Chapter 17: My Daisy

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ELARA'S POV

September 4th, 1991 - Day 3 of classes

Morning crept gently into the Hufflepuff dormitory, casting dappled gold light across the honeycomb-colored quilts and softly snoring girls. The enchanted windows had been charmed to reflect the weather outside, and today, they glowed with the promise of a crisp, blue-sky September morning.

Elara stirred slowly beneath her blankets, caught somewhere between sleep and waking, warmth and worry. It wasn’t until Sally-Anne's sleepy giggle broke the hush that she finally opened her eyes.

“You drooled,” Sally teased, poking her head over the side of her own bed.

“I did not,” Elara mumbled, wiping at the corner of her mouth anyway.

“You did,” Susan whispered, already halfway dressed, her hair swinging as she hunted for a second sock. “Only a little, though.”

Hannah yawned loudly from the other side of the room. “What time is it?”

Elara sat up and rubbed her eyes, blinking the last of her strange, half-remembered dreams away. They were always worse in the early hours, the veil between memory and imagination still thin. Last night’s had been no exception—golden eyes, tangled roots, her own reflection asking questions she didn’t have the answers to.

She didn’t mention it. She never did.

“Time to get moving before breakfast is gone,” Elara said instead, mustering a smile and climbing out of bed. She dressed quickly—neat uniform, cloak folded over one arm, wand tucked away where no one could see—and by the time they made it down to the common room, the boys were waiting, halfway through a very competitive game of Exploding Snap.

“About time,” Zacharias grinned as he fanned out his cards dramatically, looking far too smug for someone who’d just been singed at the collar.

“Ernie cheated,” Wayne declared immediately.

“I did not!”

Elara simply grinned fondly at their antics.

Justin caught up with her quickly, falling into step beside her as they joined the rest of the Hufflepuffs pouring into the Great Hall.

It was a comforting chaos. The long tables, the sea of students, the floating candles overhead—this place still didn’t quite feel like home yet, but it was beginning to feel… safe. At least, safer than yesterday.

Breakfast was full of clinking cutlery, laughter, and the occasional explosion from the Gryffindor table (someone had given Seamus a pepperup potion again). Elara listened more than she talked, grateful to be surrounded by people who didn’t ask too much of her silence. Her fingers idly shredded a piece of toast as she nodded along to Hannah's story about a classmate who turned their frog purple by accident.

Then the owls came.

A great rush of wings swept through the ceiling, feathers fluttering down like ash from the sky. Dozens of owls soared overhead before descending with practiced ease, dropping letters and packages into outstretched hands. Elara's gaze followed them without much interest—until a familiar, shaggy brown owl flapped awkwardly toward her, nearly toppling a pitcher of pumpkin juice as he landed.

“Oh! Sorry, Charlie,” she murmured, steadying the bird with gentle hands. He gave a proud little hoot and extended his leg, to which a small parchment scroll was tied with forest-green twine.

The moment she saw it, her face lit up.

She recognized the twine. It smelled faintly of smoke and pine sap. Hagrid.

She untied the letter carefully and unrolled the scroll. The handwriting was large, uneven, and familiar in the best way.

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My Daisy,

Hope your first few days’ve gone alright—figured you might be needing a break from all that nonsense up at the castle. Come down to me hut at lunch if you can, we’ll eat together. I made your favorite stew. Don’t worry, Fang’s bathed.

We can walk down together after yer classes this morning, if you like.

Always here,

Hagrid

P.S. Brought something for yer windowsill. You’ll like it.

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Elara couldn’t help the smile that curled at the edges of her mouth, subtle but real. She folded the parchment gently and tucked it into her robes.

“Who’s it from?” Justin asked, noticing her expression.

“Hagrid,” she said. “He wants to have lunch.”

“Oh, nice,” said Wayne through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Tell him I said hi, yeah?”

Elara nodded, her mind already drifting to the comfort of his familiar hut. The smell of earth and bread. The warm fire. The mismatched mugs and teacups. His voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

No matter how strange or uncertain things became, there was one thing she could count on—Hagrid would always be there.

And today, she needed that.

Badly.

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Elara found herself walking a familiar path through the castle’s winding corridors, flanked by the chatter of her housemates and the occasional burst of laughter from the trailing Gryffindors.

Charms class.

Their second one so far, and already it felt like a quiet battleground for her.

Last time, they'd learned Wingardium Leviosa—a spell that had filled the classroom with floating feathers and giggles. Elara had remembered the theory easily, her mind holding onto the words, the intent, the mechanics of it. But the moment she'd raised her wand and tried to channel the motion, the feather in front of her had quivered... then almost seemed to sink heavier—very much the opposite of levitating.

Professor Flitwick had blinked at her for a solid ten seconds, adjusting his spectacles and scribbling something down in his little notebook. He hadn’t scolded her. Just tilted his head, fascinated, and moved on.

She could still feel the weight of that look.

Now, with her wand tucked inside her sleeve, her heart beat a little faster the closer they got to the Charms corridor.

“You’ll get it this time,” Hannah whispered encouragingly, as if reading her mind.

Elara managed a small smile, grateful. “Thanks.”

They entered the sunny classroom just as the bell rang. Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the room, cheerful as ever, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Welcome back, welcome back!” he chirped, clapping his tiny hands. “Today we’ll be continuing our practice of the Levitation Charm—Wingardium Leviosa! And for those of you who already succeeded, let’s see if you can manage something with a bit more weight!”

A murmur of excitement passed through the students as they took their places. Instead of feathers, small pebbles had been placed on their desks today—smooth river stones, polished and round.

Elara sat next to Sally-Anne, with Justin and Ernie behind them. A few Gryffindors were mixed in—Seamus already poking his pebble with a suspicious expression, and Hermione Granger adjusting her grip on her wand with laser focus.

Elara, by contrast, hesitated. She didn’t want to cause another… incident.

I mean I've kind of figured out my wand... somewhat. But the way it works for me—though connection and feeling—doesn't seem to be... right. And more often than not seems to draw so much attention through inexplicable displays of golden tendrils or ivy.

Her wand hummed softly against her wrist, responding to her reluctance with a quiet pulse of energy. It always seemed to know when she was uncertain, and not in a comforting way.

“Wands out!” Flitwick called, strolling between the desks. “Remember: swish and flick! And don’t forget the pronunciation. Wingardium Leviosa. Clear, smooth, intentional!”

Elara took out her wand slowly, feeling its weight settle into her palm like it belonged there… and yet didn’t.

Sally-Anne had already begun practicing, her voice soft but confident. Her pebble trembled, then rose half an inch off the desk.

“Brilliant!” Elara whispered, genuinely impressed.

Sally-Anne beamed. “You try.”

Elara nodded, drawing in a breath. She narrowed her focus and let her mind go quiet, like she'd done before. Feel the spell. Mean it.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

Her wand moved in the correct motion—swish and flick—graceful, precise.

But the moment the magic touched the pebble, it pulsed gold.

A low hum rippled through the air. Her pebble didn’t float. Instead, it sank into the desk slightly, as though the wood itself softened to accept it.

Sally-Anne blinked. “...Did you just melt your pebble into the desk?”

Elara flushed, snatching her wand back with a hiss of frustration. The wand’s carvings pulsed faintly, golden ivy patterns threading up the handle like restless roots.

Across the room, Flitwick paused.

His head tilted.

And then, in that infuriatingly gentle voice, he asked, “Miss Willow, may I?”

Oh no.

She turned, meeting his eyes as he made his way to her desk. He didn’t look disappointed or angry—just fascinated, the way one might look at an unfamiliar species of butterfly.

He peered down at the pebble now nestled halfway into the wood, and hummed thoughtfully.

“Fascinating. That’s not… destructive magic,” he murmured. “The stone’s intact. The desk, too… they’ve simply merged. Hmm. A blending of material essence… curious indeed.”

Elara didn’t know what to say. Her throat felt tight. Half the class was now glancing over—Hermione, especially, looked torn between horror and jealousy. Ron Weasley raised his eyebrows. Even Seamus had stopped poking his pebble.

“I’m sorry,” Elara said quietly.

Flitwick looked up at her, surprised. “Sorry? My dear girl, this isn’t something to apologize for. It’s magic—your magic. Unusual, yes. But wonderfully so.”

“But I can’t make the spell work properly,” she murmured.

“You are making it work. Just… differently.” He smiled warmly and patted her desk. “We’ll keep working at it together. Remember, Miss Willow—magic is as varied as those who wield it. You’ll find your way.”

And then he moved on, leaving Elara in stunned silence.

Sally-Anne nudged her shoulder. “That was… actually brilliant.”

“More like accidentally terrifying,” Elara muttered, but the tension in her chest had begun to ease.

“An accidentally brilliant paperweight,” Justin corrected from behind them. “Fred and George would pay good Galleons for that kind of mischief.”

Elara rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile that curled at the edges of her mouth.

Maybe she wasn’t hopeless after all.

Just… different.

And for once, that didn’t feel like a punishment.

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By the time the Charms lesson ended, Elara’s nerves had settled into something softer. Not quite confidence, but not shame either. Somewhere in between—acceptance, maybe. She tucked her wand back into her sleeve and followed the steady stream of Hufflepuffs out of the classroom, the scent of polished wood and old parchment fading behind them.

“Did you see how Hermione’s pebble practically did a pirouette in mid-air?” Susan said, falling into step beside Elara. “She’s going to give Flitwick a heart attack with how eager she is.”

“Either that, or he’ll name a spell after her by the end of term,” Ernie muttered dryly, hoisting his bag over one shoulder.

They descended the staircases toward the greenhouses, the air growing fresher with every step. Morning mist still clung to the windows, catching in delicate webs of condensation that glittered like fine lace.

Elara breathed deeply.

Herbology felt like a kind of home.

She hadn’t known that until the first class, when she touched the soil and something in her responded, deep and instinctual. The baby mandrakes had curled toward her hand like they recognized her. It left a warmth in her chest that hadn’t dimmed since.

They stepped outside and across the stone path toward Greenhouse Three. Professor Sprout was already waiting, her round face cheery and smudged with flecks of soil.

“Good morning, everyone!” she called as the students trickled in. “Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws—line up inside, mind your step, and please don’t touch anything until I say so!”

The greenhouse was warm, humid, and smelled of damp moss and lavender mulch. Suspended vines dangled lazily from the ceiling, and a cluster of strange dark plants pulsed faintly in one corner like breathing lungs.

“Elara!” Luna’s dreamy voice rang out as she drifted over from the Ravenclaw cluster. “The vines are watching you.”

Elara blinked. “They are?”

“Well,” Luna said serenely, “not all of them. Just the curious ones.”

Susan gave her a sidelong look. Elara smiled, unfazed. “Morning, Luna.”

Professor Sprout clapped her gloved hands. “Today we’re talking about Devil’s Snare! A fascinating but dangerous plant that thrives in damp, dark conditions and reacts violently to sudden movement. Who can tell me how to stop it?”

Hermione’s hand wasn’t there to shoot up this time. Instead, it was Luna’s.

“Light,” she said, her pale eyes unfocused on something above their heads. “Devil’s Snare doesn’t like light.”

“Excellent, Miss Lovegood!” Sprout beamed. “Sunlight or a strong Lumos charm will drive it back. But in a pinch, warmth will do, too.”

She gestured to several tables covered in mesh domes. “Each pair will be working with a carefully controlled cutting. They’ve been magically restrained, but treat them with caution. And no flailing—unless you fancy getting strangled.”

The class shuffled into pairs. Elara ended up with Luna, which felt… oddly perfect.

The mesh dome on their table lifted with a flick of Sprout’s wand, revealing a tangle of shadowy vines coiled like a sleeping cat. The moment the air touched them, they stirred.

Elara leaned in slowly. “They’re sensitive.”

“They’re always listening,” Luna whispered, as if sharing a secret. “They like to be sung to.”

“…Really?” Elara was beginning to think that Luna fancied that all plants loved to be sung to. But maybe she wasn't wrong.

Luna nodded with absolute certainty. “Anything gentle.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Elara hesitated, then murmured under her breath—something wordless, melodic, barely audible even to herself. A half-formed lullaby.

The Devil’s Snare twitched once, then slowly, softly, stilled.

Professor Sprout passed by at that moment, her eyes widening slightly as she observed their table.

“My word,” she murmured. “Very responsive. Most first years struggle just to keep it from throttling them.”

Elara flushed. “I think it just… calmed down.”

“Sometimes plants know when they’re being understood.” Sprout gave her a proud nod. “Very well done, Miss Willow.”

Elara blinked. Another subject where she didn’t feel like an outsider. She glanced at Luna, who was now gently stroking the edge of a leaf.

“I think it likes you,” Luna said.

Elara smiled. “Maybe I like it too.”

Elara and Luna continued their delicate work, gently brushing aside leaves and watching the Devil’s Snare pulse and twitch like something half-asleep and dreaming.

Elara felt drawn to it.

It wasn’t just fascination. It was something deeper, an echo in her bones, in her blood. The way it moved, the way it listened—she could feel it. Not in the way Flitwick asked her to feel magic in her wand, not through form or command. This was instinct.

Carefully, Elara reached out and let her fingertips graze one of the larger tendrils.

The effect was instant.

A jolt—not pain, but recognition—shot up her arm like lightning.

Before she could blink, the Devil’s Snare surged forward in a mass of moving vines, coiling up her arm, wrapping around her torso, curling around her shoulders and waist in thick, dark green ropes.

The class gasped.

“Elara!” Susan cried.

“Don’t move!” Professor Sprout’s voice rang out sharply, wand at the ready. “Everyone stay back!”

Elara stood frozen, wide-eyed—but not afraid.

The plant wasn’t constricting. Not really.

It was cool, soft, and strangely… gentle. The vines coiled snugly around her like a shawl. One tendril wrapped loosely around her wrist, pulsing rhythmically. Another hovered just near her cheek, brushing against her skin like a curious cat.

It didn’t feel like danger. It felt like… comfort. Recognition. As if the plant were greeting her as one of its own.

“Elara?” Professor Sprout stepped forward cautiously. Her wand hand trembled ever so slightly. “Can you breathe? Is it hurting you?”

Elara slowly turned her head, the vines shifting fluidly with her like they were alive—not sentient, not quite—but attuned to her. Almost affectionate.

“…It’s not hurting me,” Elara said softly.

“You’re sure?” Sprout asked, clearly torn between awe and horror.

Elara nodded. “I think… I think it’s hugging me?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Luna smiled serenely. “Of course it is.”

Zacharias whispered, “That’s not normal, right?”

“Definitely not normal,” Wayne muttered back.

“It doesn’t do that,” Sprout said under her breath, as though trying to argue with reality itself. “Devil’s Snare doesn’t do that.”

Elara looked down at the writhing mass encasing her, and—just to test it—raised her hand. The vines followed the motion loosely, like a leafy sleeve.

“I don’t know why it’s doing this,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it wants to let go.”

Sprout blinked hard, then shook her head as if trying to wake from a dream. “Alright. No one else touch your specimens. Elara, dear, just… stand very still for a moment while I cast a separation charm. It won’t harm the plant, but I want to be sure you don’t vanish under a heap of vines.”

Elara nodded, heart pounding but not from fear. The warmth in her chest was back—stronger than ever. That same strange pull. That sense that something long-dormant was stirring.

Sprout muttered a charm under her breath and waved her wand. The vines began to unwind slowly, reluctantly, as though they needed coaxing. They slipped back into their pot with languid grace, one final tendril trailing down Elara’s arm like a farewell.

The class let out a collective breath.

Elara stood blinking at the now-placid Devil’s Snare, her skin tingling where it had touched her.

Professor Sprout gave her a look that was part bewildered, part cautious respect. “Well,” she said faintly, “remind me never to assign you to the compost bins.”

A few nervous laughs scattered across the greenhouse.

Luna, still perfectly unbothered, leaned closer and whispered, “I think it knows you.”

Elara met her eyes and didn’t say anything.

Because for some inexplicable reason, she thought so too.

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The bell rang out with a soft chime, signaling the end of class. Tools clattered gently back into crates, gloves were peeled off, and the greenhouse buzzed with voices as students packed up.

“Alright, careful with your notes on Devil’s Snare, everyone,” Professor Sprout called. “And no one tries to tame them. That includes you, Miss Lovegood.”

“I wasn’t going to tame it,” Luna said dreamily, cradling her textbook like a sleeping cat. “I was going to ask it questions.”

“Merlin’s mossy beard,” Zacharias muttered as he shoved his gloves into his bag, “first the wand, now the killer houseplant cuddles her like a bloody scarf. What’s next? Bowtruckles offering her tea?”

Elara gave a small laugh, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I think it liked me.”

Zacharias shot her a sidelong look. “That’s the problem, Willow. Nothing ever likes me, and I’m normal.”

“That’s… one word for you,” muttered Ernie.

“Enough of that,” Susan said, nudging Zacharias toward the door. “You’re not jealous of Devil’s Snare, are you?”

“I’m not saying I am, I’m just saying if it starts following her to breakfast, we riot.”

A few of them laughed, their voices drifting up like sunlight through leaves as they began to make their way toward the exit.

“Miss Willow?”

Elara turned.

Professor Sprout stood near the front bench, brushing soil off her robes. Her expression was warm but measured. “If you’ve a few minutes before your next class, I’d like to have a word. Nothing bad,” she added quickly at Elara’s flicker of concern. “Just a little chat.”

Elara hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

“Don’t worry,” Hannah called softly, lingering near the door. “We’ll wait for you outside.”

The others filtered out with murmurs of encouragement, and soon the greenhouse felt larger, quieter. The Devil’s Snare pot sat in the corner, leaves twitching faintly.

Sprout dusted off a stool near her desk and gestured for Elara to sit across from her. “Here. Let’s not make this too formal.”

Elara perched lightly on the edge of the stool, folding her hands in her lap.

Sprout studied her for a moment. There was no judgment in her gaze, only care—earthy and deep, like rich soil.

“You’ve had quite the eventful start, haven’t you?” she said gently.

Elara gave a faint, sheepish smile. “I didn’t exactly mean to cause trouble.”

“I know you didn’t. But it seems like the trouble keeps… noticing you.” Her smile softened. “Or perhaps the magic does.”

Elara glanced toward the Devil’s Snare. “That wasn’t normal, was it?”

“No,” Sprout said truthfully. “Not even close. But it also wasn’t bad. That’s what I want you to remember. Magic doesn’t always follow the books—and neither do people. Especially not Hufflepuffs.”

Elara’s shoulders relaxed a little.

Sprout went on, “I make it a point to get to know all my badgers personally. You’ll find that Hufflepuff is as much about community as it is about kindness. And I’ve noticed… you’re still learning how to let people see you.”

That struck something in Elara. She looked down at her hands.

“I see someone who doesn’t quite know where she fits yet,” Sprout continued gently. “Someone who might feel more like a visitor in her own skin than a student in a classroom.”

Elara blinked. Her throat felt tight, but she managed a small nod.

“Professor Flitwick mentioned your wand. And I imagine Professor Snape has… opinions,” she added with a wry tone.

Elara almost laughed at that.

Sprout leaned forward just a bit. “You don’t need to fit into a perfect mold here, Elara. And you certainly don’t need to explain yourself before you’re ready. But if you ever want someone to talk to—about classes, about your wand, about whatever it is that made that Devil’s Snare treat you like kin—you come to me. No judgments. Just tea and a listening ear.”

Elara sat a moment longer, her fingers curling around the edges of the stool. Her throat tightened—not with fear, but with something else. A sense that maybe… someone might finally understand.

Elara hesitated, then met her eyes. “Can I tell you something? About my wand.”

Sprout gave a gentle nod, folding her hands atop her robes. “Of course.”

Elara took a breath, grounding herself in the scent of damp earth and herb clippings that lingered in the greenhouse air. “It’s just… what you said the first day. About the mandrakes. That they can feel us. That they react to our emotions. I’ve been thinking about that a lot.”

“Go on,” Sprout encouraged gently.

“And… I started wondering if maybe magic is like that too. Alive, I mean. Not just something we use, but something we’re meant to… connect with.”

Sprout tilted her head, listening with the care of someone who was truly present.

“Ollivander told me my wand was one-of-a-kind,” Elara continued, her voice soft but steady now. “He said that it required exceptional balance—but that it would be the perfect match because of that.”

She looked down at her hands again, fingertips brushing one another. “It’s made from twelve different woods. All… living things. I don’t know why that never hit me before. That it’s not just carved and shaped and filled with a magical core, but that it still carries something alive within it.”

Professor Sprout smiled quietly, but didn’t speak. She waited.

“So, after that first charms and transfiguration class… when I couldn’t get the spell right, and I felt so out of place—I started thinking of it like the mandrakes. Maybe it’s not that my wand is broken, or that I’m doing something wrong. Maybe I’m just not listening. Maybe it needs more than motions and spells—it needs understanding.”

Elara looked up then, her eyes bright with a sort of cautious hope. “So I tried. I spent time with it. Not practicing spells, just… being with it. Letting it know me. Letting myself feel it. I treated it like it was alive, like it could feel my thoughts, my magic, my intentions.”

Sprout’s eyes glimmered.

“That’s what happened that day in the Great Hall,” Elara said quietly. “When we were studying. I was sitting with my wand in my lap, trying to clear my mind and just… be still. And all of a sudden—it was like something clicked.”

She held out her hand, remembering the feeling. “It came alive. Ivy—golden ivy—started growing from the carvings, curling up my arm like it was reaching for me. And it didn’t feel scary. It felt… right. Like it had finally seen me. Like we’d finally met.”

There was a long, reverent pause.

When Professor Sprout finally spoke, her voice was soft. “Elara… that’s a remarkable insight. Truly.”

Elara’s eyes searched hers, a little uncertain. “But then… why did it feel so wrong?”

Sprout blinked. “Wrong?”

“I mean—” Elara looked down at her lap, brows knitting. “It felt right in the moment. Like I’d finally made progress. Like I’d finally… been heard. But then, when it happened in front of everyone—”

She hesitated, twisting her fingers in her robes. “Even you said I made it light up like a Christmas tree.”

Sprout gave a sheepish smile. “Ah. Well. It was quite the spectacle.”

“That’s just it.” Elara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It wasn’t supposed to be. Wands don’t do that. Everyone keeps saying that. Even Ollivander said wands like mine shouldn’t exist. Twelve woods in one wand—my parents made it for me before they died.”

Her throat tightened.

“I thought I was finally getting somewhere. I thought maybe I’d figured it out. But instead of feeling proud, I felt… exposed. Like I’d done something wrong. Like magic isn’t supposed to look like that.”

Sprout’s smile faded into something quieter. Kinder.

“So I stopped,” Elara admitted. “Stopped trying to connect with it as much. Not fully, but just holding back I mean. I thought maybe I was overcomplicating things. That if I just practiced spells the normal way—like everyone else—it would eventually work.”

She sighed, frustrated. “But it hasn’t. My wand barely responds unless I’m doing magic the way I’ve always done it—by feeling it. Not the words. Not the motions. Just… instinct. Like I have to listen to the magic before I use it.”

Professor Sprout didn’t speak for a moment. Then she reached across the table and gently placed a hand over Elara’s.

“My dear girl,” she said softly, “you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re doing something different. And different can be frightening—not just for you, but for others who don’t understand it.”

Elara’s eyes shimmered.

“That wand of yours—it’s a marvel. And so are you. Give yourself permission to grow at your own pace. The roots know where to go, even if no one else sees them yet.”

Something in Elara’s chest loosened at those words.

“Thanks, Professor,” she murmured. “I think I just… needed someone to say that.”

Sprout gave her hand one last squeeze. “Well, that’s what we’re here for. We’re Hufflepuffs, after all. We grow things.”

Elara smiled—small but genuine.

“Now go on, dear. I believe someone very large and bearded is waiting for you.”

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By the time Elara stepped into the Great Hall, her conversation with Professor Sprout still lingering in her thoughts like warm soil around roots, the space was already buzzing with midday chatter and clinking cutlery. She spotted the familiar cluster of yellow and black near the Hufflepuff table and made her way over, slipping onto the bench between Susan and Ernie.

“Thought we lost you to Professor Sprout’s greenhouse,” Ernie teased, nudging her.

“I almost didn’t come back,” Elara said with a crooked smile. “It’s peaceful in there.”

“Peaceful?” Zacharias snorted, slicing into his potatoes. “We just spent an hour watching a man-eating plant curl up with you like a pet kneazle.”

Elara flushed faintly, but Susan leaned in. “It was kind of amazing, though.”

Hannah offered her a warm smile. “You’re like… part herbology yourself.”

“Oh no,” Justin groaned dramatically. “She’s one with the plants. We’ve lost her.”

Elara chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re all ridiculous.”

They lapsed into the gentle rhythm of lunch, bantering, passing plates, and elbowing each other over buttered rolls. Despite the crowd and noise, Elara felt grounded. Rooted. Until—

A familiar tap touched her shoulder.

“Elara.”

Her heart leapt, and before she even turned, she recognized the voice: gravelly and gentle all at once. Hagrid.

She spun, face lighting up with joy.

“Papa!” she exclaimed, launching herself into his arms.

He caught her in one massive sweep, lifting her right off the bench like she weighed nothing at all. “There’s me daisy,” he rumbled, his beard brushing her cheek as he pulled her into a crushing hug. “Been waitin’ for this all mornin’.”

Elara beamed, squeezing him back tightly.

The chatter in the Great Hall… stopped.

Forks froze mid-air. Students twisted in their seats. A handful of Gryffindors blinked. Several Ravenclaws tilted their heads. Even the Slytherin table had stilled.

Not because of Hagrid—Hagrid was always at or around Hogwarts, and him being affectionate wasn’t news to anyone.

But Elara—calling him Papa?

Whispers rippled down every table like a breeze through wheat.

“Did she just—?”

“Wait… Papa?”

“Since when—?”

At the staff table, McGonagall’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. Flitwick’s eyebrows rose. Professor Sprout smiled, eyes twinkling knowingly. And at the far end, Severus Snape’s expression… shifted.

He had been mid-sip of his tea when the word landed in his ears like a dropped vial of potion. His gaze snapped to Elara—already narrowed, already analyzing—and something in his usually unreadable expression flickered.

Surprise.

Confusion.

Suspicion.

His cup clinked down a little harder than necessary.

But Elara didn’t notice. In Hagrid’s arms, she was glowing with a rare kind of ease. Safe. Herself.

“C’mon, let’s get you outta this hall,” Hagrid muttered warmly, setting her down. “Brought some treacle tart for after lunch—made it meself.”

As they turned to leave, she felt the burn of a dozen gazes boring into her back—curious, bewildered, and one in particular… sharp as ever.

But for once, she didn’t care.

She had treacle tart, and she had Hagrid.

And for now, that was enough.

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SNAPE'S POV

Snape had known confusion before.

He had lived through enough chaos and contradiction to recognize the subtle flex of reality when it bent, just slightly, out of shape. He had survived decades of espionage, treachery, lies stacked on lies.

But this?

This… was new.

The word still echoed, far too sweet in his ears.

Papa.

Severus Snape watched the doors to the Great Hall close behind Elara Willow and Rubeus Hagrid—his daisy—and the entire room seemed to exhale in a flurry of stunned whispers.

“Elara just called him Papa, right?”

“She did—she did, didn’t she? Did you know she was Hagrid’s—?”

“Wait, but… she’s not half-giant, is she?”

“She doesn’t even look like him. Not even a bit—”

“Then why’d she call him Papa like that?”

“I swear—Hagrid said ‘my daisy,’ didn’t he?”

“Daisy?!”

“She called him Papa, and he called her a flower!”

“She’s not even Elara Hagrid.”

“She’s a Willow. Elara Willow.”

“I thought she was Muggleborn…”

“That’s what I heard!”

The whispering turned into a soft roar. Not shouting—but that thrumming sort of chatter that started in the bones of the castle. Curious. Hungry. Rumor-laced.

Snape’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

His thoughts were attempting to untangle the cascade of absurdities he'd just witnessed.

There was the hug. Fine. Hagrid was emotional. That was nothing new. The girl had smiled genuinely before—rarely—but today, she had glowed. She had let out a childlike squeal he hadn’t thought her capable of. The one who held herself like a ghost in Hufflepuff robes. The girl who moved through corridors like she belonged in the shadows. Who looked through people instead of at them.

She had glowed in his arms.

Not with magic, not in her strange golden ivy—but with innocence. With the raw, vulnerable expression of a child with a father. A daughter.

It didn’t make sense.

It was a mask falling off. Or maybe another one going on.

He'd spent years refining the art of perception—spotting lies, parsing truths from half-smiles and flinches. Elara Willow had unsettled him since the moment the Sorting Hat lingered over her head too long, whispering something about lions and serpents and waking things that should remain sleeping.

She had stared him down without defiance. She had not flinched under his scrutiny. She had bloomed her wand like a springtime branch in the dead of autumn and had looked startled, not proud.

Snape’s brow twitched.

He had spent days quietly observing her since she arrived —trying to parse out the contradictions. A Hufflepuff who wasn’t quite soft. A supposed Muggleborn who cast magic like a creature out of myth. A girl who met his stare like she had nothing to hide… but wore that unreadable calm like a cloak.

He had seen students fake innocence before. He had seen them sharpen it into a weapon. But Elara never quite fit into any of the boxes he tried to put her in. She was too strange to be unremarkable. Too grounded to be unstable.

And now?

Now the girl who had stood her ground with unblinking calm, who had taken the Great Hall’s scrutiny in stride, who had made him feel like she was studying him, who had made a wand bloom like spring itself—

Had just let herself be scooped up like a toddler, giggling in Hagrid’s arms. Like she hadn’t a care in the world. Like she was, impossibly, someone’s child.

Someone’s daisy.

He resisted the urge to scoff.

Around him, the staff exchanged glances. McGonagall was murmuring something to Flitwick with one raised eyebrow. Sprout, damn her, looked like she had known all along. Dumbledore, of course, had the audacity to smile. That infuriating, twinkling, all-knowing smile that made Snape want to toss his goblet across the room.

Dumbledore didn’t say anything, of course. He merely folded his hands beneath his beard and twinkled at the door like he’d just heard the punchline of a joke only he was in on.

“She’s… going with him?” McGonagall asked, still staring after the pair.

“She usually eats with her House,” Flitwick murmured.

Dumbledore, unhelpfully, reached for a sugared plum and popped it into his mouth, utterly unconcerned.

Snape gritted his teeth.

“Elara Willow,” he muttered under his breath. “Willow.”

Not Hagrid. Not anything else.

Then what was she?

If she were Hagrid’s biological daughter, there would be physical evidence. Height. Broadness. Strength. A trace of giant’s blood. But Elara—small, fine-featured, human to her very core—was anything but half-giant.

An adopted child, then?

But why her? And why keep it secret?

Why now?

The rumors had whispered she was Muggleborn.

Some students swore she’d said so herself. That she didn’t know anything about magic before Hogwarts. That she’d grown up somewhere in the Muggle world.

Snape had believed it. She felt like a Muggleborn. The wildness in her casting, the untrained instinct, the oddness of her reactions—it all made sense through that lens.

But now…

Now, nothing made sense at all.

“Maybe she’s adopted,” someone murmured at the Gryffindor table.

“Yeah, but still. That’s Hagrid. Has anyone ever seen him with a kid?”

“She called him Papa like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Snape’s fingers twitched around the base of his goblet.

He wasn’t annoyed by their curiosity. He was unsettled by his own.

Because now, for all his careful analysis, he realized something that filled him with a quiet, venomous frustration:

He knew nothing about the girl.

Not her bloodline. Not her background. Not who raised her or where. Not even what kind of magic flowed through her. He had assumed—which was dangerous in his line of work. Worse, he had underestimated her. Thought her a curious footnote, a magical anomaly, something to keep an eye on.

The girl was a mystery. A living contradiction. He had pegged her for something dangerous. Not evil—no, she lacked the cold ambition for that—but other. Different.

She did not act like a child. Not even three days into her first year. She had the posture of someone who had lived several lives already. She carried solitude the way others carried nerves. Even her magic was off-kilter—wandless flickers, instinctual casting, things that should not be possible.

But that hug…

That was not an act.

The Elara he had been studying—the one with the unreadable stillness and strangely knowing gaze—had disappeared the second Hagrid touched her shoulder.

In her place had suddenly been a child. Just a child. Smiling like the sun, clinging to the gamekeeper like she’d finally come home.

It didn’t fit.

She did not fit.

A girl with a twelve-wood wand that shouldn’t exist. A girl who made a potion too perfect on accident. A girl who shrank and glowed in the arms of a man who had never once spoken of a child.

And now every student in the Hall was realizing what Snape had known from the beginning:

No one actually knew anything about Elara Willow.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts crackling like dry leaves underfoot.

A child. Just a girl. No riddles, no composure. Just… light.

Snape hated that it shook him.

Hated even more that it made him hesitate.

Because now, whatever wall he’d been constructing in his mind—the wall marked observe, assess, dissect—had cracked at the base. And now there was a new question echoing beneath it.

Not what is she?

But who is she, really?