Echoes Through Ink and Incantations
The bells tolled faintly across the castle, rousing Samaira from a dreamless haze. The warmth of heavy blankets wrapped around her like a lingering charm, but it was the rustling of quills, the low murmur of Marlene cursing her timetable, and the distant sounds of the castle stirring that truly pulled her into waking. She sat up slowly, glasses already tucked into the folds of her pillow, and reached for them with practiced ease.
She was still here. Hogwarts. Real.
The first full week had begun.
Down in the Great Hall, breakfast was already underway when Samaira joined the Gryffindors. Conversations buzzed like a low hum—students swapping timetables, grumbling about early morning classes, and passing around steaming plates of toast and eggs. Across from her, Lily leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “Double Transfiguration to start the day,” she said. “McGonagall’s wasting no time.”
“Neither are we, apparently,” Marlene added, already scribbling on the corner of her parchment. “Sixth year, and I’m still trying to remember the difference between InanimatusConjurus and ObjectumVivum.”
Samaira managed a half-smile, though her attention wandered across the table. Sirius and James were animated in discussion, gesturing wildly over a crumpled piece of parchment—likely another version of the infamous Marauder’s Map, if she had to guess. Remus read quietly, occasionally muttering corrections to Peter’s scribbled notes.
Transfiguration with the sixth-years turned out to be a masterclass in intimidation.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the room, her tartan robes crisp as ever, surveying the class like a general before battle.
“Human transfiguration,” she announced. “One of the most complex and delicate branches of our discipline. And if any of you are still turning matchsticks into needles, you may wish to reconsider your career choices.”
Samaira sat beside Lily and Marlene, the former already scribbling notes as the professor continued. To their left, the Marauders had claimed the back row, predictably. James Potter leaned back in his chair like he owned the castle, while Sirius Black spun his quill between his fingers, bored but alert. Remus Lupin, seated between them, looked focused. Peter Pettigrew, as always, tried to blend in.
McGonagall waved her wand, and a mannequin appeared at the front of the class. “Today we’ll be practicing partial facial shifts—nose, jawline, cheekbones. Control and subtlety will be the difference between a successful transformation and a trip to the Hospital Wing.”
Samaira’s pulse picked up. She hadn’t practiced this sort of magic in… well, ever, technically. But muscle memory stirred like an echo. When she was called up with Marlene to try shifting a mannequin’s nose shape from broad to aquiline, her wand moved almost instinctively.
“Not bad,” McGonagall murmured as Samaira completed the transformation with a faint flick. “Clean transition. Points to Gryffindor.”
Sirius arched an eyebrow from the back, now watching her with more interest.
Marlene nudged her as they sat down. “Okay, hotshot. Where’d you learn wandwork like that?”
Samaira shrugged, trying not to smile. “Just… practiced a lot, I guess.” But something stirred inside her. That shift had been too easy. Too natural. Like a memory she wasn’t supposed to have.
DADA came next, and the energy shifted the moment they entered the classroom. Professor Whitmore stood at the front—tall, angular, and dressed in worn dragonhide robes. His voice carried like a crack of flint as he welcomed them.
“Today, we begin our section on magical echoes—residual energy left behind by strong emotional or magical events. It’s rare, subtle, and often misidentified. But learn to sense it, and it may one day save your life.”
Samaira took her seat beside Remus Lupin. She tried not to look toward the corner of the room where Sebastian sat—silent, observant, perched on the edge of the professor’s desk like a shadow that had come to life.
He wasn’t a student. Not quite. Not faculty either. But the way he watched her—as if her presence struck some dissonant chord only he could hear—made the hairs on her arms prickle.
“Some places hold echoes stronger than others,” Whitmore continued, gesturing to a chalkboard covered in delicate runes. “Old battlegrounds, cursed sites, even homes marked by loss.”
Samaira’s breath hitched.
A sudden gust of wind—brief but inexplicable—ruffled her hair.
She turned sharply. The windows were shut. No one else seemed to have noticed.
Except Sebastian.
His eyes were already on her. For a heartbeat, something pulsed between them.
Recognition. Memory. Grief?
Then it was gone.
The air settled, but something inside Samaira did not.
Professor Whitmore continued the lecture, now discussing how magical echoes can interact with sensitive individuals. “Witches and wizards with heightened magical sensitivity may experience these phenomena more frequently—visions, dreams, or sensations without clear cause.”
Samaira resisted the urge to fidget. Her fingertips still tingled faintly from the moment before. Next to the chalkboard, Sebastian moved with quiet precision as Whitmore summoned a shimmering silver orb from a locked drawer.
“This,” he said, “is an Echo Orb. It absorbs magical remnants within a space and can reveal impressions left behind.” He turned to Sebastian. “Mr. Vale, if you would.”
Sebastian stepped forward, fingers brushing the orb. It glowed faintly, swirling silver and blue.
A shape coalesced—a memory, not fully formed: two figures standing in a forest clearing, wands raised, but their faces obscured.
Gasps rippled through the class.
“Residual trace,” Whitmore said. “Two duellists. Likely recorded decades ago.”
Samaira watched Sebastian carefully. The flicker of recognition in his eyes hadn’t been for the orb—but for the fragment it displayed.
That clearing meant something to him.
It meant something to her, too. She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did.
When the orb dimmed, and students began murmuring among themselves, she finally dared to speak. “What happens,” she asked, voice quiet but firm, “if the echo is… personal?”
The class went still.
Professor Whitmore regarded her with something close to approval. “Then, Miss Sachdeva, you proceed with caution—and remember that echoes cannot lie, but they often confuse.” Sebastian said nothing, but his gaze lingered on her until the bell rang.
The classroom emptied slowly. Samaira gathered her books, preparing to leave, but paused when she felt someone behind her.
Not Sebastian.
Sirius Black leaned against the table, arms crossed, that trademark smirk only half-formed. “Didn’t peg you as the type to ask the heavy questions on day two,” he said.
Samaira turned. “Didn’t peg you as the type to linger after class.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I was curious.”
She met his eyes—grey, sharp, amused—and for a second, she forgot to deflect. “Are you?” she asked. “Curious?”
Sirius tilted his head, gaze flicking briefly toward Sebastian, now speaking to Whitmore in low tones. “About you? Sure. You’ve got secrets written all over you, Sachdeva.”
“I’m sure you’d know all about that.”
That earned a short laugh.
“Touché.” He stepped back. “See you around, mystery girl.”
That night, back in the Gryffindor common room, warmth buzzed in the firelit air.
Samaira curled up on the rug with Lily, Marlene, and Mary, all of them sprawled on cushions like they’d done it a hundred times before. Laughter bounced around them—Lily teasing James and groaning about his latest “accidental” compliment in Charms, Marlene mocking the Arithmancy assignment, and Mary perfecting a spot-on impression of McGonagall’s stern eyebrow raise.
Samaira found herself smiling more than she had in weeks. She added her own dry commentary, slipping into their rhythm like she belonged. For the first time, she laughed without wondering whether she deserved to.
Eventually, the others drifted toward bed.
But Samaira stayed behind, perched on the windowsill.
The moon cast silver ribbons across the grounds, and the lake glittered in its glow. In the window’s reflection, she caught her own image—amber eyes glowing faintly, glasses reflecting firelight.
There was something wild beneath the surface of her gaze.
Something ancient. Something hers.
Behind her, the creak of stairs. She turned. Sirius again—this time heading up to the boys’ dorm.
Their eyes locked. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. Just… nodded.
Like he saw something in her he hadn’t before.
And maybe she saw something in him too.
When the room emptied, Samaira pulled her timetable from her robe pocket, along with the DADA textbook.She flipped to the chapter Sebastian had lingered on earlier: Magical Residue and Historical Artefacts
The page fluttered slightly—though there was no wind.
She stilled it with one hand.
This place holds answers, she thought.
And I’m not the only one looking for them anymore.