Talora POV:
I stood in the forest, and the world was screaming my name.
It wasn't a voice. It was the very air—thick with the scent of overbloomed roses and rotting meat. The trees twisted toward me, their bark splitting like overripe fruit, weeping that same phosphorescent sap. The two-headed rabbit from before was now a pulsing mound of fur and eyes, a third mouth opening and closing soundlessly on its flank. Everything was too much—too vibrant, too alive in the most horrific way.
And it was all calling for me.
A wave of need—desperate, adoring, terrifying—washed over me. It was in the distorted birdsong, the guttural growth of the vines, the silent plea in the multitude of animal eyes. They didn't want a saviour; they wanted a creator. They wanted the source of the light that was burning them into these new, awful shapes.
Don't stop. Don't let the stillness take us. More. MORE.
I looked down. The terrible, beautiful light was still pouring from my fingers. I tried to clench my fists, to shut it off, but it was like trying to hold back the dawn. The blinding white sun above flickered, and for a heartbeat, I saw it—a deep, silent grey leaching the colour from the edges of my vision, a profound cold that promised peace through oblivion.
The forest recoiled in a unified shriek of terror. The choice was monstrous: this beautiful, screaming hell, or that silent, absolute nothing.
I woke up.
Not with a jolt, but with a slow, cold dread that seeped into my bones. My bedroom was silent, the first light of dawn a muted grey against the window. The nightmare was evolving. It was no longer just a warning; it was a question.
And I was terrified of the answer.
By the time the morning came, Talora had convinced herself it was nothing more than an overactive imagination. A trick of the mind. She smiled at her reflection, ignoring the faint tremor in her hands. Dreams were only dreams—until proven otherwise.
Downstairs, her mother fussed endlessly, straightening Talora's collar and brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves. Her father stood at a distance, perfectly composed as always, pride tempered by expectation.
"Work hard," he said, in that jokey but serious tone of his. "Your marks set the example for the Livanthos name, and don't break a leg falling off a broom."
"Yes, Daddy ," Talora replied softly.
Tristan clung to her leg like a barnacle, his face scrunched up. "Don't go for too long," he mumbled. "I'll take care of your plants."
She bent down, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You're my hero," she whispered.
A few hours later, a polished town car glided to a stop beside the familiar brick wall of King's Cross Station. Talora stepped out, the sunlight glinting off her suitcase handle, the London air sharp and alive around her.
Across the platform, Shya arrived with her own family. Her parents were efficiency embodied: sleek, immaculate, already checking their watches. Her father offered a quick hug, her mother a perfectly measured smile.
"I know you'll make us proud," her mother said.
"I know," Shya replied, tone even, unreadable.
Arya, however, made up for what their parents lacked. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he threw his arms around her waist.
"Don't go, Shy! Just stay!"
"I'll be back before you know it," she murmured, crouching to wipe his face with her sleeve. "You have to protect Mum and Dad while I'm gone, okay?"
He nodded fiercely, sniffling. "I will. But you better bring me a dragon book."
"Deal."
They met just past the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, laughter echoing over the hiss of steam. Their trunks rolled obediently behind them, charmed to hover slightly above the ground.
"Second year," Shya said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Feels weirdly… normal," Talora replied, smiling.
They found Mandy, Lisa, and Padma in a half-empty compartment near the back of the train. The familiar comfort of it settled around them instantly — like stepping back into a favourite jumper.
Lisa was already mid-rant. "Lockhart's assigned every one of his books. I counted. Twelve. Who writes twelve autobiographies before forty?"
"Someone who writes fiction about themselves," Mandy said dryly.
Shya smirked. "We saw him at Flourish and Blotts, remember? Absolute peacock. Nearly blinded Potter with a camera flash."
Padma laughed. "Was he really that bad?"
"Worse," Talora said. "He tried to pose with Harry like he'd just discovered him."
Lisa rolled her eyes. "Maybe we should start keeping a Lockhart bingo card: mentions own smile, check; signs book mid-sentence, check."
The compartment erupted into laughter, the rhythm easy and natural. The click of wheels on track filled the pauses between chatter.
Halfway through a story about Lisa's dad's birthday party gone awry (involving an enchanted cupcake stand and an unfortunate great aunt), the compartment door slammed open.
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed, Ginny trailing just behind her. "Have any of you seen Harry or Ron?" she demanded, scanning the compartment.
"Nope," Padma said. "Should we have?."
Hermione's gaze fell to the table — to Voyages with Vampires. Her expression softened instantly. "Oh! You've started on Professor Lockhart's books already!! Aren't they wonderful? He's just so brave, and—"
Shya didn't even look up from her nails. "—and so in love with himself, it's a miracle he has time for anyone else."
The laughter that followed was quick — Lisa's high giggle, Mandy's snort, even Padma's smirk.
Hermione went pink, her spine stiffening. "He's a renowned scholar, actually."
"Mm," Shya said absently, flipping a page. "Self-renown counts, I suppose."
"He's a five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile—"
"Right," Shya cut in, voice honeyed and cold. "I'm sure he charmed his own reflection into voting for him."
The compartment went silent for half a second before Lisa choked on a laugh. Hermione's face flushed crimson.
"You're just jealous," she snapped. "You wouldn't recognise real brilliance if it hexed you."
Shya's smile sharpened. "If Lockhart's brilliance is real, then so is Dumbledore's secret love child with the Dark Lord."
Mandy let out an undignified snort. Ginny tugged Hermione's sleeve, mumbling an apology before they retreated hastily. The door clicked shut.
Padma whistled low. "You realise she's going to hold that grudge until graduation."
"Good," Shya said simply, returning to her book. "Keeps her focused on something other than breathing down everyone's necks."
The atmosphere relaxed again just as Cassian and Roman appeared, carrying pumpkin pasties and a small stack of books.
"Missed the fireworks?" Roman asked, eyebrow raised.
"Barely," Talora replied. "You might've seen Hermione's soul leave her body."
Cassian chuckled softly, settling beside Shya. "I'll assume you were involved."
"Guilty," Shya said with mock solemnity.
Talk drifted easily — summer stories, joke plans for the "clubhouse" in their abandoned classroom, and guesses about what absurd colour Lockhart's robes would be first day back.
"Ten Galleons on lilac," Roman said.
"Please," Talora scoffed. "He's a peacock. It'll be teal."
"Gold trim," Shya added. "To match the ego."
The laughter came easily, blending with the rhythmic clatter of the train. Outside, the world rolled by in a blur of green fields and dusky skies.
As evening fell, the windows glowed with reflected lantern light. The chatter quieted into soft conversation, the kind that felt effortless — comfortable. Shya leaned her head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, listening to her friends talk about the year ahead.
"I missed this," Talora said quietly.
Shya smiled. "Me too."
Cassian glanced out the window. "Look."
Far in the distance, the faint, flickering glow of Hogwarts shimmered against the horizon — gold, warm, eternal.
For a moment, no one spoke. The train rattled on, laughter drifting softly between them, and Talora's unease from the morning faded into the rhythm of homecoming.
Steam curled past the windows, carrying the scent of rain and pine. The castle loomed closer, its spires cutting against the night sky like a promise.
"Welcome back to Hogwarts," Shya murmured.
And the train rolled on toward the lights.