Solara Lovegood and the Shadow of the Dragon
Chapter XV: The Valyrian Phantom
"Damn you, Granger, you shouldn't leave me to my own devices," Solara groaned as she awoke midday on the Sunday following what should have been Hermione's Saturday study session. Her head throbbed as if it had been bludgeoned with a mace. For once, she was grateful that the windows of the Slytherin dormitories did not allow for direct sunlight.
After being regaled by Weasley about one Seamus Finnigan's ill-fated attempt to turn water into rum the night after the troll incident, she had decided to try it herself—once her stomach had settled. What had begun as mere curiosity had quickly turned into a personal celebration of besting the troll and, if she was honest with herself, a way to settle her nerves. She had been terrified that night, trembling in her sleep afterward, though she would never admit it—to herself or anyone else.
Only, of course, she had used her own variation of the incantation. Instead of rum, she had sought to conjure the rich, fruity wine she remembered from the Reach—Arbor Gold, she recalled, with a hint of wistful regret.
"Eye of dragon, bowstrings scream, shape this water, make it gleam," she murmured in her mind, recalling how, with a soft puff of smoke, the goblet of water she had taken to her outdoor study session—without Hermione's knowledge, as the girl had been elsewhere, off gallivanting with the boys—had transformed into a golden liquid, its aroma intoxicating even before she had taken a sip.
She had tested the beverage first, offering a few drops to a large, familiar-looking, ugly rat that had been lingering nearby—its right index finger oddly missing. The creature had licked the liquid off her fingertip and, after a brief pause, had promptly become inebriated, stumbling in circles before collapsing into a drunken stupor beneath the shade of a tree. Easy pickings for Vhagar, had she spotted him—which, fortunately for the rat, she had not.
Encouraged by the result, she had wisely refrained from drinking an entire goblet's worth, pouring most of it away. What remained, however, had been delicious—far too delicious. A mere quarter of a goblet had been more than enough. She remembered being utterly useless for the rest of the day, her thoughts unfocused, her limbs sluggish. Thankfully, that Saturday evening had been mercifully quiet.
Now, lying in bed, practically dead to the world, she swore never to partake in such beverages again—not until she was old enough to tolerate them without feeling as though she had been trampled by a horse. And preferably when the risk of disciplinary action wasn't quite so high. She had certainly never intended to be laid out so completely after just a few sips. Still, she made a mental note to refine its casting at a later date—both to improve its effects and, perhaps, to sell it on the market for a tidy profit.
The relentless pounding in her skull and the sharp ache behind her eyes drew a low, pained growl from her as she buried her face deeper into her pillow.
Still, despite the agony, she was at least grateful that she had managed to keep her wits about her that night. Cowing Bulstrode and Parkinson earlier in the week had ensured they would not meddle if they sensed anything unusual—nor question it if they did. Greengrass, on the other hand, had seemed almost amused. Her knowing glances lingered just a little too long, as if she were in on some unspoken secret. And then, of course, there was the effect the story of her slaying the troll had had on the rest of Slytherin House. Even some of the older students, who had previously sneered at her, now gave her a wide berth.
This afternoon, however, had rendered the dormitory she shared with the three girls, abandoned. Their beds were neatly made, and nothing was amiss.
Vhagar, perched nearby, stared at her intently, his amber eyes gleaming with irritation. With a sharp hoot, the great owl leaned in and nipped at the tip of Solara's nose.
"Yes, yes, I'm up," she groaned, stretching as she gently pushed away the feathered beauty. The moment she moved, a sharp wince crossed her features—her back pulsing with pain. Though she had feigned being uninjured in front of the others, the bruises and cuts from being slammed against the wall during the troll fight still ached fiercely. She had refused to show weakness—her pride would never allow it, just as it had kept her from acknowledging the lingering fear that had coiled in her gut following the battle.
"Ow," she muttered, reaching back with her left hand to massage the sore spot. When she pulled her fingers away, she spotted a small red stain.
"Ugh," she grumbled into her pillow.
A deep yawn escaped her lips before another pulse of pain throbbed through her skull. "Grrr," she growled, the Muggle saying "When it rains, it pours" resonating in her head as she pressed two fingers to her temple, attempting to rub away the ache. She lay still for a moment longer—until Vhagar hooted again, this time with more urgency.
With a long sigh, Solara sat up, wincing as she did so, letting her feet dangle over the bedside. "Let me wash up, and I'll be back for you. Shouldn't take long," she whispered, running a gentle finger across the middle of her owl's head.
Gathering fresh clothing from her dresser, Solara switched out of her faintly stained nightgown before making her way out of the dormitory. Her wand, concealed beneath the neatly folded garments in her arms, rested within easy reach as she ascended the stairs to the common room and headed toward the showers. However, the moment she stepped into the common room, she was met with an unexpected sight—a gathering of nine first-year Slytherin half-bloods, including Alcedine, Nockhull, and Grangle, all seemingly waiting for her.
"You're up!" Grangle exclaimed, snapping his book shut as he leapt to his feet. "Where are you going? Can we accompany you?"
"Um. No," she said firmly. "I'm heading to the showers. I need to freshen up."
"We can go with you, to make sure no one messes with you," Nockhull offered, her cheeks flushing a rosy red. The small, tea-colored girl beside her nodded in agreement.
"Yeah," the others echoed in unison.
Solara raised a brow at the offer, considering it for a moment, then sighed. If she did not use the momentum of her troll slaying and resistance to the pure-blood bullies now, she knew it would be that much harder to regain.
"If you insist," she said finally, shifting her attention to Grangle and the three other boys in the room whose names she didn't yet know. "You four," she pointed them out, "will stand guard outside the lavatories, and you…" she trailed off, glancing expectantly at three of the girls, waiting for their names.
"Tracey Davis," the supremely average-looking one chirped, her slightly crooked teeth brilliantly white as she smiled.
"And I'm Belladonna Hexley," the second girl announced proudly, her short golden curls appearing more like a doll's wig than natural hair.
"Selene Hawthorne," the last one said, nodding tersely with a slight bow. Her straight black hair cascaded over her shoulders as she did so, accentuating her pale skin and striking violet eyes. Her poise hinted at some form of regal training or exposure.
"Yes," Solara said, satisfied. "You three, along with Alcedine and Nockhull, will guard me while I bathe."
A deep blush spread across their faces as she issued the command.
"You needn't step into the shower with me," she added dryly, rolling her eyes. "Just be in the same room. And don't stare at me."
They all nodded, hastily putting away their things before following Solara to the lavatories.
Their trek was brief, punctuated by only minor exchanges between the assorted students—none of whom, thankfully, attempted to engage her in conversation.
Soon enough, scalding hot water cascaded over her aching body. Solara found herself staring down at the swirling drain, where faint traces of red mixed with the soapy water. Her thoughts were a tangled mess of fear and doubt—emotions she fought to suppress through sheer force of will, yet they refused to relent. Her hands tightened around the enchanted pipes of the shower stall, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat enveloping her.
The small space was thick with vapor, curling around her like a shroud. Closing her eyes, she felt the echoes of her near-death encounter with the troll stir something deep within—a memory not quite forgotten, yet distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
She saw Maegor.
His laughter rang in her ears—bright, wild, and unburdened, the way only a child's could be. His tiny form, a bundle of boundless energy, darted along the grassy path leading toward the Dragonmont, his silver-gold hair catching the sunlight, turning it into a halo. He ran with reckless joy, forever testing the limits of his little legs, his cheeks flushed with exertion. How small he had been. How terribly small.
"One day, you'll claim a dragon of your own, my sweet child," she felt herself say, her lips moving with the memory. She could see herself standing tall, clad in dark ringmail reinforced with engraved pauldrons, her gauntleted hands resting at her sides. A crimson cloak, fastened with a silver dragon-shaped brooch, billowed behind her, and Dark Sister hung at her hip, its hilt worn from countless battles. Above, Vhagar's massive form glided across the sky, her shadow swallowing the fields in an embrace both fearsome and protective.
Maegor had believed her. He always had. His violet eyes—so like hers, yet filled with a wonder she had long since lost—gleamed with certainty. "A big one, like Vhagar?" he had asked, his voice tinged with innocent greed.
She had chuckled then, ruffling his silken hair. "If you're strong enough to claim one, little dragon, perhaps even bigger."
The pride on his face had been blinding, his tiny fists clenching as if he could already feel reins between his fingers, as if he had already taken to the skies.
But the memory had edges, fraying at the seams. The warmth of the sun, the scent of salt and earth, the distant caw of gulls—all of it faded, leaving only the ache.
His laughter was gone.
Her eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
The water was too hot. It seared her skin, leaving it red, as if she could burn the pain and uncertainty out of her body. But it wasn't enough. It never was.
She shook herself from the reverie and turned the knobs, stopping the scalding cascade as the last remnants of water spiraled down the drain, swallowed by the blackness of the small steel grates. The echo of dripping water filled the space, each droplet unnervingly loud against the tiles, as though the silence itself were straining to listen.
For a moment, she simply stood there, the heat still clinging to her skin, her breath coming in slow, controlled exhales. Then, she lifted her gaze toward the pipes where she had set her wand, fingers brushing against the cool wood as she reached for the towel hanging just behind the showerhead.
She dried herself off quickly, the soft cotton dragging over fresh bruises and lingering soreness, each brush against her skin a sharp reminder of the battle that had nearly cost her her life. The deeper aches throbbed dully beneath the surface, a whisper of the pain she refused to fully acknowledge. Finally, she wrapped the towel securely around herself, concealing her form beneath thick, reassuring layers.
Stepping out into the larger shower room, she was met with a wall of suffocating steam. The air was cloyingly warm, thick with moisture, pressing against her like unseen hands. A flick of her wand should have been enough to clear it—but as she cast the spell, the haze barely shifted, curling in on itself as though reluctant to leave.
Her brows furrowed. "That's odd."
"Alcedine? Nockhull?" she called, her voice sharper than intended as unease coiled in her stomach. She strained her ears, listening—waiting—but the only response was the slow, methodical drip of water. The absence of their presence gnawed at her.
They wouldn't have left. Not without telling her. Not unless something—
Her jaw tightened. Had she still been Queen, she would have had them executed for dereliction of duty.
Her fingers tightened around her wand as she took cautious steps forward, the damp tiles slick beneath her feet. She neared the sink, her movements slow and deliberate, scanning her surroundings with every step.
Then—
A breath.
Soft. Warm. Unmistakably close.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, her skin prickling as the warmth of it ghosted along her damp spine.
She whirled around instantly, wand poised to strike.
Nothing.
Her pulse thundered against her ribs, her breathing shallow. Her heart slammed hard enough that she felt the rhythm in her throat, but she swallowed down the spike of fear with an irritated scowl. "It's just the steam. It's just the heat," she told herself, though the words rang hollow.
"If this is someone's idea of humor, you won't be laughing when I send you to Pomfrey," she warned, her voice edged with both anger and unease. Her grip on her wand tightened until her knuckles burned. "Peeves?! If this is your doing, I'll find a way to permanently rid Hogwarts of your mischief!"
Silence.
No cackling specter. No shriek of mischievous laughter.
Only silence.
A sharp, uneasy breath left her lungs. She forced herself to take another, steadying it, willing away the tension coiling in her gut. "This is nothing. Just a trick of the mind," she tried reassuring herself once more, with no success.
With a final, sharp glance around the empty space, she turned on her heel—
And froze.
A figure loomed in the mirror, just behind her.
Clad in black ringmail, its form shifted within the mist, as though reality itself struggled to contain it. The armor, an intricate weave of darkened steel, clung to its spectral frame, the edges glinting with a ghostly sheen. A high gorget framed the pallid throat, and over its shoulders, the tattered remains of a sable cloak drifted as if caught in an unseen current. Gauntlets, jointed like the talons of some abyssal beast, flexed ever so slightly at its sides.
Unnaturally sunken eyes—like shards of amethyst gleaming from an abyss—bore into hers. Pale skin stretched over sharp, predatory teeth, its lips slightly parted, as if about to speak.
A slow, deliberate hand rose toward her, fingers too long, too elegant—too wrong.
A sharp inhale ripped from her lungs.
She knew this face.
She knew those eyes.
The features were distorted, monstrous—but undeniably hers.
Visenya.
The name struck her like a hammer to the chest, the past colliding with the present in a brutal, unrelenting wave. The woman in the mirror—the thing in the mirror—was her. Or at least, the ghost of who she once was, twisted into something that should not be.
The figure's lips moved—but no sound came.
Instead, the words pressed against the inside of her skull, foreign yet familiar, a whisper without a voice, crawling through her mind like a living thing.
Pathetic.
Solara stumbled back, her breath hitching, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Her bare foot slipped on the wet tile.
Gravity yanked her down.
She barely had time to register the cold shock of the floor before pain exploded at the back of her skull. A sickening crack rang out, the sound vibrating through the empty chamber as her vision blurred at the edges, black spots creeping in.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole—
Was the figure in the mirror.
Still standing.
Still watching.
And utterly disappointed.
She awoke to a dull throbbing in her skull, her mind still foggy before gradually sharpening to awareness.
"The infirmary," she groaned, her voice hoarse.
A sudden yelp at her side startled her, followed almost instantly by the sensation of tiny, warm arms wrapping around her. Then another set—slightly larger but just as eager.
"Ahhh!" she winced, her body too weak to fend off her tiny assailants.
"You're awake! We thought you dieded," came a muffled voice against her chest. Maeg—no, Gaius.
Craning her neck, she caught sight of pale hair nestled against her, two small forms pressed tightly to her chest. The warmth of their tears dampened her tunic.
Luna was the first to lift her head, silver eyes bright with relief.
"Mother! Father!" she cried.
Solara turned toward the infirmary entrance just as they rushed in, followed closely by Madam Pomfrey.
"Merlin's beard! You're alright!" her father exclaimed, striding toward her bedside—only to be shoved aside as her mother swooped in, enveloping all three of them in a crushing embrace.
Beneath their weight, her body protested with sharp, aching pain, but she still managed a weak, wry grin as she returned their embrace as best she could. The top of her head felt tight—the telltale pull of bandages wrapped around her skull.
"I fear I may still expire through suffocation," she muttered, feeling the gentle shaking of her mother's chest as a soft chuckle escaped her lips.
"Everyone, away! I must examine her," Pomfrey commanded.
Reluctantly, the three still clinging to her drew back, hesitating as if afraid she might disappear the moment they let go.
With practiced efficiency, Madam Pomfrey set to work, her hands firm but careful as she pressed cool fingers against Solara's temples, feeling for swelling.
"You took quite the nasty fall," she tutted, drawing her wand and waving it over Solara's head in a slow, deliberate arc. A faint golden glow shimmered along the bandages, flickering briefly before fading. "Fortunately, your housemates acted quickly and reported it to the staff without delay."
"Now, any dizziness? Blurred vision?" Pomfrey asked, scrutinizing her with a sharp gaze.
Solara exhaled, taking stock of the dull ache radiating through her skull. "A bit of both," she admitted. "Fall? What fall? What happened?"
The matron hummed in acknowledgment but ignored the questions, her lips pursed as she tapped her wand lightly against Solara's temple. A cool sensation seeped into her skin, dulling the pain ever so slightly.
"You slipped in the showers, and you're lucky it wasn't worse. I mended the fracture, but you'll need rest—plenty of it. No strenuous activity, no tomfoolery, and no sudden movements," she instructed, narrowing her eyes as if daring Solara to argue.
Solara merely offered a noncommittal hum, which did nothing to lessen the sharp, knowing look Pomfrey shot her.
With a flick of her wand, Pomfrey summoned a small vial filled with deep blue liquid and handed it over. "Drink. It will help with the lingering pain and speed up your recovery."
Solara eyed the potion warily before knocking it back in one go, wincing at the thick, bitter taste coating her tongue.
"Ugh," she grimaced, coughing lightly. "That's vile."
"And yet, it works," Pomfrey replied dryly, already tucking her wand back into her apron.
Solara let her head rest against the pillows before glancing at Pomfrey with a furrowed brow. "How long was I unconscious?"
Pomfrey's lips pressed into a thin line before she sighed. "Two weeks."
Solara's eyes widened. "Two weeks?!"
She shot up—only to immediately regret it as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Pomfrey tutted in disapproval, gently but firmly pushing her back down onto the mattress.
"I told you—no sudden movements."
Solara groaned, rubbing her temples. Two weeks. Half a month wasted in bed. A thought struck her, and her brows furrowed further.
"What about the House Points?" she asked, turning her gaze back to Pomfrey. "Did we keep our lead?"
Pomfrey's expression shifted slightly, exasperation mingling with the faintest trace of amusement. "Harry Potter won Gryffindor their Quidditch match against Slytherin. With that, they pulled ahead."
Solara exhaled sharply, irritation flickering behind her eyes. "So, we're second now."
"Yes."
Her jaw clenched, but she forced herself to relax, exhaling slowly. Two weeks lost, Slytherin slipping to second place—it was a frustrating setback, but not an insurmountable one. "Granger is going to enjoy rubbing this in."
Pomfrey crossed her arms. "You'll remain here for observation for the next few hours, and if all goes well, you may return to your dormitory by nightfall."
Solara sighed, letting the warmth of the potion lull her into a drowsy calm.
Her mother brushed a gentle hand over her forehead, and her father placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"Rest, Solara," he murmured.
For once, she did not fight it.
Sometime during the day, her eyes fluttered open lazily, vision still hazy as she took in the scene before her. Her parents stood near the far side of the infirmary, engaged in quiet conversation with the Headmaster, their expressions unreadable. Nearby, Luna sat perched on a stool, speaking animatedly with the Gryffindor and Slytherin trio, their faces a mixture of curiosity and concern. Of the Slytherin trio, all three had bandages all over their hands, with Nockhull having one across her cheek.
Too tired to entertain any conversation, Solara let her heavy eyelids fall shut once more, allowing sleep to reclaim her.
When she awoke again, the infirmary was bathed in the soft, golden hues of dusk, the last remnants of sunlight casting long shadows across the polished floor. The air carried the faint scent of antiseptic herbs, which she had missed earlier, mingling with the distant crackle of torches in the corridor beyond.
Her mother lay slumped at the foot of her bed, snoring softly, thick strands of pale hair draped over her like tangled silk. The dim light of the infirmary cast soft shadows across her face, making her appear far more exhausted than Solara had ever seen her.
Her siblings and father were nowhere to be seen, leaving the room eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall and the gentle rustling of the sheets as Solara shifted.
She parted her lips. "Am…"
Before the second word had even fully formed, Madam Pomfrey materialized beside her bed as if summoned by mere thought.
"Ah! You're up!" Pomfrey declared, her sharp eyes sweeping over Solara with a mixture of satisfaction and scrutiny. Without hesitation, she bustled closer, wand already in hand, leaning in to reexamine her patient.
At that moment, her mother jolted awake with a sudden snore, blinking blearily before rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair falling further into disarray.
Pomfrey barely spared her a glance before flicking her wand over Solara's bandaged head, as she had before. A faint, shimmering light cascaded down, rippling like water before fading. She hummed in approval.
"No lingering swelling… Vision steady… Reflexes—" she lingered, as if awaiting something. "Sit up, slowly."
"Okay," Solara groaned, rising gently.
"Now hang your legs over the side of the cot," the woman commanded.
After some effort, she did so, and without warning, Madam Pomfrey tapped Solara's knee with the tip of her wand. Her leg twitched instinctively.
Pomfrey gave a satisfied nod. "Good. No signs of lingering trauma. How's the pain?"
Solara exhaled, rolling her shoulders slightly. "Dull, but manageable."
Pomfrey sniffed. "As expected. The potion's still working through your system, but the worst has passed." She tucked her wand away and straightened. "I suppose I can finally discharge you."
Solara felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.
"Again. You're to avoid any strenuous activity," Pomfrey continued, her voice brooking no argument. "Absolutely no more reckless behavior." She shot her a pointed look.
Solara offered a weak but amused smirk. "I make no promises."
Pomfrey huffed. "Honestly, you're as bad as Potter." She turned on her heel, already muttering to herself about reckless students giving her more gray hairs.
Solara chuckled softly, shaking her head, but as the humor faded, a quiet sigh escaped her lips. She turned her gaze toward her mother, finding Pandora still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The exhaustion was plain in the lines on her face, a deep weariness that no amount of rest could truly erase.
"You stayed the whole time?" Solara asked, her voice softer now.
Pandora blinked at her, then let out a tired but affectionate scoff. "Of course I did. Unfortunately, your father had work, and the children couldn't stay up so late. Besides, there wasn't enough room in the infirmary for all of us to sleep here."
Solara arched a skeptical brow, glancing around at the rather spacious hospital wing. "Are you certain?"
Her mother gave a one-shouldered shrug before narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Well… we did all sleep here for the first week, but after that, a certain chairman of the Board of Governors—who shall not be named—somehow caught wind of us doing so and forced the Headmaster to limit it to only one parent." Her voice turned mocking as she added, "So as to discourage Hogwarts from being used to house destitute families."
Solara's expression darkened. "Board of Gov—" She caught on mid-sentence, her jaw tightening. "Malfoy," she growled softly, small fists clenching against the blankets.
Pandora gave a slow, deliberate nod, her expression unreadable. "Questionable Governors aside," she continued, smoothly changing the subject, "I think your friend, Granger, was quite taken with Luna. She seemed… a bit surprised."
Solara's lips twitched, her smirk replacing the lingering frown. She could easily imagine Hermione's reaction—Luna had a way of leaving people either utterly endeared or completely bewildered. More often than not, both.
Pandora reached over to the chair beside her, retrieving a neatly folded uniform before placing it on the edge of the bed. "Here. I brought a fresh change for you."
Then, after a brief hesitation, her gaze softened, and she asked, "Do you need help?"
Solara instinctively opened her mouth to refuse—but the moment she shifted, weakness pulsed through her limbs, her legs feeling like lead. Her pride bristled, but it was quickly overshadowed by the very real awareness of her body's limits.
She exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly. "N… Yes," she admitted begrudgingly.
Her mother's eyes softened, but she said nothing, only offering her hands to help.