It was only on the train back to Hogwarts that Eleanor spoke to Berenice.

"I need to speak to you," Berenice's voice was a hushed whisper, her fingers curling around Eleanor's upper arm as she leaned in close, the heat of her breath sending a shiver down Eleanor's spine.

"Where?" Eleanor asked quietly, glancing nervously at her mother. Since the party at the Parkinsons, Astraea had been in unusually high spirits. As promised, she had whisked Eleanor off to Chago's for an extravagant lunch, even going so far as to keep her father from his usual dose of Oblivion spells. But all Eleanor could think about was that night at the Parkinsons'. Her stomach churned every time the memory resurfaced.

"Tonight. Seventh floor. You know the room." Berenice's eyes were intense, unblinking, before she pulled away and disappeared into the crowd.

Later that evening, Hogwarts' torches cast long, eerie shadows along the stone corridors, the flickering light almost sinister in its quiet intensity.

The day had passed in a blur. Eleanor barely remembered unstrapping Nemea's basket or scooping roast potatoes onto her plate during dinner. She hadn't even noticed when she arrived back in the dormitory, or what she had said to Lucy. The noise of her heels echoing through the old castle felt almost too loud, as though it were signalling some impending doom.

Her footsteps faltered as she approached the seventh floor. She passed the familiar, worn stone walls and approached the hidden door, which revealed itself to her touch. She didn't need to speak the incantation—after all, the room had become their secret haven, a place no one else knew. Not even Adrian.

She paused. George had once been an unwelcome intrusion in this space, though she'd tried to pretend it hadn't affected her. His sudden appearance that night had rattled her more than she'd cared to admit. It had taken every ounce of her composure to remain calm as he had invaded their little sanctuary. Still, she didn't think about that now.

With a soft sigh, Eleanor opened the door. She was the first to arrive, as usual.

The room inside was unchanged, exactly as it had been when George had dropped in to brew an Ageing Potion. The worn, velvet sofa in front of the fireplace still held a trace of the memories of that night. Eleanor's gaze lingered on it for a moment, her mind flashing back to the sight of George rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, his muscular forearms visible, before he had gone and twisted the tongue of that blasted Gryffindor Chaser.

It was all before he'd so casually labelled her just another Slytherin.

Shaking her head, Eleanor surveyed the room again, pushing those thoughts aside. Since Emil Rosier had dropped her father's name at the Parkinsons' party, she'd felt nauseous—like the world was spinning out of her control.

Before that night, she had been content to live under the impression that she was just another child of a Muggle father. The truth had been staring her in the face for years. The raven-black hair, the coldness in her mother's eyes when she spoke about Sirius Black—it was all coming together, too late.

"Pleione Lyra Black." That was what her mother had almost named her. Had she really been born into this? Or had she been remade in the wizarding world's image?

"You're here. Good."

The voice cut through her thoughts like a sharp knife. Berenice had entered quietly, closing the door behind her. Her grey eyes were wide, bloodshot, as though she hadn't slept in days.

"Bunny! What's wrong?" Eleanor asked, worry creeping into her voice.

But Berenice didn't answer immediately. Instead, she grabbed Eleanor by the shoulders and fixed her with a look that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

"What happened at the Parkinsons'? Tell me everything. What happened?"

Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke, and Eleanor, for the first time, saw how truly distressed her friend was.

With a sigh, Eleanor gently pushed Berenice down onto the sofa. "Rosier laid it on thick with my mother. He took me aside. I think he knows more than he's letting on about the Quidditch World Cup." She paused, her fists clenching. "He wanted to know what I knew about Sirius Black. He's convinced Black is a threat to the Tournament, and he suspects I know something."

The cold sensation that had crept over her when Emil spoke of Sirius Black rushed through her again.

"I think he used Legilimency. I knew it instantly, but he's...gifted. Too gifted for me to block."

Eleanor rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of her words. "I think he saw something. I don't know. But once he realised I didn't know anything, he went right back to being charming. Apologised, kissed me." She winced at the memory. "Like it was nothing."

"And you?" Berenice's voice was insistent, piercing through Eleanor's thoughts. "What did you feel? After the Legilimency? What was going through you?"

Eleanor frowned. The force of Berenice's grip on her hands was tight, almost desperate.

"A nausea that wouldn't go away," she whispered. "It hit me all at once. The gossip about my mother, about Black... I'm his daughter, Berenice. That's what it means."

Berenice released her hands and stood up, pacing back and forth across the room. Her steps were swift, urgent, like she couldn't quite keep still.

"Since the Parkinsons', everything's changed for you, Eleanor. Everything's changed for your future." Berenice's voice trembled as she spoke. "Since that night, I've seen the future twist around you, not in the way it usually does, but more like... like something's fallen over you."

She stopped pacing, her silver eyes fixed on the ground as though searching for something, a lost thread she couldn't quite grasp.

"I didn't understand what I was seeing at first. But now... it's darker. More dangerous." Berenice's voice rose, trembling with urgency. "And then Rosier showed up. That's when I realised—he's a force, Eleanor. He's dangerous."

She paused, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. "I was terrified when I couldn't see how it could change. I couldn't See it. And then... that night at the Parkinsons', you started to fade. It was as if you stopped existing, Eleanor. Like your future became a blur, and I couldn't see where it went."

Berenice looked back at Eleanor, her face almost pleading. "What happened before I came in? What were you thinking?"

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat. "I don't know," she muttered. "I was thinking about Sirius Black... and how, since that night, everything's starting to make sense. Why my mother calls me Pleione. Maybe... maybe she really did name me that here, in the Wizarding World. I've been living a lie." Her voice faltered at the thought, bitterness creeping in.

Berenice sank onto the sofa beside her, eyes wide with understanding. "You're stronger now," she murmured. "That realisation, it's changed you. You're not Eleanor Seymour anymore, are you? You're Pleione Black. And you've finally realised it."

Eleanor swallowed hard. There was a part of her that had always known. But now it was no longer a distant, half-formed thought. It was clear. She wasn't who she thought she was. She was Pleione Lyra Black, and she would have to live with that.

With an odd sense of finality, Berenice looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Say it. Say you're Pleione Black. Claim your birthright."

Eleanor exhaled slowly, as if she had been holding her breath for years. Then, in a voice as firm as she could muster, she said, "My name is Pleione Lyra Black. I am the daughter of Sirius Orion Black and Astraea Theia Fawley. I am the heiress of the House of Black, and I claim my birthright."

The room seemed to hum with energy, and for a moment, the air grew heavy.

No one saw the faint golden lines that began to form on a tattered tapestry in a crumbling townhouse somewhere in London. From the remnants of a scorched portrait, one thin line traced its way down to reveal a new image, unmistakably resembling Eleanor. Beneath it, the namePleione Lyra Blackappeared in elegant, swirling letters.

The second line of gold drifted sideways, settling on a smaller portrait that had materialized beside the charred one. The nameAstraea Theia Fawleyshimmered beneath it, as if waiting to be noticed.

Berenice stared at her friend, her mouth slightly agape. Eleanor—no, Pleione—was no longer the same. The fog had lifted. The future was clearer now, but it didn't come without a price.

"You're not fuzzy anymore, Nell," Berenice whispered, unsure what name to use now.

Eleanor felt the change within herself, a shift she could not fully comprehend. She only knew one thing: she was no longer the girl she had been.

"What's that about Potter?" Berenice murmured suddenly, her voice strained.

Eleanor blinked. "What?"

"He's in your future," Berenice said, her voice laced with a hint of fear. "Everything... it all seems to revolve around him now."

Eleanor frowned. "I've barely spoken to him. Maybe once, in the library. Just to ask him to move out of my way."

But Berenice was staring at her with wide, troubled eyes. "Be careful, Nell. These threads, they're pulling you somewhere. We can't control them anymore. And Rosier—he's part of it. Keep him on your side."

Eleanor nodded slowly. "I'll be careful."

"I mean it," Berenice said sharply, gripping her wrists. "Be careful. This is bigger than you think."