The morning after the flying lesson debacle, Severus Snape sat at the staff table, his fingers curled around a warm mug of black tea. He stared into the cup as though it might offer answers to the tangled threads of memory and magic unraveling in his mind. His black eyes occasionally flicked to the Slytherin table where a group of first-years chatted amongst themselves. His gaze rested particularly on Draco Malfoy.
The boy had surprised him.
Not for the flying—Snape had fully expected Draco to display some level of competence—but for what had happened after. It wasn't Potter's flying that plagued him this morning, though that, too, had stirred something. It was the ripple of ancient magic that had reacted not to Potter, Granger, or even Malfoy... but to Weasley.
Of all the red-haired troublemakers.
He barely had time to consider it when another memory surfaced: Draco, later that same day, had intervened when Tracey Davis, a quiet Slytherin girl, had been cornered by two arrogant third-years. Snape hadn't stepped in immediately, watching from the shadows, curious to see how the boy would handle it. He expected posturing or whining.
Instead, Draco approached them with a smooth, drawling threat dressed as a compliment.
"Oh, my mistake. I thought Slytherins didn't need to bully younger snakes to feel important. My apologies, Travers. Didn't know you'd dropped that low."
He offered a smirk so refined that it froze the older boys in place. One tried to retort, but Draco had already stepped between them and Tracey, escorting her away like nothing had happened.
That night, Snape had found himself gliding silently through the corridors when he stumbled across a curious scene: the third-years waking up to find their dorms hexed—floating furniture, talking mirrors revealing embarrassing secrets, and all their clothes dyed bright Hufflepuff yellow. No one knew who did it. Snape, however, noticed one clue left behind—a single emerald scale, illusion-charmed, resting under one of the beds.
Slytherin pranks were supposed to be subtle.
He knew exactly who had left that scale.
That morning, Snape caught Tracey thanking Draco near the dungeon corridor.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly, eyes darting nervously.
Draco shrugged, crossing his arms. "You're a Slytherin. You don't whimper. You adapt. Outsmart them next time."
Tracey looked confused.
Draco's voice softened, though it still carried a cool edge. "We're not Gryffindors. Don't start screaming about justice and noble bravery. You want to be safe? Learn to hold your ground the Slytherin way. Learn their weaknesses. Use them."
Snape stopped walking, hidden by a bend in the corridor, the echo of Draco's words tugging something long-buried in his chest. A memory slithered to the surface, unbidden.
He was twelve again.
Scrawny. Shy. Wary. His robes too long for his thin frame.
A group of fifth-year boys had cornered him in the potions storeroom, upending jars, laughing at how his nose twitched when he cried. He hadn't even told Lily. He hadn't dared.
But someone else had noticed.
Nyra Le Fay.
She didn't confront his tormentors directly. That wasn't her style.
Instead, three days later, every one of those fifth-years woke up with reversed voices, accidental antlers, and feet that stuck to the floor.
They never bothered him again.
Snape had confronted her quietly. "You did something."
She'd smirked. "Prove it."
Then her face turned serious. "You don't let them win, Sev. But you don't play by their rules either. If you want to survive this world—our world—you learn when to strike. And you strike hard, but unseen."
It was Draco's voice that had echoed that lesson today. Different words, same meaning.
Snape leaned against the wall as the memory faded, arms folded, his expression unreadable. The boy... reminded him of Sirius. The prank, the arrogance, the theatrical flair—definitely Sirius.
But the cool calculation? The protection cloaked in cunning?
Nyra.
His second-best friend. His sister-not-by-blood. His heart clenched tightly. She had always walked the knife's edge of fire and ice.
And Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa, bore both the inferno and the frost.
Yet he wasn't supposed to be their child alone, was he?
Snape shook the thought off.
Meanwhile, Madam Hooch was engaged in an animated discussion with Professor McGonagall over tea.
"I don't care what house he's in, Minerva. That Potter boy flew like a born Seeker. He didn't even hesitate."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "I saw it myself. But first years aren't allowed on the Quidditch teams."
"Rules can be adjusted," Hooch muttered. "Fairness, right?"
After a long pause, McGonagall sighed. "Very well. I'll arrange for him to try out. And we'll extend the opportunity to any first year interested. The tryouts will be open to all in ten days."
She stirred her tea and gave a thin smile. "Let the rivalry begin early."
In a quiet cottage not far from the magical world, Elena Granger dusted her bookshelf, a soft hum on her lips. Her fingers brushed against her ring—black silver with a deep green gem.
It pulsed.
And suddenly, her mind was no longer in the present.
A vision crashed into her: a man with storm-gray eyes holding her face gently, their foreheads touching, words whispered with aching intensity.
But she couldn't see his face clearly.
The name hovered just out of reach.
Elsewhere, in the gloom of Azkaban, Sirius Black sat in his cell, hunched against the cold wall, the silence of the prison broken only by the crashing of waves.
He saw her in his mind.
Nyra.
Her eyes blazing as she screamed at him, voice cracking with fury after the Mudblood incident.
"You think it's funny?" she had shrieked. "Your stupid games with James—look where it led. He lost her, you idiot! And you—you made it happen. I thought you were better than that."
"I was just—"
"No," she had snapped. "You weren't thinking. I can't believe... I loved both of them. I loved you and him as a brother and you as everything, and then you broke something I can't fix! Knowing fully well what the two meant for me"
After that, silence. Two months. Complete cold shoulder.
Even Remus had whispered, "You've really done it this time."
Sirius had tried everything. Gifts. Notes. Apologies. He even offered to let Snape jinx him once.
The tension had built so thick that even the Slytherins in the common room cornered Nyra.
"For Salazar's sake, Le Fay, hex him or shag him, but spare us from the angst."
That night it had all come to a head.
Screaming. Crying. Spells flying.
Then forgiveness, and the most passionate night of his life.
"I'll stop the bullying," he whispered into her hair afterward. "But promise me... if you're ever angry with me again, just say it. Don't disappear into silence."
She had kissed him, murmuring, "I promise. But only if you never become the kind of man I'd have to disappear from."
He held onto that memory now like a lifeline.
Back at Hogwarts, things were brewing.
Later that night, the Slytherin dorm was a buzz of whispered excitement.
"Did you really challenge Potter to a duel?" Theo asked, grinning.
Draco smirked. "I might have suggested it. And someone might have overheard."
Meanwhile, in Gryffindor Tower, Harry paced nervously.
"Do you think I can really be a Seeker? I've never even played the game."
Hermione, unusually kind, nodded toward a gleaming plaque. "It's in your blood, Harry. James Potter—Best Seeker, 1971 to 1974."
Ron let out a low whistle. "Wicked."
Neville added, "I didn't even know your dad was that good."
As they crept into the Trophy Room at midnight, the Slytherins arrived from the opposite hall.
Draco's eyes immediately fell on the same plaque. "Ah, yes, but those years? Slytherin still won the House Cup. See those trophies?"
Hermione stepped closer, squinting at the engravings. "Captain Nyra Le Fay. Multiple wins."
Draco's voice lowered. "The last Le Fay of her time. A legend."
The air shimmered slightly.
Hermione whispered, "Who was she?"
"No one knows where she is," Draco said. "Some say she wounded You-Know-Who before Potter's parents were attacked. Some say she disappeared during the war. Some say she died."
"And what do you believe?" Hermione asked.
Draco looked solemn. "I believe legends don't die that easily."
Hermione's mind flashed to that day years ago—her mother, Elena, pulling her into their flat after a visit to Diagon Alley. The shimmer of the same ring. The name 'Nyra' whispered like a prayer.
She didn't tell Draco. She just stared at the plaque.
Then Filch's footsteps echoed.
"Run!" Theo hissed.
They all bolted. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, united in panic.
On the third floor, they burst into the forbidden corridor, only to find a massive three-headed dog growling down at them.
Pansy screamed. Ron and Theo cursed. Daphne stood stock still, eyes wide. Neville grabbed her hand.
Draco and Harry pushed Blaise and Theo toward the door. Hermione's knuckles were white around her wand.
Once the door slammed shut behind them, they all panted, gasping for air.
Then came the chaos.
"What the hell was that?!" Blaise yelled.
"A bloody Cerberus!" Ron said. "At school?!"
Neville nodded rapidly. "I think I peed a little."
The moment dissolved into laughter.
And then... silence.
They looked at one another.
Nine kids, from rival houses, just shared an adventure.
No one said a word. But something shifted.
"We never speak of this again," Draco said.
They all nodded.
Later that night, Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. "Honestly, I'm going to bed before one of you comes up with another idea to get us killed—or worse, expelled."
Ron muttered, "She really needs to sort out her priorities."
In the Slytherin dorms, laughter echoed. Jokes were shared. Tension melted.
But as they lay in bed, staring at the ceilings of their respective rooms, one name lingered in every child's mind.
Nyra Le Fay.
Who was she?
And why did saying her name feel like calling back a forgotten storm?
Far above, in her private quarters, Professor McGonagall unrolled a worn letter.
Pandora Lovegood's ink danced in the flickering candlelight:
"...A girl shall wear the mark of silver and black upon her chest. An anchor between the past and what comes. Look to the children born at the turn of the century, when the dark was broken but not destroyed. Among them walks the heir, the soulbound, the anchor, the chosen... three in one.
You will know the time when you see the anchor.
She carries part of what was lost.
You will know her.
Trust the name whispered on the wind."
McGonagall folded the letter slowly.
Her eyes moved toward the window, toward the stars.
And she whispered, "Nyra."