The remainder of the Hogwarts term unfolded for their group in a pleasant, purposeful haze. While the 'Golden Trio' buzzed with wild theories about the Philosopher's Stone and the mysterious break-in on the third floor, Shya, Talora, and their friends observed the chaos with detached amusement. They had already dissected the situation to their satisfaction on the train; the actual playing out of the drama was merely a tedious public performance.
Their world was one of crisp parchment and the sharp scent of ink. It was the quiet intensity of the library, where Cassian's silent focus acted as an anchor and Roman's occasional, brilliantly sarcastic commentary kept them from taking it all too seriously. It was the shared triumph of mastering a complex Switching Spell and the collective groan over Professor Binns' droning lectures. They built their own universe within the castle's ancient walls, a universe of inside jokes, shared looks, and the unshakeable foundation of their friendship. The Golden Trio's grand adventure was nothing more than a distracting sideshow.
Months bled together, a tapestry woven with the threads of ordinary magical life, until suddenly, it was the eve of their return to King's Cross.
The castle was filled with the chaotic, joyful energy of packing and end-of-term feasts. In the Ravenclaw dormitory, the five girls had stayed up far too late, their trunks half-packed, the air thick with the scent of sugar from smuggled sweets and the sound of contented exhaustion. When sleep finally claimed them, it was supposed to be deep and dreamless.
But for Talora, it was not.
She stood in a forest, but it was wrong. The trees were pulsing with a sickly, vibrant light, their bark splitting to reveal weeping, phosphorescent sap. Flowers bloomed and decayed in the space of a single heartbeat, their petals rotting into a black sludge that sprouted new, twisted buds. A rabbit hopped past, its fur shimmering with unnatural colours, a second head budding from its neck, its eyes wide with a terror that mirrored her own.
"More," a voice whispered in the wind, a voice that was not a voice but the very rustle of the mutating leaves. "Give us more, Heart-kindler, don't let the Void-Weaver take us."
She tried to run, but the ground itself was alive, roots coiling around her ankles like eager serpents. The sky above was a blinding, searing white—a sun that was too close, too hungry. Creatures she recognized from her textbooks—a hippogriff, a unicorn—milled about, but they were changed. The hippogriff's beak was lined with too many teeth, the unicorn's horn spiralled into a grotesque, crystalline drill. They looked at her not with malice, but with a desperate, adoring need that was far more terrifying.
"The Sun," they chanted, a chorus of distorted birdsong and guttural growls. "The Sun has awakened. Sculpt us. Break us and make us new."
She looked down at her own hands. Light, pure and terrible, was pouring from her fingertips, and everywhere it touched, the world warped, blossomed, and screamed.
"NO!"
***
Talora sat bolt upright in her four-poster bed, a scream trapped in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird. The dormitory was silent, bathed in the soft, pre-dawn grey light. She could hear the steady, breathing of Shya, in the bed next to hers, who was a still mound under her duvet, lost in peaceful sleep.
It was just a dream. A nightmare.
She brought a trembling hand to her face, half-expecting to see it glowing. But her skin was cool and normal. The words echoed in her mind, clear and chilling: Heart-kindler. The Sun.
She looked over at Shya, her Bob, her anchor in this strange world. She was sure that her Bob was the one the dream-voice would have called the Void-weaver. She did not know why she was so certain but it was a certainty that went to the depths of her soul. A cold dread, deeper than any fear of exams or monsters, settled in her stomach. This was not a fear of something external. This was a fear of something within.
She hugged her knees to her chest, watching the sky outside the window slowly lighten from grey to a pale, innocent blue. She would not speak of this. Not to Shya, not to anyone. To give it voice would be to make it real.
As the first true ray of sunlight, sharp and golden, pierced the horizon, it did not feel warm or promising. It felt like a spotlight. It felt like a warning.
Talora Livanthos, the girl who commanded every room she entered, sat perfectly still, and for the first time, was truly, deeply afraid of the power sleeping in her own soul. The year was over, but a much larger, more terrifying lesson was just beginning.