Chapter Text
The streets of London are a cacophony of sound and movement as I weave through the crowd, my Hogwarts trunk in one hand and my owl's cage in the other. Luna, my barn owl, hoots softly in protest each time I jostle the cage, but I can hardly help it. The weight of my trunk is already testing my patience.
I finally reach the townhouse—a grand red-brick building nestled in the heart of Mayfair. Wrought-iron balconies draped in ivy and pristine windowpanes speak of wealth, a fact reinforced by the polished brass door that gleams in the afternoon light. It's an impressive sight, a symbol of high society, yet I've never felt more out of place here.
Before I can knock, the door opens. Benedict, the butler, stands in the entryway, his familiar presence immediately easing some of my tension. His neatly combed gray hair and perfectly tailored black suit give him an air of quiet dignity, but it's the warmth in his eyes that feels like a reprieve from the rest of this house.
"Miss Elara Stark," he says, his voice steady but kind. "Welcome home."
"Hello, Benedict," I reply, a genuine smile tugging at my lips.
"Allow me," he says, stepping forward to take my trunk. "How was your journey?"
"Long," I admit, handing it over. "But Hogwarts was worth it."
He gives me a small, knowing smile, lowering his voice. "I'm sure it was."
Before I can respond, my mother's voice interrupts. "Elara!"
She appears in the doorway, her fair hair swept into an elegant bun and her blue eyes bright with practiced warmth. Her high-necked gown whispers of wealth and refinement, as though she's trying to reflect the home she's worked so hard to secure.
"It's been far too long!" she exclaims, pulling me into an embrace. Her perfume is cloying, and I resist the urge to pull away too soon.
"It's only been one school year," I say evenly.
"Well, it felt like much longer," she replies, brushing strands of hair away from my face. "Hogwarts has been good for you, hasn't it?"
Behind her, Clara peeks out, her blonde curls bouncing as she grins. She's ten years young, the image of our mother with her golden hair and fair skin. "Elara, you're back!"
Clara, all sweetness and light, rushes forward to hug me. "I missed you," she says.
"I missed you too," I reply, my voice warming for her in a way it didn't for my mother.
"Come in, then," says a cold, deep voice.
I glance up to see Mr. Pierce descending the staircase, his blond hair catching the light from the chandelier above. His blue eyes are cold and appraising, his mouth set in a line that only deepens when his gaze lands on me. He's dressed as impeccably as ever, but his presence is no less imposing.
"You're blocking the doorway," he says, his tone lacking the kindness Benedict's always managed to muster.
The grand entryway stretches behind him, the marble floors gleaming under a massive chandelier. The sweeping staircase is lined with a crimson runner, and the scent of beeswax polish lingers faintly in the air. It's all so pristine, so carefully curated, and so unlike the welcoming feel I remember from my childhood home.
Benedict takes my trunk inside, his hands lifting it as though it weighs nothing. My mother murmurs something about the summer as Clara helps bring Luna's cage inside.
As we step inside, I catch Mr. Pierce looking intently at me, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my appearance. The contrast between me and the rest of my family is something I'm reminded of every time I am here. I am my father's shadow.
"Don't leave your... belongings in the hall," Mr. Pierce says, gesturing toward Luna's cage. "Benedict, see to it."
"Yes, sir," Benedict replies without hesitation, already moving to assist.
As I follow Clara and Benedict upstairs, I catch sight of my mother resting a hand on Mr. Pierce's arm, her smile more genuine for him than it ever has been for me. She had married him when I was seven, only a few months after my father died, saying the money would make everything better—would save us. At the time, I believed her. Now, as I glance at the fancy mirrors and silk drapes, I wonder if the money only made her forget the simple, happy life we once had.
That evening, the dining room is a picture of elegance, the candlelight reflecting off polished silverware and crystal glasses. The long mahogany table is set perfectly, with embroidered napkins folded neatly beside porcelain plates. A footman moves soundlessly around the room, refilling glasses and bringing dishes from the kitchen.
Mr. Pierce occupies the head of the table, his presence as domineering as the rich, dark wood of the room. His piercing eyes scanning the table with the authority of someone used to being in control.
Dinner begins with consommé, served in delicate bowls with golden edges. My mother, seated to Mr. Pierce's right, dabs her mouth with her napkin as she praises the soup. "Benedict has truly outdone himself with the menu tonight," she says, her voice light and melodic.
"It's hardly Benedict's doing," Mr. Pierce replies. "The credit lies with the chef I hired. Benedict merely ensures it is served properly."
I exchange a glance with Benedict, standing unobtrusively near the wall. His expression remains neutral, but I know he heard every word.
As the footman clears the soup course and brings out roasted pheasant and an assortment of vegetables, Clara launches into her usual chatter, her voice bright and eager to fill the silence.
"And Ms. Roberts said I had the neatest handwriting in the class!" Clara beams at Mr. Pierce.
Mr. Pierce chuckles indulgently, patting her hand as if she's just delivered the most profound news of the evening. "Of course you do, my dear. A proper young lady should always take pride in her penmanship."
I glance at my plate, pushing the pheasant around with my fork. The OWL results in my room feel like a secret I don't dare share.
Clara's voice softens as she turns her attention to me. "And what about you, Elara?" she asks hesitantly, her kindness genuine but cautious. "Did you... pass your—what was it? Ordinary...?"
"Ordinary Wizarding Levels or O.W.L.s, yes," I reply, trying to keep my words short. "Exceeds Expectations and Outstandings in every subject."
For a moment, there's silence, but it's broken by Mr. Pierce's disdainful snort. "Exceeds Expectations," he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery. "What an odd way of grading. Wizards do love their theatrics, don't they?"
I clench my jaw, gripping my fork tightly. "It's a rigorous system," I reply coolly, though I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Far more detailed than your—"
I catch myself just in time, knowing "Muggle tests" will only provoke him further.
"Than our what?" he prompts, leaning back in his chair with a smug smile.
"Nothing," I mutter, staring down at my plate.
"Well," he says after a moment. "I suppose it doesn't matter much. None of that gibberish will help you in the real world."
My mother stiffens beside him, her eyes darting nervously between us, but as always, she says nothing. Clara glances down at her lap, visibly uncomfortable.
"It's not nonsense," I say quietly, though my voice wavers.
The sound of Mr. Pierce's chair scraping against the floor makes everyone freeze. He leans forward, locking his eyes onto mine with cruel intensity. "Enough, Elara. While you're under my roof, you will leave your peculiarities at the door. Is that understood?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"So," Clara says timidly, her voice breaking the awkward clatter of silverware. "My birthday is tomorrow."
"Indeed it is," Mr. Pierce replies, his tone changing instantly as he turns his attention back to her. "We'll be hosting a proper celebration. I've invited some of the most notable families in London. You'll have your first taste of what it means to be part of high society."
Clara smiles faintly, but I can tell his words to me had upset her too. "That sounds lovely, Father," she says.
"And you," he says, snapping back to me, "will be on your best behavior. No magical nonsense. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," I say again.
"Good," he says. "Now, if you have nothing further to contribute to this conversation, you may excuse yourself."
It's not a suggestion—it's an order. My mother looks down at her plate, pretending not to hear, and Clara fidgets uncomfortably.
I push my chair back slowly, rising to my feet. "Excuse me," I murmur, keeping my tone as polite as I can.
As I leave the dining room, I hear Mr. Pierce's voice pick up again, lavishing Clara with compliments about her poise and her promise as a young lady. I grit my teeth, holding back the urge to slam the door as I retreat to the sanctuary of my room.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the faint laughter and clinking of glasses from the dining room below drifting up through the floorboards. The photograph of my father sits on the bedside table, its worn wooden frame a comforting contrast to the polished furnishings around me.
I pick it up carefully, running my thumb along the edges as if the gesture could bring him back. He's smiling in the photo, his dark eyes warm and alive behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his black hair slightly windswept in the way I remember most. My father, Albert Javier del Castillo Stark, was everything this house isn't—kind, full of laughter, and unapologetically himself.
He had grown up in Madrid, a proud Spaniard who found his way to Castelobruxo in Brazil, where he excelled in Herbology and magical creature studies. His love for adventure brought him to London years later, where he hoped to make a life for himself. He used to tell me stories of how he met my mother—a chance encounter at a market in Bloomsbury, where he'd helped her carry a stack of books after she dropped them. "She called me a hero," he'd said with a laugh. "But I told her I only did it because she had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen."
I glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser, my dark brown eyes meeting my own. Everything about me is him—the tan skin that doesn't fit in with the pale faces of London's high society, the slightly wavy black hair that refuses to be tamed, the warm undertones of my complexion. I don't look anything like my mother.
"Too much like him," Mr. Pierce once said, his tone biting, as though it were an insult.
But my father's differences were his strength. He taught me to be proud of my magic and my heritage. "We're a mix of worlds, you and I," he used to say, pulling me onto his lap when I was little. "Spain gave us our fire, Brazil gave me wisdom, and magic? That's our gift to the world."
I set the photograph back on the table. If he were here, he'd remind me that I don't need to fit into this world of chandeliers and silk drapes, where I'm treated as a shadow in my own home. He'd tell me that the things that make me different are the things that make me strong.
But he's not here. He's gone, and I'm left in a house where half of me feels like a burden.
Luna hoots softly from her cage, her amber eyes glinting in the dim light. I rise, stroking her feathers gently, finding solace in her presence.
"It's only for the summer," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "Just a bit longer, and then I'll be back at Hogwarts."
Back where I belong.
A sudden tap at the window pulls me from my thoughts. Luna flutters her wings excitedly, and I cross the room to open it. A tawny owl perches on the sill, a letter tied neatly to its leg.
I recognize the handwriting immediately. "Sebastian," I whisper, untying the letter with careful fingers.
The owl hops onto the back of my chair as I unfold the parchment, the familiar scrawl sending a strange mix of warmth and sadness through me:
Ellie,
Feldcroft isn't any better. Anne is here, but it's... complicated. She talks to me when she has to, but I know she hasn't forgiven me. I've tried everything—writing to her, sitting down for long talks—but it's like there's a wall I can't break through. I can't blame her—what I did is unforgivable.
I hope London is treating you better than this place is treating me. Knowing you, you've probably managed to find something exciting in all the noise and chaos.
It's strange being here without you or Ominis. I miss having you around—our talks, the way you always seemed to know what to say. Write back when you can. It helps.
Yours,
Sebastian
I read the letter twice, then a third time, before setting it down carefully on the desk. His handwriting is messy, the ink smudged in places, but it feels unmistakably him—confident and a bit careless, yet with an underlying vulnerability that makes my heart skip a beat.
He's the only one who's ever called me "Ellie." At first, it felt odd, too soft and intimate for someone like me. But over time, it stuck, and now it's as natural as breathing when it comes from him. He only calls me "Elara" when he's serious, when the gravity of his thoughts feels too much for anything casual. Seeing "Ellie" written is like hearing his voice, comforting and unmistakable.
Sitting down at the desk, I stroke the tawny owl's feathers absently. He sounds lost, and though I can't fix what's happening with Anne, I can at least be the voice that comforts him.
Grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment, I dip my quill into the inkwell and begin to write:
Sebastian,
London is busy, as always. It's loud and gray, but the distraction is welcome.
I'm sorry things are still tense with Anne. Give her time—she'll see how much you care, even if it doesn't feel like it now. You're doing everything you can, and that matters more than you know.
You're right, though. I miss Hogwarts already. The Undercroft must feel impossibly quiet without us. I hope you're not sneaking into trouble just to pass the time.
Write again. It helps to hear from you.
Ellie
I fold the letter carefully and tie it to the tawny owl's leg. It nips my finger gently, as if to reassure me, before flying off into the dark London night.
Watching it disappear, I wonder if my words will bring him any comfort. And, if I'm being honest, I miss him far more than I let on.