At the same time—
"So what happened to them?" Marlene asked, spearing a potato and leaning back against the Gryffindor table. "Ever since Lord Black visited, they've been acting… weird. No—actually, it started even before that."
"They've been quiet," Alice agreed, brow furrowed. "Almost too quiet."
"And what, in Merlin's name, is Peter doing with the Slytherins?" Mary added casually.
Lily snapped out of her thoughts."What?" she said sharply. "Peter—with the Slytherins? Are they bullying him?"
Mary shook her head, taking a bite of her lunch."No. That's the strange part. He was talking to them—properly talking. Like he does it all the time. I passed by on my way here. Seventh-years. Avery, and three others I didn't recognize."
Lily's worry deepened, a knot forming in her stomach.
"Ohhh," Marlene drawled, hiding her grin behind a glass of orange juice. "Why so concerned, Lily? Are you so worried about your lover boy that you've started caring about his friends too?"
"What—no! Absolutely not," Lily spluttered, bending over her plate with unnecessary intensity.
"Just accept it," Alice said mildly. "You like him. Go on a date. It won't kill your pride, love. And let's not forget—you went out with McLaggen."
"That was one time," Lily muttered.
"But listen," Marlene added, her tone softening. "You don't owe anyone anything. If Potter ever makes you uncomfortable, you tell me. The McKinnon family might not be as big as the Potters', but I can still break a few noses."
Lily smiled despite herself and launched forward, wrapping Marlene in a hug."Thank you."
Mary snorted."You know, Lily, even if you tell us you like women, we'll support you. Just so you know—Marlene's straight."
Lily responded by wordlessly flicking her wand and dumping an entire goblet of water over Mary's head.
Mary shrieked.
Someone down the table yelled, "FOOD FIGHT!"
Chaos erupted instantly.
Mashed potatoes flew. Pumpkin juice splashed. Gryffindors cheered like it was a long-awaited ritual.
The Slytherins watched from their table with synchronized expressions of long-suffering irritation.
"Typical," one of them muttered.
The Hufflepuffs hesitated for exactly three seconds before enthusiastically joining in.
The Ravenclaws, meanwhile, continued eating as if nothing at all were happening—utterly unfazed by the pandemonium around them.
And somewhere far above the Great Hall, behind a door that should not exist, shadows were stirring—while the people who should have noticed were laughing, distracted, and blissfully unaware.
******
Somewhere in India…
The temple's entrance stood as a solemn threshold between the mortal world and the sacred forest beyond. Towering stone gates rose high, carved with the Rathore family crest, weathered yet unbroken by time. At their center loomed a commanding trident (trishula), its form entwined with the symbols of the four elements—fire, etched as curling flames licking skyward;water, flowing in smooth, silvered grooves;earth, represented by jagged mountain peaks, unyielding and eternal;and wind, spiraling patterns carved so delicately they seemed almost alive.
Encircling the emblem ran the Rathore family's ancient vow
"धर्मस्य रक्षणाय तत्वे रक्षामहे"
The Sanskrit letters, darkened with sacred ash, declared their eternal duty—to protect truth and the elements in the name of Lord Shiva. Passing through the gate felt like crossing into another realm; the sounds of the outer world faded, and the forest itself seemed to breathe in quiet reverence.
Just within the entrance rose a weathered dwajasthambha, aligned precisely with the sanctum. Before it sat Nandi, carved from dark stone, his gaze unwavering as he faced his lord. A stone pathway—smoothed by centuries of bare feet—led through the mandapa, where thick pillars stood adorned with floral motifs, ganas, and ancient Shaivite carvings softened by time. Creeping vines traced the stone, reclaiming it gently, while the cool floor bore faint ritual markings drawn daily in ash and rice flour.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense, damp earth, and bilva leaves. Soft chimes of temple bells mingled with the murmur of wind and distant water, creating a rhythm older than memory itself.
At the heart of the temple lay the garbhagriha—small, dark, and profoundly still—entered through a low doorway that compelled every devotee to bow. Within, the ancient Shiva Lingam stood bathed in the trembling glow of oil lamps, anointed with ash, sandalwood, and forest spring water. The offerings flowed away through carved stone channels, returning to the earth from which they came.
Surrounded by the silent forest and bound to the Rathore bloodline, the temple felt alive—an enduring Shaivite shrine where stone, nature, and devotion merged beneath the unseen yet ever-present gaze of Mahadeva himself.
Inside the temple, seated before the Shiva Lingam in perfect lotus posture, was Rajveer Rathore—Vishaka's elder cousin-brother in this dimension.
His upper body was bare, skin marked faintly with old scars that spoke of battles fought long before the present age. Ash from sacred vibhuti traced three horizontal lines across his forehead and arms, stark against his sun-bronzed skin. He wore a simple panjagaja, wrapped low around his waist, the cloth faded from years of use yet impeccably tied—nothing ornamental, nothing unnecessary. Everything about him spoke of discipline.
Rajveer was built like a warrior carved from living stone—broad shoulders, a powerful torso, and a spine held unnaturally straight, as if bowing were something he did only before Mahadeva himself. His presence radiated contained force, not loud or aggressive, but tightly bound, like a drawn bow that never trembled. This was a man who knew violence intimately and chose restraint with intent.
His hands rested lightly upon his knees, fingers relaxed, palms open."Om Namah Shivaya…"The mantra flowed from him in a steady rhythm, not spoken but lived, each repetition sinking deeper into the stone beneath him.
The air shifted.
A sudden rush of wind cut through the mandapa as an eagle swooped down, landing before him with a sharp rustle of feathers. The chant ceased.
Rajveer opened his eyes.
They were dark—so dark they seemed to drink in light—magnetic and unfathomably deep, like the night sky before creation itself. One look into them was enough to make a man feel measured, weighed, and found wanting.
Annoyance flickered briefly across his face. Few things dared interrupt his morning prayers.
He untied the letter from the eagle's leg and read.
The silence stretched.
Then—slowly—a smile curved his lips. Not warm, not cruel. Amused. Anticipating.
"So," he murmured softly, rising to his feet, "my dearest brothers-in-law have finally decided to visit."
Somewhere deep within the forest, the bells chimed once—low and deliberate—as if Mahadeva himself had acknowledged the turning of fate.