The crisp edge of October crept into the castle, cloaking the morning in fog. As students murmured about Quidditch tryouts and Halloween rumors, Amaechi moved like a phantom through the halls—present, but elsewhere. Her dreams had deepened. So had the humming in her blood.
That morning in Potions, the atmosphere was taut. Snape entered like a thundercloud wrapped in robes, his eyes already scanning for a target.
"Today," he announced silkily, "we will attempt a Draught of Peace. If brewed improperly, it could cause emotional instability rather than calm, so I don't expect many of you to succeed."
He turned to Harry with a glint. "Mr. Potter. Can you tell me the precise moment one should add hellebore in a peace draught?"
Harry opened his mouth, stalled. "Er—when it starts to simmer?"
"Incorrect," Snape said smoothly. "Before simmering. Timing is everything. I assumed even you would understand that."
Harry's jaw tightened.
Snape circled him. "And tell me, what counteragent would you administer if someone overdosed on Valerian?"
Harry blinked. "Chamomile extract?"
Snape's lip curled. "To put them to sleep permanently, perhaps. Ten points from Gryffindor."
From behind her cauldron, Amaechi sighed audibly. Snape's head snapped toward her.
"Miss Orakwue. Something to contribute?"
She met his gaze calmly. "Chamomile is a mild sedative. The actual counteragent is belladonna—diluted in river salt, to neutralize excess magical absorption."
Snape arched a brow. "Correct. Five points to Slytherin."
She felt Draco nudge her under the table.
"Brilliant show," he murmured, a touch of admiration in his voice.
"Don't flatter me," she whispered back.
"I wouldn't dream of it. You'd hex me."
Amaechi smirked. "You're learning."
That evening, they walked together along the covered bridge toward the lake. Amaechi's eyes were drawn to the water as always. It pulsed with familiarity—echoes of an origin long buried.
"Do you ever feel like this place is… listening?" she asked quietly.
Draco glanced at her. "No. But I've started noticing when you are."
She raised a brow.
"You get this look—half here, half far away. Like you're reading something the rest of us can't see."
"Maybe I am."
He hesitated, then added, "I like that about you."
She stopped walking.
The words were simple, but something about the way he said them—earnestly, like he didn't fully understand what they meant yet—stilled her heart.
"Careful, Malfoy," she murmured. "You're sounding like you want to understand me."
Draco looked away. "Maybe I do."
Later that night, drawn once more to the lake, Amaechi found herself ankle-deep in the water. The stars above shimmered, reflected in the rippling surface like constellations whispering secrets.
A shape moved below.
The water shimmered and parted. The creature emerged, its long, otherworldly face glowing in the moonlight. Its eyes—slanted and luminous—bore the unmistakable mark of a Siren.
::You have returned.::
Amaechi stepped forward. "Who are you?"
::Your ancestor. Your echo. Your guardian. You were born of the tide, stolen from the deep. But the tide remembers.::
She knelt, awash in strange peace. "Why me?"
::Because your blood sings. Because the song must be heard again.::
Their voices fused, part sound, part thought.
::But beware. The silver-tongued lie. The scarred truth. The boy with flame in his heart.::
The creature paused.
::And the one who would stand beside you… if he dares.::
A slow beat filled the air—like the echo of waves in her ribs. The creature leaned closer, brushing a clawed fingertip to her pendant. Light burst between them, brief and blinding.
Then the creature vanished.
Amaechi stood alone.
But the water still whispered.