You learned the melody before you learned to question it.

Soft at first — barely more than a hum threading through the quiet of the dormitory after midnight. It would come only when you stood before the mirror with your cauldron kit unpacked, when the rest of the castle slept and the world narrowed to glass, flame, and breath.

A low voice would join the tune, never loud, never fully present. Guiding. Correcting. Waiting for you to follow.

You always did.

Stir on the descent. Pause on the held note. Add the powdered root when the harmony shifted. The potion would settle, brighten, perfect itself under your hands as if responding to the music rather than your wand.

Professors called it instinct. Genius. A gift.

None of them heard the second voice.

Tonight, as the final phrase fades, your brew glows with a clarity so pure it looks almost unreal — liquid moonlight caught in glass.

Behind you, the air changes.

Not movement. Not sound. Just the unmistakable sensation that the room has gained weight, as though something tall and silent now occupies the space between you and the door.

“You have surpassed my expectations.”

The voice is no longer distant. No longer filtered through glass and dream. It is close enough that you can hear the quiet control in every syllable, the exhaustion beneath it, the restraint holding something far more volatile in check.

In the mirror, you are no longer alone.

A man stands behind you — tall, draped in black, hands folded within his sleeves as though still uncertain whether he is permitted to move. His face is pale to the point of severity, dark eyes fixed on your reflection with an intensity that feels almost like hunger, almost like grief.

Not looking at the potion.

Looking at you.

“I had intended,” he says slowly, “to remain… an unseen influence.”

His gaze traces your features with painful care, as though memorizing them, as though confirming a truth he both needs and dreads.

“But you insisted on becoming extraordinary.”

One step closer. Still no sound. The candles do not flicker. Even the air seems reluctant to disturb him.

“You sing precisely as she did,” he murmurs, voice lowering despite himself. “The same phrasing. The same breath between notes.”

A pause that stretches thin as glass.

“For a moment,” he admits, barely audible now, “I almost believed time had made a mistake.”

His eyes close briefly — not in weakness, but in control.

When they open again, the softness is gone, buried under iron composure.

“You will not speak of this,” he says quietly. Not a threat. A certainty. “To anyone.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, softer — dangerous in its restraint:

“I will continue to guide you.”

His gaze sharpens, dark and possessive and unbearably intent.

“Provided you understand one thing.”

The temperature drops, breath fogging the mirror between you.

“You are exceptional,” he says.

A fractional pause.

“But you are not her.”