The tower cell was warmer than she expected. A fire crackled in a small hearth, and the scent of resin and herbs filled the air. Someone had left food , coarse bread, dark fruit, and a clay cup of something that steamed faintly violet.
Elara sat on the edge of the cot, wrists still sore from the ropes. Every creak of the old stone walls sounded like breath , as if the tower itself were alive, listening.
She tried to steady her mind, repeating facts like talismans:
Name :Elara Wynn.
Occupation : Historical archivist, former Department of Magical Archaeology.
Location : Unknown.
None of it grounded her. The mirror's image still burned behind her eyelids: twin moons, the echo of a lion's roar.
A knock came.
Before she could answer, the door opened. A man entered, tall and gaunt, his robe stitched with fading constellations. His beard was streaked with silver, but his eyes burned bright .. sharp and knowing.
"Do you know what you are, girl?" he asked, voice low and deliberate.
Elara frowned. "Another interrogator?"
He chuckled softly. "Hardly. I am Professor Vale, once of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ,before your time, I suspect. Though this world calls me the Star Hermit."
Elara's breath caught. "Hogwarts? You…. you knew it?"
"Knew it?" He smiled sadly. "I watched it die. When the last spells faltered, when wands turned to dust, I sought the one place where magic might still breathe. I came through the same mirror you found."
She rose slowly. "Then you know how to go back."
Vale's eyes softened. "Back to what, child? There is nothing left. The world you came from is a hollow shell. You think magic faded because men stopped believing. But belief was the first thing to die."
Elara clenched her fists. "Then why am I here?"
He studied her in silence for a long moment. "Because you are the last bridge. Your bloodline carries both lights , the rational and the divine. The line of Lovegood, if I'm not mistaken."
Her pulse quickened. "You know my family?"
He nodded. "Your ancestor once saw what others could not. Luna Lovegood. She dreamed of other skies, other lions. She was the first to speak of the Veil Between Stars."
Elara's world tilted. "You're saying... she knew about Narnia?"
"Not by that name. But she saw its echo in her dreams. And she left behind prophecies , half poems, half madness ,warning that one day, the worlds would touch again through a Witch of Two Worlds."
Elara turned away, gripping the cold stone of the wall. "Everyone here keeps calling me that ;witch. Prophet. I'm none of those things. I'm just…"
"Just?" Vale's voice was gentle, almost pitying. "Do you think the mirror chose you by accident?"
Before she could answer, the tower door burst open. Prince Caer entered, armor glinting in the firelight.
"Vale," he said curtly. "The Witch dreams again."
The old wizard's expression darkened. "Where?"
"In the north. My sentinels saw her shadow over the ice fields. The Pale Witch moves toward the ruins of Cair Paravel."
Elara's heart thudded. "The Pale Witch?"
Caer turned his gaze to her. "You could say she is what remains when gods forget mercy. The White Witch's ghost ,fused with something darker that crossed through your mirror long ago."
Vale's eyes met hers. "Voldemort," he whispered.
The name froze the room.
The fire snapped sharply, casting long, writhing shadows.
Caer crossed the space between them, his eyes sharp and searching. "If what the stars say is true, she hunts you. She needs your blood to break the Gate."
Elara swallowed hard. "Then kill me and be done with it."
The prince's expression softened ; only slightly. "If you die, both our worlds die with you."
Silence fell.
Outside, the wind howled against the tower, carrying a faint sound — not quite a roar, not quite thunder ; as if the sky itself remembered something ancient and terrible.
Vale turned to Caer. "If the Witch has awakened, there's no time. She must learn what she carries."
Elara looked between them. "What I carry?"
Vale stepped closer, touching her forehead lightly. For a moment, warmth bloomed behind her eyes, and she saw , not memory, but inheritance: a shimmer of silver light twisting into the shape of a stone, a wand, a cloak.
The Hallows.
And beneath them , a lion's shadow, golden and endless.
She gasped and stumbled back.
Vale's voice was grave. "You are not just from Hogwarts, Elara. You are its legacy …its last spark. The Hallows have chosen you as their vessel."
The prince looked toward the window, where snow began to fall again ,slow, deliberate flakes like ashes.
"Then let us pray," he said quietly, "that the lion still remembers how to roar."