Ab uno disce omnes
From one, learn all.
Hyperion is busy yet again. His obsessive nature, so singular in its focus, has rendered him an enigma—seen only in brief glimpses between classes, if at all. The students of Durmstrang have long since learned to tread carefully around Hyperion Peverell when he is consumed by his pursuits. To disrupt him when he is in such a state is to invite an unwelcome reaction.
So, as ever, Genevieve assumes the role of regulator.
It is not a demanding task, merely necessary. The school’s hierarchy requires careful attention, its systems monitored with a delicate hand. The younger students, in particular, must be shielded from certain… harmful ideologies. Durmstrang has long been steeped in them, and while such things do not concern her personally, they are a source of endless frustration for Hyperion. He dislikes inefficiency. He abhors stupidity. It is best, then, to ensure such sentiments are curbed before they take root. The older students have learned not to speak so carelessly within the castle walls.
Not unless they wish for Hyperion to hear—and for the inevitable consequences that follow.
But for now, her attention is required elsewhere. Another first-year. Another British student, cast from Hogwarts’ embrace. Well… not cast out, precisely. But the effect remains the same.
“Miss Selwyn.” Genevieve smiles, extending a hand as she regards the girl before her. A delicate thing, all nervous energy and downcast eyes. Ah. This one reminds her of Theseus. Similar in her hesitance, though more… stable, perhaps. Yes. That is the word for it. “My name is Genevieve Morganach, your senior in seventh year. You may call me Genevieve.”
A small kindness, this offer of familiarity. It is important, necessary, to put the girl at ease.
“Hello,” Marianne whispers, barely above a breath. “I’m… I’m Marianne Selwyn—but you knew that!” A nervous chuckle. The way she bites her lip, the subtle shift of her hands as she wipes them against the fabric of her skirt—telltale signs of discomfort. The girl refuses to meet her gaze, her shoulders tight with apprehension.
Genevieve’s smile softens. Poor thing. A personal summons would unsettle anyone, let alone a girl so new to these halls. Especially when it meant being plucked from the fragile social group she had only just begun to settle into.
“No need to be nervous, sweetheart.” Her tone is warm, honeyed. One hand lifts, smoothing out the girl’s hair with practiced ease. A simple touch—gentle, reassuring.
She lowers herself then, crouching to Marianne’s height. A subtle tilt of her head, an open expression. Approachable. The girl is small. Far too small, in fact, for someone of her age. That is… concerning.
“I’m just here for a preliminary check-up,” she soothes, watching as the girl tenses—then slowly, slowly begins to relax. “You’ve been in Durmstrang for… three months, yes?”
A nod. Hesitant, but engaged. Good.
“Good, good. I remember when I first came here. It was nerve-wracking!” She exhales softly, a gentle sigh—just enough to humanise the sentiment. A shared experience, woven seamlessly into the conversation. “So I often approach newer British students to see if they are faring well.” A pause, perfectly measured. “What about you, Marianne? Are you faring well?”
“Our culture? Our system?”
A soft, lilting smile curves Genevieve’s lips, a touch of amusement woven into her expression. Ah, such earnestness. “Not everyone sees Dark and Light magic the same way, darling. I’m sure you’ve learned this in your Principles of Magic class.”
A simple reminder, delivered with a gentle cadence. It is not a reprimand, merely… guidance.
Marianne’s face flushes the faintest shade of pink, her head bobbing up and down in frantic understanding. Oh, how sweet.
“If you have more questions on that, just look for Hyperion, alright?”
A perfectly reasonable suggestion. But Genevieve already anticipates the reaction before it arrives—the way the girl stiffens, the colour draining as if she’s just been condemned to something far worse than academic discourse. Marianne stammers, grasping at some polite refusal.
Genevieve recognises fear easily. She has long since learned to read its subtleties, to trace the lines of discomfort etched into another’s expression. And Hyperion? Well, people learn to fear him the moment they step foot into Durmstrang. But really, this is all quite unnecessary.
“Sweetie.” A soft murmur, the syllables light, careful. Genevieve reaches forward, smoothing a loose strand of hair back into place. A motherly touch—tender, reassuring. “Hyperion isn’t as scary as everyone says he is. It’s just that people envy him.”
A simple truth, spoken as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t worry, darling.” The words come like a lull, slow and easy, as she tilts her head just so, ensuring Marianne remains caught within her gaze. “Rion is quite soft on those who are passionate about magic. You must simply show him that you truly wish to learn, and he will answer your questions. And you might just get some candy out of it.”
The tension unspools. Marianne softens. Her shoulders, once drawn so tight, relax into something looser, something more willing.
Genevieve hums, pleased.
It is her duty, after all, to ensure that newer students do not fall prey to the cruelty of their peers. Marianne is vulnerable—one of the very few who requires careful tending. Genevieve had been much the same, once. Swept along by the tide of arrogance and bigotry that festered within these halls. Children raised to believe they were better, that superiority was their birthright.
She had allowed herself to be pulled beneath the current.
Until Hyperion—brilliant, commanding, his presence a force impossible to deny—had dragged her from the waters and into the light. His ideals, his ambitions, the sheer magnitude of what he could be had burned so vividly that she had not been able to look away.
Genevieve may not be as openly ambitious as Aurelia, but she possesses will. And will, when wielded correctly, is a powerful thing.
“Run along now, darling.” She keeps her voice warm and gentle, a quiet promise etched into the syllables. “Keep your friends close. And if anyone bothers you… perhaps even calls you unsavoury things, you come to me, alright?”
Marianne lingers—dazed.
“Yes, Genevieve.”
She nods—still a little lost in the wake of her words—before turning back to her little circle of friends. The reaction is instantaneous. Curious glances. Quickened whispers. The frantic press of questions.
Genevieve smiles. She has done her duty.
Marianne Selwyn is valuable enough to keep safe.
She wonders if Aurelia will come to agree. After all, who wouldn’t want another potions prodigy as a devoted little follower?
“Vivi.”
A familiar voice. A touch of exasperation woven into its cadence. Genevieve blinks, her gaze shifting toward Aurelia, who lounges against the wall with her arms crossed, mouth curled into a faint frown.
Irritated, then. But not quite angry.
“Lia?” Genevieve tilts her head, her tone light, inviting. “Where have you been?”
“Picking a fight with Rion.” Aurelia exhales, a sharp little sigh that betrays her frustration. “But he doesn’t seem troubled by everything going on.”
“Indeed… Why would he be?” Genevieve muses, the words lilting with something close to amusement. Predictable, really. “You know that Luna is much more capable than she seems.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I still see her as that frail girl Hyperion introduced to us.” Aurelia huffs, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. A deeply ingrained first impression—flawed, but persistent. “She looked like the wind could blow her away.”
Aurelia has always been blunt in her assessments, though this particular bias is… understandable. Luna had appeared fragile at first glance. A misleading image, one that Hyperion had known would serve its purpose well.
“Have you heard from the others?”
“Not… quite…” Genevieve sighs, soft, almost mournful. A carefully placed note of wistfulness. “Though I’ve heard bits and snippets from the twins.”
Aurelia shudders, lips twisting. “I still can’t believe Hyperion is friends with such maniacs.” A pause, then a sharper, incredulous, “Sponsoring them too.”
Genevieve giggles—light, effortless. “It’s quite nice. They’re an innovative pair. Of course Hyperion would sponsor them.”
Aurelia has always been wary of those she cannot fully predict, and the twins are erratic, volatile. But there is brilliance in their madness. Hyperion sees it. Genevieve sees it. Aurelia, stubborn as she is, will come to see it too, in time.
“And that sponsoring ends up with us being cooped up here.”
Genevieve hums, a note of gentle amusement laced within her tone. “You’re simply envious that they may wander freely while we remain confined to our studies.” A quiet reminder—level, factual, the sort of tone Hyperion himself often adopts when indulging the frustrations of his peers. “They are three years our senior, darling—it is only natural that they enjoy a touch more freedom than we do.”
She watches as Aurelia exhales, still bristling, still coiling frustration within herself like a tightened spring. She dislikes being told she cannot do something. An old trait, one that lingers despite all her discipline.
“Are you truly upset over Luna?” Genevieve asks, voice laced with something softer, almost coaxing. “She’s merely fulfilling her duty, my dear.”
Aurelia groans, fingers tangling in her own hair before a pout—subtle, fleeting—tugs at her lips. “Obviously. Hyperion gets all pissy the second we try to meddle with Luna.”
“He trusts her enough to handle things on her own. But us? Even his own sister?” Aurelia’s expression shifts, her gaze sharpening, questioning. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—Hyperion’s wary of everyone, even Hermione, and she’s his closest confidant.”
Genevieve allows a small pause, a moment of thoughtful silence.
“It is simply the nature of all brilliant leaders,” she murmurs, measured, careful. “Hyperion has endured a great deal of betrayal. No matter how unwavering our loyalty may be, he cannot help but harbour such doubts.”
Her gaze lingers, sharp yet unassuming, watching for the telltale signs of deflection. “Be patient, Lia. Even you hesitated to trust any of us in the beginning.”
Aurelia, predictably, looks away.
“Come now, let us speak of America’s troubles elsewhere.” Genevieve shifts the conversation with practiced ease, ensuring the previous subject is left to simmer rather than boil over. “What has Rion said?”
“The puppets are being deployed.”
“Ah… and what is he doing now?”
“Cooped up in his room.”
Genevieve sighs, slow, measured.
Wonderful.
More work for her.
Cecilia Vance loves her mothers dearly. She loves her stepmother almost more than her own mother. And why wouldn’t she? Mary McDonald had once been her mother’s patient, a fact that often drew disapproving glances—unethical, they murmured, for a healer to fall in love with an amnesiac.
Cecilia was only seven when she first met Hazy Mary. A striking woman, all coiled hair and flawless dark skin, her presence immediately captivated Cecilia. But it wasn’t her skin, or her presence, or even the wondrous texture of her curls that fascinates her most.
It was her eyes.
They were strange—glazed over like frosted glass, unfocused yet perceptive in a way Cecilia does not understand. As if someone had placed an invisible barrier between her and the rest of the world, and no one had ever thought to remove it.
Emmeline Vance brought Miss Hazy home one evening, inviting her to share dinner with her and Cecilia. The moment Mary stepped inside, Cecilia saw it—the tension in her frame, the way her fingers twitch slightly, uncertain. The quiet war waged within her own body, as though she exists in a space unfamiliar to her.
Or perhaps, Cecilia thought back then, it is not her body that is foreign, but her very sense of self.
(Years later, she will see this same unsettling dissonance in the way Hyperion once clawed at his own skin, desperate, furious—lost.)
Her mother told her, in gentle, steady tones, that Hazy Mary is a victim of self-Obliviation. A person who could not bear the weight of the present and so had erased the past.
For Cecilia, the revelation settles deep within her, solidifying into something unshakable.
Obliviate should have been classified as a curse, not a charm. It strips a person of themselves, leaving them adrift in an unfamiliar existence. It takes away the pain, yes, but at what cost? Everything else.
Cecilia Vance is not the most moral person in Durmstrang, despite aspiring to be a healer. She understands cruelty, has witnessed vengeance, has stood amidst carnage and blood. There are moments when she wishes she could forge a spell to numb herself completely. But that thought always leads her back to the memory charm—the curse.
She knows that following Hyperion is the least moral path a person could take. He is cruel, unfeeling in ways that should frighten her, driven by an ambition so vast it threatens to crush them all beneath it. But he endures. How could she not be inspired by that?
He carries his pain without seeking to erase it. He bears his scars openly, each one a silent vow that he will never forget. His pride ensures that every wound remains—a testament, a reminder. An anchor.
That had been years ago.
Her mother has done what she can—carefully, patiently unweaving the curse that once gripped Mary so tightly. It is not a perfect restoration; some pieces of her past remain lost, slipping just beyond reach. But she has reclaimed fragments of her school years, the memories of Hogwarts slowly slotting back into place.
And best of all—for Cecilia, at least—is that Mary remembers the first time she met Emmeline Vance.
Not Healer Vance.
Just Emmeline.
It is her mother’s quiet resilience that first plants the seed within Cecilia. The way she moves, her hands steady and sure as they tend to wounds, her voice a soft reassurance to those in pain. It is the kindness in her mother’s eyes that sparks something deep within Cecilia, the certainty that healing is not just a skill but an act of devotion. And so, she follows in her footsteps, drawn to those who suffer, compelled to mend what is broken.
And it is that same devotion that ties her to the cruelest man she has ever known. Because despite Hyperion’s cruelty, he is still capable of being loved. He is still human. He still bleeds.
Some would call her naïve. They would tell her she is foolish to believe there is anything good in him. Perhaps she is. Perhaps she is deluding herself. But she knows—feels—that there is something buried beneath the frost of his soul. He does not care for all, nor does he strive to be noble, but there is something in him that reaches, even if it is faint. A hand, half-clenched, poised between holding on and letting go.
People call him a monster. A beast.
But her mother has told her time and time again: Monsters are made, not born.
If Hyperion Peverell is a monster, then someone has made him so. And Cecilia will offer him her love, her care, her unwavering loyalty—not to redeem him, but to prove that the world is not solely deserving of the fire he wields. If he has forgotten what it means to be human, then someone must remind him.
She will not let him lose himself. She refuses to let him slip away.
“Cia?”
Theseus slips into the dimly lit study, clutching his book bag, gaze skittering away from hers. She does not take offense. She has learned how to move carefully around him, how to respect the space he needs without making him feel isolated.
“Thes,” she says, offering a gentle smile. “Are you all right?”
“Erm… y-yeah… yeah. All good here, Cia. I—I just wanted to… uhm…” He sucks in a breath, his shoulders tight, his fingers clenching around the strap of his bag. “I… I wanted to ask if you’ve… if you’ve made any progress on that regulating plan… for me. I—I’m not pressuring you or anything! Just… Rion—he just… ah, never mind.”
“Thes—there’s no need to be so nervous. You can talk to me. I’m not like Lia—I won’t bite.” She giggles softly, tilting her head toward the chair across from her. A silent invitation.
As expected, he hesitates. His wariness is instinctive, the tension in his body something she has grown accustomed to. His gaze flickers—wall, bookshelf, chair. Still uncertain.
She watches, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
A slow inhale, fingers twitching. He closes his eyes for a moment, grounding himself. She remembers, so vividly, the first time she had learned of his condition. It had seemed like a gift then, something extraordinary. But she knows better now. She has seen what it does to him. The weight of it. The pain.
“Uhm… You know… Dem—uh—Neville’s status? He’s a healer… like you.” Theseus chews at his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth, his nails picking at the skin of his fingers. When his eyes finally meet hers, she is careful—so careful—to blink at a steady, measured pace. A small comfort.
Then his fingers move again, tracing invisible runes against his skin. Shapes that do not exist.
“Erm…” His throat works as he struggles for the words. Then, through clenched teeth, a quiet, frustrated breath. “Hyperion wants Neville t’ formulate a potion for me. To… t’ regulate my TOS. And… and Neville contacted me last night ‘bout it. He’s thinkin’ he might… might start a research paper on it too.”
She studies him. “And you’re not too pleased about that.”
“H-How could I be? It’s like… like takin’ the easy way out after… after everything I’ve been through for years. H-Hyperion was the first person to not pity me for havin’ TOS and… a-and I thought he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t care… so… so why?”
Cecilia exhales softly, thoughtful. “Because he does care. He has a strange way of showing it, but… Do you remember when we were still at Hogwarts? When Hyperion found out about Hermione’s arrest?”
Theseus nods, silent.
“He had me take you to the lake, Thes. He knew you’d be affected by his magic. You looked exhausted—no offense. But your eyebags are dark enough that it’s obvious you haven’t been sleeping well. You’re tired… dizzy… Hyperion sees this.” She presses her lips together. I see it too, she thinks, though she does not say it aloud.
“Whatever potion Neville is making, it’s for you. It’s so you can finally rest. So the world won’t feel like needles against your skin anymore.” She takes a slow breath. “Hyperion wants you to be able to look at him without pain.”
“I can… I…”
“Sensum Thaumaturgia isn’t a disease, Thes. It isn’t a flaw. It doesn’t make you any less. It’s simply a part of you, something interwoven with your magic. That doesn’t mean you’re broken.” She shakes her head, a soft smile gracing her lips. “If you don’t want the potion and would rather continue with the regulatory schedule, then we’ll do that.”
“I… I’m worried, Cia… If I take that potion… w-will… will I lose my ability to f-feel magic?” His voice is so small, his fear woven into every syllable. “H-How many times have I heard Hyperion talk about magic like it’s… like it’s a limb? How beautiful it is… cursed an’ blessed. W-What if I can’t feel it anymore? W-What if I lose mine?”
Her smile turns wistful, touched with something almost sorrowful. “Hyperion cares too much to let you.”
“Sensum Thaumaturgia.” Neville skims through the files Hyperion sent over, eyes narrowing as he chews absently on a piece of candy. Some rare magical disorder that makes people so bloody sensitive to magic they lose their minds. Fantastic. Because what the world really needs is more unpredictable nutters running about.
Not that anyone gives a toss about it, apparently. The lack of research is staggering—or maybe just willful ignorance. Not exactly surprising. He’s dug through enough archives to know when something’s been swept under the proverbial rug. Either way, this one’s a proper magical mystery. And of course, Hyperion has managed to dig up another stray with it. Theseus Rowle. Just another anomaly to add to his growing collection of bizarre projects.
Thaumic Overload Syndrome. Sounds fancy, but in reality? It basically turns Theseus into a walking, talking, glowing magic detector. Which, of course, makes him Hyperion’s personal holy grail. Just what the bloke needs—more things to obsess over. Not that Neville is particularly shocked. The man’s first so-called magnum opus was the Etheris, after all. A magical communication system powered by Aetherites and leyline manipulation. Because why stop at just a simple owl when you can bend reality to make phone calls?
Neville still remembers the first time Harry handed him one of these weird, flat crystal-like devices two years ago. Hadn’t had the foggiest idea what to do with it. Still barely understands the bloody thing, if he’s honest.
Right on cue, the Etheris starts blaring blue. He sighs, sets down the papers, and picks it up, tapping the edge to accept the call.
Luna’s voice filters through.
“Hey, Luns,” he grumbles, still chewing.
“Marvolo Gaunt is here.”
Neville freezes. Blinks.
“I beg your fucking pardon?”
Luna’s fingers dance over the cool glass, tracing unseen constellations on its surface. Reflections ripple, bending and warping as though whispering secrets only she can hear. Beyond the barrier, President Vanderholt leads Gaunt through the congress’s grand halls, their steps weaving patterns into the fabric of fate.
It is… well… rather amusing. A snake in a den of foxes, though only one of them realises it. She does not laugh, but the thought twirls like a ribbon in her mind.
“Miss Lovegood.”
A voice like silver, smooth and polished, with the weight of old things behind it. Luna tilts her head, blinking up at the figure before her. Some would mistake him for a woman—too beautiful, too sharp, like the fae, like a siren, like a veela spun from moonlight and secrets. But it is the wisdom in his eyes that makes her pause. Just for a second. Just enough.
It reminds her of Hyperion’s words, the ones he hums like an old tune.
Time devours all.
A signature, an omen. A truth carved into the bones of the universe.
“Headmaster Crowe.” Luna smiles, pinching the edges of her skirt as she dips into a graceful curtsy. “I thank you for indulging in my whims. Few would allow a student such a spectacle.”
Crowe tilts his head, birdlike, his gaze keen. “I would not indulge many of my students… and yet you are different, Miss Lovegood.”
“Is that so?”
“Not many perceive my condition, little one. You see what others choose to ignore.” Crowe chuckles, shaking his head as Luna leans against the glass. Gaunt moves below, smooth and sinuous—a serpent tracing the edges of a trap its prey has not yet noticed.
Fitting.
“Well… Some would say I’m mad for the things I see.” Luna’s smile is soft, her head tilting like a curious owl. “One might call me this era’s Cassandra.”
“You are named for the moon, child, not the cursed prophetess.” Crowe hums, clicking his tongue. “Many will believe you. Cassandra’s burden is not yours to bear.”
Crowe hums, “But our time is up, little one. I would not think it proper to steal my students away for too long. Come, let us return.”
Luna lingers. The echoes of words slip between her fingers like mist.
She smiles.
“Are you quite sure, Headmaster? I would be rather useful to the investigation.” A grin now, bright as a Cheshire cat’s spreads across her face. She is not ignorant of herself, of the weight of her knowing. Hyperion keeps her close for a reason.
“I would not dare exploit you, little one. Let us depart.”
“Headmaster…”
“You may greet the Snake on our way out.” Crowe rolls his eyes, beckoning her forward.
Luna grins again, tucking her hands behind her back as she skips to his side. Once more, she is reminded why she does not regret transferring.
She is not one to call herself the favoured student of her school. No, Nathaniel Crowe favours different students… those with edges smoother, thoughts quieter, steps less prone to dancing upon paths unseen. But he knows her worth, just as Hyperion does. There is no shame in admitting that some cannot be ignored.
Luna is simply one of the few that people shouldn’t ignore… lest they find themselves at the mercy of the universe’s laughter. But that is not her burden to carry. The ignorance of others is not Luna’s fault—Hyperion has whispered this time and time again, ensuring she does not let doubt burrow into her bones. A kind gesture, rare from their illustrious inventor, like a single star winking knowingly in the abyss.
They weave through the crowd, a current parting for a river’s will. Many bow their heads, voices murmuring greetings to Crowe. For someone who is pushing fifty, he wears time strangely, as if it has forgotten to sink its claws into him. Thirty at most, ethereal at worst. He does not seem to notice the lingering gazes, or if he does, he simply does not care. A creature unbothered by its own legend.
Luna grins, teeth like crescent moons.
Moments drift like leaves in a lazy stream, carrying her to the British embassy. Ah, and there he is—Lucius Malfoy, polished and poised, at the head of his delegation. A white chess piece among black, standing in line with the President of MACUSA herself. Gaunt moves beside her, steps measured, presence effortless, like a shadow slipping into the embrace of twilight. He wears power as if it is his birthright, and perhaps it is.
(Tragic, really. Power is a fickle thing. Luna knows. She has seen the threads unravel, watched kings and queens crumble under crowns too heavy to bear.)
Honoria Vanderholt notices them first, her eyes glinting like a polished coin flipping mid-air. Recognition flickers, memory reshapes the present, and for a moment, she is a student again, before the mask of presidency settles back into place. Everyone halts, a ripple effect of authority.
“Headmaster!”
“Honoria—ah… President Vanderholt.” Crowe adjusts with a smile, soft as parchment aged with care.
Vanderholt blinks. There it is—that awkward stiffness, the clash between memory and status, between who they were and who they are now. Fascinating. Luna tilts her head, curious as a cat watching a bird that does not flee.
“You may still call me Honoria, Headmaster. I have told you this many times.”
“Ah… forgive me, dear girl. I merely wished to offer you the proper formalities… especially in front of distinguished guests… and my student.” Crowe gestures, a sweeping motion from the British embassy to Luna, who waves eagerly, fingers fluttering like wings. “Miss Lovegood here is actually from Britain. Quite the coincidence that you all arrived just as I brought her here.”
Vanderholt’s gaze lingers, weighty, assessing. Then, a shift—a smile, stiffening just slightly. “Pray, why have you brought her here, Headmaster? Is it not a weekday?”
“It is. But Luna was recently scouted by your Body for the Protection of Magical Species. Her aptitude in Care of Magical Creatures has piqued their interest.” Crowe’s voice drapes over the conversation like silk, smooth and unhurried. “However, she is from Britain. Though she holds American citizenship, we wished to ensure that would not hinder the possibility of her working here in the future.”
She pauses, then nods. “I see.” Vanderholt’s expression softens, turning to Luna with something like pride flickering in her eyes. “It is good to know that this generation holds such brilliant minds that even my ministry has taken an interest in you. I shall await great things from you, Miss Lovegood.”
Luna hums, rocking on her heels. “Dear me, don’t say such things, Madam President. I feel pressured now.”
She laughs—genuine, warm. Vanderholt visibly appreciates the levity, tension slipping from her shoulders. “Then I shan’t. Oh…” The woman turns to her guestd. “Might I introduce you to Nathaniel Crowe—our current Headmaster of Ilvermorny. He was my Sidereal Arts professor many years ago.”
Gaunt’s gaze flickers to Crowe, a nod of acknowledgement before curiosity takes root. “Sidereal Arts? Apologies, but I am unfamiliar with such a subject.”
Before Crowe or Vanderholt can speak, Luna claps her hands together, eyes bright as a supernova. “It is akin to the astronomy we learn at Hogwarts. However, Sidereal Arts delve into how celestial bodies and their placements, along with cosmic phenomena, influence magic—spellwork, ambient energy, even fate.” She pauses, smiling like she holds the universe’s secrets between her teeth. “Think of it as a blend of astronomy, divination, and magical theory.”
Gaunt appraises her, a flicker of amusement curving his lips. A rare thing. He inclines his head. “My thanks for the explanation, Miss Lovegood. I find great difficulty in admitting ignorance… but I appreciate your efforts, regardless.”
Oh, Luna muses, Marvolo Gaunt does so hate being ignorant.
(There is a hush beneath the sea, where darkness unfurls like ink spilt upon a celestial map. The water hums secrets only the deep can know, and her fingers wade through its fabric—brushing against constellations submerged in the abyss. Starlight bends here, refracted through liquid silence, painting her skin in ghosts of futures yet to be.
She is not omniscient. Fate demands obedience, draping a gauzy veil over her sight, a translucent blindfold tied with the silken threads of inevitability. She cannot lift it, not truly. Not without consequence. But even so… she sees.
And what she sees is Hyperion.
Inventing. Forging. Creating.
A grand symphony of brilliance and ruin, a craftsman sculpting wonders from the marrow of the cosmos. It is magnificent. Splendid, even.
If not for the way his hands—ones she has clasped before, fingers curling around his palms in fleeting moments of warmth—are now stripped to the bone, flesh sloughing away like autumn leaves in a winter gale.)
(A flicker—green eyes, bright as spring’s first bloom.
A shift—red, burning like the embers of a world yet to collapse.)