Chapter 25: The Weight of Sight

POV: Damian Fawley/Aurora Malfoy

The Ravenclaw common room hummed with quiet energy, the kind that only the studious house could muster. Students poured over books and scrolls, quills scratching against parchment as stars twinkled lazily on the enchanted ceiling. Damian Fawley sat at the corner table by the window, ostensibly reading a thick tome on magical theory. In truth, his eyes skimmed the words without comprehension, his mind far away.

"Damian, could you… you know, do it again?" a younger student's voice interrupted, timid yet brimming with expectation.

Damian looked up sharply. A small group of Ravenclaws had gathered around his table, their eyes wide with reverence. He forced a smile, hiding the familiar pang of dread.

"Do what, exactly?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

"A vision," the girl said, leaning forward eagerly. "You're a seer, aren't you? Just… tell us something. Anything."

Damian hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table. He hated this charade. Ever since his so-called gift had been "discovered," his life had been a parade of expectations and fears. What had started as a desperate lie to cover the existence of a forbidden book had spiraled out of control. Now, even he wasn't sure where the performance ended and reality began.

"Alright," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "But remember, the future is fluid. What I see may not come to pass."

The group nodded, holding their breaths as Damian closed his eyes. He summoned his usual routine—a deep inhale, a furrow of the brow—and began weaving an ambiguous tale. But before he could fully fabricate his next "vision," something shifted.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. The room faded away, replaced by darkness. Damian's heart pounded as unbidden images began to form.

A rusty cage sat in the middle of an endless void. Within it, a rat scurried frantically, its beady eyes darting to and fro. The bars of the cage creaked as if strained by an unseen force. Suddenly, the door swung open with a metallic screech. The rat hesitated for a moment, then bolted out, its small body trembling with fear.

Ahead, a serpent waited. Its scales shimmered unnaturally, a deep emerald that seemed almost alive. The rat froze, quivering as the snake uncoiled, its forked tongue tasting the air. Then, in a swift, terrifying motion, the serpent struck.

But instead of devouring the rat, the snake reared back, fangs dripping with crimson. It drank deeply, blood pooling unnaturally at its feet. The liquid seemed to move of its own accord, swirling and shaping itself into a dark mark—a skull with a serpent slithering from its mouth. The mark hissed, a sound that reverberated through Damian's very bones, and then it slithered away into the void, leaving behind an ominous silence.

A voice—deep, cold, and inhuman—whispered in the darkness.

"The cage has opened. The blood calls. The serpent awakens."

Damian gasped, his eyes snapping open. The common room came rushing back, the familiar sights and sounds grounding him. The younger students stared at him, wide-eyed.

"What did you see?" one of them whispered, their voice trembling.

Damian hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the table. How could he even begin to explain what he had just experienced? The vision—if that's what it was—felt too vivid, too real to dismiss as mere imagination.

"A warning," he said finally, his voice low. "Of blood and betrayal."

The students exchanged nervous glances, their awe replaced by unease. One by one, they drifted away, leaving Damian alone with his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the starry ceiling. The rat, the serpent, the blood—what did it all mean? And why had he seen it?

"Losing your touch, Fawley?" a dry voice interrupted his thoughts.

Damian looked up to see Ophelia Ollivander standing nearby, her arms crossed. Her sharp, skeptical eyes seemed to pierce right through him.

"Just an off night," Damian replied, forcing a smirk.

"Is that so?" Ophelia arched an eyebrow. "Because that didn't look like your usual theatrics."

Damian's smirk faltered. He looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. Ophelia lingered for a moment before shaking her head and walking away.

Left alone, Damian exhaled shakily. His hands were still trembling. For the first time, he wondered if his lies had somehow become truth. And if they had, what did that mean for him—and for the dark future he had glimpsed?

Aurora Malfoy leaned against the edge of her dressing table, her silver-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she secured a brooch to her robes. The emerald-and-silver crest of Slytherin gleamed in the lamplight, a perfect match to her poised expression. She was about to leave for the library when her younger sister Stella barged in, a whirlwind of indignation wrapped in Gryffindor red and gold.

"Have you told him yet?" Stella demanded, crossing her arms and planting herself firmly in Aurora's path.

Aurora sighed, setting down her wand. "Told who what, Stella? Do try to be more specific."

"Damian! About your engagement!" Stella's cheeks were flushed, her fiery temperament on full display. "You've had months, and he's still in the dark!"

Aurora's eyes narrowed. "And why, exactly, is this any of your concern?"

"Because you're my sister," Stella snapped, "and if you're going to marry someone, he deserves to know! It's not fair to keep him in the dark—and it's not fair to you, either."

Aurora's lips thinned. "I will tell him when the time is right. Not when you decide to meddle."

The tension between them thickened, a familiar clash of stubborn wills. "You're avoiding it because you're scared," Stella accused, her voice softer now but no less pointed. "You're afraid he'll say no, or worse, that he won't care."

The words struck a nerve, but Aurora's expression remained cool. "And you're afraid I'll make a decision without consulting you, as always."

Stella's face fell, her fiery resolve flickering into uncertainty. "I just… I don't want you to regret anything, Aurora. You deserve to be happy."

Aurora's defenses softened. She stepped forward, placing a hand on Stella's shoulder. "I know you mean well, but this is my choice to make. And whatever happens, I promise you, I won't regret it."

Stella's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she nodded. "Alright. But don't wait too long, okay?"

Aurora offered a rare smile. "I won't."

The library was nearly empty, the faint hum of magical wards blending with the rustle of pages. Aurora found Damian Fawley at a corner table, his usual air of confidence conspicuously absent. He sat hunched over a book, his hands gripping the edge of the table as though anchoring himself.

"Damian?" Aurora called softly, approaching him.

He looked up, and for a moment, Aurora saw something raw and unguarded in his pale blue eyes. "Aurora," he murmured, his voice strained. "What are you doing here?"

She pulled out a chair and sat beside him, her sharp gaze taking in the tension in his posture. "I could ask you the same. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Damian hesitated, his fingers curling into fists. "I… I had a vision."

Aurora's brow furrowed. "What kind of vision?"

He exhaled shakily, recounting the details: the rat escaping its cage, scurrying to a serpent that drank blood, and the Dark Mark slithering from its mouth like a living curse. Aurora listened in silence, her mind racing. 'So he truly is a seer, and here I thought he was only playing the seer... I truly am the worst...'

When he finished, Damian looked at her, his usual composure frayed. "It felt… real. Too real."

Aurora placed a hand over his, grounding him. "Damian, whatever this means, you're not alone. We'll figure it out together."

Her resolve seemed to steady him, and he gave a faint nod. "Thank you," he whispered.

Over the following weeks, Aurora and Damian grew inseparable. She joined him in researching omens and visions, poring over ancient texts and obscure tomes in the restricted section. Their partnership deepened, each moment building an unspoken trust between them.

One evening, they sat in the common room, a stack of books between them. Damian rubbed his temples, exhaustion evident. "Sometimes I wonder if being a 'Seer' is worth the trouble," he muttered.

Aurora smirked, passing him a steaming cup of tea. "You could always trade it in for a less dramatic talent. Wandless magic, perhaps?"

Damian chuckled despite himself. "And miss out on all this quality time with you?"

Aurora arched an elegant brow. "Flattery won't get you out of reading that next chapter."

Another time, she caught him staring at the Black family tapestry, his expression distant. She approached quietly. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Just wondering if my visions are some cruel twist of fate," he admitted. "Or if they're meant to… guide me."

Aurora touched his arm lightly. "Maybe they're both. But you don't have to face them alone."

As the days turned into weeks, Aurora found herself marveling at the transformation in Damian—and in herself. She had always prided herself on her independence, but now, she felt a fierce protectiveness toward him. In return, Damian's reliance on her grew, his guarded walls slowly crumbling.

One evening, as they closed another fruitless search, Damian looked at her with quiet gratitude. "Aurora, I don't say this often, but… thank you. For everything."

She met his gaze, her usual sharpness softened by sincerity. "We're in this together, Damian. Whatever it takes."

And for the first time in years, Aurora Malfoy felt the weight of her name lessen, replaced by something infinitely more meaningful—a bond forged not by bloodline or obligation, but by choice.