When the Circle Burns

Elara's thoughts

The castle was quieter at night, but the silence did not bring peace. Instead, it pressed heavily on Elara's chest, a weight she had carried for longer than she cared to remember.

She sat alone in her chambers, the faint glow of candlelight casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid moonlight, but her fingers trembled ever so slightly as they brushed the edge of a small, worn locket resting on her desk.

The charm she wore—layered carefully, a shimmering veil over her true face—was more than a protection. It was a boundary, a line drawn sharply between her and the world.

No one could cross it. No one could see past it.

Not even Severus Snape.

He was persistent. Relentless, even. She had noticed how his dark eyes followed her, how he asked questions cloaked in casual words but sharpened with intent.

She allowed herself a brief, bitter smile.

Curiosity was dangerous. He would never truly understand—not without breaking her walls, and she was not ready for that.

So she remained silent, cold, distant.

Better to be the enigma. Better to be the shadow.

Snape's perspective

Weeks slipped by like the turning pages of an ancient tome—each day folding into the next with the same frustrating patterns.

Snape prowled the castle with the restless patience of a predator stalking prey. Yet Elara remained elusive, her barriers as solid as the stone walls of Hogwarts.

He had asked Dumbledore once more, with no more success.

He had cornered McGonagall again, pressing for answers that never came.

His usual sources yielded nothing.

The charm was his only lead—and it taunted him like a riddle with no solution.

He had tried direct questions, subtle observations, even silent challenges.

Each time, Elara met him with a cool wall of silence or a carefully measured reply that gave nothing away.

The more he watched, the more the mystery grew.

His frustration was a slow burn—deep and consuming.

One evening, seated in the dim light of his private quarters, Snape finally reached out beyond Hogwarts.

His fingers hovered over parchment, then dipped a quill to write a brief, carefully worded message:

Lucius,
I require your discretion and... particular expertise. There is a matter concerning a new arrival at Hogwarts, one who is not what she seems. I need information.
—S.

He sealed the note with his signet ring and sent it via an owl before hesitation could take hold.

Lucius Malfoy was not someone Snape would ask lightly—but desperate times demanded desperate measures.

Elara's thoughts

The days passed, the castle's rhythms shifting around her like tides she could not control.

She sensed the subtle changes—the way Snape's gaze lingered longer, the occasional stiffening of his posture when she entered a room.

She did not fear him. No, fear was a luxury long abandoned.

Instead, she held her distance, a calculated dance of near-collisions and cold avoidance.

Her charm was a shield. It was a secret. And no one—not even Snape—would be permitted inside.

Sometimes, in the quietest moments, a fragment of loneliness flickered beneath her resolve.

But that was a weakness she could not afford.

Snape's perspective

Days later, a reply arrived—brittle and curt, but promising.

Lucius Malfoy had begun his inquiries quietly, weaving through whispers and shadowed connections.

Snape felt a flicker of hope, fragile as a candle flame in a storm.

He waited, tense and restless.

When the information finally trickled back, it was a threadbare tapestry of half-truths and veiled warnings.

Elara Thorne was from across the sea—her past obscured by layers of protection and carefully erased footprints.

A talented witch, yes. But also a ghost of secrets that did not want to be found.

Snape folded the papers slowly, the weight of uncertainty settling once more.

As the moonlight spilled across the castle grounds, Snape stood alone, staring out into the darkness.

The questions remained.

The answers did not.

And yet, somewhere beneath the surface of his frustration, a grudging respect began to take root—for the woman who guarded her mysteries so fiercely that even he was left grasping at shadows.