First Light and Forgotten Echoes
Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, casting golden beams across the crimson and gold hangings of Samaira’s four-poster bed. The scent of toast and pumpkin jam wafted faintly from the Great Hall below, mingling with the warm comfort of freshly laundered robes laid out at the foot of her bed. It was her first real morning at Hogwarts. And it was beautiful.
She slipped out from beneath the covers and stood barefoot on the cold stone floor, letting the weight of reality settle onto her shoulders. This wasn’t a dream. The bed was real. The robes were real. The wand under her pillow was very much real. Her fingertips tingled as they brushed over it.
“You’re up early,” Lily said from behind her, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “First-day nerves?”
Samaira turned, startled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I usually wake up early for Prefect duties. Thought I’d keep you company,” Lily offered, hopping down from her own bed and stretching. “C’mon. Let’s survive breakfast together.”
By the time they made it down to the common room, Marlene and Mary were already waiting by the fireplace. Marlene was fixing her tie in the mirror, muttering something about uniform expectations, while Mary hummed an old Celestina Warbeck tune.
“Morning, mystery girl,” Marlene called. “Ready to make your grand debut?” “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Samaira said, managing a small smile. They walked through the portrait hole together, the chatter of the girls easing her nerves with every step. But as they descended the moving staircases, Samaira found herself slowing.
She couldn’t help it—Hogwarts was breathtaking. The castle had come alive in the daylight. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, scattering rainbows across the marble floors. Paintings yawned awake, stretching and mumbling greetings as students bustled past. Suits of armor gleamed. Floating candles flickered overhead even in the day, and the entire place buzzed with a kind of low, magical hum, as if the stones themselves remembered every footstep, every story. She stopped halfway down a staircase, heart thrumming with wonder.
“You alright?” Mary asked, turning back.
Samaira blinked. “Yeah. Just… taking it all in.”
As they entered the Great Hall, the chatter fell into a comforting background hum. Hundreds of students filled the long tables, tucking into toast, eggs, and porridge. At the Gryffindor table, several heads turned as the girls joined them, but most quickly returned to their food. Most—except four. Sitting not far from where Lily led her, a group of boys turned at once. Samaira knew them instantly, as if the very air had announced them. There was a ripple of energy between them—something magnetic, rebellious, alive. James Potter: Quidditch hair, spectacles, overconfident grin. Remus Lupin: Quiet eyes, thoughtful, already halfway through his tea. Peter Pettigrew: Nervous glance, fork halfway to his mouth. And—Sirius Black. His grey eyes locked on hers like a challenge. There was a flicker of recognition—or maybe curiosity—as he took her in. He tilted his head slightly, one brow arching. Samaira looked away first.
“Don’t mind them,” Lily muttered beside her. “They think they’re cooler than they are.”
“They are cooler than they are,” Mary said cheerfully, reaching for a slice of toast.
“I heard the new girl was pretty,” James said, leaning forward. “Didn’t expect mysterious, too.”
Samaira raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying hello?”
James grinned, unbothered. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Potter,” Lily warned. “What? I’m being charming.”
“You’re being predictable,” Remus said without looking up. That made Sirius chuckle—just once, low and warm—and Samaira found herself stealing another glance at him. He was watching her again, as if trying to place her.
With a golden flash, her schedule appeared beside her goblet, the ink still gleaming with fresh magic. Lily flashed Samaira a bright smile. “We’ve got Defense first. Lucky you.”
“Why lucky?”
“You’ll see.”
Defense Against the Dark Arts was held in one of the upper towers. The classroom smelled faintly of old spells and parchment, and desks were arranged in a wide semi-circle around the blackboard. Students filed in, loud and lazy after breakfast, until a new presence entered the room—a man in dark, simple robes, maybe in his mid-twenties, with short-cropped black hair and eyes that flicked across the room with a quiet intensity.
“Professor Whitmore,” Lily whispered. “He’s alright. Bit dry.”
“But hot,” Mary added.
Trailing behind him was someone else. A boy—or a man, really. Older than the students but younger than the professor. Tall, lean, dark-haired, with sharp cheekbones and a quiet watchfulness. He took his place at the edge of the classroom, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like a sentry. Samaira’s heart stilled.
It was him.
She didn’t know who he was. And yet—she did.
The moment their eyes met, a jolt went through her. Something ancient and unfinished twisted in her chest. His eyes widened just a fraction. His breath caught. He knows me.
Today,” Professor Whitmore began, unaware, “we’ll be focusing on defensive reflexes and wand readiness. My apprentice here—Mr. Sebastian Vale—will be demonstrating techniques. Try not to let his presence intimidate you.”
Too late. Sebastian’s gaze hadn’t left her. His fingers twitched slightly at his side, as if they remembered something his mind did not. And Samaira… She could almost hear a memory, just out of reach. A voice in the dark. A promise made in fire. She tore her gaze away. By the end of class, her head buzzed—not with spells, but with questions.
Lily nudged her as they left. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Samaira blinked, covering quickly. “Just… overwhelmed, I guess.” And she was. Not from fear. But from wonder. From connection. From possibility. She had woken up in a world built of ink and memory, fiction turned real. She didn’t know why she was here, or how long it would last. But for the first time since waking up in that cold orphanage, she didn’t feel lost.
She felt seen.
Maybe not by everyone.
But by someone.