Hi sweetest readers, and welcome to chapter four of this tale. I wish upon flowers that you may like it so and would love to know what you may think. I originally punished it a day ago but wished to change a few things and add a couple of scenes to unravel and explore Cilka's tale more. Being a bit of a shy girl, I'd love to know so what you think of this story and chapter. It would mean the world to me so! In the mean time I send you all so much love, and hope you are all safe and finding comfort wherever you may be. All my love, Elodie.

Three Days. Each letter imprinted on Cilka's heart as time slipped into those sands. Three days until she would be dissolving from this time and be quilted into another. She held her books to her chest as she walked, each step so hushed and yet hurried as she made her way DADA. Every hallway was dark as she went, dark and grey and yet Cilka couldn't help but feel warm. Professor Sprouts words, her agreement seemed to sing in her, seemed to color the world with different hues and shades as she went down corridor after corridor.

Reaching the room, her hand quivered over the wood – trembled and hesitated as she lingered a silent and uncertain thing. She was late. Late, she realised and the punishment of being so suddenly prickled her eyes. Taking a dulcet breath, she closed her eyes and whispered her soothing reminders to herself. Everything will be okay, everything will be okay. Placing her hand upon the door, she pushed it open and entered the room. She felt each set of eyes turn to her as she entered, each pair of worry and sympathy lay upon her as they silently claimed her fate.

Brushing some stray strands of hair from her eyes, Cilka with dainty and quick steps approached her Professor. She had a stream of apologies waiting to slip through the seams of her lips, but before a sound could escape her, Professor Carrow uttered one word.

"Silencio." Cilka felt her voice disappear, felt each word crumble into hushed air as she tried to speak. She raised a hand to her neck at the loss of her voice, her books dropping to the floor. The warmth which had comforted her had fallen with her books, crumbled with her heart and composure as fear wilted in her eyes. "Well, well – what do we have here?" Delight flourished in Professor Carrows eyes, as he walked towards her and grasped her chin with rough and calloused hands. If she could gasp she would, if she could whimper then she would too. But no sound blossomed in her throat. "The little lost flower of Hufflepuff finally caught." Cilka's chin began to wobble, her little form trembling underneath the haunted ravishment that lurked in his eyes and seeped into hers. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to get my hands on you, to hear you scream." He drew a sharp nail down Cilka's cheek, tracing a tear with his finger that fell and clung onto her parted lips. "Lateness, will not be tolerated. And I, sparing the wands of your fellow students, will be delighted to remind you and them of that lesson."

With a flick of his hand, the desks holding the other students parted to the rims of the classroom, pining each student in-between their desk and wall. Cilka dared not look at them, dared not met their panicked eyes. She knew her friends were watching, knew Poesy and Briony were sitting there too with desperate and helpless eyes. They couldn't do anything, no one could – and Cilka would not risk breaking such a thing by showing them her eyes and the fear which trembled within.

With the centre of the room cleared, Professor Carrow pulled Cilka to the middle of the room – his hand never leaving her face nor his eyes parting from hers. It was as if he knew, was as if he knew that even the look of his eyes into hers was its own form of torture. For it was. Cilka could feel his eyes wriggle inside her, feel them coil around her heart like a snake and sink its fangs into her, the venom crumpling her heart into decay. She was afraid, impossibly so – and yet even more when those eyes changed. She watched with silent whimpers as Professor Carrows eyes changed blue, changed into those deep and stormy seas which flood her system in terror. He had bewitched her mind, she knew – made it so she saw someone else rather than him. But even though it was an illusion, it felt too real – was too real as suddenly his hands morphed and took on the change of another.

Her father. He was taller than Carrow – lifting her of her feet as his hand slipped from her face and grasped her throat. She squeezed her eyes closed, her hands cupping his as she clung on to hold her weight up. He shook her, shook her as he commanded her to open her eyes. She did so unwilling, did so as tears slipped so freely from her eyes and he brought her face close to his, and so slowly – so hauntingly did he take his time to annunciate three wicked words. "Scream for me."

He threw her to the ground, Cilka's body curling inward as she trembled helpless there. She couldn't defend herself, didn't know how and wouldn't even dare if she could. She looked up as her father, no – at Professor Carrow who walked towards her, drawing a whip from behind his back. Her father was a muggle, muggle-born and repulsed at the hidden state of her mother and her – of her and sister. He abused them relentlessly, the human equivalent of a death eater since she was a child. Each race, each race of species had their own cruelty, had their own wicked violence regardless of kind - and he was one of theirs, one for the muggles, one for the human.

He uttered a spell, uttered a spell that sat her on her knees and chained her wrists outstretched to the walls. Her body slumped, shook and quivered as she squeezed her eyes closed one more at the sound of the whip dragging along the wooden floorboards. It was just an illusion, it was just an illusion. She repeated it to herself in her head over and over until suddenly the whip cracked and sliced through her back. She let out a scream, screamed and fell as the whip slashed and sliced her over and over. But the spell was still there, still hushing her voice as the scream with nowhere to go reverted inward. It shook her bones, cleaved her ribcage in two as she screamed and screamed within. It broke her, ruined her as that sound and pain, that agony was kept locked within her and thrashed within its cage. But her tears ran freely, ran free just as she trembled and grasped at the floorboards in pure anguish and agony.

Until suddenly the whipping stopped, the chains disappeared and Professor Carrow, not her father, crouched in front of her and cupped her chin in such a tender manner. She winced at the touch, at the paradox of how soft and gentle he suddenly was with her in his true form, in his wizard form. It was if he was trying to teach two lessons in one – one being her lateness, and the other about the disgust of muggles. He removed the spell from her then, and Cilka couldn't help but gasp as her voice and cries aired into the room.

"There, there little Desta." Carrow cooed, taking her into his arms as he held her and brushed his hands over her hair. "That muggle won't hurt you anymore." He pulled back, pulled her to her feet as he cradled her face in such gentle hands. She hated it, hated each gentle touch as she knew how it would poison her memory, would stain her when another touched in her in such a way and cause fear to be associated with such a gesture. "But the thing is, I still want to hear you scream. Mr. Malfoy." Professor Carrow called, not letting his eyes leave Cilka's.

"Yes, Professor." Draco said, getting out of his desk and standing tall.

"The Cruciatus Curse is in order for Miss Desta. If you will." Cilka's eyes turned to Draco who stood behind Professor Carrow – his Slytherin robes impeccably straight and neat as was his hair and posture. He looked composed and calm, and yet within his eyes – she could see something more, something buried and hidden, something small and afraid.

Professor Carrow let go of Cilka, and at the absence of his hand she fell to the floor – not able to stand the pain that burned in her back. She sat on her knees, her arms wrapped around her dainty-self as she looked up into Draco's with wide and pleading eyes. Draco. He had always been Draco to her. He wasn't her friend, but he wasn't her enemy either. There was a silence between them – a silent softness and understanding of the misunderstood. She saw his pain, saw behind the superior mask he wore and he knew she did. She had helped heal him during his most vulnerable moments with Madame Pomfrey – had held his hand during sixth year in the hospital wing and sang him sweet lullabies as he healed more wounds than the physical. Nobody knew, and nobody needed to know. They barely said a word to one another, and yet there was this – this delicate look, this soft touch and tender care which silently seemed to pass between them.

And so, as he looked at her now, as she looked at him – she could see past his mask, see it crumble and reveal the small and shaky boy within. He was just a boy, and it was because of him, because of all he had been through and was facing that she longed to go back to him. To Tom Riddle before it was all too late.

"Mr. Malfoy. "Professor Carrow said impatiently. "I am not going to tell you again." And so Draco looked at Cilka, and Cilka looked up at Draco. His eyes silently asked her permission, silently asked for her forgiveness, and Cilka – looking up through tear-soaked eyes, gave it to him.

"Crucio!" He yelled, and Cilka screamed.

Cilka's screams still echoed within her long after, still echoed as her friends helped her to the rest of her classes, helped her to dinner and gave her hot coco in bed. It was still there – those screams. His eyes. Her fathers, Professor Carrows and Draco's…they were all there, all clenched around her lungs in their own suffocating hold. She lay in bed awake, her eyes open as Poesy kissed her cheek, Briony held her and Olive and Otilie sealed the door to their room for an added layer of protection. They had been with her until the clocked chimed past midnight, talking to her and soothing her trembles. Otilie tried to heal her, tried to mirror and remember what Cilka had done to her just a few nights earlier.

Cilka had laid on her back, the slashes exposed and raw as Briony held her hand and Poesy placed her hands on her calves in comfort. Otilie tried to heal her, healed her a little with magic and salve. But Cilka still felt it, still felt the cut of each slash and each scream which was kept within and without. They echoed within her, loud and yet hushed to the outside world. And when the girls turned their lights out and got into their own beds to sleep, Cilka still lay awake – not moving and her eyes still open, not making a sound.

Where did it all go? She wondered. Where did her hope go? This morning, the conversation she had with Professor Sprout and the hope blooming in her heart suddenly seemed to wilt, wilt and decay at those eyes. Cilka squeezed her eyes as tears spilled from them once more. Those eyes. She felt so silly, felt so lost and helpless at what to do. For when she looked into Professor Carrows eyes, when she looked into the illusion of her fathers – she suddenly doubted everything. Doubted if she could do this, if she could really go back in time and change the man who was responsible for all this. She pulled her knees to her chest as she cried, as she shivered in the night and buried her face against her knees. Could she really do this? Could she really change him?

No. She squeezed her eyes tighter. No. She said again in her mind, quashing those fears and doubts. She could do this, she could stop this. Sitting up and wiping her eyes, she gently lay her feet on the floor and slipped her arms through her dainty night robe.

Walking barefoot, she slipped out of her dormitory, through the common room and out into the basements. She could do this, she knows she can. The thought pulsed within her as she tiptoed through the darkness, her feet so light, nimble and bare as she went. She knew where he would be, hoped she knew where he would be and that the boy she saw beneath the mask was not an illusion nor trick of the eyes.

Pressing her hand onto the Prefects bathroom, she heard taps running to muffle the cry she knew would be there. Her heart pinched and ached as she walked through the puddles of water, as she tiptoed over the water tiles and towards the boy who crouched in the corner and cried. Seeing his light blond hair illumined softly by the moonlight, Cilka slowly and timidly shrunk to her knees, crouching before Draco as her hand so hesitant and shy hovered over his shoulder. He was so lost in his tears, so lost in his shakes that he did not notice her come in – his head buried in his knees. Taking a gentle breath, she placed her fingers on the fabric of his white skirt, pressing it to his shoulder as he stuttered and jumped underneath her careful touch.

He looked up at her with wide red rimmed eyes, panic and fear so alert in them. "It's alright." She whispered, moving to cup his face in her tiny hands. His skin was damp with tears, damp with salt and water as she held him so soft and gentle. Her thumbs slipped behind his ears as she pressed her forward to his.

"Cilka I-"

"I know." She said, hushing his words in a dulcet way. "I know." She repeated and moved to sit by his side. She wrapped her arms around him, held him as he let his head fall against the crook of her neck and sob. He was just a boy, she thought. Just a young boy who had a tortured soul, so desperate for love and approval – for belonging and a home. Just like him, she thought. Just like Tom Riddle. And so as they sat within the Prefects bathroom, as the taps continued to run and muffle the cries of the boy in her arms, that little spark of hope bloomed within her once more, it's petals resewed to the bud that held her together. Her fingers ran through his hair as he cried, as the crust of his mask fell and crumbled with each tear he shed. "It's alright." She continued to whisper to him, placing a small kiss on his head before she rested her check there. "Everything will be alright."

The days seemed to slip by faster than Cilka thought they may, and for most of them she spent nestled in a nook in the library researching about the boy she was about to meet. Most, if not all of it was horrors, but horrors that seemed to flutter past Cilka's eyes and settle in her heart as a motivating hope. It was his tragedy she was going to try and undo, the tragedy which draped and stained the walls and air within her now reality.

On her last night, with her bags packed and shrunk to pocket size, Cilka slipped into Briony's bed and held her hand. Her friends had been so protective of her since that day in DADA, had sheltered her and healed her, loved her and comforted her in the only way these sweet Hufflepuff girls could. She loved them, cherished them and having to say goodbye for a year pinched her heart in the yearning to tell them what she was about to do. But she knew she couldn't, knew she couldn't risk anything for their safety.

Her sister had visited last night through a looking-mirror, she sat poised and sweet with the background of a garden and cottage all hidden in meadows. Her hair was burnt sugar brown, her lips a blushing cherry blossom pink and her tummy blooming with the life nestled within her. She was young and beautiful, innocent and pregnant as her hand cradled her belly draped in a delicate white dress.

"Oh Cilka." She breathed, her voice the song of hummingbird as she spoke. "You have my worries frightening me so. I can barely sleep knowing you are within that castle. I wish I could pluck you out and bring you here, to braid your hair and place flowers in them like we did when we were little. This world…" She shivered as she spoke, as her eyes cracked and leaked the fear that over spilled from her quivering heart. "I don't think you nor I were made for it."

"Sometimes I think," Cilka began, her eyes softening at her sister's fragility. "Sometimes I think that too, that whoever made our souls accidentally tumbled them into the wrong world, the wrong time and era. And yet when they found out their mistake, it was too late to retrieve us."

"I think so too, for in my dreams…oh flowers, I think the place for us may be somewhere softer, somewhere-" Daisy stopped as she looked up, as her eyes looked past the mirror and to the one person who could make her eyes bloom and wilt without one flutter of his eyes.

"That may be," Remus began, his hand caressing Daisy's cheek as he stood before her – his scared hands tracing the soft curve of her face as his thumb lingered on her lower lip. Cilka watched as her sister fell into intimacy, as she fell into Remus and let his very touch envelop her true. She licked her lip in fluster, her pink tongue lightly brushing Remus's thumb in a movement so teasing and yet pure. "But I think I must disagree. The world without those with soft hearts would be a forever unamendable planet, forever cracked and ruined. But you," He sat beside her, his arm weaving around her waist as Daisy's eyes held his through each movement and word. "You and Cilka here, you may be what some call the needle to sew the wounded."

Cilka blushed at his words, blushed shy at the intimacy and love which gently fused the air with a scent and touch of sweet sugar and rose. The needle to sew the wounded. Cilka replayed Remus's words in her mind, let them remain an echo within the chamber of her mind. Needle to sew the wounded. Cilka had always thought she and her sister were too sensitive, broke too easily and felt things too deeply – but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe, through the blessing and curse which imbued the state of the sensitive soul, maybe that was what the world needed more of.

Dressed in a sweet white blouse with a peter pan collar and cupped sleeves, a long baby blue skirt and brown travelling boots – Cilka tapped on Professor Sprouts door and entered once given permission.

"My, my." Professor Sprout said, looking her over with a sad smile. "Aren't you dressed for the times. You'll fit right in." Professor Sprout held out her hand and took Cilka's, guiding her to her desk where a number of files and papers lay neatly.

"Thank you, Professor," Cilka said, squeezing Professor Sprout's hands before letting go and brushing her hair behind her ear. "For everything. I know when I came to you, you must have thought me a dizzy thing. I did too for a moment…I don't wish for you to think I am changing my mind when I say that I…well…I am afraid." For she was, she was afraid. Afraid to leave and afraid to begin.

"Oh Cilka." Professor Sprout sighed, cupping her cheek with a wide and open palm. "I would be worried if you weren't. I wish you would reconsider because all of this," she gestured to the files, "you don't have to do this. I can make it all go away with a flick of my wand."

"Oh Professor, I…" Cilka knotted her hands in front of her in a shy and nervous habit. "I do have to do this. Despite the fear that may be humming a constant song in my ear – I have to, I have to try."

"I know you do, dear." Professor Sprout said. "Now, here. Let me tie that pretty hair up of yours into a high ponytail before we get to the formalities." Cilka blushed at Professor Sprout's motherly ways, taking a seat on a wooden chair and retrieving a pastel blue ribbon from her pocket. "I heard about what happened to you in DADA the other day."

"Oh?" Cilka said a soft whisper, the cuts in her back aching in constant reminder of the events.

"If you can handle that, if you can go and comfort that Malfoy boy later who tortured you-"

Cilka straightened at the words of her Professor, at the secret which had been unveiled and slipped so known and revealed from her Professor's mouth. "Professor I-"

"Then you can handle anything." She quickly continued, hushing Cilka's flustered surprise. "You are braver than you know Miss Desta, not just in taking a spell such as that – but in going to comfort your enemy in the way in which you did. I think you know more about the wizard and muggle heart than most may ever in their lives, and that my dear," she finished tying Cilka's hair, walking in front of her and holding her gaze. "That my dear, is worth more than any grade or any prestige in life." Cilka let the words seep into her, let them rest upon her heart and fall into their pulsing bindings.

"How did you?" Cilka pondered, her question unfinished as Professor Sprout knew what rested on her mind.

"I saw you, you and Mr. Malfoy. I like to keep my eye on my students, especially those who tend to give into their dreams and wander." Cilka smiled at her words, smiled in knowing and timid embarassment as memories of her more wanderess moments caressed the rim of her mind. Standing and holding her Professors hands as she brought them up and between their chests. "I was very hesitant at the start, but in the end – I think you are the only one who can save us. For never mind spells and magic, there is nothing greater than the hearts condition to feel, to love. Your mother would be very proud of you, if she were here."

Cilka's eyes lightened at the mention of her mother, at the memory of her which blossomed in the air between them. She felt as if something opened inside her, as if that flicker of hope seemed to flare and dance with just her mention. "Really?" She asked, her thumb caressing her Professor's hands which she held.

"More than you know."

Cilka's reply remained mute on her tongue – the words there and yet there they stayed. She wanted to talk about her mother, about the possibility of going back and seeing her one last time if time travel was a thing so possible. But despite the wish to ask her Professor, to slip this one favour in to such a time travel mark, a part of her knew that she couldn't. And so she swallowed those words, swallowed them and let them tumble down so the thought would remain just that - a thought.

"I, I think it may be time." Cilka voiced, taking a seat upon the wooden chair. "I've done some research into Tom Riddle, quite a bit that I think his history has overtaken the space in my mind to study for N.E. but, but despite all of that I'm afraid I've been a little helpless on knowing the intricacies of time travel." The prospect of time travel eluded Cilka so, eluded her as she tried to research and discover its core. And yet despite all her readings, she couldn't find anything on it. She couldn't help but wonder why that may be, that maybe it was because if it's possibility to time travel was so free and accessible – that time in itself would crumble and fall apart.

"And that is what I am here for. Now, as I said last time I'm going to send you back in time to 1944, September 2nd for your and Tom Riddle's final year. Nowhere else, and no longer." Cilka straighten at those last words, as if Professor Sprout knew the lure of time travel all too well. For it was, a lure. Cilka thought that if time travel were a person – then they would be the most seductive of kinds, seductive and tempting – too tempting that obsession may consume and devour. For with time-travel, with the yearning Cilka had in her heart for the unknown and hidden, for the past – she could understand how dangerous it would be. Not just for time, but for the soul.

Cilka watched as Professor Sprout rounded her desk, pulled out her chair and sat before the files that lay before them. "You'll arrive at Platform 9 and ¾ and travel with the rest of the students to Hogwarts. Now here," she paused as she held a piece of parchment and skimmed them with her eyes as if to make a final check. "Here are your transfer papers. You'll be transferring from a small country school named Ellwood Wands and Magics. It was a quaint little school for young wizards and witches who were raised in the countryside of England. Small enough not to cause any questions of curiosities or complications at the idea of a transfer."

"Was?" Cilka asked, picking up on the past-tense and unspoken tale that seemed to linger there.

"Yes, I'm afraid." But Professor Sprout said no more and Cilka did not wish to push, not just yet anyways. "I have your transfer papers here," Professor Sprout said, holding them out to Cilka who took them carefully, "and here are the classes I have enrolled you in." Cilka reached forward, taking those pieces of parchment too before looking over them with curious eyes.

Care of Magical Creatures

Herbology

Potions

Charms

Transfiguration

Defense Against the Dark Arts

Magic in Visual and Fine Arts

Healer Potions and Spells

Cilka's finger hovered over the last two, her heart hiccupping in the sweet surprise at the two new additions. She hadn't seen those subjects before, hadn't heard of them for if she had, then she would have taken them within a moment. Her painter's fingers seemed to quake over the Visual Arts course, and her healer's wish stired within her at the second.

"I think my eyes must be deceiving me." Cilka breathed. "How come they don't offer those subjects now?" She pondered aloud.

"Well, back then it was an option for students to take an artistic or life-class. After seeing your work in our common room, I thought this would be the perfect choice for you. As with Healer Potions and Spells, because of the war back then – WWII being that is, the school thought it wise to offer such a class to help them prepare if they so wished to join in the aid." WWII, Cilka had always thought it was a human war – and yet now she was not so sure. "Now, once you arrive at Hogwarts I want you to seek out Professor Ashwood, he was the head of Hufflepuff House back then. Of course he doesn't know that you are a Hufflepuff, but I trust he will look after you."

Cilka nodded, pocketing each piece of information within her mind as her eyes skimmed over her transfer papers and her ears listened. "Will Dumbledore be there?" Cilka asked, her eyes flicking up to Professor Sprout. There was a longing in Cilka's eyes as she asked, a longing to restore a moment or even the flutter of an interaction with a man who parted too soon. "I read that he used to teach Transfiguration then."

"Yes, that is correct." Professor Sprout replied, yet her voice seemed slightly distance, as if lost in a faraway thought, or perhaps even a past one, past memory. "Knowing him, he will seek to look after you too." Her words were laced with love, with pained love and loss and unhealed grief. "Although you are going back a long way, I think you'll find many friends along the way." She smiled a sad smile, but only for a moment. For in the next, she forced her smile to be a little wider and her eyes a little brighter. "Now, time for the time-travel potion."

"The potion?" Cilka asked in surprise, her eyebrows furrowing in curiosity as she turned in fluster to watch her Professor rise and move across the room. "I'm sorry for my clumsy nature but I, I thought I would be travelling through a time-turner?" She wondered softly, pocketing the documents in her pocket and rising to follow her Professor.

"I'm afraid a time-turner will not take you back as far as you need, but- " Professor Sprout moved to her draws, opened the top one and pulled out a potion concealed in a dainty glass bottle in the shape of a rosebud. "This will." Professor Sprout approached Cilka carefully, the potion held between her fingers with such care and such distance from her chest that it made it seem dangerous. And perhaps it was, in some ways – time and soul.

"When you drink this," Professor Sprout began. "Once you drink this, you will be bound to its time and rules. Rules that once you drink it you will be sent back to the first day of term, 1944 – but when the day comes of the last day of term, it will send you back here, to this very day without a blink of your doing."

Cilka took a dainty step towards the potion, her fingers outstretching as they grazed the glass bottle. The liquid within was a pale pink, a pale pink that looked as if it had been stolen from the petals of a rose or dahlia. Small bubbles rose within it, slow and round as they moved upwards. "How does it work?" She asked, mesmerized by its appearance. Cilka had always loved potions, always kept the subject close to her heart as she knew it would propel her into the career of a healer. But she had never seen a potion like this, never been so taken and teased by its appearance. Yet she supposed that's what made it so linked to time – the temptation, the seduction.

"The potion is crafted from a flower so rare that one would think it is more myth and fairytale. For it is a flower that is unbosomed and unformed. Not yet even a seed. Once you drink this, the potion will become a seed in your heart – grow within you for one year until it has reached its last day, your last day in 1945. And then," Professor Sprout placed the potion in Cilka's little hand, "then we will see what has be done."

Cilka nodded, nodded as she placed her free hand on her chest where this time-traveling seed would be planted and rest. For her friends and for Draco, for her sweet sister and Remus – for her and for him. Cilka gently took the cap of, the smell of sugar-coated berries and nostalgia teasing her nose.

"I'll see you soon." Cilka said, her eyes prickling with tears that she did not know where there until they fell and brushed her parted lips.

"It'll be a blink of an eye for me." Professor Sprout replied, worry and anxiousness claiming her eyes. "Be safe sweetheart, be safe and come back as you." Cilka didn't understand her last words, didn't understand what her Professor meant by to come back as herself. For of course she would come back as her. Wouldn't she?

Cilka raised the potion to her lips, tilting her head back as she let it slip down her throat and into its resting place for a year. Her hands trembled at the sensation of it within her, trembled as she dropped and glass rosebud and heard it smash upon the wooden floor. Her shaky fingers reached out to Professor Sprout and Professor Sprout reached out to her – but when she looked at her hands, she saw they were fading. Her fingers went through her Professor's like that of a ghost, and Cilka began to panic ever so slightly. She had nothing to hold, nothing to ground herself – she felt as if she was translucence and hovering, hovering and untethered to this reality because she realised now that she was. She felt herself falling, felt the stitches that sewed her to this reality and era come undone and shift.

"Everything will be alright." Cilka said, her voice so soft and fragile as she wept. But weep for what and who she was not sure.

"It will be my dear, it will." Professor Spout said, her eyes helpless and her solid fingers went through Cilka's once more. "Deep breathes now, Cilka. Deep breathes." Cilka nodded, nodded as her heart beat faster and she looked down to see her hands nearly completely faded. "Take care now, and remember – the world needs more love, make that your mission. Make that your heart, and no matter what - don't forget who you are."

Cilka gave Professor Sprout one last smile, one last look of love and hope and tears –tears she suddenly knew were watering the seed now plated within her. Tears that cleansed her and washed her anew. She parted her lips to speak, to whisper her one last farewell to her beloved Professor, but before she could, before she could even take one more dulcet breath – Cilka blinked and found herself standing on platform 9 and ¾, 1944.