. “He and my mom split up when I was a baby. She doesn't talk about him much, but I know she thought he was a hunk. He looks the slightest bit like Tom Welling if you squint, or so she likes to convince herself.” “She had this old picture of him hidden in her sock drawer, you see,” Helena went on, smiling at the memory. “And when she caught me sneaking a peak at it for the tenth or so time, she gave it to me to keep.”

“Hey, I’m actually really thirsty, are you sure you don't want to go to the mess hall and get a lemonade or something—”

“Will you stop thinking about your stomach at a time like this!” Helena almost stumbled at the sudden crescendo. She pursed her lips in an attempt to keep quiet, because Lord knows that if she let go of the reins she had on her mouth, she would go on about absolutely anything else—a trademark she had picked up from her mother. “Don't you realize what's happening?”

Amelia shook her head in disbelief. “Isn't it incredible that we look alike and have the same birthday? This is beyond coincidence! This is beyond imagination!”

Amelia was talking a mile-a-minute, thinking aloud. “I only have a father. You only have a mother. You have one old picture of your dad. I have one old picture of my mum— But at least yours is probably a whole picture!”

The girl was on a rampage, pacing back and forth in dizzy circles, raging and throwing her arms around to emphasize it all. “The picture I have is pathetic! All crinkled and ripped right down the middle— As if I hadn't seen that locket of his with the whole, small, but absolutely beautiful one—”

“What are you doing?” She paused mid-rant to gaze at Helena, who had started uncontrollably digging into her trunk. It wasn't long before she found whatever it was she had been looking for, standing erect.

“This,” she said. She hid the wrinkled paper, trapped between her palm and against her chest. “It's the picture of my dad. And it's ripped, too.”

“Right down the middle?” Suddenly, Amelia wasn't so sure of herself. At that moment, she didn't know if she wanted to confirm her suspicions. Only, Helena repeated her exact words, affirmatively.

“Right down the middle.”

Amelia went to her dresser and took out her torn picture from where she had hidden it within the pages of her journal. “This is so freaky.”

There was a chill in the air that words couldn't quite placate. Gathering all her courage, the Pevensie girl spoke, “On the count of three, we'll show them to each other. Okay?”

Helena nodded, unable to say much else. She counted along with Amelia, “One. . . two. . .”

“Three!” The girls held their two pieces together and they made a whole photograph. A man and a woman were sitting side by side. Behind them was a life preserver with the name of a ship written on it, the KA2.

“That's my mom,” Helena cried, recognizing you anywhere—even in a portrait from over a decade ago.

Amelia added, “And that's my dad.”

They looked at the picture—one ripped right down the middle—now, made whole. They eyed the respective parent they had been raised with, eyes filled with tears, and their hearts swelling with a sense of completeness they never knew had been missing. They gazed down at their parents’ smiling faces, their faces almost unrecognizable with a joy they could never seem to replicate with anyone but each other. Then, they turned to face one another.

When the lunch bell rang, neither one of them moved. 

“I'm not so hungry anymore,” Helena swallowed, a watery chuckle escaping them both. “So, if my mom is your mom, and your dad is my dad. . . and we were both born on October eleventh. . .”

The young girl was still comprehending the words that escaped her, her mind fogging up with all sorts of emotions she was struggling to process alongside the information. “Then we're like. . . like sisters.”

“Sisters?” Amelia echoed, equally shocked. “Helena, we're like. . . twins!”

Tears filled her eyes, and suddenly, as they stared unblinkingly at one another, everything came crashing over them. She reached out to wrap her arms tight around Helena—just as Helena went to wrap Amelia into a searing embrace, crying too.

After a moment of stillness in one another's arms, they drew apart. They both smiled and began to laugh that incredulous laugh that just spoke of all the wonder, and disbelief, and the utter insanity that came with their revelation. Helena's hand went to fiddle with something around her neck, a movement Amelia couldn't help but notice.

“What's that?” she asked.

“My locket,” Helena said. “I got it when I was born. It has an ‘H’ on it.”

Amelia's hands went to her neck as well, tugging on a similar pendant from beneath the collar of her shirt, “I got mine when I was born, too. Only mine has an ‘A’ on it.”

“Now I've got goosebumps,” Helena exclaimed. Her mind was reeling from everything she and her newfound twin had discovered. She would have to get used to that—having a twin. It was totally unbelievable.

“Ohmygod! I'm not an only child! I'm a twin!” She went on, clutching her head, as if to keep it from exploding. “There's two of me! . . . two of us! . . . this is like—”

“Mind-boggling,” Amelia finished.

“Totally,” Helena couldn't find any other way to put it. “Ohmygod!”

“Ohmygod!”Amelia echoed, and suddenly, the Isolation Cabin seemed like the best punishment they could have ever been granted.

It was nighttime, a crescent moon cradled in the starry sky. In Camp Walden's Isolation Cabin, for the first time this summer, the exiles were bound in every way they had repelled one another just a few weeks prior. The girls had taped their parents’ photos together and pushed their cots side-by-side, murmuring quietly in the dark.

The adrenaline that came with the revelation was finally wearing thin, and they were left to quietly ponder about the life and the parent they had so sorely yearned to know.

​Helena spoke fondly of movie nights by your side and the warmth of your bedtime routine. She told Amelia of how you would tuck her in, leave a gentle kiss on her forehead, and murmur into the dark of her room, “Stardust in the eyes, rosy cheeks, and happy girls in the morning.” The weight of that memory shifted as she spoke it aloud. She had never questioned the exact words you used, but lying there now, the truth was undeniable: it was your timeless, unwavering way of wishing both of your babies sweet dreams. Amelia teared up upon hearing those words, closing her eyes, and imagining what it would be like to truly hear you say those words. She wondered what your voice sounded like, if it were as gentle as her Aunt Lucy's, or as elegant as her Aunt Susan’s. She listened as her sister spoke of the way you would put on your lipstick, so gently—of the spray of your perfume on the rare occasion you left the estate.

She closed her eyes so tightly, as if, to close them tight enough would reveal you to her, or bring her into those very moments her twin had been blessed to experience.

In return, she too, spoke of life with her father. She spoke of late nights spent walking aimlessly down the streets of London. She told Helena of the books he would read to her when she was younger, then of all the dolls and stuffed animals he had sewn up to save her tears. She tried to give her father’s love all the justice she could, but she would find herself coming up rather short on words, for the way Edmund Pevensie loved her was more through silent actions, than words. He was the type to work late into the night on weekdays, but devote holidays and weekends to family. He was one to miss dinner, but ensured her breakfast was ready by the time she awoke. He was the kind of dad who would buy her, and his sisters flowers on Valentine's Day—with her bouquet always being filled with his trademark white and pink carnations—which, she now knows, were your favorites—the same way they were hers.

Then, their conversation drifted into a more surface-level one, with Helena wondering, “Tell me, what does dad do?”

“He designs wedding suits,” Amelia told her, “He works with our aunts, who design wedding gowns. They're becoming quite famous, actually. One of our very own princes just wore one of his suits, you know, and a princess from Greece just bought one of their gowns, too.”

Helena was impressed, whistling lowly at her family's accomplishments. “Wow.”

Then, Amelia asked, “Has Mum ever been close to getting remarried?”

Helena didn't need much time to think about it. While you had your fair share of affairs over the years, none had ever reached such a point where you brought the guy home to meet her. 

“No,” she shook her head. “She had her fair share of the romance bits, but she always says that I brought more than enough love into her life that she doesn't need much else.”

“Dad's never come close either.” Amelia looked relieved to be uttering that. That's when the thought hit her—as overly hopeful as it may have been, “Do you think, secretly, in their innermost hearts, they're still in love with each other?”

Helena was ready to dismiss the thought at first, remembering all the times you requested to drop the subject of her dad. But then, she thought back to that image of you both on your wedding day—torn conveniently right down the middle, and kept tucked within your drawer all this time. Through the years, she had only ever thought about her father, whose half of the picture she had treasured. But, as she looked at it now—the two halves, now whole—she observed the way you smiled. It was brighter, and fuller, and just so full with a love she hadn't ever seen on your face before. That’s not to say you didn't love her in an equal fervor. Rather, you loved her differently.

However, as quickly as the thought came to mind, she expelled it just as swiftly. She had no reason to cling onto such hope, and she didn't want to feed too much into its fire that was already burning within her sister—not when it could only get them hurt when it extinguishes.

“If they're still in love, why haven't they gone to see each other?”

“That's the way true love works,” Amelia, ever the hopeless romantic, propped herself up on an elbow. “History is filled with stories of lovers parted by some silly misunderstanding.”

Helena pondered over her words for a good minute. It couldn’t hurt to perhaps— Suddenly, she bolted upright. “I have a brilliant beyond brilliant idea. I'm a total genius!”

She whipped her head to face Amelia, who now rested her back against the wall. “You want to know what Mom is like, right?”

“Right. . .” she replied, staring at her newfound sister with furrowed brows.

“Okay. And I'm dying to know Dad.” A grin began to crawl onto her expression, “I'm thinking. . . we should switch places!”

She gave Amelia no time to interject as she went on, her tone more set, partially-wild, even, matching the near-crazed look in her eye. “When camp's over, I go back to London as you, and you go to California as me! Amy, we can pull it off,” Helena insisted. “We’re twins, aren't we?”

“Twins from different countries, with different accents, different hairstyles, different vocabularies. . . different everything!” Amelia listed, attempting to drive some logic into her sister's wildly-spun plan. While she did want to meet her mother, perhaps there were other ways to go about it—

“That's easy. I'll teach you to be me, and you'll teach me to be you.” She pursed her lips and imitated Amelia perfectly, from her shoulders back, the posh accent, and even down to the expression, “You want to know the real difference between us? I have class and you don't.”

She reiterated something Amelia had said when they first met, just moments after their rivalry began. And, in all fairness to Helena, her sister had to hand it to her. She did sound just like her, she admitted with a wince. Suddenly, the gears in her mind began to whir, coming around, and even thinking ahead. 

“The truth is, you know, that if we switch. . . sooner or later, they'll have to unswitch us.”

Helena grinned her crooked grin, eyes crinkling the same way their mother's did. “And when they do, they'll have to meet again. Face to face.”

“After all these years,” Amelia added, now completely onboard.

“Thank you,” Helena plopped right back down on her pillow. “I told you I'm brilliant!”

The remaining weeks of summer camp transformed the Isolation Cabin from a rustic prison into a mastermind's war room. The fierce rivalry that once made its home in the space between them had evaporated, replaced by their singular mission of becoming each other.

Late into the night, by the dim beam of a flashlight, they traded lives. Amelia drilled Helena on the busy streets of London—covering everything from which roads led to home, the nearby landmarks, the necessary street smarts, and even on which shoulder her father often held her by. She questioned her on the names of their aunts and uncle—Peter, the eldest, Susan, the second eldest, and Lucy, the youngest—and the precise mannerisms expected in Pevensie Tailors. In return, Helena taught Amelia the charts and diagrams necessary to understand Parker Knoll. She explained the strict rule of having only junk food and fast food for movie nights, how to charm Mr Tumnus, and bribe him, if necessary, and the exact way to approach Philip without getting knocked back.

They practiced their accents until their throats ached. Helena worked tirelessly to sharpen her vowels and mimic Amelia’s crisp, British posture, while Amelia practiced slouching her shoulders, softening her cadence, and adopting Helena’s laid-back, California drawl. 

​The final piece of the puzzle came the night before departure. First, with a pair of craft scissors and a deep, trembling breath, Amelia allowed Helena to shear off her long, pristine locks to match Helena's choppy, trendy cut. Then, as if that weren't enough, she trusted a twelve-year-old to pierce her ears. She could only hope that the needle had actually been sterilized well.

​By the time the yellow camp buses idled at the gates the next morning, Helena Parker and Amelia Pevensie were no more. They were two halves of the same reflection, clutching swapped plane tickets in their trembling hands. One bound for Heathrow. One bound for San Francisco.

Helena was dressed in Amelia's suit, and Amelia was wearing Helena's shorts and denim jacket. From an outsider's perspective, no one could tell them apart.

“Okay, so you're going to find out how Mom and Dad met. . .” Amelia started, the nerves suddenly creeping in on her.

“. . . And you're gonna find out why they broke up,” Helena finished, sending her a smile that she hoped would wipe all her fears away.

“Amelia Pevensie! Amelia Pevensie!” Marva, the camp counselor was shouting into her bullhorn. “Amelia Pevensie! Your car is here!”

Amelia looked at Helena, who looked impassive, as though it hadn't occurred to her that that was the name she went by now. “That's you. Here's your ticket and your passport. Aunt Lucy will pick you up at the airport tomorrow morning.”

“Amelia Pevensie!” Marva yelled for a final time as the car honked. “Last call for Amelia Pevensie!”

Suddenly, their plan began to feel real. While they had always intended to see it through, the sheer magnitude of what exactly they were planning finally settled on them. The reality of their impending departure—one, across the country to the sun-kissed coast of California, the other over three thousand miles away, across the vast, grey expanse of the Atlantic—felt far more daunting than any drill, or intense preparation. They had spent weeks weaving their lives together, and now, the thought of parting was a physical ache. Beyond the logistical hurdles lay a far more terrifying truth: they were journeying not only to meet their parents, but also toward lives with people who were essentially strangers, save for their shared DNA.

It was, in every sense of the word, terrifying.

Helena drew a steadying breath, her eyes shimmering with a premature homesickness. “Give Mom a kiss for me,” she whispered, the request carrying the weight of a thousand bedtime routines she was about to surrender.

“And give Dad one from me,” Amelia echoed softly, her mind drifting to the quiet sanctuary of their London flat and the family she was leaving behind. Yet, the persistent, hollow space in their hearts—the one reserved for the parent they had never known—acted as a powerful anchor, grounding them in their shared resolve.

It was that singular, desperate need for wholeness that allowed them to finally let go. With a final, fierce embrace, and a lingering look, the twins prepared to step into each other's shoes. They were ready to confront the silence of a decade, unraveling the careful knots of a secret that had kept them apart since the very beginning—until this moment.

CELINE's ANNOTATIONS !

hi lovelies! this has been a long time coming, and I am so so glad to finally have the first chapter of this mini-series out! :) i really do hope you all enjoyed! and if you'd like to be added to the tag list, please do leave a reply requesting such ! anyhow, if you liked this chapter, please do not hesitate to leave a like, reblog, or reply! I'd love to hear any feedback regarding the plot so far or any of the elements to it! with that, please do remember to drink water, rest, and prioritize yourself! I hope you all have a lovely day/night ahead!

This movie really encapsulated the very feelings I (often) find myself struggling to deal with. From the overthinking, the over-analysis, the delusions of what love could be and look like, or the constant wondering of whether or not someone will finally make me their exception.

He’s just not that into you was able to surmise it into one notable and touching film that I come back to every once in a while. In times when I know my feelings for someone border beyond a happy crush, or mere physical attraction, sure, my diary and my closest friends may be among the first to know, but the telltale sign would be me heading straight for this movie.

Just last year, I went through a rollercoaster because of one person who, honestly, was just not that into me — not enough to stay and be mature over the way we closed our chapter, at least.

But this movie was so helpful in allowing me to sort out my feelings and process them, because somehow, even if my situation didn’t completely align with those experienced by the characters in this movie, they aligned enough for me to understand the feeling behind each story, and take away a lesson from every one.

I saw bits of myself in the characters. And I’m sure, that if you choose to watch this, you may find at least a little bit of yourself in them, too.

With that, while I may not be able to say when, or with whom I (or you, dear readers) can finally be “the exception” with, I do know enough to say that there will always be people who come and go — often without warning — as mere lessons to be learned. But, I also know that no matter their presence, their momentary hold and effect, what’s most important is to never lose the innocence and hope that once led as your North Star. 

Don’t give them that power. Keep it close to you. Hold it as your guiding light, because, that’s where true peace is.

I’m not telling you to not give yourself wholly into relationships; but I am telling you save enough love for yourself so by the end of the day, no matter the turn out of your friendships or relationships with others, you can find yourself content and wholly thriving in your relationship with yourself — enough so these external influences and experiences don’t deter you more than they should, more than you allow them the power to.

YOU WOKE TO THE SOUND OF WEEPING. The fire in Tumnus' cave had died down to a bed of sullen, glowing embers, casting long, skeletal shadows against the rock walls. The air had turned frigid, biting at your nose.

You sat up, blinking the sleep from your eyes. In the breast pocket of your robes, Bowie stirred. He poked his head out, his leaf-ears trembling, and let out a soft hiss — a sound like dry leaves scraping over stone. It was already dark out. No longer did light reflect from the white snow. Rather, there was only darkness.

What happened? Had you all succumbed to sleep under Tumnus' melody? You also noticed Lucy groaning awake; it seemed she, too, had lost consciousness alongside you and Bowie. In fact, her teacup lay discarded on the ground before her, making the situation all the more suspicious to you.

Tumnus was huddled on the floor, his face buried in his hands, his goat legs tucked beneath him in a posture of utter defeat.

“Mr Tumnus?” Lucy whispered, voice trembling. She was growing afraid, evidently so. And truth be told, as were you.

“I’m a kidnapper! The faun wailed, the words tearing out of him. “It’s the White Witch! She makes it always winter — always cold! And she gave us orders: if we were to find a human. . .”

You immediately stood up. The chair legs scraped violently against the stone floor.

Your hair rippled, draining of its usual warmth and turning a steely, protective grey. You reached into your wand pocket, your fingers brushing against Bowie’s rough bark skin as he held your wand up for you. He was rigid, one of his tiny twig-fingers gripping the lining of your pocket so hard you could feel the pinch through the layers of fabric.

“We thought you were our friend. . .” you muttered, betrayal and hurt coloring your tone as you stood protectively before Lucy.

Upon those words, he finally looked up. His eyes were dim with regret, but flickered with determination.

“We must go,” he gasped, moving to grab you both, his breath hitching as you took a step backward. “Please, the woods are full of her spies. Even some of the trees are on her side!”

At that, Bowie let out a high-pitched shriek. He scrambled up to your collar, frantically pointing a sharp wooden finger toward the cave entrance, his entire body vibrating.

“You hear them,” you realized, a cold knot forming in your stomach as the bowtruckle nodded rapidly. The trees are listening.

The run back to the lamppost was a blur of adrenaline and stinging snow. The forest felt alive. It felt like it was watching. Every time you passed a grove of gnarled birch trees, Bowie would tug painfully on your hair, a silent siren warning you to hold your breath, to step lightly.

You reached the lamppost. The golden light spilled onto the snow, a sanctuary in the dark.

“Can you find your way back?” Tumnus crouches, catching his breath and taking a final, good look at you both.

“Yes,” you recognized the area well enough, “But what about you?”

The query sent a flurry of emotion through him. It was odd having someone who cared, and it was simply heartbreaking to know this was likely the last he would see the two girls. Unknowingly, tears ran down his cheeks, a watery smile playing on his lips.

“Hey, there there. . .” Lucy stepped forward, handing him her handkerchief as you pat his back, and his legs shook.

“I’m sorry, I’m so truly sorry,” he pleads, returning the small fabric after wiping his tears — only, the girl gently pushes it back into his palm. “Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

Tumnus let out a watery chuckle.

“No matter what happens,” he takes a good, long look at you both. “I am glad to have met you both. You’ve made me feel warmer than I’ve felt in a hundred years.”

“Now, go. Go!” He urged, pushing you both towards the firs.

You grabbed Lucy’s hand, the cold of her skin shocking against yours. But before you stepped into the green crush of needles, you turned back.

“Midnight!” you hissed into the wind. “Meet us here!”

Lucy nodded, her eyes equally as fierce, giving you one final hug before vanishing into the trees. You took a breath of crisp, pine-scented air — one last taste of Narnia — and followed after her. The soft pine needles brushed your face. Then the scratch of wood. Then the smell of mothballs.

You stumbled, your knees hitting against hard, polished wood.

You gasped, inhaling sharply. Gone was the clean, freezing air, replaced by the stagnant, dusty silence of the Room of Requirement.

You looked around at the rows of hung coats, shifting through them and scrambling out of the wardrobe. You tumble onto the floor amidst the piles of forgotten junk and look around. It was dark, even darker than nightfall in Narnia’s winter forest. Bowie poked his head out, his antennae-leaves testing the air. The bowtruckle let out a long, rustling sigh of relief, sensing the familiar, ancient magic of the castle and the quiet, the air lacking the magical hisses and whispers he was wary of in the forest.

Lumos, you whispered, checking your pocketwatch. Twenty minutes. What felt like hours in the snow was only twenty minutes here. Was your watch functioning properly? Was it perhaps the next day?

The thought of worrying your friends, your professors, your papa — made you sprint. Your boots pounded against the stone corridors, the sound echoing like rapid heartbeats. You quickly found your way to Gryffindor tower, bursting through the portrait hole, breathless, your hair a wild tangle of windblown knots. You must admit, it wasn’t your best look. But, in that moment, all that mattered was finding your friends.

The Gryffindor Common Room was a wall of noise and heat. The fire roared in the grate. Students were laughing, some conversing in loud whispers about the gossip between the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams, others were trading Chocolate Frog Cards, or complaining about Snape’s assignments. It was aggressively normal.

The Weasley twins made a move to rope you into a scheme; they were planning on raiding Filch’s office for some fresh reinforcements. You muttered something about joining them later on, your focus on Ron and Hermione, who were tucked into their usual spot by the fire. Ron looked up, and his grin was instant and easy.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, holding up a napkin stained with grease. “I saved you a treacle tart. Fought Seamus for it, actually. He nearly bit my finger off!”

The sight of him — slouching, loyal, always thinking of your stomach — made your knees weak. You collapsed onto the sofa next to him, leaning heavily on his side.

“Thanks, Ron,” you whispered, taking the tart, sighing as you sunk into the cushions.

Ron’s smile faltered. He touched your hand, then recoiled slightly. “Blimey, [Name]! You’re freezing! Have you been swimming in the Black Lake again?”

He shifted, pulling a throw blanket from the back of the sofa and draping it clumsily over your shoulders. “Eat,” he ordered gently, his eyes squinting with concern. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Says you. . .” you muttered, but didn’t argue. “How’s your stomach?”

“Oh, right,” he muttered, a pink heat spreading up to his ears. “Hagrid helped get them all out. I may need to replace his bucket, though.”

Bowie, smelling the treacle, cautiously climbed out of your pocket. He stood on your knee, eyeing Ron suspiciously before snatching a crumb of the tart crust and scurrying back into the safety of your robes.

Odd, Ron thought, blinking at the bowtruckle’s strange behavior. Usually, he would munch on his food unashamedly. But now, he was hiding.

“I met a Faun, Ron,” you murmured, staring at the fire, but seeing only snow. “There was a forest, an enchanted, winter forest in a wardrobe.”

Hermione grew intrigued, finally lowering her book, Hogwarts: A History. Her expression was soft, but skeptical.

“I was led there after finding some room — a room that seemed to appear out of nowhere!”

Hermione called out your name, voice soft, laced with concern. She looked at you like you were fragile, or as though your state were. “The Room of Requirement is a myth; it hasn’t been seen in decades!”

“Well, I saw it! I went inside it. I had tea, with a faun, and a younger girl — Lucy,” you insisted, voice hollow, albeit stressing your words with conviction. “It was winter when it’s meant to be fall.”

“It’s pouring rain outside,” Hermione pointed out gently. “You probably fell asleep in an empty classroom. Dreams can be vivid sometimes, especially when you’re stressed.”

Her words made you feel small. You didn’t like it.

You felt the small, warm weight of Bowie chewing his treacle tart against your ribs. He wasn’t a dream. His fear wasn’t some conjured nightmare. The scratch on your hand from the pine figs wasn’t a dream.

You looked at Ron, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. Instead, he gave you a sympathetic pat on the back. “Eat the tart, mate. You’ll feel better.”

They didn’t believe you — not one word of your story, not one word out of your mouth. The realization was chilling and lonely, even colder than the Narnian winter.

An hour later, the silence was shattered. The three friends left the Common Room in search of Harry, who had been serving detention with Lockhart, when suddenly, his voice echoed through a nearby corridor, approaching them swiftly.

“Did you hear that?” Harry appeared panicked, eyes frantic behind his glasses. “Just now, that voice! Did you hear it?”

The three of you exchanged a puzzled glance. The corridors were empty, save the four of you. The rest of the school was likely just about to turn in for the night.

“Harry, what bloody voice are you on about?” Your question was urgent, but not skeptical. You had reason to believe the boy, especially after everything that happened the year prior. You could only wish your friends had felt the same.

He suddenly appeared disoriented, eyes unfocused. “It’s moving, and I think it’s going to kill.”

He took off running. You had no time to question him as the lot of you scrambled after him, chasing after him as Ron and Hermione were close on your heels.

Inside your pocket, Bowie began to thrash. Usually, he was a calm passenger, even when your sudden and rapid chases suddenly shook him. But now, he was frantic. He was digging sharp wooden fingers into your side, trying to burrow through the fabric, attempting to get away from the very air in the hallway.

Harry skidded to a halt in the second-floor corridor.

The floor was flooded. You cringed as icy water seeped through the leather of your boots, soaking your socks. The air smelled of stagnant water and something iron-like, something metalling — like old galleons, or blood.

“Look!” Harry pointed at the window, and you felt the blood drain from your face.

A river of black spiders was flowing up the glass. Hundreds of them. They were scrambling over each other in a desperate, teeming mass, fleeing the castle.

Bowie poked his head out for a split second. He let out a sound you had never heard a plant make — a high, terrified squeal — and dove so deep into your pocket you feared he might suffocate.

"I don't like spiders," Ron whimpered. He backed up until he bumped into you. You grabbed his arm, feeling him tremble, and stepped slightly in front of him, wand raised.

"What's that?" Hermione whispered. Her voice was barely a breath.

You followed her gaze to the stone wall between two windows. The torchlight flickered against the wet stone, illuminating the words scrawled in foot-high letters. The paint — if it was paint — shimmered wetly in the gloom. It looked crimson. Visceral.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

And just below it, hanging from the torch bracket by her stiffened tail, was Mrs Norris. Her eyes were wide, yellow lamps staring petrified into nothingness. She was rigid as a board, frozen still and unmoving.

The silence in the corridor was heavy, suffocatingly so. It pressed against your eardrums and thumped violently against your chest.

You looked at the writing, then at the terror on your friends’ faces. The wardrobe, the snow, the tea with Lucy and Tumnus — it all felt millions of miles away. That was a fairytale danger.

This — this was ancient. This was rot.

“Enemies of the Heir,” you whispered, the words tasting foul, like ash on your tongue.

Your hand went to your pocket, cupping the trembling lump that was Bowie. For the first time in your life, your bold, color-changing hair missed a beat — too consumed by terror to ripple.

And unfortunately for you, this won’t be the last.

CELINE’s ANNOTATIONS !

fun fact: you rarely ever use actual bookmarks. usually, bowie just climbs onto the page you stopped at while you wander off to retrieve something.

he just stands there, rigidly holding the page open until you return.

don't mistake this as orders or something he does begrudgingly! he does this willingly, mostly because he quite enjoys the smell of old paper :)

headcanon: you eventually figured out you can shift vocal cords, not just your appearance! you like to stand around corners and say, "Ten points from Slytherin," in Snape's exact drawl just to watch Malfoy panic and drop his books 🤪

you can re-read the end notes of all the previous chapters for the newly-added fun facts and headcanons!

A PART OF YOU DIED THE DAY HE LEFT YOU IN THAT RESTAURANT; in total fairness, what person who loved so truly—so deeply—wouldn't? But, then again, Edward Cullen had managed to do exactly that. On an unsuspecting night, in a Port Angeles bistro, he had broken your heart under the guise of saving you from the inevitable ache he would bring into your life, trading the peace you found together for the maddening, intoxicating pull of Chief Swan's daughter.

The memory of him and the realizations that clawed at you in his wake, loomed like a dark shadow, embedding self-critical thoughts like invisible ink over your skin. You wanted to rip every memory of him, every shared whisper, out of your mind. But above all, what truly haunted you was the ease of it. To him, you were replaceable. The moment something new, something challenging, and alien to him came around, his devotion to you was eased into the back of his mind, minimized to a matter of convenience. Suddenly, the supposedly unshakeable vow he had made to guard your heart had become the first thing to shatter.

He had offered to drive you home that night—insisted on it, even. But, you were firm in your refusal. He understood why on a surface level; you never really could hide much from him. But he didn't understand that being trapped in that high-end Volvo, suffocated by the scent of him and the leather seats he had specifically chosen to match the color of your nail polish, would have been a slow, and tantalizing death. You knew better than to linger. Any longer in his presence, and you would have handed him your pride like a sacrificial offering. 

You weren't going to beg. You weren't going to grovel for a heart that had already walked out the door. You weren't going to cling onto hope like snow on mountains, not when the ease in his words, in his intentions melted it so easily away. For those first few weeks, you lived in the wreckage, clinging to the fading ghost of what you had been, trying to convince yourself that his sudden leaving had been but a fever dream. You suffered silently, isolating yourself for the first few days, and pretending that Edward's wandering interest hadn't hurt, that it only pained you to that extent because you gave him the power to—because your relationship, your love, with him had been good. You were good. As he was good to you. But the truth was a jagged pill you had to swallow eventually; for now, you stood there, frozen in the amber of that restaurant, a pitiful sight, while he had already begun to move toward a future without any room for you.

Life with Bella Swan had been. . . different. It was attraction, yes, but it was also a constant repulsion—a magnetic push and pull he could never fully grasp. Bella was an all-consuming force, a puzzle that demanded every ounce of his focus. Nothing came naturally with her; nothing, save for the maddening, primal ache of her blood singing to his veins. With Bella, he could never afford to simply rest. He had to keep guessing, keep chasing, and constantly wage a war with his own nature just to keep her breathing.

Life with Bella Swan was a slow, exhausting struggle. And at this point, in this dimly-lit restaurant, sitting across from her with the heavy realization of what he had learned in Volterra weighing on his chest, Edward couldn’t even tell if she was worth the danger, the endless complications, and the distance he had built around himself and those who truly mattered.

Because with you, there had been peace. A quiet, steady stream of thoughts that never threatened to overwhelm him. With you, there was a calm, true contentment—a life he had willingly dismantled and traded for a moment of fervor, with his own two hands.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed, the sound muffled by the low murmur of the evening chatter. Edward had brought Bella here tonight with the deliberate intention of properly ending things—of releasing them both from a lie that had run its course. But the moment he steps inside, something in the air shifts. It doesn't simply grow cold; it freezes, and suddenly, he's violently pulled backward into the wreckage from two years ago. 

He remembers it with agonizing clarity: how you were so happy he had finally taken you out on a date after a week of radio silence following his near-slaughter of his Biology class. He remembers the faint, tragic smudge of your mascara, the very sudden turbulence in your usually-peaceful stream of thought. He remembers the first sniffle, the way your throat tightened and bobbed uncomfortably as you fought to swallow a sob. He remembers offering to drive you home—not out of pity, or chivalry, but because he couldn't bear the thought of what the could-be's might do to you if he left you to walk alone in the dark. And he remembers following you all the way back from the shadows, a silent, bleeding ghost keeping a vigilant watch over your porch, even when it meant risking the treaty line to ensure your safety.

He remembered everything that happened that night like a lucid dream—only, if he could turn back time, he would have torn his past self away from the table before the words could ever leave his mouth. He would have warned himself of the superficial pull of a blood singer, explaining how a volatile, predatory pull could never hold a candle to the steady, enduring warmth of a true mate. But it was too late. The full, humiliating nature of his mistake had been laid bare under the vaulted ceilings of Volterra, where Aro had mocked him for his arrogance. Looking back now, Edward knew the Ancient was right; he would have inflicted a far worse punishment on himself if he had known the cost of his foolishness.

A scent cuts through the heavy atmosphere of rosemary, toasted bread, and expensive wine. It was a ghost of the very memory he replayed, and relived endlessly; it was a gentle string of thoughts he could recognize anywhere in the world.

A few tables down from where he sat, was you, bathed in the warm glow of the dinner lights.

You looked exactly the same—yet, somehow, so, extremely different as well. You weren't the same girl he had left behind in the amber of heartbreak. You were radiant, glowing with a warmth he hadn't realized he had slowly seeped out of you, like blood trickling out the layers of the skin. Your features were washed in a deep, sun-warmed richness, entirely different, and untethered to the pale, rain-locked shadows you used to share with him.

“It's strange seeing you like this,” he heard you murmur, eyes taking in every inch of the man who sat across from you. There was something teasing in the curve of your smile, and Edward, straining to catch every syllable from tables away, felt a sharp ache in his chest. He missed that; he missed the effortless ease that came with being with you, of sharing a moment rooted in the present—not having to constantly tread carefully, unlike with Bella, who spent half her time droning on about age, turning, and the desperate need to become a monster just to spend eternity by his side. It pained Edward to even compare you both, because, in truth, doing so was an insult to everything you were. “Fully clothed, and in a dress shirt, no less.”

Sam let out a low, rich belly laugh, the sound warm and effortlessly grounded. He didn't bristle or overthink the jab; he just leaned his forearms against the table, a fond, crooked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“What can I say?” Sam replied, his voice carrying that steady, rumbling cadence that made your chest feel instantly light. “My fiance threatened to burn my old flannels if I didn't look like a respectable member of society for at least one evening out of the month. Figured I owed her that much.”

You snorted softly, tilting your head. “Right. Blame the fiance. We both know you just wanted an excuse to wear something that didn't smell like pine sap and engine oil.”

“And yet,” Sam murmured, his dark eyes softening into something entirely enraptured—entirely devoted as he reached across the table to brush his knuckles gently against your wrist, “you're still sitting across from me. Must mean I clean up alright.”

“You clean up dangerously well, sour wolf,” you teased, though your pulse skipped a beat under his touch, a flutter of genuine warmth that Edward heard loud and clear in your racing, untroubled thoughts.

He sat frozen in the shadows of his booth, entirely stunned by the sheer level of familiarity and mutual safety radiating from both your minds. It rolled off you both in warm, steady waves, almost tangible to the naked eye, and agonizingly present for a vampire who couldn't block out the symphony of your shared devotion. In your thoughts, he caught the echo of quiet laughter over a “kiss the chef” apron, of flour-dusted counters and lazy Sunday mornings, of the heavy comfort of domesticity—a life built on honest touch and peace, all of which belonged to a future he had willingly thrown away.

Across from him, Bella's brows furrow as she tracks the sudden stiffness in Edward's posture. She follows his line of sight, her eyes landing on the couple a few tables away. Recognition flickers in her expression—she remembers them from that chaotic afternoon at the Clearwater cabin when Jacob had revealed his supernatural nature to her over a dispute with Paul.

“Look, we don't have to stay here if you're not comfortable around them,” she began, gaining his attention and reminding him of her presence. “But, I swear, they won't start anything. I met them a while back, when Jake revealed the truth to the legends. That’s Sam Uley, the pack's alpha, and. . . well, I think her name's [Name].”

Edward's dead heart violently stalled.

The name scraped against his consciousness like pins on a chalkboard. He didn’t need Bella to elaborate, didn't need her to trace the lines of your face or explain how she knew you. Every vessel, down to the last capillary, felt like it was catching fire, like venom shot through in harsh, acidic waves. 

Bella, entirely oblivious to the devastation happening behind his eyes, misinterpreted the suffocating silence in his chest. She lowered her voice, assuming his tension was rooted in the old, ingrained, territorial panic of a vampire reacting to shapeshifters.

“She's. . . nice,” Bella added softly, trying to soothe him, completely unaware that she was speaking of the woman Edward had traded away for a ghost. “She was a little quiet that day, but she stayed calm when everything went berserk.”

“I remember thinking she belonged somewhere away from the crossfire, away from a group of towering wolves fighting—but there was something grounding about her. Something all of them either respected or feared. Maybe both.” Bella recalled the fear that flooded her at that moment. But, looking at you then, she felt silly. There she was, the girl who ran around with cold-blooded predators, yet, you were the one who effortlessly reined in a pack of ferocious beasts with nothing more than a quiet word, an unshakeable stance, and the promise of hot food waiting back at the house. It was entirely admirable.

Not to mention the way Sam looked at you—like you were the only fixed thing that bound him to the world. Bella could see it then, from across the field, and she could see it evidently clear now—as she watched you both share a moment completely private and sacred between you both: the absolute, reverent worship in the big, scary, Sam Uley's posture, stripped of all the alpha-male posturing he usually reserved for border patrol and disputes. He didn't have to tower over you, or demand your submission; he simply succumbed to your anchor.

To Bella Swan, you were simply a familiar face from the reservation, a kind local caught up in a world of supernatural—just like she was. In her eyes, you were like a mirror, reflecting another side of what could have been had she been involved in some other way, or if she presented herself differently. She had no inkling of who you once were to the monster that sat across from her.

The realization hits Edward with the force of a thrashing monsoon, nearly bringing him to his knees at its intensity. The bitter truth solidified around him, understanding that he is still entirely, hopelessly stuck in this restaurant, frozen in the exact minute he let you go. Unable to help himself, Edward catches your eye.

For a fraction of a second, you freeze. You appear stunned, your breath catching as the dark, haunting amber of his gaze locked onto yours. It kills him—the sudden, sharp knowledge that where he used to be the sole reason behind your brightest, crinkling smiles, he is now reduced to nothing more than the jarring bane of it.

Yet, the shock passes like a ripple on water. You merely blink, your jaw tightening for a fraction before you smoothly turn back to Sam. You pick up the thread of your conversation as if Edward Cullen is nothing more than a passing shadow on the wall. You don't glance back at him again, though the weight of his burning gaze lingers heavily against your skin.

As the evening hum of the restaurant softened to the quiet lull of closing time, the chairs at your table scraped lightly against the floorboards. You and Sam rose together, moving with that effortless, shared synchronization of two people who occupied the same space without deliberate intention, or ever needing to measure the distance.

“I’ll go pull the truck around,” Sam murmured, his large hand resting for a fleeting, reverent second at the small of your back before he stepped toward the exit.

You stood by the hostess stand for a quiet moment, adjusting the strap of your shoulder bag, when a shadow fell across the polished wood. You didn't need to look up to know who it was, and in the back of your mind, you hated how inherently familiar he was to you. The sudden, chilling drop in the surrounding air, and the faint, familiar scent of crushed ice and petrichor gave him away instantly.

He uttered your name, slipping from his lips like a prayer and a bruise all at once. Edward stood there, his marble skin catching the dim amber light of the restaurant, looking every bit the ghost he had become.

You turned slowly, your expression washing over with a calm, disarming neutrality that hurt him far more than anger ever could. You looked him up and down—taking in the rigid posture, the sharp tailoring, and the faint, lingering shadow of what he tried so desperately to hide behind a human facade. Although faint and faint-hearted, you could smell the subtle, unmistakable wet-dog tang of the Quileute pack clinging to your own jacket, a scent Edward’s sharp nose registered with a microscopic twitch of his jaw. He fought down the instinctive curl of his lip, desperately trying to remain composed, trying to anchor himself to whatever dignity he had left, and not wanting to be in your bad graces.

“Edward,” you greeted, your voice light, steady, and entirely devoid of the trembling devastation he remembered.

He swallowed unnecessarily hard, the words tearing as venom at his throat. With hesitation, he spoke, “I—I wanted to see how you were. I had to know.”

You offered a small, silent sigh, shaking your head dismissively. There was no venom in the gesture, yet, somehow, it felt even more like a physical blow. “I've been well, Edward. Really.”

“I'm sorry,” he breathed, the words desperate, clawing for a foothold in a conversation that had already left him behind. “I know how I left things. I know the damage I'd done—”

“Don't,” you interrupted gently, a soft, placid smile touching your lips. “For a time. . . yes, I admit it was devastating. It felt like the world ended—but then again, that is how endings come with first loves. But, that was a long, long while ago.”

Your eyes darted past his shoulder for a fraction of a second, catching sight of Bella bounding anxiously out the front doors of the restaurant and slowing in her steps as she realized who he was talking to. A look of quiet, humane understanding spread across your features.

Bella stopped a few paces away, her eyes widening in mild surprise as she recognized you. “[Name]?” she murmured, her voice suddenly laced with hesitation. It was odd enough for her boyfriend to have suddenly fled, and even more so to find that the reason behind his actions had been to chase after you.

You turned your gaze to meet hers, offering a polite, welcoming nod that bridged the awkward chasm between your past and his present. “Hi, Bella. I see things worked out for you both in the end.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by your grace, and offered a tight, uncertain smile in return. “Oh—thank you. We’re figuring things out.”

​Edward watched the interaction, feeling the absolute weight of his monumental stupidity crushing his ribs. He looked back at you—at the radiant, sun-warmed life humming beneath your skin, completely detached from the darkness he had forced you under. The old, selfish instinct flared up, a desperate, pathetic hunger to reclaim what was his.

“Are you happy?” he asked, the words breaking softly in the air, desperate to hear you say that you were still waiting, that the door was still cracked open just a sliver.

You met his eyes, golden and haunted with a clarity that needed no mind-reading to decipher. 

“Yes, I really am,” you answered honestly, the warmth in your chest absolute. Then, nodding slightly towards the lingering girl, you asked, “And you? I see things worked out between you and Bella.”

Edward looked at the girl who had cost him everything, then back at the woman who survived his temperament, and now, his regret. A heavy, hollow peace settled over his frozen chest.

“I'm happy that you're happy,” he whispered.

And for the first time since he had walked out of that Port Angeles bistro three years ago, it was the absolute truth. He could consign himself to the purgatory of his own making, could shoulder the burden of the choice he had made, so long as you were safe, whole, and loved the way you deserved.

Just then, the deep rumble of an engine roared against the curb outside. Sam's truck pulled smoothly into the drive's warm pool of light.

The man stepped out from the driver's seat, his broad frame shifting with easy authority. He took one cautious, assessing glance through the glass at the vampire standing dangerously close to you, his dark eyes hardening with instinctive protectiveness before softening the second he caught your reassuring look. Sam walked around the hood, opened the passenger door, and extended a large, steady hand, gently guiding you toward the vehicle with a silent, fierce reverence.

As the truck doors shut with a solid, reassuring thud and the vehicle eased out onto the open road, your eyes met Edward''s one last time through the rearview mirror. 

It was almost poetic how the finality between you both, between your story had been carved into that very moment. This was your closure—stepping into a completely different vehicle, a completely different life, on the complete other side of town, away from the high-end Volvo he had once offered you a ride home in. This was you moving on, making it entirely known to him not out of malice or spite, but simply because you were living, breathing, and thriving, entirely unaffected and independent of him—whether or not he chose to orbit your world ever again.

While you melted into the night, carrying the warmth of the world along with you as Sam's hand encased yours, Edward remained frozen in time. He stood rooted to the pavement outside the bistro, haunting a restaurant for the memories it bore within its walls. He hadn't the faintest clue when he would finally move on—or if he ever could. But as the red tail-lights of Sam's truck faded into the dark, he knew he would carry your happiness like a quiet, sacred vow—whether or not you ever allowed him a place in your life again.

No matter your decision, a part of him would remain there, waiting, suspended in the same amber he had left you in. He would endure the decades from a distance, watching quietly as you grew old, as your children bore children of their own, and as your vibrant life inevitably drew to its natural, beautiful end. He would watch as Sam takes his place by your side through every season, honoring the love he had failed to keep, watching as you thrive while he stood entirely still.

YOUR SENSES WERE SET ALIGHT as the sensation of soft fur against your cheek was replaced by a biting, needle-sharp cold. 

You scrambled up from where you had fallen, vision assaulted by pure white — an endless, pristine ocean of snow blanketed every surface in your line of sight, from the gnarled roots at your feet to the heavy, sweeping boughs of the fir trees that towered over you.

Impossible, you thought at first, the adventurous spark you had obtained from your fathers igniting within your chest. And yet, so, entirely real.

Suddenly, a frantic, vibrating warmth sprang from your chest, accompanied by a sharp, indignant squeak that echoed in the silence. You looked down at the breast pocket of your robes, where a tiny, bark-skinned hand with two sharp fingers poked out, followed by a head adorned with two leaf-like ears.

Bowie shivered violently against the cold, his dark eyes glaring at the blanketing snow with profound offense. His teeth chattered — sounding like dry twigs snapping — and pointed an accusational finger at the white landscape, as if blaming you personally for the drop in temperature.

“Hey now,” you whispered, gently pushing his head back down into the warmth of your pocket. “This is just as much of a surprise for me as with you.”

A soft, wet sensation enveloped the bridge of your nose; you looked up. A single, crystallized snowflake had fluttered down, landing where you scrunched your nose.

You blinked, the cold melting into a droplet, and a faint, incredulous smile tugged at the corners of your lips. 

For someone so accustomed to magic and its presence in your world, you couldn't help but be awed by the enchanting display. For once, who knew that magic had such a way with the senses?

Crunch.

The sound of a boot breaking the powdery snow shattered the serene silence. You froze, your smile vanishing in an instant as you put your guard up. Instinctively, your hand dropped to the pocket of your robes where your wand lay hidden — feeling Bowie already there, lifting it in an attempt to assist you.

Curiosity — that dangerous, Black family trait — won over caution and any remainder of self-preservation you believed you had. You followed the sound through the dense trees until a soft, golden glow pierced the gloom.

Standing amidst the ancient, frozen woods like a beacon from a dream, was an iron lamppost. It hummed with a quiet, warm energy. Squinting against its glare, you caught the silhouette of a small figure darting behind a wide oak trunk, a gasp sounding from it as the presence took notice of you.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” you called out to the creature, voice misting in the air. You took a slow, deliberate step forward, pocketing your wand, and raising your empty hands.

Bowie, however, was ready to toss you your wand should the creature prove to be dangerous.

With that, the stranger peeked from behind the wide trunk — a young girl with short, bobbed brown hair, shivering in a grey school cardigan and kneesocks that offered no protection against the freezing, magical winter. 

She stepped out cautiously, and you met in between, beneath a pool of golden light. She looked to be the age of a first-year, around eleven or a year younger, you would guess.

You offered her a hand, forcing warmth into your expression as you introduced yourself with a small smile and a  “hello,” asking for her name.

She hesitated for a moment, teeth chattering, before taking your hand. Her grip was ice-cold. “I'm Lucy. Lucy Pevensie.”

“Well, hi there, Lucy,” you replied softly, gazing around the impossible forest in unfiltered amazement. “You don't happen to know where we are, do you?”

“Oh!” An instant relief sparked within her eyes. “You're new here, too?”

“Yes, just a moment ago, I was surrounded by mothballs and old coats,” you admitted unsurely, still bewildered by where the wardrobe had led you. “And now, I'm here. . .”

“Me too!” Lucy beamed with even more relief, growing evidently more comfortable with your shared experiences, “I was playing hide-and-seek with my siblings! I thought the room was empty, except for the wardrobe.”

You let out a small laugh in amusement; it seemed you weren't the only one with a curiosity problem. “Why don't we stick together then? I'm a witch, after all. I can protect you.”

“You're a what—” 

Her eyes were wide in intrigue, when the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves broke the peace. You grabbed Lucy's shoulder in alarm, pulling her behind you. In a flash of panic, your hair — usually a distinct shade — rippled and drained of saturation, turning a stark, ghostly white that matched the snow.

A figure emerged from the trees, carrying brown paper parcels and holding a snowy umbrella. From the waist up, he was a man in a red scarf. Yet, from the waist-down, he had the furry, shaggy legs of a goat and glossy black hooves.

A faun.

He looked up, saw you, and let out a high-pitched shriek. “AHHH!”

Lucy screamed. You yelped, startled more so by his terror than his presence, and the three of you each scrambled to hide behind the lamppost and trees.

A momentary silence stretched, heavy and awkward. You peered around the bark, your hair slowly shifting back to a cautious, muddy brown. The creature looked absolutely terrified, clutching his chest, his parcels scattered all around him.

Lucy stepped out first, moving towards the creature as you followed after her, mentally recounting the disarming charm. She picked up a fallen parcel and offered it to him cautiously, “Were you hiding from us?”

The creature peered over a root. It appeared he was just as afraid as you both were, if not more; the thought tugged at your heartstrings. 

“No. . . I was just— I didn't want to scare you.”

You couldn’t help it. A bold, uncontrolled laugh escaped you. “Well, you certainly did a good job of that.”

He appeared sheepish at your comment, your laugh slowly coaxing his defenses down.

“If you don't mind me asking,” Lucy began, handing him another parcel, “what are you?”

“I am a Faun,” he said, puffing his chest out and sounding as though he were stating an obvious detail. “And what about you two? You must be a pair of beardless dwarves?”

“I'm not a dwarf! I'm a girl!” Lucy exclaimed. “And actually, I'm the tallest in my class.”

She seemed real proud of that fact, you chuckled amusedly. 

“And I,” you added, crossing your arms defiantly, “am most certainly not a dwarf.”

“You mean to say. . . that you are both Daughters of Eve?”

“My mum's name is Helen,” Lucy blinked confusedly.

“And I have two dads,” you murmured.

“But— you are human?”

“Well, yes,” you muttered. “For the most part,” you whispered lowly to yourself, thinking of the metamorphic magic in your blood.

“What are you doing here?” The faun seemed awfully fond of asking questions.

“Well, I was hiding in the wardrobe in the spare room—” “Same with her.”

“Spare Oom? What is this— is that in Narnia?”

“Narnia?” “What's Narnia?” You and Lucy exchanged bewildered glances. While the younger girl was mentally recounting all the forests she knew of in London, you tried to recall the different magical woods your father had mentioned to you growing up (what with his condition). But Narnia? Neither of you had a clue.

“Why, dear girls, you're in it!” The faun gestured all around, pointing at the treetops, the lamppost, and the sky, “Everything from the lamppost, all the way to Castle Cair Paravel on the Eastern Ocean!”

“Every stick and stone you see — every icicle, is Narnia!”

“This is an awfully big wardrobe. . .” Lucy whispered to you.

“Tell me about it,” you agreed, looking around you in newfound awe.

“‘War Drobe’?” he echoed, testing out the unfamiliar word, “Pardon me, please, allow me to introduce myself.”

“My name is Tumnus,” the faun said, bowing. “And I would like to personally welcome you both to Narnia.”

“Well, Mr Tumnus, it's our pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You offered him a hand, just as you had earlier offered it to Lucy, “My name is [Name] Black-Lupin.”

“And I'm Lucy Pevensie!” The younger girl bounced to your side, offering the faun a grin as she glanced expectantly between him and your outstretched hand. “Well?”

Tumnus only blinked at you both confusedly, comically unsure. 

Bowie takes this moment to peek out of your pocket, chittering animatedly and mimicking the act of shaking hands. “Oh! And this is Bowie!”

The bowtruckle waved at Lucy, who gasped in delight, but eyed the faun’s furry legs with suspicion. 

Tumnus eyes went round as saucers. “By the Lion’s Mane— A spirit of the wood? A Dryad in miniature?”

“Is that a stick insect?” Followed Lucy.

“Something like that. . .” you muttered with amusement, “He’s a bowtruckle.”

“Well then,” Tumnus bowed to the tiny creature as well, making Bowie swell with pride. “Master Bowie, Lucy Pevensie, and [Name] Black-Lupin, from the shining city of War Drobe in the wondrous land of Spare Room. . .”

You and Lucy exchanged a look of giddy amusement.

“How would it be if you came and had tea with me?”

Bowie, hearing the word “tea” (or perhaps just sensing the warmth), let out a supportive squeak.

“Oh! Thank you very much!” Lucy exhaled, but you watched as hesitance flooded her expression. “But I should probably be getting back. . .”

“Now that you mention it, my friends may be looking for me,” you sighed, looking at Bowie, who appeared disappointed.

“Oh, but it’s only around the corner! And there’ll be a glorious fire,” Bowie looked at you pleadingly at the mention, “with toast and tea, and cakes, and perhaps we’ll even break into the sardines!”

One look at your weary expressions, and Tumnus pleads, “Come on, it’s not everyday I get to make new friends. . .”

That tugged on your empathy. You thought back to a time before Hogwarts, when you barely had anyone to call your friends — save for Bowie, Pa’foo, your pink puffskein, and Hermes, your owl.

“Well,” Lucy gave in after exchanging a small nod with you, “I suppose I could come for a little while. . . If you have sardines.”

“Oh, by the bucketload!” Tumnus’ grin widens as the other girl nods after.

“If there’s toast and sardines,” you sighed, shivering, “I suppose one cup wouldn’t hurt.”

“Well, come along, then!” With a merry laugh, Tumnus shifts his parcels and hooks his arms through both yours and Lucy’s, one of you on each of his sides. He held his snowy umbrella high to shield you both, the gesture so quaint, so storybook-charming, that you couldn’t help but smile.

The walk was short, but magical. The forest was hushed, muffled by the heavy blanket of snow. The only sounds were the crunch of your boots, the clip-clop of Tumnus’ hooves, and the soft thud of clumps of snow falling from the fir branches above.

Inside your pocket, Bowie was vibrating like a trapped moth. He let out a low, continuous chittering sound — a complaint about the temperature that vibrated against your ribs. 

“We’re almost there, Bowie,” you murmured into your collar, earning a curious look from Tumnus.

“Here we are!” the faun announced, leading you before a large, reddish-brown boulder that rose out of the snow like a sleeping giant. Nestled at its base was a humble wooden door, glowing invitingly from the gaps in its frame. “Come along!”

“After you,” Tumnus bowed, opening the door and gesturing for you both to enter.

You gesture for the younger girl to step inside first, and follow after. Tumnus bustled in, shaking his umbrella like a wet dog and drying his hooves. “Make yourselves at home!”

You blinked at the sudden rush of warmth, your eyes adjusting to the dim, golden light. It was a simple, yet snug little room. The floor was dry rock, covered in thick, woven rugs. A fireplace crackled merrily in the corner, casting dancing shadows on the shelves lining the walls.

You looked around in wonder. It felt like stepping into the heart of a tree — safe, warm, rustic, and hidden from the rest of the world. It reminded you of the Gryffindor Common Room in some ways, but simpler, and more woodsy.

Bowie poked his head out of your chest pocket. His leaf-antennae twitched, tasting the warm air. He let out a relieved squeak, scrambled out of your pocket, and immediately scurried up to your shoulder, basking in the heat of the fire like a tiny, sun-worshipping lizard.

“Oh, Lucy breathed, looking around. “It’s wonderful!”

And you had to agree. It was the sort of place you could sleep in a hundred years over. The cave was a sensory overload of comfort. It smelled of toast, melting butter, and spicy cinnamon. The warm colors reflected the hearth of the blazing fireplace as you sat in a plush armchair. By then, Bowie had scrambled out of your pocket and was now perched precariously on your shoulder, basking in the heat of the fire. He looked like a content twig.

Tumnus offered you and Lucy some buttered toast. While the young girl immediately munched, you broke off a small crumb of the crust and held it up to your shoulder. Bowie swiftly snatched it with his long fingers, nibbling on it fastidiously.

While you occupied yourself with the light snack, Lucy took a look around at the shelves. An old, framed photograph snagged her attention. Tumnus caught on to her line of sight. “Oh, that is my father.”

“He has a nice face,” Lucy complimented. You clamped your mouth shut and held in a laugh. That was one way to word it.

“You look much like him,” you settled on saying.

“Oh, no. . .” the faun looked down somberly at the photograph. “I’m not much like him at all, really.”

“Why do you say that?” You could tell there was more to what he was feeling — more to the sudden spark of sadness glittering in his eye. After all, you had a way with emotions. You didn’t need color-changing hair to determine whether a person’s emotions truly matched that which they displayed.

“Well, my father went off to war,” Tumnus sighed. You couldn’t help but think of your own fathers given that. You lost one to its madness, to the ropes of betrayal and its harsh realities, and the other — well, he had to cope with what little he had left to live for. He had to lift the world and its burdens on his shoulders, for both of you. “But it was a very long time ago, before this dreadful winter.”

“Winter isn’t all bad,” you offered, listening to Tumnus lament the hundred-year freeze. “There’s eggnog, frozen butterbeer, stockings, and large, decorated trees.”

Christmas at Hogwarts was a warm and widely celebrated fiasco. You wouldn’t trade the giddy celebration for the world.

“Oh, yes! And ice skating, and sledding, and of course! How could I forget — Christmas!” You grinned at how enchanted the younger girl appeared by the mention of the holiday. If only you could take her to experience a Hogwarts Christmas. She’d be in for a ride.

“Oh, but not here, no.” Tumnus shuts the ideas down, looking more wistful than anything. “We haven’t had Christmas for over a hundred years.”

He sets down a tray of tea before the pair of girls. “Always winter, never Christmas.”

“We eventually lost the joy that comes with the snow after the everlasting winter.”

Suddenly, Bowie stopped munching on his crumb. He stood up on your shoulder, his leaf-ears twitching. He let out a low, rattling hiss, staring at the shadows in the corner of the room.

“Hush, Bowie,” you murmured, stroking his back. “It’s just the firelight.”

But the bowtruckle wouldn’t settle. He scrambled down your arm and hid in the crook of your elbow, shaking. 

Strange, you thought, growing concerned. Bowie wasn’t normally like this. Not even when you had gone to the Forbidden Forest for detention the previous year. . .

“. . . And the music, such music! Would you like to hear some now?” Tumnus asked quickly, shifting your focus onto him. The shadows could wait. 

“Yes, please!” Lucy nodded excitedly, sipping on her tea as you followed suit, humming in approval. Your Papa would simply love the faun’s recipe. You should ask him about it later. 

Expertly, he began to play on the double-piped flute. The haunting melody echoed, and you watched as the flames danced, shifting into fauns and centaurs, and dryads — magical creatures that danced to the tune. The music was wild and mournful. It wrapped around you, blanketing your every fibre as your eyelids grew heavy. You felt Bowie go limp against your arm, succumbing to the enchantment even faster than you did.

The music pulled you down, down into darkness, until you succumbed to its lulling pull.

CELINE'S ANNOTATIONS !

fun fact: bowie has a hit list. right now, it's topped by mrs norris (filch's cat), the whomping willow (its aggressiveness and lack of refinement being a "disgrace to tree-kind"), and your cousin, draco malfoy.

bonus fun fact: the reason behind his hatred towards draco runs deeper than simply the boy's hair and rudeness. bowie is a snob about wand wood. he firmly believes that the kind of wood your wand contains will say much about you.

for instance, draco's wand is made of Hawthorn. bowie finds Hawthorn trees to be "dramatic and prickly," so he assumes draco is the same way.

meanwhile, he resonates with ron's wand. well, charlie's wand that ron uses. . ash wood is stubborn and headstrong. it sways and bends for none but the wind and its chosen companion, just as bowie refuses to leave mc's side and bother with anyone or anything else :)

headcanon: bowie tends to ignore or forget just how small he is. oftentimes, in his head, he's as large and ferocious as a hungarian horntail. so, when mc is sleeping, he often patrols her pillow (unless he's knocked out too). if ron, harry, or any of the twins get too close to wake her up, bowie stands on her forehead and brandishes a twig like a sword, challenging anyone and everyone who dares get too close — to single combat.

WIZARDING WORLD

war of hearts (one-shot ; hurt/comfort)

PAIRING: tom riddle x dumbledore!reader

SYNOPSIS: in which albus dumbledore makes the mistake of keeping his niece in the shadows of her own origins, and tom riddle makes an enigma out of her, placing her in a position that puts her at war with herself.

WC: 4,288

TWILIGHT

did i mention (one-shot ; fluff/rom-com)

PAIRING: james potter x reader

SYNOPSIS: For two years running, James Potter had been publicly pursuing Lily Evans every opportunity he had — whether that meant loud confessions in the Great Hall, pranks dedicated in her name, or preaching the word to all who were willing to listen. But, imagine everyone's surprise, when, one day, he simply stops. And even more alarming, he turns all his attention onto the unsuspecting Ravenclaw whom he had known since infancy. STATUS: coming soon !

right where you left me (one-shot ; angst)

PAIRING: ex!Edward Cullen x fem!Reader x current!Sam Uley

SYNOPSIS: Before the enigma that was Bella Swan, Edward Cullen had you. As Bella came into his life, he made a point in ending your relationship in favor of exploring the depths of what could be with her. Nearly two years later, you both find yourselves in the same restaurant he had concluded things at—albeit, on different tables, with different people, and different intentions altogether.

WC: 3,592

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA

enchanted (series ; coming-of-age/rom-com/hurt/comfort)

PAIRING: edmund pevensie x wolfstar!daughter!reader

SYNOPSIS: in which a prophecy looms her like a silhouette, creeping silently like a shadow she cannot escape. from one land to another, trouble follows, evil lurks, and darkness shadows. accompanied by four seemingly ordinary siblings, they will reign and conquer the ever-changing world. from a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe, to the battle of worlds intwined, only aslan may know just what their journeys hold in store.

STATUS: on-going

mamma mia (parent trap au ; series ; hurt/comfort/fluff/rom-com)

PAIRING: Elizabeth James!Edmund Pevensie x fem!Nick Parker!reader && Meredith!Caspian x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: in which one summer at camp was all it took for your twin daughters to unravel the plot you and their father had kept hidden for (almost) twelve years.

STATUS: on-going

PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

evermore (series ; fantasy/romance/hurt/comfort)

PAIRING: beast!erik x belle!reader && gaston!raoul x belle!reader

SYNOPSIS: in which a small-town cleopatra saves her father from a cruel fate, befriends haunted objects, and meets her match (is he?) in a cursed phantom who hides his face behind a mask.

STATUS: on-going

WOOL’S ORPHANAGE WAS A DREARY PLACE. It was someplace where time didn't flow; it stagnated, where summer simply meant stickiness and sweat, where daybreak couldn't seem to shine its rays through the grime-streaked windows, and where most children were fed on a diet or gruel and false pretense that they would one day be sought after. They lived in the desperate hope that they would be cherished by loving parents, whisked away to a lovely home, and freed from everything the orphanage represented— that one day, they would be loved with the empathy and warmth they so severely lacked.

The lot of them were fools; they blindly placed their faith in the caretakers’ empty promises, in the hollow reassurances that they were all destined to meet their “chosen” families. They would hang onto their every word, every slippery lie, and they flocked like sheep, blissfully unaware of the slaughter that reality would eventually teach them.

The youngest of the herd were particularly stupid, one boy thought. 

For so long, he had thought himself entirely separate from them. A “winter lamb,” the caretakers would whisper when they thought he wasn't listening. But to him, he was no sheep at all. No, he was something else. Something more capable, more superior—simply, more. 

Tom Riddle was an alien to the residents of Wool's Orphanage. He had no room for friendship, no understanding—or the patience for the understanding—of empathy. He was a control freak who claimed the reins of any, and all things within his domain. He was a strange boy, one who mostly kept to himself, if not in the company of the reptiles that slithered in the far back corner of the gardens.

It was tragic, really, how no one ever came for him. He had no known relatives; none aside from his pitiful mother who died not long after bearing him in this wretched place. And when potential parents would come for a visit, it took only a conversation with him to drive them off. The other children both feared and despised him for that. While his presence would steer the adults toward other, more “manageable” children, other times, his sheer intensity would scare them to the next orphanage entirely. It was safe to say, no one was ever going to adopt him, and likewise, he had no plans of being taken in by anyone either. 

Until one day, someone suddenly came looking. 

The odd man introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, a professor at a school Tom had never heard of, looking to recruit him. The young boy found him to be deeply suspicious. From his shabby choice of wardrobe, to the man's intense, probing focus on getting to know him, Tom was on guard. He had to be some ward from the asylum— a doctor, or a psychiatrist, perhaps. It wouldn't be out of the orphanage staff's character to want to lock him away for his supposed weirdness.

But then, his wardrobe was cast aflame.

In a heartbeat, his suspicion and cold aggression vanished. In its place was an ecstatic sense of validation, and genuine, shimmering shock—maybe even terror, as vindication flooded his senses. Magic was real. His oddity, his lack of belonging— it all made sense now. He had always known he was special, that he was different, and by all means better than those around him.

Yet, something from within him whispered furiously, as he looked into Dumbledore's eyes, and the fire glittered reflectively in the depths of them. As the flames vanished, with his possessions and the wooden frame of the wardrobe itself remaining unharmed, the young boy's fear shifted into intense, cold focus. For the first time in his life, he realized he was looking into the eyes of someone who possessed more control than he did—with more power than he did.

The young Tom Riddle watched from his windowsill as the old professor turned from the orphanage gate. His eyes narrowed, tracing the way the man placed a hand on a girl's shoulder. She looked about his age, a girl with an air of composed, quiet intelligence that clashed violently with the filth of Wool's. She didn't look like an orphan; she looked like an accessory to the world Tom had just been promised.

He had already decided he held no affection for Albus Dumbledore; the man had already seen too much, and knew far too many things Tom was meant to keep hidden. But, the girl. . .

She was the only thing the old professor touched with any semblance of tenderness. He watched Dumbledore place a protective hand on her shoulder, a gesture so casual, so inherently human, that it turned Tom’s stomach.

His eyes narrowed, his pulse quickening. 

She was a window, he realized. A window into the world Dumbledore had promised him, a world which he held the keys to unlocking.

Years later, the walls of Hogwarts were no longer a mystery, but a chessboard to be mastered. 

While Tom had been sorted into Slytherin, curating a circle of influence from the most formidable and well-connected heirs of the wizarding world, you had been claimed by Ravenclaw. You moved through the corridors with an effortless grace Tom found both baffling and brilliant—though he was reluctant to admit the latter. You were the golden child of the faculty—tutoring your peers, assisting professors with research and extracurricular work, all the while maintaining a reputation of such pristine approachability. In the eyes of others, you were the epitome of academic virtue.

Tom, however, saw right through the “performance.” His research on you was meticulous, to say the least. He tracked your movements, closely observed your habits, and scrutinized the very essence of your intentions. In his search for ill-intent behind your demeanor, he attempted tracking signs of imperious charms and bewitching spells, as he couldn't fathom the idea of your character being genuine. Only to remain unsuccessful in his search—and that infuriated him.

In a fervor, he entrusted his Knights with the task of deconstructing you, treating your personality like a riddle, or a puzzle to be solved. Rosier was sent to flirt, Lestrange to provoke, Nott to charm, and Abraxas to intellectually challenge. It was a failure of epic proportions, granted their goal was to uncover any misalignment between your projection and your true character. Each attempt only served to earn them extended meetings and the searing agony of being on the receiving end of his Cruciatus curse. They were, he decided with growing contempt, utterly incompetent.

In his frustration, he chose to take matters into his own hands—shadowing you on Prefects shifts in a silence that felt heavier than conversation, subtly manipulating professors into pairing you for most core assignments, and deliberately peeling back layers of his own mask to see how you would respond to the darker reality beneath. Yet, the more he observed, the more he found his own carefully laid traps turning against him. Unfortunately for him, he was no longer the detached intellectual merely peering into your hide; he had leaned in too close, drawn to the flickering, curious flame of your presence with the helplessness of a moth.

You knew of his elite little organization, of the “Knights of Walpurgis,” as they had called themselves. You were familiar with the reputation each one of them had, and of the beliefs they all stressed with every word, and every action. It was exactly why you found their sudden interest in you so baffling. While you were a pure-blooded witch, you didn't exactly surround yourself with the company they expected out of one.

But, when suddenly, their apparent leader, the infamous Tom Riddle, had shown some form of interest in your person, you knew to be cautious. While his reputation rivaled your own, you heard your share of whispers about his nature. He was a charming man, he always had been. He was a looker, and knew how to use it in his favor. He had a silver tongue that drew anyone in, that everyone fell victim to simply because he was so, very irresistible. Yet, your uncle had forewarned you as early as that day you joined him to purchase your school materials. He spoke softly, guardedly, of his interaction with the boy from the orphanage, and of his peculiarity. But he did not say more than necessary—only a small word of advice that he had echoed repeatedly, and more alarmingly since.

But now, as he initiated conversations, as he found you on late nights in the Restricted Section, as he joined you, and made his presence more unignorable, you knew that he knew of something, that he wanted something. He would lure you into debates on magical theory, on magical potential, only to withdraw the moment you proved him wrong, leaving you off-balance. He would offer you glimpses into the dark, cynical corners of his worldview, only to pull back into his persona if he sensed you were growing too comfortable, as if he were testing just how much of his true, rotting core you could stand to witness before you turned away.

One evening, you had enough. The corridor was long, the stone floor biting through your slippers. While you had been wearing your school robes, you found no reason to wear anything more stifling than your night footwear. It was past midnight and your shift was nearing its end. The silence of the castle felt heavy, and somehow, the darkness felt more palpable. You were nearly at the portrait of the Fat Friar when the air shifted—a subtle drop in pressure, a charge that heralded his presence before his shadow detached from below the recessed archway.

Tom didn't offer a greeting. He simply fell into step beside you, his long stride adjusting to match your own. He was quiet, but it was an aggressive, consuming silence.

“My uncle warned me about you,” you murmured, not looking at him. You felt a prickling twinge in the back of your mind, and merely tightened your grip on your illuminated wand. “He told me you were someone who knew the price of everything, yet, ironically enough, the value of nothing.”

Tom didn't break his stride. The soft click-clack of your slippers against the stone was mirrored by the heavy, measured thud of his boots. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant, muffled snoring of a portrait somewhere down the hall.

“Albus has always had a flair for the dramatics,” he finally replied, voice devoid of its usual, carefully rehearsed cadence. It was flat, conversational, and that made it all the more unsettling. “He treats you like a fragile little thing—a relic he's terrified of breaking, of letting the world break, and he thinks that by painting me in a negative light, he can keep you under glass for longer.”

“But you're not fragile, are you?” 

You stopped abruptly, the light from your wand casting long, dancing shadows that made the corridor feel suddenly claustrophobic. You turned, and he halted instantly, a measly few inches left between you.

“You've been trailing me for weeks,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your heart hammered against your ribs. “You manipulate my schedule, haunt my library hours, and you spend every moment of these shifts attempting to peel back the layers of my mind. It's exhausting, Tom. What exactly are you searching for?”

His dark gaze remained on you for a moment too long for comfort, unblinking and brimming with intent. He didn't retreat. He didn't offer the usual deflective charm that kept others at arm's length. For a moment, the mask he wore—the perfect, untouchable, charming prefect Riddle—seemed to sear at the edges.

“I was looking for a blink, for a crack,” he admitted, the words coming out with a clinical, biting precision. “I spend months awaiting some form of leverage, the hidden debt, or a secret ambition you were playing toward. I was so sure that your kindness, your charm was a strategic choice, a means of honing a network of people who owed you favors—who knew better than to misplace their faith in you.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward. The already small gap between you both decreases further, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. “But you don't have one, do you? You don't want anything. You aren't playing a game. You're simply. . . consistent.”

“And that bothers you?” you challenged, tightening your grip on your wand.

“It's rather infuriating,” he rasped, his eyes dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before locking onto yours. “You aren't naive, and you're no weakling. You're stubborn. You believe in potential, that you can fix or reconstruct the broken, and you're resilient enough to withstand me while doing so.”

“I've witnessed your raw power, yet, you always hold back.” He reached out, his hand ghosting over your wand, his fingers brushing briefly against yours before retreating. “You're a curious case.”

“I've dedicated my life to learning how to attain control, to demand it,” he whispered, his voice losing its icy edge, replaced by a raw, jagged impatience. “I know how to make people fear me, and I know how to make them follow me.”

“But the concept of handling one who has no need for me, yet is also the only person who looks me in the eye without flinching—like I'm simply another person in passing, it's foreign to me, I must admit.”

He leaned in, invading the narrow space between you, his presence an overwhelming entity in itself, putting all your senses on alert. “You're making me question my own capacities, my own means. And I despise uncertainty.”

You steadily met his gaze; his eyes burned over your features, searching desperately for any cracks, any sign of a hesitation that had cooled off the moment he had given you power over him. “Then stop picking me apart, Tom. Stop trying to solve me.”

“You misunderstand,” he breathed you in, a deep, steady rise in his chest as his insides tore apart with restlessness and peace. “I already have. My goal, for weeks now, has been to rid myself of this fixation with you.”

“Yet, it seems to me that there is reason for curiosity with you.” He pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space, but his touch remained, his fingertips anchored where they were in a possessive, grounding touch. His eyes shifted, narrowing the longer he looked at you. “I saw you in the archives last night.”

He spoke your name like a secret, softly, yet with an unbridled edge that distinguished it from niceties. “Behind the section on parasitical entities and forces. I saw the records you were pulling.”

The air in the corridor seemed to sharpen. The cool breeze became needles, nipping harshly at your exposed skin, peeling back at your cheeks. You felt your blood still—the hum in your veins, the truth you had unearthed—suddenly vibrating with resonance and intensity.

“You've been digging,” his tone was void of judgement, almost praising even, “just as I was. Just as I have been—over my past, and on you.”

“You know what you are, don't you? You know exactly why Albus has been so meticulous in sheltering you, in keeping you tucked away.”

“Everything he has done has been rooted in care—in love.” You were defensive; while your insides were pulling itself apart over everything you learned, you felt the need to protect your uncle's image from this man—from this prodding, yet terrifyingly charming man. “He has only done what he has to protect me—”

“From what? From yourself?” He swiftly interjected, amused by your rebuttals. It made sense for you to be at war with yourself over your dear uncle. After all, the man was the only family you knew, aside from the Hogwarts staff and creatures that regarded you as their own. He was the only one who stuck by you, who cared for you, and saw you through all these years. Yet, he was the same man who had kept secret from you the nature of your own existence—of your origin. “He thinks you a liability, dear [Name], that if you were to understand the composition of your own blood, that you'd be the very catastrophe he had spent his life preventing.”

“Stop it,” you breathed, your voice wavering. “Stop it, Tom. You're being cruel.” 

You wanted to pull away, to shove him back, but the crushing weight of his words held you in place. He was getting in your head. He was worming doubt into your mind, chipping away at the foundation of your loyalty to your uncle. Yet, the worst part was that you were not foreign to these words—that he was not wrong; it was that he was providing a vocabulary for the fears you had buried deep with those archives.

Tom didn't back down. Instead, his expression softened with a practiced, terrifying sincerity that made your breath hitch. He reached out, his hand hovering near your cheek before he finally cupped your face, his touch chillingly steady.

“Is it truly cruel if it's the truth—if it's the very same thoughts that linger in the furthest corner of your mind? Is it cruel to point out the cage, or is it cruel to keep you in it?” he murmured, his thumb grazing your temple. He uttered your name softly, but this time, it felt less of a calculation, “Albus loves you; you needn't doubt that. But he loves the version of you that doesn't threaten his peace of mind.”

“He loves you because you are a controlled miracle, a remnant of his gravest sin—proof that redemption is not so far from his grasp.” The cold calculation in his expression shifted into something far more dangerous: ambition. He was not horrified as you met his gaze, nor did he look afraid of what lay beneath. He looked like a man who had finally found the missing piece of an equation, or a grand design.

“I'm not asking you to hate him. I merely implore you to admit that he, above all others, has been handling you with a delicate, covert caution. You're exhausted from holding all that magic back, aren't you? You're tired of the containment, of the whispers, of the constant need to be good so he doesn't flinch away.”

His voice dropped to a barely audible rasp, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “He is a small man. He's terrified of anything he cannot understand, that he cannot categorize, so he regards them as danger. He has spent his life upholding the status quo, of maintaining peace because he's terrified of change—of the potential that comes with change.”

“But you are no catastrophe. You have the potential to be one, oh yes—but you also possess the grace to transcend it. You need only the means to harness it, to tap into the deeper magic without suppression.” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression stripped of its usual artifice. The intensity of his gaze wasn't merely magnetic; it was grounding. 

Finally, it was stripped bare entirely.

“The first time I properly acknowledged you,” his voice was a tremble rougher now, betraying his cracked composure. “It was in our third year, near the Care of Magical Creatures reserve. You spent an hour patiently helping a first-year gain the trust of a Niffler. You had nothing to gain then—no prestige, no onlookers, no audience.”

“I watched from the shadows, waiting for the moment you would ask for something in return. A favor, perhaps, or a carefully disguised trap for their loyalty. I was mapping the motive behind your kindness, because in my world, there is always a motive.”

He looked at you with a mix of frustration and raw, emerging wonder, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “When I saw none, I hated you for it. I hated that your existence invalidated every lesson I'd ever learned about human nature. You were no longer a mere knot to untangle—you were the only thing in this school that refused to be reduced to another variable.”

He leaned in, his fingers curling firmly into the soft hair at the nape of your neck, tethering you to his gaze.

“You are an anomaly—in every sense of the word.” The silence of the corridor was deafening; the distant rumbles of the moving staircases, of the portraits, felt eons away when he looked at you, and spoke with you as he had.

“All this time, Dumbledore has wasted away at efforts attempting to curate your reality, ensuring you remained his kind niece, the perfect student—that you, yourself believed in the filters he had placed over the hum of your blood. For what would be a better mask, than one its wearer has never known life without to begin with?”

You felt the blood drain from your face, the familiar, grounding hum under your skin suddenly feeling less like a root of comfort, and more like a caged bird. You had spent years believing your temperament, your entire psychology, was a choice, your grace a virtue. And perhaps, to an extent, it had been. It remains as such. But, to hear him call it a filter—a constructed reality—was the first time you felt stripped, uncomfortably bare.

Tom took a slow step closer, his eyes tracking the frantic cadence of your pulse. He didn't appear triumphant; he looked almost sympathetic—pitying.

“He didn't make you a better person,” he uttered your name ruefully, his eyes scanning your face with a newfound, searching intensity. “He just made you a quieter one.”

You felt a flash of resentment—a sharp, stinging heat—and took a half-step back, though his hand remained firm, anchoring you in place. His fingers untangled themselves from the locks of hair hiding your neck, grazing upward, slowly, deliberately, and hooking themselves beneath your chin. His touch was ghostly, but absolute. “You found the records. You uncovered your truth in the archives. You know exactly what you are, and why he buried it.”

“Now, tell me,” his dark gaze flicked down to your parted lips—once, twice, then locked onto yours with a terrifying focus. “Will you carry on with the charade, disregard the truth of your own blood? Or are you going to see what happens when the cracks along this porcelain mask finally give way to the dormant power beneath?”

In that moment—as his breath mingled with yours, as the scent of old parchment and ozone clung to him, and as his lips met yours in a searing, deliberate dance—the internal conflict that tugged at your heartstrings simply dissolved. 

His mouth met yours—not with practiced grace, but with a searing, desperate hunger that tasted like ichor. It was a relenting admission, on both ends. As one hand gripped the back of your neck, and the other locked onto your waist; as he pulled you against the hard, unyielding line of his body, the frantic knot in your chest—the one you had been nursing and blanketing for years—simply unspooled.

The struggle to fit into your uncle's mould, to gain his approval, to keep your magic contained, and silent—it all felt like a relic of a past life, of a life that no longer belonged to you. You realized, in the quiet, breathless space between heartbeats, that there was never a war to begin with. There was only the long, inevitable wait to see who would be reckless enough to set fire to the rain.

You didn't break the kiss. You merely leaned further into the fire, and for the first time in your life, you had no intention of dimming its light. You simply let it burn.

Years later, the pair of you took the wizarding world by surprise. Tom emerged as the youngest Minister for Magic, with you by his side, as his partner in every sense of the word. With you, Tom Riddle came to be the most influential and groundbreaking man of his time, enforcing a rule built on respect, deepened cultural appreciation, and growth.

It was a governance that bewildered his Knights; they had expected iron and retribution, yet they were met with a calm, calculated precision that dismantled their stagnation without ever needing to ignite the war they had so long foreseen. They were quite disappointed in the beginning, when their organization had been dissolved. Yet, they were loyal to the cause—to Tom, and now, to you, as the dissonant hum in your blood was used not as a weapon of mass destruction, but as the very heartbeat of a new, thriving era. You didn't rule from a pedestal; you didn't uproot the Ministry from where it stood. You understood, sought a deeper understanding of your reality, and created changes from the center of the storm, proving that true power did not demand submission, but grasped its environment, adapted, and grew.

And somewhere, in the quiet moments between the mandates and the galas, when the weight of a nation rested upon his shoulders, it was you he turned to—not only for counsel, but for grounding, for the only thing he could touch that burned in equal fervor. He found in you the mirror that he had been searching for since he was a boy at Wool's, and in the rare, soft quiet of your private chambers, the Minister for Magic was finally nothing more than the man who had been brave enough to find himself. Together, you were the promise the world hadn't known it was waiting for—a catastrophe, an anomaly, perhaps, but to each other, you were the only sanctuary left in a world you'd rebuilt from the ashes.

CELINE'S ANNOTATIONS:

hi hi! this is my first proper attempt at untwisting a mind like tom riddle's, and i truly do hope i was able to do his character justice :)

aside from that, i'm not sure if i was able to make dumbledore!niece's origins clear—but essentially, she was born from the obscurial of albus' sister, ariana, as she died in that duel.

ariana's obscurus, in its final, frantic moments of existence before her death, attempted to "birth" something—a concentrated vessel of magic to survive. albus found you in the immediate aftermath of the duel that killed his sister. and, wanting to keep close the last bit of his sister he could, he took you in and altered the memories of those who were there to witness it, bar from a few archived documents he stashed in a hidden compartment in the library.

“My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?”

White Nights was always that novel(ette) that I’ve heard must be read at least once in your life. Now, I understand why.

It’s a yearner’s go-to. A love story, but not a romance. It’s a story told by the Dreamer, who meets a woman, Nastenka, and within four white nights, falls deep and hard, in love with her. But, that’s something I can’t help but think about. Does he truly love her?

According to his memoir, he fell in love within moments upon their meeting. I certainly don’t doubt one’s ability to fall in love within a shared moment with someone. But, to fall in love with a stranger, and as hard and fast as he had? That’s something else.

Nastenka’s name had been mentioned 138 times within those few nights they shared together, highlighting just how constant she is in his heart, as is she in his mind. But with the nature of their shared moments, I can’t exactly blame him. He’s a meek man, unfamiliar and almost completely alien to interactions with others, much less young women such as herself.

However, the blame isn’t Nastenka’s either, for even from the very beginning, she had already warned him of one thing: do not fall in love with her. She didn’t explain, she didn’t need to. But, I also can’t blame the Dreamer’s heart for falling in love with her. I can’t blame him for expressing it with her, nor can I blame her for reacting the way she had.

Overall, I find that the Dreamer did love her— but, most of all, he needed somebody to love, to brighten his days, and remind him that there is warmth to the sun’s rays. Meanwhile, Nastenka wanted to be loved. Maybe she did love the Dreamer, just not in the way he had her. Maybe she was at fault for giving him that hope, that one night of bliss, on the account of a love she was reminded belonged to another.

But, despite this, despite it all, I applaud the Dreamer for truly loving her, and wishing her nothing but happiness as she promises her heart to whom she truly loves.

He is not selfish as to wish her ill, nor to hold anything against her. Instead, he is grateful for the four nights she had given him, and for the lifetime’s worth of moments he can look back upon to replenish his mind.

THE PREVIOUS WEEK HAD BEEN EXHAUSTING, what with Lockhart’s Cornish Pixies, Mrs Weasley’s aggressive Howler (though that did give you some comedic relief), and now, Oliver Wood and his early, Saturday morning Quidditch practice.

It was the weekend, for Merlin’s sake. You would bloody well believe a strapping young lad such as himself would have anything better to do on a fine Saturday morning, but no. His life, love, and days revolved around Quidditch, and as his teammates, that sentiment extended upon the lot of you as well.

Even on an early, bloody, Saturday morning.

And, placing heavy emphasis, was it made loud and clear that it was a Saturday?

You could understand his dedication to an extent. Gryffindor had been so close to winning the Inter-House Quidditch Tournament the previous year, but, it was regrettable that with both yourself and Harry incapable of playing — due to injuries sustained from your encounter with the Dark Lord — Gryffindor was forced to forfeit, withdrawing on the account of an incomplete team.

It was the crack of dawn when your team captain, Oliver Wood, shook you and Bowie — who was almost forced off your head — awake. A groggy Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell lingering, dazed, by the door.

“How’dyougetinhere?” you’d all but groaned, attempting a chance at sleep when he ignored your query, casually opening your curtains and casting pink-and-gold daylight into your sight.

Skimming over your (and your Bowtruckle’s) dramatics, you were eventually led — broom in hand — outside, and into the changing room.

Harry entered soon after, with Colin Creevey at his tail. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to you, who happened to be nodding off against a wall and dreaming of a talking lion. The sight of you awakened the team Seeker by the slightest bit, as he chuckled amusedly to himself. Meanwhile, your fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were yawning side by side on the bench parallel to you.

You hadn’t known then just what awaited you later that day, but for now, you were content with conversing with this strange lion on the topic of ice and the fearsome beauty it beholds.

In another location entirely, was a red train leaving four children along Coombe Halt station, a small stop in the middle of the countryside, surrounded only by grassy terrain, green trees that swayed lightly, and dirt paths untouched by concrete. The air was damp and smelling of soot. They were rather put-off by the environment. Whilst they had their expectations set, they hadn't exactly pictured a complete lack of civilization — the lone hint of it manifesting through the small station at which they were dropped off.

Where was their guardian? Someone was meant to welcome them upon their arrival, “a family friend of your father's!” their mother had said. But where was this mystery friend? In fact, where was this mystery friend staying? Inquiries began filling the siblings’ minds as they silently attempted to quiet their worries.

At the familiar sound of an approaching engine, the siblings perked up, rushing toward its source — only for a motorcar to flash past them in a dusty blur, spraying gravel and leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the smell of exhaust.

“Where's dad's friend?” Lucy Pevensie expressed her worry, clutching her stuffed puppy close to her chest. She hadn't wished to be separated from her parents in the first place. She simply wasn't used to the thought. Well, not being separated from her mother, at least. She and her siblings were quite used to their father's constant disappearances — always some business to take care of at work, or something of the like. Nonetheless, Susan attempted to reassure the young girl, voice sure, yet laced with disappointment, “The Professor knew we were coming.”

“Perhaps we got off at the wrong station?” Edmund suggested. He kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the deserted platform. He looked around the desolate, grass-fringed platform. The air here didn’t smell like London smoke; it smelled of wet earth and manure. Not necessarily a bad thing.

But just as he spoke, the distinct clatter of horse hooves echoed from the same direction the car had sped away. Rounding the bend was a modest carriage. Holding the reins was a woman who looked as though she had been carved out of granite — Mrs Macready. She sat ramrod straight, her knuckles white where she gripped a riding whip. Her expression was entirely unreadable.

“Mrs Macready?” Peter spoke hesitantly, sharing a bewildered glance with Susan.

“I'm afraid so,” the elder woman replied in a flat, motone voice devoid of welcome.

Edmund frowned at her tone. She sounded much like the irritable librarian from his school, always shushing and scolding him for something as stupid as stepping on a loose, creaky floorboard. In fact, she had always had it out for him, accusing him of endless faults he was never even guilty for (well, perhaps he did scribble his initials on the dedications page of his favorite novel, Treasure Island. . . But he'll never admit to actually going in there to read).

She even had the same, narrow glasses, he scowled, as she adjusted it by the rim, surveying the meager collection of trunks and canvas luggage they had set down. “Is this all? Haven't you brought anything else?

“No, ma'am. It's just us,” Peter confirmed, gripping the handle of his suitcase a little tighter.

“Small favors,” she nodded curtly toward the carriage, the gesture an undeniable command. Quickly, the children climbed aboard, the wooden bench surprisingly sturdy as it hardly groaned at their weight.

The children flinched as Mrs Macready suddenly gave the horse a sharp flick with the whip, lurching forward as the horse neighed and the carriage staggered into motion, rattling off down the winding lane. The ride to the house was silent. Eventually, the dirt paths stretched into a long driveway, and when the manor finally loomed into view, the siblings gaped. The manor was a huge, rambling affair of grey stone, looking like it had grown out of the earth itself. It had rows upon rows of windows staring down like unblinking eyes, suggesting miles of corridors and hundreds of spare bedrooms awaiting them inside. Vines climbed up its walls, wrapping it in dark green ivy and moss, dwarfing the entirety of the property.

Their father was friends with someone of this calibre? How had they not heard of this place, nor of this Professor Kirke until now?

They wordlessly followed the older woman up the grand, sweeping staircase, their footsteps echoing on the marble.

“Professor Kirke is not accustomed to having children in this house,” she said without turning, her voice echoing in the vast, still space of the stairwell.

“And, as such, there are a few rules that must be strictly observed,” she continued, finally turning to face them at the first landing, her shadow stretching long over the siblings.

“There will be no shouting! No running! And no improper use of the dumbwaiter! Her demands were sharp and unwavering as her gaze, flicking over each of the Pevensie siblings in warning.

Despite their caretaker's frightening monologue, Susan found herself distracted by the utter beauty of the manor's architecture. From the columns of pillars that stretched all the way up to the high ceiling, to the chipped marble bust that rested upon a dark pedestal. Her fingers tentatively reached out to examine its utter—

“NO touching of historical artifacts!” The shout cracked through the air like a whip. Susan flinched back violently. Behind her, Peter and Edmund pressed their lips together to suppress a snicker.

Mrs Macready leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper that was somehow louder and more pronounced than her shout. “And above all, there shall be no disturbing of the Professor.”

At that, the siblings shared a quick, meaningful glance. This was not some warm, vacation house where they could simply relax and let loose while their parents journeyed for a momentary business trip. In fact, it seemed to be that this was no place for kids at all. There was no room for their wonder, their yearn for adventure, and least of all, their curiosity.

Obediently, they fall into a straight line behind the woman.

Whilst the Pevensie siblings spent the next morning navigating the cold rules of the manor, the grounds of Hogwarts were waking up to a misty, humid morning.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team was marching across the dew-soaked grass of the Quidditch Pitch. As he had so consistently been the previous mornings, Oliver Wood was manic with energy. He led the team onto the pitch, clutching a large diagram in hand. “Now, I know I've expressed this before, but let me reiterate it for those of you who had dozed off.”

Fred and George rolled their eyes and huffed as they fought the urge to drop dead and give in to sleep then and there. You were no better, stumbling on your feet in an attempt to catch up with your energized captain.

Meanwhile, the bowtruckle hidden in one of your hidden pockets chittered, echoing your frustration as he too, had lost hours of sleep over Wood's incessant need to practice.

“I spent the summer devising a whole new Quidditch program. As we had been the past few days, we're going to make it a routine to train earlier, harder, and longer!”

You, Angelina, and Katie exchanged an exhausted groan when you suddenly bumped into Oliver's back, alarmed. He had stopped dead, squinting through the haze. Only then did you, too, take notice of the green robes that stood out against the grey sky. The Slytherin team was walking onto the pitch from the other side, where, despite the distance, you could make out their smug expressions; the irksome looks forced out a flash of red from your tied hair.

“I don't believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “Where do you think you're going, Flint?”

“Quidditch practice,” Marcus Flint replied, his voice a low, throaty sneer, showing off his jagged teeth.

“I booked the pitch for Gryffindor today!” Wood shouted, spit flying.

“Easy, Wood. I’ve got a note.”

On the bleachers, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look of dread. You saw Ron’s jaw tighten when he caught sight of your hair. “Uh oh,” he muttered, “I smell trouble.”

They scrambled down the stands, the wet grass slick beneath their boots. The tension radiating between the two teams was hot and prickly.

Wood read the note, his voice trembling with rage. "'I, Professor Severus Snape, do hereby give the Slytherin team permission to practice today, owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"

"You've got a new Seeker?" Wood looked up. "Who?"

The hulking Slytherin beater stepped aside like curtains, revealing a smaller, smirking—

Oh, good Godric, no.

“Malfoy?” Harry stepped up, disbelief coloring his tone.

"That's right," Draco Malfoy said, stepping into the light. "And that's not all that's new this year."

As one, the Slytherin team pivoted their broomsticks. The morning sun caught the sleek, black polish of the handles, the gold lettering gleaming cruelly.

"Those are Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones," Ron breathed, his face slack with awe. "How did you get those?"

"A gift from Draco's father," Flint bragged, smoothing his robes.

You hate to admit it, but even you were astounded by the sight. Those Nimbus brooms had only just come out, and even then, only a select number of them were manufactured and released for purchase. For the whole Slytherin team to have one is dumbfounding — but then again, not all that surprising either.

After all, your cousin was among the most influential families in the British Wizarding community. Blasted little bugger.

Malfoy’s grey eyes snapped to the Weasleys, cold and hard as flint. "You see, Weasley? Unlike some, my father can afford the best."

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione quickly cut in, leaving the twins and Ron no time to retort. Her voice was sharp, slicing through the male posturing. "They got in on pure talent."

Malfoy’s smirk vanished while yours sharpened in pride. That’s my girl, you thought, bumping your shoulder against hers. Suddenly, Draco stepped close to her, looming. The air seemed to freeze. He ignored the glare that pierced into the side of his face.

"No one asked your opinion," he spat, his face twisting into something ugly. "You filthy little Mudblood."

The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

A collective gasp rippled through the Gryffindors. You felt the blood rush to your ears, a hot, thumping roar of protective anger washing over your entirety.

"You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" Ron roared. He impulsively plunged his hand into his robes, ripping out his taped-up wand. "Eat slugs!"

A loud, booming noise echoed through the pitch, a jet of green light flashing. But it didn’t hit Malfoy — it exploded backwards, rebounding from the broken wand and hitting Ron in the stomach with the force of a cannonball. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, landing on the wet grass with a sickening thud.

“Wait, Ron, No!” You remembered his malfunctioning wand a moment too late, reaching out to stop him whilst Bowie sniggered silently.

"Ron!" Hermione screamed.

You dropped to your knees beside him. Ron was pale, his skin taking on a clammy, greenish hue. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, a deep, wet belch shook his frame.

A large, brown, glistening slug fell from his mouth and landed on his robes. The sight sent tremors of disgust through your entirety.

The Slytherins erupted into boisterous, cruel laughter. Malfoy was doubled over, slapping his thigh.

"Ew! Yuck!" Colin Creevey appeared, lowered his camera, face scrunching. "Can you turn him around, Harry?"

"No, Colin! Get out of the way!" Harry shoved past him, grabbing Ron's arm. "Let's take him to Hagrid's."

As they dragged the retching boy away, you lingered. The sound of Malfoy’s laughter grated on your nerves like sandpaper.

You turned. Flint caught your eye.

"What's the matter, Lupin?" he taunted. It was only ever them that disregarded your proper surname. Apparently, you weren’t worthy to hold such relations to the Blacks. "Want a jagged wand to match your friend's?"

You didn't speak. You just let the cold anger focus your magic. It was a swift movement when you raised your wand. They had no time to react when you recited an incantation.

"Rictusempra!"

A ribbon of silver light slammed into Flint. His mocking laugh instantly warped into a high-pitched, terrifying wheeze. He collapsed, clutching his ribs, tears streaming down his face as the Tickling Charm agonized him. Your cousin cast you a fearful glance before retreating behind his teammates, terrified of the look in your eyes.

You caught his gaze and gave him a sharp nod — a silent promise of more if they continued — and turned on your heel, sprinting toward the pumpkin patch.

You burst into Hagrid's hut. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling of woodsmoke, damp dog, and treacle toffee. The latter reminded you that you had yet to eat for the day, but you brushed the hunger off as your concern for your friends took over.

Ron sat in the oversized armchair, clutching a copper basin.

"Better out than in," Hagrid said cheerfully, handing Ron a rag. "Who was he tryin' to curse, anyway?"

"Malfoy," Harry said, his voice quiet. "He called Hermione a— Well, I don't know exactly what it means."

Hermione sat on the edge of the scrubbed wooden table. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were glassy, her posture rigid.

"He called me a Mudblood," she whispered into the window as she stared off at the large pumpkins.

Hagrid dropped the teapot he was holding. It shattered, ceramic shards skittering across the floor. "He did not!" he roared, his beard bristling with fury.

"What's a Mudblood?" Harry asked. His query was so casual and innocent, contrasting with the harsh flinches and recoils of his companions.

"It means 'dirty blood'," Hermione explained. Her voice trembled, cracking under the weight of the definition. "Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born. Someone with non-magic parents. Someone like me."

She looked down at her hands. "It’s not a term one usually hears in a civilized conversation."

You moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. You could feel her shaking as she melted in your hold.

"It's disgusting," Hagrid growled. "See, Harry, there's some wizards—like the Malfoys—who think they're better'n everyone else because they're Pure-bloods."

"That's horrible!" Harry exclaimed.

Ron gave a wet gurgle and spat another slug into the bucket. "It's mad," he croaked, wiping slime from his chin. "Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we'd've died out."

You felt a sudden, crushing weight in your chest. The talk of blood status, of superiority — it hit too close to the secret you carried about your father and the scorched tapestry at Grimmauld Place. Well, perhaps it wasn’t much of a secret. Nonetheless, the weight of your father’s tale, of the thick, pure blood that runs through you felt heavy, especially as your friend was discriminated over it just now.

“Hey,” Harry quietly approached you, eyes raking over your tense expression, “Are you okay?”

You forced a smile. It felt brittle. "Yeah. Just. . . the heat. I need some air."

You slipped out the door before they could stop you. The cool air hit your flushed cheeks, but it didn't wash away the memories. You began to walk, aimlessly, letting your feet carry you toward back to the castle.

The rain in the country was different from London rain. It was relentless. It hammered against the manor windows in thick, grey sheets, turning the world outside into a blurred watercolor painting.

The four Pevensies were trapped in the parlor, forced to seek out ways to keep themselves busy as their caretakers busied themselves over some thing or another. The ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound competing with the rain.

Susan sat on the stiff sofa, a dictionary in her lap as she flipped through its pages, before stopping at the G’s. "Gastrovascular."

Peter, lying flat on his back on the rug, groaned. "Is it Latin?"

"Yes."

"Is it Latin for 'worst game ever invented'?"

Edmund was curled in a high-backed armchair, his nose buried in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He flipped a page aggressively. "It sounds like a disease," he sneered without looking up.

Susan slammed the book shut with a heavy thud. "We’re lucky to be here at all, you know."

She was grateful for their the Professor’s hospitality. And while she is perhaps missing a few days of school for this, it was such a rare opportunity to travel to the countryside — a manor much less, and simply take in the fresh, soot-free air.

Lucy, kneeling on the window seat, traced a raindrop down the glass. She turned, her eyes wide. "We could play hide-and-seek?"

"But we’re already having so much fun," Peter said, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he sat up.

"Come on, Peter! Please?" Lucy pleaded, bounding over to her brother’s side.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "But that’s a kids' game."

Let’s forget the fact they are kids.

Peter looked at Lucy’s hopeful face. He never could say no to her. He sighed, defeated. "One, two, three. . ."

Suddenly, the room exploded into motion. Lucy bounced off her seat and flew out the door, Edmund — despite groaning and muttering complaints — tossed his book aside and bolted, and Susan grinned, gathering her skirts and ran.

“Five. . . six. . . seven. . .”

Susan found the Green Room, slipping behind heavy emerald curtains that smelled of dust. Edmund found a suit of armor and hid in a large wooden chest nearby, leaving the lid cracked so he could breathe.

But Lucy ran further. She felt left behind. She scrambled through the Blue Room, past the library, and into an empty spare room.

It was silent. There was nothing there but a dead bluebottle fly on the windowsill, buzzing its last, and a massive wardrobe of dark wood standing against the wall.

She approached it. It loomed over her. She turned the key. Click. The door swung open.

You walked blindly, leaving the warmth of Hagrid's hut behind. The cold autumn air bit at your exposed skin, but it felt good — numbing the heat of anger that still flushed your cheeks.

Your feet led you down to the Black Lake. The water was a sheet of dark glass, reflecting the grey, cloudy sky. Your fingers drifted up to the hollow at your throat, finding the cool, smooth metal of the silver locket you always wore, and clicked it open.

There he was. A tiny, moving photograph of your family, once-whole. Your father was laughing at his own, corny joke, head thrown back as your Papa Moony shook his head fondly, gazing at his small family with adoration. Oh, and there you were — in the arms of the man who would eventually leave you to betray his friends, to murder your close friend’s family.

You snapped the locket shut. The sharp click echoed in the silence.

Your mind drifted back to last Christmas — to the hidden room and the towering, golden frame of the Mirror of Erised.

The memory washed over you, vivid and aching. You remembered standing beside Harry, the dust motes dancing in the moonlight.

Harry had seen his parents. But when you looked—

You saw Sirius and Remus. They stood tall and unburdened, their hands resting heavy and reassuring on your shoulders. It was the family you were owed. The family stolen by your father’s greed. You remember the silent tears that slid down your cheeks, the sight of your fathers brushing them away, only to feel nothing in reality. And that stung even more.

But then, the reflection had rippled like disturbed water.

Suddenly, you saw yourself age. Your face matured, losing its childish softness. And beside your older self, a figure stepped out of the mist.

A man. Tall, with dark hair that fell over his eyes. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours — a gesture so intimate it made your real heart stutter in your chest.

You tried to look at his face, but it was blurred, a shimmering smudge of white light. You could only see the curve of a smile — a beautiful, sad smile — and feel the phantom warmth of his presence.

"Erised sluosd natra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

I show not your face, but your heart and soul’s desire.

You kicked a pebble into the lake. It swallowed the stone with a plip.

Why did you miss a man you had never met? Why did the thought of that blurred stranger pull at your chest harder than any dalliance or infatuation at Hogwarts? It was a longing for a ghost, a nostalgia for a future that hadn't happened.

The wind picked up, howling across the grounds. It whispered through the trees, sounding like voices.

I need to get away, you thought, the desperation rising in your throat like bile. I need to go somewhere where I don't have to think about blood, or fathers, or wars.

You turned from the lake and ran back toward the castle, taking the stairs two at a time, letting your feet carry you to the seventh floor.

And that was when the wall began to rumble.

A deep rumbling shook the floor. Stone ground against stone. A magnificent pair of wooden doors appeared where there had been none.

You pushed them open.

The Room of Requirement had become a cathedral of forgotten things. Towers of broken furniture, thousands of books, and mountains of discarded artifacts stretched up to the shadowy ceiling.

You walked down an aisle of junk, your wand tip glowing. You felt a pull — a magnetic tug in your gut — leading you to a dark corner.

There, shrouded in a dusty sheet, was a tall, rectangular shape. It seemed to whisper at you, pleading with you to make a move, and so, you pulled the sheet away.

A wardrobe. Made of dark applewood, carved with trees and fruits.

You opened the door.

The smell hit you instantly. Not the smell of the castle, but the pungent, nostalgic scent of mothballs and heavy fur coats.

You don’t understand what it was that led you to this — but somehow, you felt the need for further shelter. Still weighed down by the day’s events and the plaguing thoughts of the mirror, you seeked the wardrobe’s comfort, stepping inside.

The coats brushed against your face, soft and heavy like animal pelts. You pushed deeper, wanting to sit in the dark at the back of the wardrobe.

You took another step. Then another.

This was one enormous wardrobe, you thought, blindly feeling around for the end of it.

Suddenly, something cold touched your cheek. Not soft fur, but something prickly and wet. You looked down. Your boots were no longer on wood. They were sinking into soft, powdery, freezing white snow—

Wait. . . Snow?

CELINE’s ANNOTATIONS !

fun fact: you might be able to see a sudden shift in writing style between bits of this chapter, given that the very first part was written almost a year ago, while the rest of it was done last night haha

extra fun fact: bowie was chittering in your pocket as you stupidly (in his opinion) went into some dusty wardrobe. absolutely daft, he thought, jumping up and down in your school robes to try and get you to turn away, only to no avail. sorry bowie, no backing out now 😹

bonus headcanon: an eventual love language between the mc and edmund will be the art of annotating books and lending it to the other person!

as they both enjoy scribbling onto the margins of their copies (evident even in the library reads of edmund lol) they simply came to that — writing little notes, thoughts, and messages into the margins of their books, then lending it to one another to read.

for mc, her annotations are usually open for all to borrow and read, save for particular books or copies that she owns (let's keep it secret for now!).

meanwhile, edmund's annotations are special. for your eyes only! he doesn't let just anyone read his thoughts, especially not when they're as vulnerable and free-flowing as when he reads. even his siblings have yet to be given access to his books 😋

YOU OFTEN KEPT AWAY from the busy areas of Villeneuve. Having spent years growing accustomed to life in the small town, you were graced with the time to explore, to set out and understand the village life. You had long ago learned to avoid the tavern—that pit where drunkards lingered until the sun broke the horizon, and rowdy toasts lasted until dawn—and you certainly knew to avoid the marketplace on Sunday mornings. You had no desire to waste your coin or spirit, exhausted by the shouting, the incessant trampling of boots, and the suffocating noise of a life you did not wish to lead—that defined this very town.

Instead, you sought refuge in Mr. Garrick's library, where three shelves brimmed with books of yellowing pages and cracked spines. The old man lived a solitary life, without a wife or children, spending his days in quiet anticipation—awaiting the rare occasion of a villager seeking a tome, or the more frequent delight of your arrival, which you always met with such profound contentment and insatiable curiosity.

He found great pleasure in discussing the novels you had finished, though he often marveled at your habits. Even after you had browsed every page thrice—or more, if you particularly favored a book—you would return with the same breathless enthusiasm, as if to search for an uncovered secret written in invisible ink along the margins, or within the very print itself.

If not in the library, the meadow of gentle flowers just past the edge of the woods called to you. It was in that very meadow, where the stalks swayed like a sea of pale ghosts, that your father—a genius (or madman, depending on whom you ask) inventor and merchant—had stood before you, his gaze lingering on the forest's dark edge, just before his final departure. He had promised you a treasure—not gold, nor silks, but a single, crimson rose he had heard whispered in the legends of the deeper forest. You smiled disbelievingly then, brushing his cheek with a hand that smelled of dried parchment and beeswax.

“I need no gifts, Father,” you had told him in earnest, your heart heavy with a premonition you could not name. “Only your safe return.”

He had laughed then, a jovial sound that warmed the air between you, placing a lingering kiss upon your head. He then promised his swift return, vowing to bring you no less than a single rose as a token of his journey. But the winter was a beast that knew no mercy, and the silence following his departure soon grew teeth. As days bled into weeks, time stretched thin. Life in the village stretched into a monotonous ache, punctuated only by your visits to Mr. Garrick, the quiet hours spent reading to your sheep before nightfall, or the rare, lingering afternoons when Raoul de Chagny appeared.

He would speak of his adventures beyond the meadows, his voice resonant and polished as he painted pictures of distant towns and grand horizons. He cared for you, truly—you saw it in the way his gaze followed you with a fierce, protective intensity, and the way he constantly brought gifts, as if he were trying to build a cage of comfort around you. He wanted to be your anchor, your provider, the hero who would sweep you off your feet, and away from this “dull” life.

​Yet, your prized sheep, Lily, never seemed fond of him. While the rest of the flock would stir and gather at the rhythmic trot of his horse, anticipating the treats he often carried, Lily remained stubbornly aloof. She would huff, ears pinned back, watching him with a distrust that made you wonder—perhaps she sensed the steel beneath his velvet tone, or the way he looked at you not as a person, but as a prize he had yet to claim. But, there was no doubt that he at least cared for you. And right now, that was enough. Your poor sheep knew you needed company now more than ever.

Raoul de Chagny stood at the edge of your garden, his boots pristine against the damp earth, while you knelt among the sprouting pumpkins. He was, as usual, a whirlwind of tales, recounting his recent travels and the sprawling new manor his family had purchased by a lake.

“It was a gift,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, polished lilt. “From my parents. To me.” He featured vaguely toward the horizon, as if he were already hanging curtains in a house you hadn't agreed to live in. “A sanctuary. A haven for the life that awaits me—of days in the sun, with a wife and children waiting by the hearth for my return.”

His tone was devastatingly tender. You didn't need to meet his eyes to know exactly how he was gazing at you. In his mind, the house was already built, the gardens flourished with your harvest, the children were already named, and you were the fixed, essential centerpiece of his domestic portrait.

“That sounds. . . ideal, Raoul,” you muttered, carefully turning a heavy pumpkin. You kept your gaze fixed on the soil, tracing the ridges of the fruit to avoid the weight of his attention.

“Ideal?” He chuckled, moving a step closer. “It sounds like peace, [Name]. It sounds like us.”

You wiped your dirt-stained hands on your apron, a nervous tension coiling in your chest. You had known each other since you were infants in a crib. He had known you as you grieved the death of a mother you never knew, as your father constantly left for business, leaving you in his family's care. He knew of the whispers of both your families, and the future they (his parents, more than your own) foretold for you both. In turn, you knew the depth of his devotion—how he had turned away every other lady—both in the village and beyond—to keep his eyes on you, just as he had scared off any suitors who whispered their share of admiration for you. He loved you with a fervor that felt more like a claim, the older you both grew. And yet, the thought of that manor by the lake, of being a fixture in his quiet, sun-drenched life, felt less like a haven and more like a gilded cage.

“I am simply uncertain, if I am built for the life you've painted,” you said, your voice soft but steady, finally meeting his gaze. 

It puzzled you, when he smiled. Always, every time you returned his ambitions with uncertainty, he would smile that same charming, unshakeable smile that never quite reached his eyes. He spoke your name softly, almost like a plea for your understanding. “You're just afraid, my dear [Name]. You think you need to be out in the storm, but you don't. Not when I'm here.”

He stepped into your space, his hand lingering near your shoulder, “Have you given it any more thought? My propo—”

That's when you heard the familiar trot of your father's stallion riding in the distance. You beamed at the sight of him, relieved he had returned safely, as promised. Yet, there was something restless in the way he moved, an oddity in his demeanor. He was visibly exhausted; you expected no less. But in his eyes were the horrors of a journey he had only just escaped—if he had even escaped, to begin with. His horse, Maxim, carried with him a trunk brimming with treasure on both sides, his hooves wrapped in soiled bandages.

Raoul, who had been lingering by the garden gate, stepped forward, his expression hardening. “He appears to have seen a specter,” he muttered, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his belt-knife.

As your father dismounted, he stumbled, his movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. You rushed forward, ignoring Raoul’s caution, and caught him by the shoulders. He felt brittle, cold—his coat smelled of stagnant water and something metallic, like blood and old stone.

“Papa?” you whispered, heart sinking. “You’re home. You're safe.”

He turned to you, his eyes wide and unfocused. He fumbled in his coat, his trembling fingers producing a single, crimson rose. It was impossibly perfect, from its lush stem, all the way to its petals that glowed with a faint, unnatural luminescence against the dimness of the impending nightfall.

“I stole it,” he rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. “For you, my dear girl. I saw the castle, a tomb of marble and shadow, and I thought—she loves roses, she hasn't any in her dear garden, I will bring her a piece of this place—but I did not know. I did not know the price of its beauty.”

Raoul stepped closer, his voice tinged with skepticism. “What are you on about, sir? Who held you captive?” 

Your father looked past him, his gaze on the dark line of the forest. “A man—or so he made me believe? In truth, he seemed more a beast, shackled by sin, dwelling in a palace that feeds on regret. Everything in that palace. . . It was all alive.”

He sounded breathless, recounting the wonders and the horrors that came with the palace. “This man—this beast of a man—he wore half a white, porcelain mask in an attempt to seal his deformities. But I could see it. I could see the parchment-like quality of his skin, the yellow slits he had for eyes, and the scars that littered, yet drew out from behind the mask.”

“He tore through the bushes. He demanded an explanation, for retribution. He demanded I pay for stealing what was most precious to him.”

Your father trembled like a leaf in your arms, stumbling as you guided him closer to the hearth of your fireplace. “He did not want gold, and he chastised me for not being content with the gifts he had already sent my way.”

“He did not want my life—not at first. He wanted a life for a life. A trade for a single, stolen blossom.” Your father released a quivering breath, “He demanded a life, for a rose.”

A shiver raced down your spine as you stared at the blood-red rose, which seemed to pulsate in your palm.

“He demands a life, my dear,” your father withheld a sob, clutching your arms so hard it bruised. “He knows where we live. He knows everything. He told me that if I did not return to pay the debt by the morrow, he would burn the whole village to the ground to reach me—to reach you.”

Raoul's face twisted into a sneer of indignation. “Let him come,” he barked, drawing his blade. “I shall carve the hide off this monster myself. You are safe here, sir; no beast of the woods shall touch a hair on her head while I draw a breath.”

But you weren't listening to his bravado. You glanced down at the rose, thriving and in full bloom, then at the dark, looming wall of trees that swallowed the sun. You felt a pull—a strange, magnetic hum in your chest that echoed the melody you dreamt of for nights. You knew, with a terrifying clarity, that steel could not kill this debt.

“Raoul, put that away,” you uttered, your voice sharper than intended. You turned to your father, your resolve hardening like winter ice. “You're being hunted because of me.”

“It is my burden, my fault that your life hangs by a thread.” Your words wavered with a haunting clarity, and with a ghost you could never seem to chase away, no matter your father's attempts at reassurance. “Mother died giving birth to me.”

“And I will not have this house painted in blood because of a flower. I will not be the reason you are to lose your life as she had.”

Swiftly, before either of them could move or even process your intent, you bounded out the door and onto the stallion—now bare of the treasure it had once carried. You leaned into Maxim's mane, your breath hitching as you whispered. “Take me back to this beast—to the palace. Please.” 

Maxim did not wait for any further command; he was already pulling against the lead. He did not return because of a rider's hand, but because the castle had exhaled a low, dissonant chord—a minor key that shivered through the forest floor. It was a sound that pulled him toward the stone, a magnetic tether of melody that he could not ignore. He turned not by rein, but by the weight of the debt now etched into his very core. The moment the rose had been plucked from the cursed garden, the horse was no longer a creature of the meadows; he had become a courier, bound by the invisible ink of the Beast's ultimatum.

Behind you, muffled shouts of your father and the frantic, steel-edged cries of Raoul faded into the wind. Even your sheep, unsettled by the shift in the air, bleated in uneasy discord as you surged forward. You rode past the familiar meadows, past the line of trees you never dared to cross, and into the waiting shadows of the abyss.

AUTHOR SPEAKS !

hi everyone! i am genuinely so sorry that the chapter took me so long to publish. i've been severely preoccupied with school and other personal things. but! i hope this was worth the wait !!

if you haven't noticed yet, the story is mostly based on the 2014 retelling of beauty and the beast! it's a french production, and is genuinely my favorite version of the story <3 from the visuals, the costume design, the cinematography -- everything!

meanwhile, i'm hoping to better embody the 1990 limited series of phantom of the opera as my primary inspiration.

also, while i do agree with christine canonically ending up with raoul, in this au, raoul more so aligns with the character of gaston, although i'm trying to make this comparison a little subtler, and more true-to-raoul, rather than erasing his personality entirely in favor of gaston's.

if you have any further questions, or if you wish to be tagged for the next chapters, please do let me know in the replies :)