Chapter 11: The Chameleon's Skin

As the Potions class spilled into the corridor, Elara adjusted her bag, scanning the flow of students peeling off toward their respective next classes. She knew exactly where she was going—Transfiguration, First Floor. The only problem? She had no idea how to get there. Seems to be the ongoing theme for her first day of classes.

Unlike the Gryffindors, who were heading off in another direction, or Luna, who had her own Ravenclaw schedule, Elara’s next class was Hufflepuffs with Slytherins. Which meant that, naturally, the group of Slytherins who had just shared Potions with her—Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle—were the ones also heading the same way.

So, without hesitation, she fell into step behind them.

She wasn’t nervous. Not wary, not hesitant—just observant. Despite their sharp words and easy cruelty toward others, she had no reason to assume they would act the same toward her. And even if they did, Elara wasn’t particularly bothered. She wasn’t afraid of them. The Sorting Hat had made it clear enough that she could have just as easily been one of them had things gone slightly differently.

As they ascended a staircase, she caught the flicker of a glance from Blaise Zabini, his expression unreadable. Pansy Parkinson, walking beside him, leaned in to whisper something. Then—

"You lost, Hufflepuff?" Draco’s voice carried back to her, his tone casual but laced with amusement. He had glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp with intrigue.

Elara met his gaze evenly. "No," she said simply.

Draco smirked. "Then what are you doing lurking with us?"

“We all have Transfiguration next.” she answered.

Pansy scoffed under her breath, but Draco just hummed as if considering something. His smirk widened slightly. "Right. Our little Hufflepuff misfit."

Elara didn’t react, but she understood immediately—he was referencing her sorting. The Hat’s cryptic rhyme had stirred up enough murmurs to make an impression. The chameleon witch who could fit into any of the houses.

He was watching her now, waiting to see if she would bristle at the remark, deny it, maybe prove something.

Elara simply smiled. "Yep, that's me."

Draco blinked, as if surprised she hadn’t risen to the bait. Then he let out a small huff of laughter. "Huh," was all he said, but something about the way he looked at her shifted.

Blaise cast her a longer glance now, but said nothing.

The journey from the dungeons to Transfiguration was a winding one—literally. Hogwarts, in all its labyrinthine glory, seemed to take a special delight in confusing its students, and Elara quickly realized that she would never have found her way on her own. The castle breathed with a life of its own, staircases shifting, corridors stretching longer than they should, and doors vanishing into the stone as if they had never existed.

The Slytherins, however, navigated it with ease, moving like a well-rehearsed unit.

"So, what was that back there?" Blaise finally broke the silence, his voice smooth and measured as they passed through a narrow archway. "Not even a twitch at Malfoy's little nickname?"

Elara glanced at him, then at Draco, who was still walking just ahead of her with that same amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Should I have?" she asked lightly.

Blaise’s lips quirked slightly, but he didn’t answer.

"It was boring," Pansy said dismissively, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "Everyone knows Hufflepuffs are supposed to be all… feelings and loyalty. I was expecting at least some wounded pride."

Elara only smiled at that, adjusting her bag. "How disappointing for you."

Draco let out another short laugh, shaking his head as they stepped onto a staircase that led them up another floor. "So, what is it, then? Do you just not care, or are you actually that oblivious?"

Elara met his gaze, tilting her head slightly. "I just don't really care. Do you always ask this many questions?"

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled under their breath at that, and even Blaise seemed mildly entertained.

Draco scoffed. "You do realize you’re talking to me, right?"

Elara just smiled again, an unreadable glint in her eyes. "I do. I should feel honored that the great Draco Malfoy gave me a nickname. Besides, its accurate enough." she said with amusement.

They reached the first floor landing, where the corridor stretched ahead toward their destination. Sunlight from the arched windows cast long patterns across the stone floor, and the golden warmth contrasted sharply with the lingering chill of the dungeons.

Draco studied her for another moment, as if trying to decide whether her neutrality was genuine or just another form of arrogance. Whatever conclusion he reached, he only smirked again and turned forward.

"Well, misfit or not," he said lazily, "at least you're not completely dull."

"High praise," Elara said dryly, but there was a hint of amusement beneath it.

The Slytherins naturally took their places near the front, Elara simply followed suit. She didn’t mind. The little badger among the snakes—just as comfortable in their den as anywhere else.

As the group stepped into the Transfiguration classroom, the usual murmur of students settling in came to a slow, stuttering halt. It was subtle at first—just a few flickering glances. But then the reaction spread like a ripple across the room.

The Hufflepuffs—who had already arrived and claimed their spots—blinked in collective bewilderment as they watched one of their own casually stroll in alongside the Slytherins. A Hufflepuff who, of all things, looked like she had been laughing with them.

Elara didn’t miss the way some of her housemates straightened in their seats, eyes darting between her and the Slytherins at her side as if they had just witnessed a sheep waltzing in with a pack of wolves.

Across the room, the rest of the Slytherins—who had also already been in their seats—paused in their conversation, their expressions ranging from mild surprise to open disbelief. Theodore Nott, who had been leaning back lazily in his chair, raised an eyebrow. Daphne Greengrass, ever composed, tilted her head just slightly. Even Millicent Bulstrode furrowed her brows, as if trying to decide whether Elara had been dragged along against her will or if she had, somehow, chosen to walk in with them.

Draco, still smirking from their earlier exchange, caught on quickly. He leaned slightly toward Elara, lowering his voice just enough for her to hear. “I think we just gave the entire room an existential crisis.”

Blaise chuckled under his breath. “Who knew a Hufflepuff could be this entertaining?”

Elara simply smiled as she moved toward an open desk. “I aim to please.”

At that moment, Professor McGonagall entered, her sharp gaze sweeping over the class as she strode toward her desk. She barely had to raise a hand before the murmuring students snapped back to attention.

However, as she reached for the parchment on her desk, her eyes flickered back toward Elara—just for a fraction of a second.

Her expression didn’t change, but Elara knew that look.

It wasn’t disapproval. Nor was it concern.

It was curiosity.

A silent, measured observation, as if filing away this small, unexpected piece of information for later.

McGonagall’s gaze lingered just long enough to make it clear she had taken note of the most unusual and shocking sight of the day—a Hufflepuff, walking with Slytherins, and all of them looking perfectly content with it.

Then, with a flick of her wand, the chalk at the board began to write.

“Open your textbooks to page seventy-three,” she said, her voice brisk as ever. “Today, we will be discussing the principles of human transfiguration—and the consequences of carelessness.”

Just like that, the lesson began. But even as students turned to their books, a few still cast glances toward Elara, curiosity simmering beneath the surface.

And in the very front row, Draco Malfoy leaned back slightly in his seat, shooting her a knowing look, as if to say—Well, misfit? You certainly have their attention now.

McGonagall’s sharp gaze swept across the class, ensuring she had every student's full attention before she continued.

“Transfiguration,” she began, “is not a mere parlour trick, nor is it to be approached with the same casual enthusiasm some of you display in other subjects.” Her eyes flickered—briefly, but pointedly—toward a few Slytherins who had been whispering. The murmuring ceased instantly.

“It is one of the most complex branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts. And, if attempted carelessly, it is one of the most dangerous.”

With a flick of her wand, the chalk at the board began to scrawl in crisp, neat letters:

FUNDAMENTAL RULES OF TRANSFIGURATION

1. Law of Equivalent Exchange – The mass of an object cannot be conjured from nothing, nor can it simply vanish. It must be converted.

2. Intent & Precision – The mind must visualize exactly what is desired, or the transformation will be unstable.

3. Reversal is Not Always Possible – Mistakes in human transfiguration are especially difficult to undo.

4. Magic Recoil & Splinching – Unstable transformations can result in partial transfiguration, causing severe consequences.

Elara, quill in hand, copied down each point with careful precision, absorbing every word.

McGonagall turned to face the class fully, her expression grave. “I have seen students attempt transfigurations they were not prepared for,” she said, voice even but heavy with meaning. “I have seen them fail to focus, to execute their spells with careless intent, and I have seen the results. Misshapen limbs. Reversed transformations. Creatures caught between two states, unable to be fully restored.”

A hush fell over the room.

“I tell you this not to frighten you, but to warn you,” McGonagall continued. “Magic is a living force—it does not take kindly to uncertainty. If you are sloppy, you will pay the price.”

Draco, sitting toward the front, shifted slightly in his seat, though whether out of unease or mere contemplation was unclear. Pansy looked mildly pale.

Across the room, Elara felt an odd sensation settle over her. She wasn’t scared—not exactly. But she understood, in a way that sent a quiet shiver up her spine. Magic had always responded strongly to her, sometimes more than she intended. The idea that an unfocused thought could cause an irreversible reaction… she made a mental note to approach this class with the utmost care.

McGonagall’s wand flicked again, and the chalk moved once more.

COMMON TRANSFIGURATION MISTAKES & THEIR CONSEQUENCES

* Incomplete transformations (limbs or features left behind)

* Reversal failures (permanent transfigurations)

* Loss of identity in human transfiguration (mental shifts, memory confusion)

* Rebounding spells (magic lashing back on the caster)

“You will practice the basics this year,” McGonagall said, returning to her desk. “We will start with simple object transformations. However, do not let the simplicity fool you. If you cannot master control at this level, you will not advance. There is no margin for recklessness in my class.”

She let the weight of that sink in before tapping her wand against the edge of her desk.

"Now—wands out.”

Elara swallowed and reached into her sleeve, fingers brushing the smooth surface of her wand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew it out, knowing full well that it would not go unnoticed.

She had already gained a reputation for her Sorting, and then Peeves. And now her wand…

A swirling blend of dark and light woods, shifting in the light as if alive. Its handle was wrapped in intricate carvings of leaves and vines—literal vine wood twisting along its form. It didn’t belong to any standard make. It wasn’t normal.

McGonagall’s sharp gaze flickered to it immediately. So did Blaise’s. And Draco’s.

Elara ignored them, forcing her focus onto the lesson as McGonagall waved her wand, and with a slight shimmer, a small wooden matchstick appeared on every student's desk.

“We will begin with a fundamental transfiguration—turning a matchstick into a needle,” McGonagall announced.

With a flick of her own wand, she demonstrated. The match on her desk shimmered, folding in on itself, wood gleaming into silver until it became a slender, sharp needle.

“The transformation must be precise,” she continued. “A successful transfiguration will yield a needle of the correct size and shape, with a metallic sheen and a sharp point. Any mistakes will result in either an incomplete transformation—” she waved her wand again, and the match warped into a dull, splintering imitation of a needle, half wood, half metal, “—or, in some cases, a reaction from the magic itself.”

At this, she gave a knowing look to the class, and some students sat up straighter.

“The incantation is Acus Mutatio. The motion—” she demonstrated a smooth, deliberate twist of her wrist, “—is as important as your intent.”

Elara exhaled slowly.

Small. Simple.

She could do this.

Even if Charms had proven that wandwork wasn’t exactly her magic, this wasn’t Charms. This was Transfiguration.

And maybe, just maybe, Transfiguration would be different.

She steadied her grip on her wand and fixed her eyes on the matchstick before her. Around the room, other students were already attempting the spell. Sparks flickered from the tips of wands. A few students muttered curses as their matchsticks either did nothing or, in Wayne’s case, caught fire.

Elara ignored them. Her magic had always worked best when she wasn’t thinking about the world around her.

She inhaled, pictured the needle in her mind—sleek, metallic, sharp—

"Acus Mutatio."

Nothing.

Her wand didn’t even spark. No shimmer. No reaction.

Nothing.

It was the same problem she’d had in Charms.

Magic existed within her, but it refused to be channeled through her wand, resisting the forced structure of it. Like trying to shove a river into a narrow pipe.

She frowned, rolling her wand between her fingers as if the motion would coax it into cooperation. Around her, other students were struggling in their own ways—some matchsticks merely twitched, others darkened slightly. Wayne’s caught fire.

But at least something was happening for them.

Her wand lay still in her palm, as stubbornly silent as ever.

McGonagall was moving through the room, correcting stances, offering suggestions.

Elara tried again, this time putting more force behind it, concentrating harder, willing the magic to move through the wand the way it was supposed to.

Nothing.

She inhaled, forcing herself to remain calm, but she could feel the weight of eyes on her. Blaise was watching with quiet curiosity. Pansy had noticed, nudging Draco with a muttered comment.

Draco smirked slightly, tilting his head. “What’s the matter, Hufflepuff?” he murmured. “Lost your magic?”

Elara didn’t react. She simply kept staring at her matchstick, as if she could force it to transfigure through sheer stubbornness.

McGonagall reached her desk, and Elara braced herself.

The professor’s gaze swept over her wand first, then the untouched matchstick.

“Elara,” she said, her voice quieter, more measured. “Try again.”

Elara clenched her jaw slightly, but nodded.

She raised her wand, took a slow breath—

And this time, instead of trying to force her magic through, she thought about the way it had always worked for her. How it wasn’t about structured commands or rigid incantations. It was about feeling.

She let her grip loosen just slightly, let her magic settle into the shape of the needle in her mind, let it breathe—

A flicker.

Not much, but a shimmer passed over the matchstick, a sign of something.

Not enough.

McGonagall hummed, neither approving nor disapproving, simply noting. “Fascinating.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, as if he wasn’t sure what he had just witnessed.

Blaise studied her for a long moment.

Elara exhaled slowly, lowering her wand.

She would figure this out.

Eventually.

----------------------------------------

The clang of the bell signaled the end of Transfiguration, and students immediately began packing up their things, some groaning in frustration at their failed attempts, others quietly satisfied with their progress. McGonagall gave a sharp clap of her hands to regain their attention.

“Your assignments are to continue practicing the wand movement and incantation. I expect to see improvement in our next lesson. Dismissed.”

Elara exhaled, slipping her peculiar wand back into her bag. She had managed the barest flicker of magic, but it wasn’t enough—not yet. She could feel McGonagall’s eyes lingering on her for a fraction of a second longer before she turned away, addressing another student.

As Elara stood, she instinctively glanced toward the Slytherins, who were gathering their things with easy, languid movements. Blaise caught her eye but, as always, gave nothing away. Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder, muttering something to Draco, who only smirked before turning toward the door with the rest of his housemates.

Elara rolled her shoulders, pushing away whatever that encounter had been, and turned to find her own housemates.

Wayne was the first to reach her, his face still mildly stunned. “Alright, I have to ask,” he said, walking beside her as they exited the classroom. “What was that?”

Elara blinked at him. “What was what?”

“That!” He gestured vaguely. “You—them—you walked in with the Slytherins! And you were smiling! And they were smiling! What happened?”

“You were laughing with them,” Hannah added, coming up on her other side.

Susan and Justin fell into step behind them, listening with keen interest. Even Zacharias, usually more focused on making some kind of snide remark, was paying attention.

Elara shrugged lightly. “They were in my Potions MIX class before this. We were all heading the same way.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Justin said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Slytherin willingly share oxygen with a Hufflepuff, let alone talk to one.”

Elara just smiled. “Guess I’m a misfit,” she said, echoing Draco’s earlier words without much weight.

The others exchanged glances, as if trying to decipher whether she was joking or not.

“…You’re really not going to tell us what happened?” Wayne pressed.

“I did tell you.”

“No, you definitely didn’t,” Zacharias muttered.

They turned down a corridor, weaving through the crowd of students as they headed toward their next class.

Sally-Anne, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke, her tone more curious than anything else. “Do you like them?”

Elara considered the question.

Did she like them?

Draco was sharp-tongued and observant. Blaise was silent but watchful. Pansy was quick-witted and cutting. And Crabbe and Goyle... well they were Crabbe and Goyle. Overall the Slytherins were different, but not as monolithic as people assumed them to be.

“I don’t dislike them,” she answered honestly.

Wayne let out a dramatic groan. “That’s not an answer, Elara.”

She just smiled again, amused, and kept walking.

----------------------------------------

The Great Hall was already bustling with activity when Elara and her fellow Hufflepuffs arrived, the long house tables now repurposed for study rather than meals. The enchanted ceiling overhead reflected the soft glow of the afternoon sky, the occasional drifting cloud casting shadows over the golden candlelight flickering in its vast expanse.

First through third years were scattered throughout the hall, parchment, books, and ink bottles spread across the tables. Some were already deep in concentration, quills scratching away, while others whispered among themselves, delaying the inevitable.

Elara followed her housemates to their usual section at the Hufflepuff table, setting her bag down and pulling out her Transfiguration notes. Across the hall, the Gryffindors clustered together, Harry and Ron looking particularly miserable as Hermione rattled off something from A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. At the Ravenclaw table, Luna sat in her own world, doodling on the edge of her parchment rather than writing anything down.

Then, her eyes flickered toward the Slytherins.

Draco, Blaise, Pansy, and a few other first-years were gathered at their own table, though Draco himself seemed only mildly interested in the textbook in front of him. He glanced up once, as if sensing her gaze, and met her eyes.

Elara didn’t look away.

There was no challenge in it, no hostility—just quiet acknowledgment.

Draco tilted his head slightly, as if considering something, then smirked faintly before returning to his book.

“Elara.”

Wayne’s voice pulled her attention back to the Hufflepuff table. “Are you actually going to study, or are you just going to have more silent stare-offs with Malfoy?”

Elara arched a brow at him. “You’re very invested in my interactions with Slytherins today.”

“Because they’re weird!” Wayne exclaimed, exasperated. “Like, seriously. If you start sitting at their table for breakfast tomorrow, I might have a heart attack.”

“I’d rather not be responsible for that,” Elara laughed, dipping her quill into ink.

Justin nudged Wayne. “Leave her alone. Elara clearly has a gift—she’s tamed the snakes.”

Susan giggled. Hannah shook her head in amusement.

Elara just rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

With that, she turned her focus to her parchment, letting the hum of conversation and the steady scratch of quills fill the air around her as she settled into study hour.

Elara stared at her parchment, quill poised above it, but her mind refused to focus.

Her Charms and Transfiguration homework both loomed before her—one asking her to explain the theory behind channeling magic through a wand, the other requiring her to detail the intricacies of match-to-needle transfiguration. Both subjects pointed to a singular problem: her wand refused to cooperate.

Unlike her classmates, who struggled with incantations, wrist movements, or concentration, Elara’s issue was different. It wasn’t that she lacked power—if anything, her magic surged beneath the surface, restless and unshaped. The problem was her wand itself. It resisted, like a river that refused to be forced into a canal, unwilling to be restricted by the narrow channel of traditional spellcasting.

She had seen it in Charms when she’d barely managed a single controlled flicker of magic. She had felt it in Transfiguration, when her classmates had at least something to show for their efforts while she was left with nothing but a stubbornly unchanged matchstick.

With a quiet sigh, she set down her quill and reached for her bag.

The journal Hagrid had given her—Ollivander’s notes—felt solid in her hands, the worn leather cover familiar under her fingertips. She flipped through the pages until she reached the section she had skimmed before, the one listing the properties of different wand woods.

Twelve.

Her wand had twelve woods.

She traced her fingers along the descriptions, rereading them with fresh eyes, hoping that if she understood her wand, she could understand herself—and more importantly, how to wield it properly.

* Alder – Unyielding, yet best suited for those who are adaptable and helpful people.

* Apple – Associated with purity, and harmony and a desire to heal and help others.

* Beech – Wands of true wisdom and understanding, thriving in the hands of open-minded witches and wizards. Especially those wise beyond their years.

* Black Walnut – A wand of deep insight, attuned to those with powerful intuition and self-awareness.

* Cedar – A wand of strength and loyalty, known for sharp perception and a dangerous protective nature.

* Chestnut – Highly influenced by the wielder, often found in the hands of those who seek growth and knowledge, filled with curiosity and brimming with adaptability.

* English Oak – A wand of strength and courage, bound to those in harmony with the natural world. Especially with those in high intuition and a deep connection to their true selves.

* Pear – A rare and warm-spirited wood, thriving best when paired with generous, wise, and kind-hearted individuals.

* Pine – Independent and enigmatic, suited for those with strong inner resilience. Drawn to loners who are hard to read.

* Silver Lime – A wand of seers and legilimency, drawn to those with heightened perception.

* Vine – A wood of the Druids, deeply connected to the wielder’s soul, known for seeking out those with hidden depths. These people are often nearly unknowable.

* Willow – A wood of the Druids, strong yet graceful, amplifying the magic of those with great potential.

Elara stared at the words, a quiet weight settling in her chest.

Each wood had a different meaning, a different nature—yet somehow, all of them had chosen her. Why?

Most witches and wizards had one wood, perfectly balanced to their magic. Her wand was a contradiction, a fusion of twelve different natures that shouldn’t even be possible.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe her magic didn’t flow because the wand itself was too complex, pulling her in too many directions at once.

Or maybe… it wasn’t meant to channel magic in the traditional way at all.

She chewed her lip in thought, tracing the word Vine with her fingertip. The descriptions spoke of her in ways she hadn’t fully realized before—intuition, resilience, connection to the natural world. None of these traits belonged to rigid spellwork.

If her wand resisted being a conduit, then perhaps she needed to stop forcing it to behave like one.

She exhaled slowly, turning the page, searching for anything else that might help her make sense of what she was beginning to understand.

She read on, learning more of the abstract natures of the wand woods as she thought about how they applied to her.

Alder was good with nonverbal spells... ✅ I have always done nonverbal spells I suppose, seeing as I had never actually known any spells until now.

Apple wood owners often showed an unusual ability to converse with other magical beings in their native... ✅ I had definitely heard Sage speak to me, even though the ability seems... unpolished.

Chestnut owners are often skilled tamers of magical beasts... ✅ I have always been amazing with creatures. And who possess great gifts in Herbology... ✅ Yep. And who are also often natural fliers...❓ Well... we'll see about that one tomorrow I suppose.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

English Oak owners often have an affinity with the magic of the natural world, creatures and plants alike... ✅ Yep.

Pine is also sensitive to nonverbal magic. ✅

Silver Lime owners are often skilled in Legilimency... ❓I don't even know what that is.

Willow is another one good with nonverbal magic. ✅

Elara carefully copied down each wand wood and its properties, her quill gliding across the parchment in quiet contemplation. As she studied the words, a realization settled over her—each wood did, in fact, reflect a part of her. The adaptability of alder, the intuition of black walnut, the strength of cedar, the insight of silver lime… Each one mirrored something she had come to recognize in herself. Even the secondary qualities—the gifts of perception, resilience, and connection to the world—seemed to align with her magic in ways she hadn’t fully understood before.

And when she looked at them all together, a pattern emerged.

Self-awareness.

Her wand, impossibly complex yet seamless in its fusion, required balance. It demanded that she know herself, trust herself.

She remembered Ollivander’s words: Balance is everything.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the journal as memories surfaced—memories of magic that had never needed a wand.

She thought of herself as a child, lying in the backyard, her MP3 player humming softly in her ears. The world had melted away as she lost herself in the music, feeling it pulse through her veins, merging with her very being. When she finally sat up to go inside, she froze. Around her, flowers had bloomed in a perfect ring, tracing the shape of where she had been. She hadn’t even felt it happen—hadn’t willed it into existence. It had simply… been.

She thought of the night her world had cracked apart, the night anguish had swallowed her whole. The pain had been unbearable, clawing at her chest, too much for words, too much to contain. When the scream finally tore from her throat, the temperature in her bedroom had plummeted. Frost had spread in jagged veins across the glass, crawling outward until, with a deafening shatter, the windows broke beneath the weight of her grief.

And then there was the poetry. She had always loved to write, to weave words together until they sang in a way that felt true. One afternoon, lost in the rhythm of ink on paper, she had blinked and realized something impossible—vines had grown from her writing, curling along the parchment as if her pen had breathed life into the page itself.

Each time, her magic had come effortlessly. It had flowed. Not because she had memorized a motion, or a pronunciation, or an incantation—but because she had been lost in something real. Because she had been in tune with herself.

That was the difference.

Her professors were teaching her structured magic—rigid, precise, contained. But her magic had never been that way. It had always been instinctual, emotional, unshaped yet powerful.

Maybe the problem wasn’t her wand.

Maybe it was the way she was trying to wield it.

Maybe, instead of forcing herself into the structured patterns of traditional spellcasting, she needed to do magic the way she had always done it—through feeling. Through flow. Through authenticity.

She exhaled.

This changed everything.

Elara tapped her quill against the page, her thoughts drifting from the journal to something Professor Sprout had said in Herbology.

"Plants are alive, dears! Sensitive things. They feel you, they know you. If you are careless, they will resist. But if you work with them—listen to them—they’ll respond in kind."

She had seen it with her own eyes—the way Sprout’s hands moved gently over the soil, the way the plants seemed to lean toward her touch, as if they could sense her energy.

And Hogwarts itself… how many times had she already seen its staircases shift, its doors lock or open of their own accord? It wasn’t just ancient stone and enchantments—it was alive. It breathed magic.

So why would wands be any different?

"The wand chooses the wizard." Ollivander’s words echoed in her mind.

A wand wasn’t just a tool. It was alive, crafted from nature itself. Trees, magic, unicorn hair—the pulse of something greater than herself woven into wood and core. A living thing. And here she was, treating it as though it were nothing more than a piece of carved wood to be wielded.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe her wand resisted because she wasn’t respecting it—its nature, its will.

Elara exhaled and, for the first time, truly listened to her wand.

She closed her eyes, tuning out the noise of the Great Hall. Her fingers curled around the hilt, brushing against the intricate vine carvings. Instead of forcing magic through it, she focused on something deeper—on the same feeling she had when the flowers had bloomed around her, or when the ink of her poetry had brought forth living vines.

Connection.

Her truest self.

A warmth spread through her fingers, and then—

A pulse. A hum.

Elara’s breath hitched as her wand came alive in her grasp. Light swelled from its core, golden tendrils of magic spiraling up her arm like living vines, wrapping around her skin in an intricate, glowing weave.

A hush fell around her.

Chairs scraped. Quills stilled. Conversations stopped.

Her Hufflepuff classmates gaped, a mix of awe and alarm on their faces. A few older students shot her wary glances, as if unsure whether they should intervene.

Elara opened her eyes to find the entire Great Hall staring at her.

Of course.

She had really done it now.

Elara’s stomach dropped.

She had been so focused on feeling the magic that she hadn’t thought about what it might look like to everyone else. And now—well. Now she was glowing.

Tendrils of golden light spiraled up her arm like enchanted ivy, shimmering against her skin in a way that was both mesmerizing and utterly, utterly mortifying.

A few tables over, a third-year Ravenclaw nearly knocked over their inkwell. A group of Slytherins had stopped mid-conversation, staring as if she’d just sprouted a second head.

Her own Hufflepuff classmates weren’t much better. Wayne and Justin had identical wide-eyed expressions. Hannah had clamped her hand over her mouth. Ernie was frowning, clearly torn between curiosity and concern.

Elara flexed her fingers instinctively, and the golden tendrils pulsed—almost as if the wand were breathing with her.

Okay. Okay. How did she stop this?

She tried to pull the magic back, to shove it down like she always had before, but the glow didn’t vanish. If anything, it flickered brighter in protest. Her wand—her living, sentient, twelve-wood wand—seemed to have no intention of going dormant again so soon.

“Elara…?” Wayne whispered hesitantly.

Before she could answer, an older student near the front called out, "Oi—what’s she doing?"

And just like that, the whispers started.

"Did she just—"

"Is she supposed to be doing that?"

"That doesn’t look like any spell I know—"

"Look at her wand—"

"Did she enchant herself?"

Oh, Merlin’s beard.

Elara willed herself to disappear, but unfortunately, that wasn’t one of her magical talents.

Instead, she took a slow breath, forcing herself to stay calm. The more panicked she got, the more the magic might spiral. She knew that much.

She focused inward again—on the same feeling that had called the magic in the first place. Connection. Balance. Let it flow, but don’t force it.

With deliberate slowness, she traced a gentle circle in the air with her wand, mentally guiding the magic back into stillness. I hear you, she thought, as if speaking directly to it. I won’t ignore you anymore.

The golden tendrils flickered once… then slowly receded, spiraling back down into the wand, vanishing into the carved vines like they had never been there at all.

The silence that followed was loud.

“Well,” Zacharias muttered, breaking the quiet. “That was dramatic.”

Pansy Parkinson, seated at the Slytherin table, leaned toward Draco, muttering something under her breath with a smirk. Whatever it was, it made Blaise raise an eyebrow in mild intrigue.

Elara swallowed, pressing her lips together. Okay, well, that was a disaster.

Or maybe… maybe not.

Because even as the attention lingered on her, she felt something different now. Something new.

Her wand, cradled in her palm, no longer felt cold or resistant.

It felt right.

But as the glow fully faded, Elara's breath hitched as she finally looked up—and her stomach dropped.

Everyone was staring at her.

Not just her friends. Not just the surrounding Hufflepuffs and a few nosy Slytherins. Everyone.

The entire Great Hall had gone silent, hundreds of eyes fixed on her as if she had just sprouted an extra head. Even the third years, who usually couldn't be bothered with first-year nonsense, were gawking.

And just her luck—of course all four Heads of House were present for the first day.

At the staff table, Professor McGonagall stood tall and rigid, her sharp eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Professor Sprout, who was normally warm and encouraging, looked deeply puzzled. Professor Flitwick was practically standing on his chair to get a better look, and—oh no—Snape was there, arms crossed, his gaze unreadable but piercing.

Elara swallowed thickly. As if she hadn’t already drawn enough attention with her chaotic Sorting, with the Hat’s ominous little rhyme, with Peeves shrieking her secrets to the entire school. Now this.

Now she was the first-year with the impossible wand that had just lit up like it had a mind of its own.

Wonderful.

Wayne leaned in, whispering urgently, “Uh, Elara? What the heck was that?”

Elara opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head helplessly. She had no idea.

Across the table, Justin and Hannah exchanged wide-eyed glances. “I’ve never seen a wand do that,” Hannah murmured.

Sally-Anne looked equally stunned. “It was like—like it was alive.”

A scraping sound came from the staff table—McGonagall had set down her quill, her expression unreadable as she turned fully toward Elara.

“Elara Willow.” Her voice carried across the hall, controlled yet firm. “Would you care to explain what just happened?”

Elara froze. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Oh, she really didn’t want to do that.

She could feel the weight of every single stare pressing down on her. Her palms felt clammy.

What was she supposed to say? Sorry, Professor, I just realized magic is sentient, and I accidentally bonded with my wand in front of the entire school?

Her mind raced for an answer—any answer—before McGonagall could start drawing her own conclusions.

Elara tucked her wand away into her sleeve, as if she could somehow make the whole thing disappear if she just hid it well enough.

Her face felt warm—too warm. She was flushing. Brilliant. The first time she let her composure slip since arriving at Hogwarts, and of course, it had to be now.

McGonagall’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. She was waiting for an answer. The entire Great Hall was waiting for an answer.

Elara swallowed and ducked her head slightly, staring hard at the open pages of Ollivander’s journal in front of her. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was soft—barely above a whisper.

“…Homework.”

McGonagall blinked. “Homework?”

Elara nodded quickly, still not looking up. “I was just… trying to understand my wand.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, an unmistakable scoff from the Slytherin table—Draco Malfoy, no doubt.

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line, but it wasn’t disapproval—just deep thought. She exhaled slowly through her nose, her gaze flicking briefly to the journal in front of Elara before settling back on the girl herself.

“I see,” she said at last, though it sounded like she very much did not see.

Professor Flitwick was still standing on his chair, his tiny hands clasped together as he peered at her wand—well, at where it had disappeared into her sleeve. “Curious. Most curious…” he murmured.

Sprout, bless her, was the only one who looked mildly concerned rather than bewildered. “Are you feeling alright, dear?”

Elara hesitated. Was she? She wasn’t sure.

“…Yes,” she said, mostly because she didn’t know what else to say.

Snape had yet to speak, but his gaze was heavy on her, dark and calculating. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t saying it aloud.

McGonagall studied her for another long moment before finally giving a small nod. “Very well.”

Elara nearly collapsed from relief.

But then—

“We will discuss this later.”

Oh. Oh no.

McGonagall turned back toward the staff table, and just like that, the hall filled with noise again—whispers, mutters, hushed conversations, all undoubtedly about her.

This is why I don’t try.

Elara buried her face in her arms, her fingers pressing into her forehead as she tried to block out the weight of the room's attention. The buzzing of voices in the Great Hall felt like it was closing in on her, suffocating her. Every whisper, every glance was a reminder that she had, yet again, done something that put her at the center of attention. The one thing she hated more than all others.

"Ugh, kill me now," she muttered, her words half-exasperated, half-playful.

Zacharias, who was sitting beside her, gave her a sidelong glance and smirked. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor softened into something more sympathetic.

"Don't worry, Elara," he said, leaning in a little closer, his voice pitched low but still carrying the teasing tone. "It’ll blow over. You’ve just got the whole... ‘wand that shouldn't exist’ thing going for you."

The sound of his words made her smile despite the humiliation. Typical Zacharias, always finding the humor even when the situation felt impossible.

“Yeah, right,” Elara snorted, lifting her head and giving him a half-amused, half-wary look. “Just my luck, right?”

Elara sighed deeply and slowly sat up fully, her gaze reluctantly drifting toward the group of professors still standing at the front of the room. The weight of their eyes was unmistakable—each one of them staring at her with a mix of curiosity, concern, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

The worst part was, none of the professors had said a word. They were just waiting. Watching.

It was too much.

Her eyes flicked to each one of the heads of house in turn—Professor Sprout’s concerned furrowed brow, Professor Flitwick’s raised eyebrows, and even Professor Snape’s unreadable, dark gaze that seemed to pierce right through her.

And then, there was the look in Professor McGonagall's eyes. It wasn’t disapproval, but it wasn’t reassurance either. It was something else—a mixture of curiosity and cautious concern. Elara quickly glanced away, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt, but the feeling of their gazes lingered.

"Could this get any worse?" she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes and sinking back into her arms. Zacharias, ever the optimist, gave her a playful nudge, but his smirk didn’t seem quite so comforting this time.

"Well," he began, his voice light, trying to keep the mood as casual as possible. "At least they're not throwing you out of the castle, right?"

Elara managed a soft laugh, but it was weak, the tension still hanging thick in the air. She was so not ready for whatever was coming next.

As if sensing Elara’s desperate wish for escape, the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the study period—and with it, the end of classes for the day. The moment it sounded, an exhale of relief rippled through the Great Hall as students stretched, packed up their books, and began chattering about dinner or plans for the evening.

Elara, however, remained frozen in place.

Because while the bell had freed everyone else, it also marked something far more ominous for her—her talk with McGonagall. And possibly the other Heads of Houses. Wonderful.

Her Hufflepuff friends had already started gathering their things, preparing to head back to the common room, when they noticed she hadn’t moved. Wayne shot her a curious look.

"You coming?" he asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Elara hesitated, shifting her books in her arms. "I, uh… I have to talk to Professor McGonagall first," she admitted reluctantly.

There was a beat of silence as they all stared at her, immediately understanding what this was about.

Susan offered a sympathetic smile. "Do you want us to wait?"

Elara shook her head quickly. "No, it's fine. I’ll meet you in the common room," she reassured them.

"Yeah, if they let her leave," Zacharias muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Ernie.

Elara rolled her eyes but couldn't quite suppress the smirk tugging at her lips. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Smith."

Zacharias grinned, unrepentant. "Hey, I’m just saying—most people don’t go around breaking magic with a wand that shouldn’t exist and then just walk away like nothing happened."

Justin chuckled. "He's got a point."

Elara sighed. "Not helping."

They all gave her small, encouraging looks before finally heading off, leaving her sitting alone at the long wooden table, gripping her journal like a lifeline. She took a deep breath before standing, forcing herself to turn back toward the professors.

Professor McGonagall was still standing at the front of the room, speaking quietly with Sprout, Flitwick, and—of course—Snape, who stood just slightly apart from the others, his arms folded and his sharp, unreadable gaze flicking briefly to Elara as she approached.

Her stomach tightened. Yep. Definitely worse.

Elara barely held in a groan. First, the Sorting Hat incident. Then Peeves. Then this. She had barely been at Hogwarts for a full day, and already she had drawn attention she never wanted.

Just fantastic.

Elara inhaled deeply, steadying herself before she made her way toward the gathered professors. The sound of students leaving the Great Hall faded into background noise, swallowed by the weight of the four heads of houses standing before her.

She clutched her journal to her chest, the worn leather grounding her as she closed the distance. Her steps were quiet, composed—if one ignored the faint tension in her shoulders.

Professor McGonagall was the first to fully turn toward her, her expression unreadable, though her sharp eyes studied Elara with keen interest. Beside her, Professor Sprout looked more concerned than anything, her brow creased ever so slightly.

Flitwick appeared intrigued, his gaze flickering to her sleeve, as if he could still see the ghostly glow of her wand from earlier.

And then there was Snape.

His dark eyes locked onto her the moment she arrived, his arms still folded, his expression the same blank mask he wore during class. Yet there was something piercing about the way he watched her—calculating, assessing.

Elara stopped before them, standing tall despite the way her fingers curled slightly around the edges of her journal. She waited, calm and silent, to hear what Professor McGonagall had to say.

Professor McGonagall’s gaze swept over Elara, sharp yet not unkind. The silence stretched for a moment longer before she finally spoke.

“Miss Willow,” she began, her tone as crisp as ever, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Elara gave a small nod, waiting.

McGonagall’s lips pursed as if considering her next words carefully. “Would you care to explain what exactly happened just now?”

Elara hesitated, glancing down at her journal before meeting McGonagall’s eyes again. “I was… just trying to understand my wand,” she admitted carefully. “I thought if I could figure out how it works, I’d be able to use it properly.”

Professor Flitwick hummed, intrigued. “And what exactly did you do, Miss Willow? That was no ordinary reaction from a wand.”

Elara shifted slightly. “I—I don’t know, exactly. I wasn’t casting a spell. I was just… trying to connect with it.”

McGonagall’s expression flickered at that—so subtle most wouldn’t notice. But Elara did.

Sprout exhaled through her nose, arms crossing. “And then the thing lit up like a Christmas tree,” she muttered.

Flitwick nodded, stroking his beard. “Fascinating… Wands do indeed form bonds with their wielders, but this was something else entirely.”

Elara swallowed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said softly.

“That much is clear,” McGonagall conceded. “However, Miss Willow, I must impress upon you the gravity of what we just witnessed.”

Elara braced herself.

“There has never been a wand like yours,” McGonagall continued, her tone firm. “Not in all my years at Hogwarts. Not in all of Ollivander’s records. That alone is enough to raise concerns. But what you did today—” she paused, exchanging glances with the other professors. “Wands do not ‘activate’ like that on their own. That was a display of immense magical synergy, one that should not be possible with such an unstable fusion of woods.”

“I did get my wand from Ollivander,” she said carefully, clutching her journal to her chest. “But… he didn’t make it. My parents did.”

McGonagall’s brows lifted slightly. “Your parents?”

Elara nodded. “He had it locked away. He refused to sell it to anyone else because—” She hesitated, bracing herself before continuing. “Because wands like this aren’t supposed to exist.”

That certainly caught their attention.

Flitwick frowned, looking at her wand, or rather, where she had hidden it away in her sleeve. “Not supposed to exist?”

Elara exhaled. “Ollivander said that even fusing two wand woods was unstable, unpredictable. And my wand has…” She trailed off, but they were all waiting, watching her. There was no avoiding it.

“Twelve.”

McGonagall actually blinked. Sprout inhaled sharply. Flitwick’s hands twitched as if he had the overwhelming urge to take notes on this exact moment in history.

And Snape—Snape’s dark eyes locked onto hers, sharp and piercing, as though he could strip the answer from her without her saying another word.

“Twelve,” McGonagall echoed, sounding almost like she didn’t quite believe it. “Miss Willow, wands with more than two fused woods have never been successfully created. It is a volatile practice, one that results in nothing but destruction.”

“I know,” Elara said softly. “Ollivander said the same thing. He almost destroyed it.”

Sprout let out a quiet gasp.

Elara forced herself to keep her voice steady. “But when he heard my name, he changed his mind. He said this wand was waiting for me. That it was my birthright.”

Silence.

It wasn’t often that Hogwarts professors were left speechless. But right now, Elara had managed it.

Flitwick was the first to move, adjusting his glasses. “Would you—” He cleared his throat. “Would you mind taking it out? May we see it?”

Elara hesitated. It wasn’t like she couldn’t show them, but after what had just happened, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

But all four heads of houses were watching her expectantly. And really, what choice did she have?

Slowly, she reached into her sleeve and carefully drew out her wand.

She held it in both hands, laying it across her palms for them to see.

The wand’s shaft was like no other—woven in a swirling fusion of dark and light woods, a seamless blend of seemingly opposing forces. The intricate carvings of leaves and vines almost seemed to pulse with life, even as it rested still in her hands.

McGonagall’s sharp eyes traced every detail, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Sprout was looking at it with something akin to reverence, like a rare magical plant she had never before encountered.

Flitwick, on the other hand, was completely fascinated, stepping closer, his expression a mix of scholarly curiosity and sheer disbelief. “Extraordinary,” he murmured. “A fusion of this many woods… yet the craftsmanship is flawless.” He glanced up. “And you said it responded to you? Without hesitation?”

Elara nodded.

Sprout gave a worried glance at McGonagall, who was still staring at the wand with an unreadable expression.

Snape, however, had remained silent, his arms still folded, his gaze unmoving. His black eyes flickered from the wand to Elara, studying, calculating.

Finally, McGonagall exhaled, folding her hands together. “This wand is an anomaly,” she said carefully. “Something unheard of in our time.”

Elara swallowed. “I know.”

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. “Which means we must be cautious.”

Flitwick nodded, adjusting his robes. “Indeed. Such a wand… bonded so seamlessly… it raises many questions.”

Sprout hesitated, then reached out, gesturing. “May I?”

Elara blinked. “Oh—um, sure.” she said softly.

She carefully passed the wand over to her head of house. But the moment it left her hands—

A jolt of magic burst outward, sending a harmless but firm shock through the air. Sprout gasped, quickly withdrawing her hand.

Elara instantly took the wand back, and just like that—the magic settled.

The professors all exchanged glances.

“… It does not wish to be held by another,” McGonagall murmured.

Snape made a quiet, amused noise that could have been a scoff. “How very peculiar.”

Elara exhaled, gripping the wand a little tighter. She had a feeling she was going to hear that a lot this year.

Finally, McGonagall straightened, looking at Elara with a calculating gaze. “Miss Willow, you are dismissed for now. But do not be surprised if we return to this subject soon.”

Elara nodded respectfully.

With that, she turned and made her way toward the doors.

She could feel their gazes on her back the entire way out.

Just as Elara reached for her books, eager to make a quiet, unremarkable escape, one of them betrayed her.

The gossip book.

It had never left her side since she acquired it, and now, in the worst possible moment, the darn thing began to float.

The professors’ conversation halted at once.

The book drifted upwards of its own accord, pages flipping wildly as though carried by an invisible breeze. Then, as if possessed, its quill scratched furiously across the parchment, recording the unfolding scandal:

"HOGWARTS HEADS STUNNED BY PUZZLING PUFF—THE WAND THAT DEFIES ALL LOGIC! WHAT SECRETS DOES ELARA WILLOW HIDE?"

Elara's stomach dropped.

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake—!"

She lunged forward, grabbing the treacherous book out of the air and clutching it to her chest.

Silence.

Complete, utter silence.

Elara didn’t dare look up. She could feel the weight of their stares—McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Snape. All of them.

She could practically hear Snape’s sneer forming before he even spoke.

"A self-writing book," he drawled, eyes narrowing. "How… convenient."

There was a very long pause.

McGonagall’s lips pursed. Sprout looked vaguely concerned. Flitwick, intrigued. And Snape? Oh, he was looking at her like she was a particularly suspicious potion ingredient.

"Miss Willow," McGonagall said, very slowly, "where, exactly, did you acquire that book?"

Elara swallowed.

Well.

This was going to be fun to explain.

Elara clutched the book tighter, heat creeping up her neck. She knew she had to answer, but Merlin help her, there was no way to say this without making things worse.

Finally, she muttered under her breath, "…The Rejected Section."

Silence.

A heavy, judgmental silence.

McGonagall blinked. "…I'm sorry, the what section?"

Flitwick tilted his head, looking far too intrigued. Sprout frowned. And Snape—oh, Snape. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a knowing glint in them.

Elara swallowed again. "...The Rejected Section. You know. In the library."

McGonagall turned to Flitwick. "Did you know of a ‘Rejected Section’?"

Flitwick, to Elara’s dismay, looked positively delighted by the new information. "I must say, Minerva, this is the first I’m hearing of it! How fascinating!”

Sprout looked confused. “Rejected... books?”

Snape, however, let out the softest of scoffs. "Ah," he said dryly. "That ridiculous collection of discarded nonsense. I seem to recall a rather horrendous list residing in there."

Elara froze.

Oh no.

Oh. No.

Snape turned his gaze to her, dark eyes gleaming with malice and amusement in equal measure. "Tell me, Miss Willow," he drawled, "is that particular ranking still in the book? The one where imbecilic children had the audacity to compose a list of the ‘Worst Professors of All Time’?"

The Gossip Book wasn't exactly where the original list had been written, but—well, being a gossip book and all—it no doubt recorded it all the same. Elara suddenly became very interested in the floor.

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

Flitwick covered his mouth with his hand, clearly not hiding a smile very well.

Sprout gasped, looking scandalized. "Severus! You knew about this and never said anything?"

Snape’s expression darkened. "I considered the source hardly worth addressing." He gave Elara a look. "However, since Miss Willow is now in possession of this utterly reputable text, I am most curious as to whether my esteemed ranking has changed."

Elara felt a deep, existential regret for every decision leading up to this moment.

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Merlin's beard…"

Flitwick was outright laughing now.

Sprout, on the other hand, turned to Elara with her usual warmth, though there was clear curiosity in her tone. “Dear, is that book enchanted to update itself?”

Elara hesitated. "...Yes?"

McGonagall groaned.

Snape arched a brow. "Open it."

Elara squeezed the book to her chest. "I really don't think that's necessary—"

"Miss Willow."

Elara sighed. Well. She was doomed anyway.

Slowly, very reluctantly, she cracked the book open and watched as the quill immediately began scratching across the page:

"UPDATE: PROFESSOR SNAPE REMAINS A CONSISTENT FAVORITE ON THE 'WORST PROFESSORS' LIST, WITH STUDENTS PRAISING HIS ABILITY TO MAKE CHILDREN CRY IN RECORD TIME."

Flitwick wheezed.

McGonagall closed her eyes in sheer exhaustion.

Sprout looked torn between scolding the book and apologizing for her colleague’s misfortune.

Snape?

Snape was seething.

Elara?

Elara wanted to die.

"...So," she said weakly. "I can go now, right?"

----------------------------------------

Elara almost sprinted to the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room, her hands still tightly clutching the now-lukewarm cursed gossip book, which had finally decided to behave. She reached the barrel, paused to inhale deeply, and tapped the password quickly. The entrance gave a low creak as it swung open, and Elara quickly scrambled inside, barely able to suppress her need for a dramatic exit.

She practically fell into the common room, feeling the comforting warmth and quiet buzz of her fellow Hufflepuffs as they chatted and lounged. It was an immediate, welcoming relief.

“Hey, there she is!” Zacharias greeted, lounging on one of the armchairs with a smirk. “What took you so long? Did the professors want you to stay for tea?”

“Tea? It felt more like an interrogation,” Elara muttered as she started shoving her book under her robes.

“Interrogation, huh?” Justin quirked a brow, looking at her with amusement. “What did you do this time? You’ve been quiet the whole day. First, you make your wand glow like a Christmas tree, and then, well—” He made a hand gesture that said it all.

“Not helping,” Elara groaned, her cheeks flushed as she sank into an armchair beside him.

Sally-Anne chimed in, leaning over the back of a couch. “The ‘wand incident’ is definitely going to be the talk of Hogwarts, though,” she added with a teasing grin. “Did you see the way everyone was staring? You could’ve lit up the whole Great Hall with how much attention you got!”

“So, what exactly did McGonagall say?” Ernie asked.

Elara hesitated, glancing around at her friends. “She didn’t say much. Neither did the other professors. They... they were mostly focused on the wand itself. They couldn’t understand why it worked the way it did, especially since it’s... impossible.”

Zacharias snorted. “Impossible, my foot. You’ve seen that thing. It glows like a firework. It’s definitely something special.”

Elara groaned and grabbed her journal, hugging it to her chest like it might shield her from the trauma. “So, McGonagall, Flitwick, and all four of the Heads of Houses were watching me. And of course, they all have questions—about everything. My wand, my magic, why it glows, why it can’t possibly exist... You know, the usual,” she said with a little sarcasm creeping into her voice.

“Did they at least give you something to work with?” Wayne asked. “Like some tips on controlling it?”

Elara gave a short laugh. “Oh, no, no. They didn’t care about that. They cared about the fact that it even exists in the first place. They made me take it out so they could look at it. They all had these extremely concerned looks on their faces, like I might accidentally blow up Hogwarts or something.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Zacharias said, rubbing his hands together. “You’re going to be the talk of the whole school by next week. I can already see it now: ‘Elara Willow and her mysterious glowing wand. Is she a hidden dark wizard?’”

“Ugh, don’t even joke about that,” Elara groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You guys don’t understand. Every time I use that thing, I feel like everyone’s just waiting for me to make some huge mistake.”

“Trust me,” Zacharias said, patting her on the back. “You’ll figure it out. If anyone can tame the wand of chaos, it’s you.”

Elara snorted, a small laugh escaping her despite the situation. “Great. Now I have a nickname for it. ‘Wand of Chaos.’ Fantastic.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Susan said with a grin. “But hey, no matter what happens, you’ve got us. And if Hogwarts decides to implode, at least we’ll go down in style.”

Elara smiled, feeling a little more at ease. “Thanks, guys. Really. I don’t think I could survive Hogwarts without you.”

“Well, at least we can say we knew you before you became Hogwarts’ most famous mystery,” Zacharias teased, making everyone laugh.

----------------------------------------

Elara lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling of the dorm room, her breathing shallow as her hands clenched tightly around the edge of her blanket. Sage curled up beside her, his purring the only sound that broke the suffocating silence of the room. It should’ve been a moment of peace, but instead, it felt like the walls were closing in on her.

Her thoughts were a whirlwind, the events of yesterday and today spinning out of control in her mind. The sorting. The song. Peeves’ taunts. Her wand, glowing in front of the entire Great Hall like a beacon of attention. She had tried—tried so hard—not to stand out, not to be the center of it all. She was the quiet one. The observer. The one who faded into the background.

But today had torn that carefully constructed wall down piece by piece. First, it had been the Sorting Hat's song, "The lion and serpent are eager to awaken..." "Woe to the one who turns the quiet witch bold..." "Woe to the one who turns the gentle witch cunning..." The song had echoed in her ears, reminding her just how out of place she was. She was the “misfit.” The one who didn’t belong. Every word of the Sorting Hat’s song had felt like a public announcement that she was somehow different—and the entire school had heard it.

Then, just when she thought she could breathe, Peeves had swooped in, his voice ringing with malicious delight: "What happens when the quiet one snaps?" As if being a misfit wasn’t bad enough, now she was the “quiet one.” The one everyone would watch. The one who might just lose it and cause chaos.

Then, her first class schedule—Potions. A class she was already dreading. But it wasn’t just that. It was the fact she was the only Hufflepuff in the class, of course. The whispers had already started before the ink had even dried on the schedule. And it wasn’t over. No, then her wand had gone and made another spectacle of itself—glowing gold and sending ivy spiraling up her arm. That was the moment the Great Hall had truly taken notice. That was when the questions started, the stares, the gossip. "What is she? What kind of magic is that?" It was too much. She just wanted to make progress with her wand, just once.

And yet, as if to make sure she would never be forgotten, there was the inspection of her wand by the Heads of Houses. The uncomfortable silence that followed as they exchanged looks, trying to make sense of what they had just seen. She could barely keep herself together as they poked and prodded, asking questions she didn’t have answers to. Her wand—a thing that had been her only link to her parents, her only comfort in this strange world—was being analyzed like it was some sort of weapon of mass confusion.

But even that wasn’t the end of it. Just as she thought she could escape, just as she started gathering her books and her thoughts, the Gossip Book had to go and start floating—right in front of the Professors. The book, that blasted book, had to make Snape’s eyes narrow in suspicion, the very last thing she needed after her wand had just been examined like it was some kind of mystery.

The book had been all too happy to list the Worst Professors of All Time, and Snape—of course—had seen it. Of course, he had. And just like that, her day had gone from disaster to catastrophe.

Now, here she was, lying in her bed, the door to the dorm shut and the room finally empty—but still, the events of the day refused to leave her. She could feel the panic beginning to build in her chest, her breaths growing shallower, faster. It was like everything was closing in on her—the attention, the questions, the scrutiny. Why couldn’t it just stop?

Her hand clenched around Sage’s fur, and her heart pounded in her chest. Why does everything have to happen at once?

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, her breath catching in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but the thoughts came faster now—Will everyone know by the time I get to dinner? Will they all be watching me? Will they expect me to have answers for things I don’t even understand myself?

The quiet moments of the dorm that had once been a refuge now felt like an isolating space where she was alone with her thoughts. Alone with the pressure. Alone with the reality of it all.

Just breathe, just breathe.

But she couldn’t stop the wave of anxiety that crashed over her, the tightening in her chest, the fluttering in her stomach. The panic that felt too real, too heavy. Every inch of her wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear.

Sage shifted, his purring softening as he nudged her hand with his head, as if to remind her that she wasn’t completely alone. His gentle presence helped—slightly—but the tightness in her chest remained, squeezing all the air out of the room.

Why couldn’t today have just been normal?

She had hoped—she had wanted—just one peaceful day, a day where she could be herself and not be so... noticed. But now, it felt like her whole existence had been a magnet for drama and spectacle. Everyone watching. Everyone whispering. Everyone with their eyes on her wand, her magic, her every move. This wasn’t what she signed up for.

The minutes ticked by, but it felt like an eternity, her thoughts spiraling until she couldn’t catch her breath. But in the quiet of the dorm, in the solitude of her bed, something inside her snapped. She couldn’t keep doing this—fearing what people would think, hiding from the attention that had followed her all day.

The Sorting Hat had been right. Peeves had been right. She was a chameleon, a shifting presence in every room, always blending in or standing out at will. And maybe it was time to embrace that—time to slip into the role she was meant to play. The mask she had avoided wearing all day, the mask of composure, of cold, impenetrable detachment. Her default. The neutral blank expression, the impenetrable wall she could put up when she needed to distance herself from the chaos around her.

With a deep, controlled breath, she pulled herself upright. No more hiding. She wouldn’t lie in bed, paralyzed by panic, letting the day swallow her whole. She would face dinner, face the stares, face the inevitable questions—and she would survive it.

She allowed herself one last moment to close her eyes, grounding herself in the silence, feeling the weight of the day sink into her bones. Then, just enough time to steel herself, to reset. She straightened her shoulders, letting the calm wash over her, the familiar detachment taking root. When she opened her eyes, the world outside would see nothing more than a blank, unreadable mask.

Because there was no escaping the eyes that were already on her. The attention, the gossip, the whispers—they were all already there.

And Elara was done trying to shrink away from it. She would move through it, a quiet force in the storm, unbothered and unshaken.

It was time to shift.

----------------------------------------

Elara walked through the corridors, every step deliberate, her usual quiet composure now something more solid, more impenetrable. She wasn’t just walking to dinner—she was stepping into her role, her true role, the one she could only now begin to accept. The weight of the attention wasn’t new, but today, it felt different. The murmurings and sideways glances from students, the whispers of her wandwork, all seemed to blend into the background as she moved forward with a cool, serene grace.

When she entered the Great Hall, it was as if the air itself held its breath. The usual hum of conversation dulled for just a moment as people noticed her presence. Their eyes lingered, but they couldn’t pin her down. She wasn’t pretending to blend in, nor was she trying to draw attention to herself. She simply was—unreadable, fluid, an ever-changing reflection of whoever and whatever the moment demanded. This was someone who had found a sense of stillness beneath all the noise.

A quiet confidence wrapped around her like a cloak, but it wasn’t the easy kind of confidence she had worn before. This was different. This was composure refined to its purest form, something that didn’t need to show. She wasn’t sure whether she was wearing a mask or if she had discarded all of them entirely. Either way, she was unshakable, in control, the definition of neutrality in motion.

At the Hufflepuff table, the chatter picked back up as she joined her friends, their excited greetings cutting through the silent tension in the air. She smiled softly at them, but the warmth didn’t quite reach her eyes, which remained blank, unreadable.

“Hey, Elara!” Zacharias greeted, eyes flicking between her and the table. “Good to see you back to your usual self after everything earlier.”

“Yeah, you alright?” Hannah added, her voice gentle.

Elara nodded slowly, the briefest hint of a smile crossing her lips, though it was the kind of smile that didn't reveal much. “Just tired. Wasn’t expecting to make a scene this afternoon.”

"Understatement of the year," Zacharias teased lightly.

As Elara settled into her seat, the murmurs drifted to her ears, fragments of hushed voices barely audible over the clinking of silverware and the general din of the Great Hall.

"I heard her wand is made of, like, ten different woods—impossible, right?"

"No, I heard Ollivander almost destroyed it, but then it chose her in front of everyone—"

"Do you think she’s dangerous? You saw the way it reacted—"

"She didn’t even look surprised. Like she knew it was coming—"

“…Did you see what happened earlier? Her wand—"

“Multiple woods fused together… should be unstable, right? But it wasn’t.”

“And the golden ivy—how does that even happen?”

“Isn’t she supposed to be Muggle-born?”

“She’s not normal.”

Elara didn’t react. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as twitch.

Elara kept her expression perfectly neutral as she picked at her food, her posture relaxed, detached. The whispers weren’t unexpected. She had known the second her wand reacted earlier that it would become something of a legend before the day even ended. That didn’t make the attention any less exhausting.

But then—she felt it. A gaze. Not like the fleeting glances from her classmates, not like the intrigued whispers. This one was heavier, colder, analytical.

She looked up.

Snape.

He was already watching her from the High Table, his dark gaze sharp and assessing, a hunter who had just caught a shift in the wind. It wasn’t a glare, nor mere curiosity. It was something deeper. Calculating. A silent demand for understanding.

Elara didn’t look away.

Their eyes locked across the Great Hall, unreadable meeting unreadable, two voids trying to see through the other. Her expression was calm, too calm. She didn’t fidget, didn’t blink excessively, didn’t shift in discomfort. She simply existed under his scrutiny—still, weightless, untethered.

For the first time, perhaps ever, she wasn’t sure who was more unreadable—him or her.

The seconds stretched. The murmurs of the Great Hall blurred into white noise.

Snape’s expression did not shift, but the intensity behind his gaze deepened, searching for a crack. A tell. Some flicker of emotion. But she remained just as she was—silent, controlled, a reflection of nothing and everything.

His eyes narrowed slightly, barely perceptible, as if trying to dissect the shift in her. This wasn’t just composure. This was something deeper, something eerily controlled. But Elara remained still, the very embodiment of calm neutrality. He waited for the mask to slip.

It didn’t.

There was something unnervingly quiet about the way she stared back, meeting him at his own game. Perhaps even beating him at it.

Snape’s expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker—so quick most would have missed it.

Interest.

The smallest crease of his brow. A slight tilt of his head.

And still, Elara did not waver.

It became a battle of will, unspoken yet heavy.

For a moment, it seemed as though neither of them would yield.

Then, after a stretch of silence, Snape shifted his gaze, ever so slightly, looking past her as if the moment had never happened. His expression betrayed nothing, his focus returning to his meal with practiced indifference.

Elara blinked once, slow and measured, before reaching for her goblet again. The conversation around her continued, but none of it reached her. The shift was complete.

She had stepped fully into the chameleon’s skin.