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lorainelegacy · 4 days ago

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The lost scroll. Part 3

Summary: After a restless awakening and a barely digested breakfast, Loraine and Eleazar prepare for the unthinkable: to descend into a submerged library, lost among ruins and secrets that time has failed to devour. There, a scroll sealed with forgotten symbols awaits them. A ritual and Loraine will soon discover that facing all that is easy... compared to facing the ruthless deputy director.

Words: 16k

Pairing: Eleazar Fig x Loraine Hawks (F!Adult MC)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, public masturbation (mention), dirty talk, oral sex (male), fingering

The water was not cold. It was... nothing.

When Loraine's boots hit the shore, there wasn't that expected shock, that shiver that cuts the breath and gets between the bones. There was no resistance, no slight tug of the current. There was a vibration, slight, barely perceptible, that ran through her chest like a low, sustained note. A sense of acceptance. As if the lake breathed... and recognised them. Eleazar paused beside her, silent. He stared at the surface, his brow barely furrowed, but without fear. She glanced sideways at him. The confidence he offered her was tangible, like an invisible shield that walked with her.

When Loraine took the first full step inside, the water rose to her knees... and then stopped. It didn't drench her. It didn't wash her away. There was no splash. The liquid simply seemed to obey an ancient command. It stepped back, as if it had no permission to touch her. And then she felt it.

The magic inside her activated itself. There was no incantation, no spell, no conscious intention. It was like a muscle remembering how to move after years of forgetfulness. The energy burst out of her skin naturally, forming around her a shield as smooth as a wind skin. An oval, translucent, almost unreal bubble enveloped them both. Water slid across the surface of the spell like oil on glass.

Loraine blinked.

—Is this... mine?

Eleazar bowed slightly, regarded her with a mixture of respect and caution. His voice inside the shield was a low echo, as if speaking from the other side of a dream.

—Not yours exactly. Connected to you. Ancient Magic does not obey. It aligns.

She swallowed. The shield pulsed with every beat of her chest. She said no more. She just moved forward. The bottom of the lake was not smooth or even. Silt covered everything with a slimy texture, and between the stone fingers and dead roots, fragments of broken statues, eyeless faces, hands cut from marble, peeked out. Hardened coral hugged fallen columns, as if trying to protect them.

Small creatures watched them. Transparent. With eyes too big, too wise. Some swam close, others stood still like living stones. They did not come closer. They did not move away. The silence that surrounded them was not natural. It was not of the water. It was from the weather.

—Can you feel it? —Eleazar murmured, barely moving his lips. —Yes —Loraine whispered—. As if... someone was waiting.

Then she saw it. There, among weathered pillars and seaweed hanging like green cobwebs, it appeared: Maelys's Submerged Library.

It did not emerge suddenly. It did not reveal itself as a beacon. It was there, all the time, waiting to be seen. Immense, silent, and... alive. It was a ruin, yes. The gates were broken, the towers twisted, the banners hung in tatters like old skin. But every stone vibrated with intent. Every crack seemed to stare. Loraine felt that, if her fingers touched a wall, an ancient voice would speak directly to her heart. Eleazar paused for a moment, contemplating the façade.

—It's bigger than I imagined —He admitted in a low, almost reverent voice. —It's beautiful... —Loraine took a step toward the main archway. Her hands were shaking, and she didn't know why.

The blackened marble double door offered no resistance. It opened soundlessly, as if it already knew they were coming. And as they crossed the threshold... The water disappeared. It did not recede. It did not evaporate. It simply ceased to be. As if it had been an illusion maintained up to that point.

The air inside was thick, but breathable. Warm. Smelling of damp paper, of old magic, of ash and time. Eleazar raised his wand instantly, conjuring a sphere of dim light that hovered above them like an ethereal firefly.

—Where exactly are we? —Loraine asked, her voice now resonating in a thick air that vibrated with every word. —A parallel dimension. Anchored at the bottom of the lake, held by emotional magic. Here... everything you see is influenced by what you feel.

She nodded slowly.

—Then I must be careful with what I think. —Not with what you think —He looked at her— But with what you desire.

They walked down corridors covered with symbols that did not correspond to any modern alphabet. Some seemed to change as they looked at them, as if the stone were alive. There were broken doors, staircases that levitated between levels without touching the ends, floating in mid-collapse, as if time there hesitated between moving forward or staying frozen.

An open room opened to her left. In the centre, dozens of portraits floated in the air, suspended in unsupported frames. Ancient faces, with intense eyes, followed them as they passed. Some whispered in forgotten tongues, filling the air with barely audible murmurs .One was of a sweet-faced, serene woman in a worn ceremonial robe with dark brown hair pulled back in a plait… left eye green. The other yellow. She stopped.

—Is that… me?

Eleazar also watched the portrait. His expression became more serious.

—Perhaps, in another time. —Can that happen? —In places like this... yes. Echoes repeat themselves here. Lineages leave traces. And magic remembers.

Loraine swallowed.

—So... this was waiting for me?

He turned to her, and for an instant, he didn't seem like the patient professor or the wise wizard. He seemed simply a man looking at her with the most honest of certainties.

—Since long before you were born.

Up ahead, they found a broken bookshelf. It was not resting on the floor, but hovering halfway up, suspended in the air as if gravity had forgotten how to act there. The books, detached but not fallen, slowly revolved around it, like miniature planets orbiting an invisible centre. Some were closed, others opened and turned pages of their own accord, as if they remembered having been read.

Eleazar approached at a leisurely pace, his fingers brushing the spine of one of the volumes without yet touching it. There was something reverent in his gesture. He reached out his hand. He took it. He leafed through it in silence for a few seconds that seemed much longer.

—Lost spells... —He murmured with a mixture of awe and pain—. Mind conjunction magic. This is...

Loraine could barely hear him. Something at the far end of the great hall called to her. A circular door, carved with symbols that glowed faintly when glanced at from the corner of her eye, seemed to pulse with every beat of her heart. She walked towards it as if mesmerised, eyes fixed, footsteps suspended over the polished stone floor, which seemed to curve slightly under her feet, as if hesitating to hold her.

Eleazar stopped. There was something else. Among the rubble, covered in dust and shards of glass, there was just a glimmer. He bent his knee, carefully moved a fallen beam, and there, half buried in soft ruins, he found a carved box. The wood was darkened by centuries, and its rusted hinges creaked at his touch. Inside, jewels corroded by time: bracelets without stones, deformed pendants, rings turned into shadows of themselves. And among them... a brooch. It was not large. Not even particularly ostentatious. A piece of silver, smooth around the edge, with an oval stone in the centre. Amber, deep, warm, imperfect. The light from his wand passed through it, and for an instant, he thought he saw the reflection of an eye. Not just any eye. Loraine's right eye.

He felt a tug in his chest. Small, unexpected. Not magical. Human. He took it carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking it. He wrapped it in a linen handkerchief and tucked it delicately inside his robe. Not as a find. Not as an artefact. But as a thought. A ‘I thought of you even here’. He sat up again just as Loraine called out to him. Her voice was a sharp whisper.

—Eleazar... come here. Now.

The urgency in her tone was icy, intimate.

Eleazar looked up and hurried towards her, wand held high just in case. When he arrived, he saw her standing in front of a portrait suspended in mid-air. A larger one than the others, with a wide frame, carved with floral runes that glowed to the rhythm of her bated breath. The scene inside was no ordinary painting. It was not a landscape, nor an illustrious personage. It was a precise, clear image... and painfully familiar.

A newlywed couple. He wore a dark blue formal robe, no cloak, a high collar, and the most serene and happy expression Eleazar had ever allowed himself. She, in a simple, light linen dress, her hair pulled back in a natural updo, decorated with a silver tiara almost identical to the brooch from earlier. Her eyes sparkled. One green, one amber. They were not alike. It was them. On a day that hadn't happened yet. Loraine took a step closer. The air seemed to thicken around the frame.

—This... it's not real —She whispered, her voice trembling, barely a breath—. Is it a vision? A memory? But... we haven't lived it yet.

He didn't answer yet. His throat moved, as if swallowing an emotion.

—This library not only collects what was, —He said at last— it collects what you desire most strongly. Or what you fear.

His voice dropped even lower.

—But this... this doesn't frighten me.

Loraine agreed with a sigh.

—Neither am I.

The couple in the portrait seemed about to move. His fingers, brushing against hers. Mouths about to speak. As if the image was not an image, but a pause in something that was about to continue. Loraine smiled. A sad, transparent smile, with eyes full of water.

—I hope it's not just an illusion. —It's not —Eleazar replied, not looking away. It is a promise—. And I will keep it.

She looked at him. And for an instant, the rest of the world disappeared. But then she blinked. She looked down. She turned back to the hallway, her soul still cringing at the sight.

—Eleazar... —She began, as they moved on, past floating books and slowly spinning staircases in the air—. There's something I don't understand. You said you'd come here before. With Miriam. How did you two get here? She didn't have Ancient Magic...

Eleazar looked down, as if the words hurt even after so many years. They walked a few more steps, in silence. The echo of their footsteps sounded muffled by the very presence of the place.

—We're not quite there —He finally said, his voice low—. We entered the outer dome. The doors opened for me... but not for her. Something stopped her. A barrier. As if the Library was rejecting her. —And what happened? —We had to go back. I... —He paused— I was left with that thorn in my side. And so did she. I don't think she ever quite forgave me. Not for not protecting her. But for... for wanting to go on without her.

Loraine listened to him in silence. Her steps had slowed.

—And now? Do you think the Library accepts me... because I have the power?

Eleazar shook his head.

—Not only because of that. The Library accepts you because you are part of it. Because there is something inside you that this magic remembers. Something that wasn't born today, or yesterday. Something that was here before.

She didn't know what to say. Her lips parted, but no words came out. In her chest, something vibrated. It wasn't fear. It wasn't doubt. It was as if a very old string inside her had just been plucked. And then, without anyone touching it, the double door at the end of the corridor opened by itself. Ahead, a new room. Deeper. Brighter. More alive. And through the thick air, a murmur arose. The scroll... it was already beginning to whisper.

The sound was almost imperceptible. It was not a hum, not an echo, not a clear voice. It was a whisper with a name of its own. An invisible caress that pierced the air as if travelling from another dimension, from behind a wall too old, too dense to be broken by hand or wand. But Loraine heard it. Not with her ears. Deep in her chest. As if a dormant part of her soul had turned in the darkness to answer. She stopped dead in her tracks, feet still on the black slab, gaze fixed straight ahead. Lips parted, and for an instant he seemed to forget how to breathe.

—Did you... hear it? -she murmured, without moving.

Eleazar, advancing at her side, tensed instantly.

—No. What did you hear?

She held up a hand, firm, asking for silence. Her eyelids lowered gently. The world shut down. And then, there it was again. That call. Not with voice. With a soul. It was as if someone remembered her from far away. Not her name, but her essence. A thought that begged: come.

Her eyes fluttered open. Her breath trembled. She turned on her heel with inhuman precision, like a bloodhound catching an invisible trail. And she started to walk. Not with haste, but with a certainty that came not from logic, but from instinct. She passed by leaning bookshelves, some broken by their own weight, others still holding on as if a will held them up. The walls burned faintly with ancient runes, lines of fire under stone, pulsing like veins. Books sealed with chains groaned as they passed, their magic tight, contained, resentful. The air smelled of old ink, of enchanted dust and something else... something that hurt to remember.

—It's up ahead —She said, without looking back.

He followed her without question. Without interrupting her. Just with his wand raised and his heart pounding hard against his ribs.

They crossed a wide room where shards of mirrors floated, broken at impossible angles. Each piece showed a different scene, trapped like an insect in amber: a duel in the rain, a woman giving birth among branches, a child crying among fallen books, two bodies embracing in death. Loraine avoided them with her eyes... until one of them caught her. In the reflection: her. Not as she was now, but as a child. Kneeling on the floor, her eyes frightened, her knees bleeding. A voice whispered from inside the mirror, formless.

‘It wasn't your fault.’

A tremor crossed her chest. She pursed her lips and turned her face away. She kept walking. The whispering didn't stop. On the contrary. It became clearer. More urgent. They passed through a corridor supported by cracked columns, so tall that you couldn't see their domes. They didn't hold up a roof: they held up skies. The stone creaked slightly under their feet, as if afraid of what was coming. And then, in the background, the fountain.

A circular room, perfect, silent. The air was thicker, as if it weighed twice as much. The floor changed under his feet: from ancient grey to the absolute black of jet. Polished as a mirror, deep as still water. Each step left a fleeting trail of energy. In the centre of the room, raised on a pedestal of white rock, a crystal urn. It rested on nothing. It floated. Suspended above nothingness itself. Inside, a rolled-up scroll, sealed with a red thread that... trembled. Not from external movement. It trembled as if it was pulsing. As if waiting. Loraine stopped just at the edge of the circle, her shoulders tense, her breath held.

—It's there.

Eleazar nodded, but did not cross. His voice was a low whisper:

—Be careful. If the whisper is for you... it is because he wants you to hear it. And not all truth must be heard without preparation. —What if it is not true? —She asked, without turning around—. What if it's a trap?

There was a pause. Then his voice behind her:

— Then you won't be alone.

She looked at him. And she knew. He would be there no matter what.

Loraine crossed the circle. Each step on that polished stone was like walking on liquid crystal. The whisper became, with each step, closer to a word. But not spoken. Felt.

Untie me.

She stopped in front of the urn. The surface of the glass was perfect, no edges, no imperfections. But she felt that if she reached out her hand... the parchment would react. Inside, the document seemed to look at her. It had no eyes. But it was looking at her. As if it knew. As if it had been waiting for her for centuries. Eleazar approached, slowly, until he was a few steps behind.

—Do you know what it is?

She did not take her eyes off the parchment. Her hand was barely trembling, outstretched halfway.

—It's not just a record. It's not dead knowledge. It's... alive. It's tied to something. To someone. You want to open it?

She closed her eyes. Her face contracted slightly.

—Yes. But not now. Not without being ready. Not without knowing... if I can take it.

He nodded, as if that answer would soothe him. As if it was the right one. Then something caught his eye. On a nearby shelf, dimly lit by the light of his wand, something glowed. A locket. Similar to the brooch he had kept earlier. But this one did not contain an amber stone. But a green one. Exactly the colour of her left eye. It was no coincidence. The Library offered no innocent metaphors.

—It's watching us —She whispered, her voice muffled. —It's... judging us, —He replied, barely audible.

And then, the stone doors closed behind them with a dry sound. The end. Like a judgement. Like a sealed agreement. The air grew thicker, charged with an emotional electricity that belonged to no one... and yet was part of them both. As if the room itself recognised their stories. Their choices. Their possible destiny.

The scroll was still there. Suspended. Unmoving. But expectant. As if watching. As if it knew the hour was at hand. Loraine turned to Eleazar. Her eyes glowed, not from magic. Out of humanity.

—If I open it, —She said softly— If it changes me. Will you stay?

Eleazar watched her. His wrinkles marked by tension, but his voice... steady.

—I would stay, even if the world changed with you.

Loraine nodded slowly. And for the first time since she'd heard the whisper... she smiled. Of relief. Of certainty.

—How does the ritual begin? —he asked, her voice a whisper that trembled between anticipation and fear.

The room fell silent. Eleazar took a deep breath. The air that entered his lungs seemed thicker here, denser, as if it swallowed history with each breath. His eyes searched Loraine's for a second that seemed longer than many years. Then he advanced to the exact centre of the stone circle. The ground beneath his boots creaked slightly, not from weight, but from recognition. The Library felt it. It looked at him. As if the place itself was holding its breath.

Eleazar reached into the inside pocket of his robe. With great care, he pulled out a small oval stone, weathered by time. It was light grey, but not dull; it had a faint glow at its centre, as if it had once contained fire. Carved into its surface was a Celtic knot: the symbol of conjunction, union and eternity.

—We will place this between us —He said at last, his voice low, tempered by years of study, but with a slight tremor in the background—. And we will sit facing each other. Legs crossed. Palms up. There must be no physical contact... until the stone allows it. —And if... it doesn't? —She asked honestly, not hiding the lump in her throat.

Eleazar held her gaze.

—Then we are not ready.

He did not say it as a threat. Nor as a warning. He said it as a fact. As a truth neither of us should force. Loraine nodded. She took a deep breath and moved closer.

Together they sat, cross-legged, at opposite ends of the circle. The stone stood between them. Unmoving. Silent. The ground beneath their bodies began to glow, very softly at first. The runes traced on the pavement seemed to light up like fireflies, one by one, in a slow, sacred choreography. The air changed. It became thicker, warmer, as if the whole room was inhaling. Holding back. He held out his hands, palms open upwards. His voice, deeper, reverberated off the walls of the circle.

—Loraine Hawks... will you join me willingly?

She swallowed.

—Yes. —With the truth? —Yes. —With pain? —Yes. —And love?

Loraine looked up, and something in her eyes shone with an ancient, indomitable strength.

—Most of all, with love.

In that instant, the stone between them shone. A soft, round, unedged light. The colour was not one that the human eye could fully describe: it was the light of recognition, of acceptance. A low hum, like the prolonged singing of a crystal glass on the verge of shattering, filled the room. The vibration rose from the floor to the ceiling, and in the midst of that magical music, hands began to move. Not of their own free will. They were called. Their palms reached up, sought each other... and joined. The contact was light, but the effect was immediate. As if by closing that circuit, something greater awakened.

Light.

Darkness.

A void.

And then...

The merger.

Loraine felt herself dissolve. It wasn't painful. It was... expansive. Like opening all the doors, all the windows, all the wounds at the same time. She became water, thought, emotion, memory. And she wasn't alone. She was with him. The space around was white, infinite, without walls or sky. But it was not empty. It was full of echoes. Echoes of her memories, intertwined, like two songs that intermingle without being out of tune.

She saw Miriam. Tall. Graceful. The calm smile of one who knows too much. She saw Eleazar's eyes on her. Warm. Soft. With affection. With respect. With honest admiration... but not with desire. Not with that tremor he reserved only for her. She saw the day Eleazar saved her. The dark hallway. The scream. The bruises. She saw her uncle, the huge, angry figure, grabbing her arm. She saw Eleazar's rage. The sure flick of his wand. The Petrificus totalus. The silence that followed. The way he lowered his wand afterwards. And held out his hand. Wordless.

Then Eleazar saw it. He saw it all. The house. The locked room. The hands on her neck, on her hips. The darkness. The paralyzing fear. He saw Loraine as a child, crying, screaming, begging for his uncle to stop. He saw that monster calling her a coward. He saw the broken Loraine. But he didn't look away. He felt the pain in his stomach, in his chest. He wanted to break. He wanted to kill. But he didn't judge. He just reached out again, this time deep into the loop, and held her tighter.

—You weren't that," his voice whispered, lipless, disembodied—. You survived that.

And then... the scroll showed her something else. A ring. Simple. Old silver. No stones. Just a promise. And her own hand, trembling, as he placed it on her finger. A memory that had not yet happened.

—Loraine... —His soul said to hers—. If we get out of this alive... it will be yours.

And she... smiled. Not with her lips. With her whole soul. The light around her changed. The infinite white contracted. And the fusion ended. The hands parted. But the bond... no. A soft rustle sounded in the royal hall. The urn in front of them opened on its own. The red thread that bound the scroll vibrated for a second longer... then unravelled. It did not fall. It disintegrated into bluish dust, floating like luminous ash. The scroll rose up between them. Floating. Slowly spinning and unfurling. The words began to write themselves. Not with ink. With magic. With feelings.

The air was still trembling, vibrating with an energy that seemed to resist dissipating. The lights on the floor began to fade one by one, slowly fading like fireflies that, after one last flash, gave way to rest. It was not an empty silence, but a reverent one. Like the restrained sigh that precedes a coronation, a sacred act that has been consummated.

They were still kneeling in front of the open urn, still immersed in that instant suspended in time. Loraine took a deep breath. Her eyes were open, shining, her cheeks still wet with the tears she had not allowed herself to let fall until now. But the parchment was no longer in her focus. She didn't see the letters dancing before her, or the colours magically gliding across the parchment. She saw Eleazar. Her Eleazar. And before she could think, before she could even parse a word, she lunged for his neck.

She hugged him tightly. As if it had been an eternity without that contact. Her hands folded behind his back, clinging, as if clinging to him was the only anchor she had left in this strange world. Her face hid in the fabric of his robe, seeking refuge, safety. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation. He enveloped her, leaving not an inch outside, as if he wanted to make sure that she was complete, that no part of her essence had been left scattered in that white space where the soul shows itself naked, without masks or barriers. It was not a sensual or romantic embrace. It was a silent declaration that, come what may, they were together. When at last they parted, their foreheads remained pressed together, as if afraid to break that invisible bridge.

—I love you —She whispered in a broken, barely audible voice. —And I love you —He replied, sincerity echoing in his chest.

Then, together, they turned to the parchment.

It floated in front of them, stretched in the air like an open window into forgotten secrets. The written words seemed alive, made of shifting ink, alternating between silver, amber and deep forest green, adapting to the rhythm of the reader and the dim light of the room. Eleazar began to read quietly, with an almost reverent tone, as if each syllable were a prayer:

—"Ancient Magic is neither born nor taught. It awakens. It is inherited, not by blood... but by wound. Where there is unresolved pain, Magic finds root."

Loraine felt a shudder run through her. As if those words scratched inside her, uncovering something she had always known, but could never name. She continued, her voice barely an echo of his:

—"The soul scarred by deep injustice opens portals that the wise have closed. The knowledge contained here is not to be used... but understood."

The letters seemed to flicker, flickering on and off with an almost breathy rhythm.

—"A forgotten name... will open the second threshold. Not with voice, but with memory."

And at the end of the scroll, a symbol. One neither of them had ever seen before. A memory recorded in visual form. A female figure. Loraine. But younger still. More broken. More vulnerable. She stepped back instinctively, body trembling, voice weak.

—That's me. —That was you —He corrected softly.

The parchment rolled itself up, slowly, as if falling asleep after serving its purpose, and fell gently onto the empty urn. Loraine took it in her hands, with the firmness of one who holds something much larger than herself. And then, as the silence settled again, heavy but still, she turned to him, still with the tremor of melting running through her veins and fresh emotion in her wet eyes.

—Do you think... —She began cautiously— that the Ministry will be up to it? That this... will be safe with them? It contains much power...

The question was neither innocent nor rhetorical. It was the raw expression of mistrust born of years of using power without understanding it. Of betrayals, of secrets their own had both kept and betrayed. Eleazar was silent. He looked at the parchment, then back at her, with a gravity that thickened the air.

—No.

She watched him, eyes searching for an answer that might calm the storm inside her.

—Then what do we do? —She asked, her voice firm, determined.

He took a deep breath, taking in all the patience and strength he could muster.

—We will protect him. We will. Until we know for sure who can understand him without corrupting him. —And if no one can? —Uncertainty hung in the air. —Then it will remain with you. With the one person who opened it without greed.

Loraine closed her eyes and nodded, feeling that this decision was a pact of blood and soul.

—Then let's get out of here. But not with this as a weapon. Not as a trophy. Let's walk out with this as a secret. Ours.

Eleazar smiled, soft and hopeful. And so, the scroll was put away. The ritual, sealed. The promise, made. Loraine Hawks and Eleazar Fig began their return to the surface, together and stronger. With something hidden, ancient and powerful, that the world should never hold in the wrong hands.

The runes on the floor died out completely as they crossed the threshold, one by one, as if the library itself were closing a sacred chapter. Behind them, the urn closed its glass with an almost imperceptible click, a sound that seemed to seal an invisible pact. Nothing followed them. Nothing stopped them. Because the Library... had already accepted them. And that acceptance was a silent oath.

The magic that protected them was activated again without Loraine summoning it. The invisible bubble of air enveloped them again, that delicate shell that protected them from the dark, heavy world around them. The water slid around them, dark, dense, but respectful, opening like a cloak that acknowledged its queen. Eleazar took Loraine's hand this time. No protocol, no formalities. Just the pure desire to feel her close, to make sure they were together, anchored to each other.

The ascent was slow and meandering. They passed through submerged ruins, silent witnesses of forgotten times. Ancient, translucent creatures watched them from cracks in the stone with sparkling eyes, but none showed threat or fear. Only curiosity. They passed through passages that would never be seen by any other mortal. Finally, after passing through the final tunnel carpeted in slime and intertwined roots, the light changed. The surface.

The first breath of air was warm and misty, as if the world welcomed them with a whisper. The shore of Loch Lomond greeted them with the same stillness and patience, as if not a minute had passed since they disappeared beneath its waters. The sun was high, high noon, and the world was still untouched, indifferent to the secrets they now carried. They emerged from the water, still wrapped in the protective cloak that dissipated as soon as their boots touched dry land. The fresh air filled their lungs with force again, filling them with reality. The texture of the wind, the scents of the forest, the distant sounds of birds. Loraine, still steeped in broken silences and new truths, cast a knowing glance at Eleazar as she shook the water from her enchanted cloak, letting the droplets sparkle in the sun.

—So, —She began, with a lopsided smile— what are you going to tell Deputy Headmaster Grimblehook tonight?

He raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

—About what exactly? —Oh, I don't know... —She replied, feigning innocence as she undid her ponytail, letting her damp hair, not from the water, but from the Library environment, fall free over her shoulders—. About the fact that we found a priceless document of Ancient Magic... and decided not to hand it over. —I will tell him the truth —He replied calmly, his voice deep and confident. —The truth? —She repeated, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

Eleazar turned to her, a half-smile playing on his lips, the same one that only she knew and understood.

—I will tell him that the scroll is linked to a magical source that is too volatile, too unstable, and requires time to be studied by authoritative experts. That a hasty handover could lead to tragic... consequences. Uncontrollable. And that, until then, it remains in my direct custody, as permitted by Article Fourteen of the Arcane Relics Decree.

Loraine watched him carefully, then let out a laugh, bright and frank, that broke the tension of the moment.

—You are an exquisite liar, Professor. —I am a scholar with a good memory —He replied, lifting his chin proudly—. And you are my officially recognised apprentice. So if Grimblehook suspects anything, he can take it to the Department Council. —...Where they count on you —She said, amused—. And what will you say if he asks for the exact details of the contents?

Eleazar shrugged, that little indifference mixed with irony making her smile even wider.

—I will say that the text is alive and responsive. That it reacted to Miss Hawks' energy and that, for her safety, only she can read it. —And if he insists? —Asked Loraine, folding her arms with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. —Then, —Eleazar said, taking a step closer and lowering his voice, his tone defiant— I will look the miserable old man in the eye and tell him to read it himself... if he dares to enter where we enter.

She laughed, a soft laugh, and kissed him. Short, just at the corner of his lips.

—I love you —She whispered as she pulled away. —And I love you. Especially when you ask those questions —He replied with a knowing smile.

Loraine reached into her bag and pulled out the parchment. She stroked it lightly with her fingers, as if it were a delicate treasure.

—Good. Then let's go. We're getting late and I don't want to arrive at dinner smelling of swamp.

And so, amidst low laughter and glances full of shared secrets, they began to pack up camp. Because that night… they would dine as companions. But knowing that, under the table, another story - a deeper, more intimate one - would unite them forever.

The last lights of day were slowly fading into the sky like old ink on damp parchment. A pale pink twilight covered London with its dusty blanket, mingling grey with soft brushstrokes of gold and crimson, as if day were reluctant to give way to night. The black carriage in which they were travelling moved slowly through the cobbled streets of the centre. It was no ordinary carriage. The wheels did not quite touch the ground; they hovered barely an inch above it, levitating gently thanks to spells that protected its passengers from contact with the mud and grime of the city. Enclosed in a halo of privacy runes, the interior was a moving sanctuary.

The air inside smelled of cherry wood, old parchment and, above all, her. Loraine sat cross-legged, gazing absorbedly out of the oval window. She was dressed in a navy blue jacket and a simple but beautiful dress. Her neck, barely bare, exposed her collarbone, and on her chest rested the brooch Eleazar had entrusted to her: a small, antique piece with an oval amber stone that reflected the last of the day's light. Though if you looked at it from the other side, it was clearly bright green.

Eleazar, at his side, was impeccable. This time he was not wearing his usual blue robe, but a formal wine-coloured one. He was not wearing his blue scarf, but instead a cravat around his neck, carefully placed by Loraine. His grey hair was slicked back, impeccable. His grey eyes shone with a mixture of focus, strategy, and an indecipherable glint that only she knew well. Silence reigned between them. It was not awkward, but charged with an invisible music, a symphony not yet begun but vibrating with promise in the air. Loraine stroked his thigh from time to time, unable to help herself at the sight of him dressed like that.

The carriage turned a cobblestone corner, and Eleazar, adjusting his cravat with a calculated gesture, mentally reviewed the words he was to say tonight. But before he could open his mouth, he issued a warning in that tone of teacher and accomplice:

—Behave yourself tonight, Loraine.

She turned her face away, arching an eyebrow theatrically.

—And why is that? —Because I would like to spend at least one ministerial evening without having to justify your hand sliding down my leg in the middle of dinner. Let us remember the evening with young Thorne...

Loraine let out a short, sharp, delicious laugh that filled the small space of the carriage.

—I'll try —She said with a slow smile, letting her tongue barely touch her lower lip before she spoke—. But it's hard when you're this rapturous.

He cocked his head to one side, intrigued, delighted. And then she lowered her voice, in the exact tone that fires start with.

—And about the dinner with Thorne... —She pressed her lips to his ear, not touching— ...I didn't just touch your leg, Eleazar.

Her breath was warm. The memory... even more so.

—I jerked you off —She whispered—. While Thorne was talking about things you don't even remember, you were holding back with everything you had. You were sweating. Your jaw was so tight, and your hand was pressing so hard I thought you were going to break the wine glass.

Eleazar closed his eyes for a second. She noticed.

—And then you excused yourself. You said the soup was too spicy. But that wasn't it, was it?

Her hand brushed his leg again, like someone remembering with their fingers.

—You had to run to the bathroom. And there... —She smiled, dangerously— I came after you. To help you. With my tongue.

He took a deep breath, and beneath the robe, the ‘wand’ trembled imperceptibly.

—Don't say that before we go in —He muttered, his tone graver than ever—. Because I swear to Merlin, Loraine, if I remember too clearly... you'll see me walking up those stairs with my dignity broken.

She grabbed the collar of his robe. She pulled him in just barely. And gave him a soft, slow, mischievous kiss. A kiss with a message.

—Tonight there's lamb on the menu. So you're safe. —You say that like you can't improvise —He replied. —Oh, I can —She said, cocking her head to one side, with a feline smile— But I'll be good. I promise. —Liar. —And you adore it.

Eleazar let out a short, dark laugh, and the carriage began to slow.

—You are the punishment of my own choosing.

Outside, the Ministry's tall windows glittered with golden lights. Shadows moved behind heavy, elegant curtains. There were other carriages lined up, but none like his. For no one else carried a secret under his coat. No one else came from the bottom of a lake. Loraine drew in a deep breath, feeling the weight and the glow of this night that promised more than just dinner.

—Ready? —Eleazar asked, his hand on the door handle. —Always —She replied, adjusting her cloak.

The carriage stopped, a coachman opened the door with reverent respect, and the night greeted them with a kindly chill.

The façade of the Ministry glowed in the evening gloom like the side of a sleeping dragon. Dark, polished stones, so ancient they seemed to absorb the light, stood majestically against the sky. Tall columns decorated with protective runes glowed with a faint blue glow, like eternal guardians whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. The ceilings, impossible in their design, floated in the air supported by invisible magic, defying logic and gravity with superb elegance. There were no windows at the main entrance, only those huge black wooden doors, ancient and deep, with knockers that seemed to breathe softly, inflating and deflating to the rhythm of an arcane heartbeat. Always guarded. Always watching. As if the building itself were a living being, watchful and patient.

The inner hall rose with the solemnity of a gothic cathedral. The enchanted domes above their heads showed constellations moving in a slow dance, shooting stars streaking across the celestial vault, reminding them of the smallness of their existence in that vast magical tapestry. The floor was a polished black marble, furrowed with veins of liquid silver that snaked and churned like magical veins pulsing beneath their feet. Each step seemed to set off a subtle pulse, a magical echo that spread the length and breadth of the hall.

Loraine swallowed as she crossed the threshold. Her footsteps, though steady, echoed in her chest like accelerated drums. It wasn't just the anticipation of dinner that unsettled her. It was everything. The responsibility she carried hidden, like a heavy stone at the bottom of her enchanted purse. It was Eleazar at her side, serious, solemn, more than ever the master who guided and protected her. It was the realisation that, that night, she was no longer simply a talented and curious apprentice, but a mystery wrapped in power and danger. A threat that some eyes in the Ministry watched with suspicion. And they knew it.

Eleazar walked beside her with sure, measured steps. When they reached the main staircase, where floating chandeliers lit the way with a warm, golden light, he leaned slightly towards her and whispered in her ear in a low, calm voice:

—Breathe —He said— He have no power over you. No more than you will allow him.

Loraine tilted her head, her eyes searching his, and with a smile that trembled with tension and emotion, she replied:

—But you have it —She murmured softly—. And that is the only truth that calms me tonight.

He looked at her, the warmth of her gaze counteracting the coldness of the place.

—And I'm here. All night long. By your side. As always.

She nodded, taking in the quiet strength that emanated from him. Chin raised, she climbed the last flight of stairs, feeling that each step brought her closer to a stage where words would not suffice to defend them, where gazes could be daggers or shields.

As they reached the main hall, a faint murmur of conversation and discreet laughter enveloped them. The great hall was full, the light from the chandeliers and oil lamps casting golden reflections on the elegant gowns and dresses. The tables were set with precision and delicacy, white tablecloths contrasting with the solemnity of the place. Eleazar shook Loraine's hand lightly, an almost imperceptible gesture, as they had to maintain their composure. She inhaled deeply, remembering the silver brooch with the amber stone that hung on her chest, a tangible reminder of the lake and that other reality in the Submerged Library. No one else knew what they shared. And that gave them an advantage.

With steady steps, they stepped into the room, facing curious stares, polite smiles, and, in some cases, flashes of suspicion. Loraine sensed that the evening would not be easy. But she was ready. Because she had him. And because, deep down, she knew that tonight would be just the beginning of something much bigger.

The ministerial dining room was one of the most imposing rooms in the building. A vaulted ceiling of white and blue stone, the walls were lined with portraits of all past ministers. Candles floated in rotating patterns, each marked with a rune that prevented wax dripping. A long table of enchanted oak wood occupied the centre. Twelve chairs surrounded it. And only three were occupied. At the head, like a dark centre of gravity, Deputy Headmaster Grimblehook awaited them.

Loraine saw him before Eleazar could introduce him. And her blood... turned to ice. Not because of his size - he was not a large or physically imposing man - but because of the way he occupied the space. His presence was a dense fog. An echo of polite menace. With an elongated face and skin as pale as wax, his eyes were ink wells. Sunken, dull, as if they had seen too much and now only looked for cracks. The beard, trimmed with millimetre precision. His black robes shimmered with an elegant opacity, woven with magical fibres that did not reflect light. Every ring on his fingers was a trap, a seal, an artefact. Every word, a proof.

He saw her. And he raised an eyebrow. A sharp smile spread across his face, like that of an executioner who is grateful that the victim has dressed for the occasion. Eleazar, ever the diplomat, stepped forward and executed a measured bow.

—Deputy Director Grimblehook.

The man bowed his head slightly, barely a gesture.

—Professor Fig —He said in a nasal, dry voice, as if measuring the value of syllables—. And Miss Hawks. We meet at last.

Loraine swallowed. Her instinct told her that this man was not one to falter at fine words. So she simply bowed her head slightly, keeping her tone firm:

—I am honoured, sir.

Grimblehook cocked his head to one side, not taking his eyes off her.

—I doubt it.

And he was already turning to sit down. As if that settled the encounter. She felt the urge to stop, to stand, but Eleazar gently put his hand on her back. He didn't push her away. It was just a subtle, barely perceptible touch, like a low note in the middle of a tense melody. And it was enough. She moved forward. She sat up. Back straight. Hands folded under the table. Her face serene. Like a newcomer who knew well the cage she was entering.

Grimblehook began to speak at once. Protocols, recent rumours, the redistribution of minor departments... Nothing concrete. His voice was like a slow, hypnotic spell, meant to occupy space without showing any intention. A verbal predator. And Loraine, knowing that, kept quiet. Not out of fear, but out of strategy. She watched. She measured. Listened. Eleazar responded calmly. Courteous. Professional. Not a word too many. There was no submission in his tone, but no defiance either. It was as if he was walking on ancient ice and knew exactly which areas to avoid.

Then the plates arrived. One by one, placed by almost invisible house elves in almost choreographed synchronicity. Lamb glazed in a concoction of honey and thyme. Enchanted vegetables that held their exact doneness. Warm breads. And a glass of red wine, dark as the dried ink of an ancient pact. The rustle of cutlery filled the air. Porcelain music. No one talked about what was important. But everyone knew.

Loraine ate with understated elegance, though inside, every fibre of her body was alert. She watched as Grimblehook barely turned the glass between his fingers. How he let the silences grow like ivy between trivial sentences. He was a master at the art of polite discomfort. And when the emptiness became almost unbearable, he attacked.

—Professor Fig, —He said, setting down his glass without drinking— I wonder if it would be possible to know by now... the results of your expedition. Tell me, was the legendary scroll more myth than substance?

Loraine squeezed her legs together unwillingly. She didn't move. But she felt the air thicken. Eleazar didn't hurry. He cut a piece of meat, put it in his mouth. He chewed. He tasted. He drank water. Only then, with exquisite calm, did he speak:

—We found it.

Grimblehook leaned barely forward.

—Oh? And then?

Eleazar wiped his lips with his napkin, with a precision that seemed ritualistic.

—The object is linked to an extremely volatile magical source —He said—. It does not respond to standard containment protocols. Its structure changes in response to emotions and personal attachments. It is... sensitive.

Grimblehook frowned with minimal theatricality.

—And that means...?

Eleazar allowed himself a small inflection of authority.

—It means that its premature transfer could have serious consequences. And that, according to Decree XIV on Arcane Relics, it remains in my direct custody until assessed by a select committee. Under controlled conditions.

A silence. Long. Tense. The kind of pause where the butter knife suddenly seems like a ceremonial weapon. Grimblehook held it with his gaze. Then he took a sip of wine, without taking his eyes away. Then he said:

— It seems... prudent. Though, of course, the Ministry will need official documentation. —They already have it —Eleazar replied—. I sent a copy this afternoon.

Grimblehook did not smile. He just looked slowly away... at Loraine.

—And you, Miss Hawks… How did you feel to accompany the professor on such a mission?

She raised her chin. Her voice was clear. She did not tremble.

—Honoured, sir. And aware of the responsibility involved.

He said nothing. He just went back to his plate. It seemed that everything was returning to the neutral ground of bureaucracy. Reforms, figures, budgets. Until Grimblehook played again. To throw his dagger.

—Miss Hawks, —He said, looking at her glass— I notice you haven't tasted the wine. Not to your taste?

The question floated. Like a rope thrown into the void. There was no judgment... but the weight was undeniable. Eleazar barely turned his head. He said nothing. He just looked at her. And Loraine... remembered. The smell. Her uncle's voice. Hisbhands. The damp wood. The wine on his breath. Her throat closed. But her voice... it was perfect:

—I don't like the taste of it, sir. I prefer tea or water. I don't do well with strong wines.

Grimblehook watched her. A second longer than was polite.

—Curious —He murmured. At your age, they tend to prefer it to drinking... pumpkin juice.

She didn't flinch.

—That may be. But I'm also learning to choose what's good for me.

And then, under the table, without looking, Eleazar reached out his hand. He found it. His fingers touched hers. He did not squeeze it. He didn't guide it. It was just there. Warmth. Anchor. Promise. Loraine didn't look at him. She didn't need to. Her back was straight. Her voice steady. Her glass... was still intact. And Grimblehook... didn't ask any more. Because maybe he didn't understand. Or maybe he did. And that was even more dangerous.

Dinner was approaching its tipping point. The main courses had been removed by invisible hands, leaving behind only a trail of warm aromas and echoes of measured conversation. The dessert, delicate and perfectly suspended - a walnut and sugar sponge enchanted to float like a feather on the spoon - waited untouched in front of each diner. But no one touched it yet. No one dared to break the silence which, little by little, was beginning to thicken like a dense mist.

Grimblehook barely leaned his back against his carved chair. The movement was subtle, like a predator shifting its stance before the leap. In his hand, the cup swirled parsimoniously. Eyes - black, sunken, unfathomable - fixed on Eleazar.

—And tell me, Professor —He said in a tone that caresses and scratches at the same time— Since you have the scroll, could you share with us some details of its contents? Something, even if it is general... that justifies this need for such intense protection.

The cup stopped. The question floated. Almost elegant. Almost casual. But the tension it generated was palpable, like a rope that is stretched to the last millimetre before it breaks. Eleazar took the napkin calmly, folded it carefully in his lap. The air around him seemed still. Loraine held her breath without noticing.

—The text is extremely sensitive —He said at last, in a voice that did not waver, did not dodge, but did not offer more than was necessary—. Its emotional reactive nature is such that it can alter its structure if attempted to be read without the proper magical connection.

Grimblehook did not blink. His interest was not theatrical; it was surgical.

—Emotional?

Eleazar nodded slightly.

—Yes. The parchment responded only to Miss Hawks' presence. Not to mine. Nor to anyone else's.

And then, with the elegance of one who casts a charm without the need for a wand, he launched the lunge:

—For your safety, and that of the contents themselves, only she may read it.

Silence. Again. And in that pause, something changed. A spark, unexpected, shone in Grimblehook's dark eyes. A glint that was not mockery. Nor distrust. It was something else. A genuine glimmer of admiration. Not for the professor. But for her. He turned to Loraine. He watched her. This time without disguise.

—Incredible... —He murmured, like someone encountering a legend in flesh and blood.— I had no idea her connection to Ancient Magic ran so deep. There had been talk of her results in duels, in explorations... but this was something else.

Loraine held her gaze, though her back strained barely beneath the fabric of her dress. She lowered her eyelids slightly. She didn't feign humility. She didn't need to. But she did look away for a second, not escaping. He simply... held back.

—It is a strange gift, sir —She said with measured control—. But not one I asked for.

Grimblehook nodded, tracing the rim of the goblet with his forefinger. The sound was a soft, almost hypnotic hum. And then the tone changed.

—You had started that same investigation with your wife, hadn't you? —He asked, turning to Eleazar again—. Miriam. It's been... what, five years now?

Loraine felt something close up inside her chest. She didn't look at him. She didn't breathe. Eleazar didn't blink. He did not shrink. But a slight hardening of the jaw was perceptible. Subtle. As if the muscle was protesting what was about to be said.

—Four and a half years —He corrected. —She didn't possess the link to Ancient Magic, as I recall. —No. —And yet you two researched together.

Eleazar allowed himself a pause. Silence was his initial response. Then he set the napkin aside, delicately, and held the cup as one who holds a story too fragile for common air.

—Because the investigation did not begin with magic —He said, bluntly— It began with compassion. Miriam believed that Ancient Magic could heal. That it could bring back things the world had already given up for lost. —Things like...? —Hope. Life. Freedom —He enumerated, his voice dropping a tone, gaining edge.

Grimblehook watched him. More attentive now. More cautious.

—And don't you find it curious... —He said— that you have found that same kind of connection now, with a young witch very different from her... but just as close?

And then... the air cracked. Barely.

Loraine didn't move. She didn't breathe. But inside her, something buckled. Not from shame. Not of rage. But of clarity. The uncomfortable clarity of one who understands that she is no longer invisible. That the world has already woven its conjectures. Eleazar rested his glass on the table. Without abruptness. Then he leaned forward slightly.

—I find nothing curious in that fate has allowed me to continue a search without giving up the truth —He answered—. And even less curious in that a different person has shown me what even Miriam could not see.

And as he said it, he looked at her. Not as one who asks permission. Nor as one who confesses. But as one who declares. Out loud. To anyone who would listen. Grimblehook watched him for a long second. Then he took a sip. And smiled. Not with mockery. But with calculation.

—I see. How fortunate for the Ministry, Professor... to have a mind like yours. And with a witch as promising as Miss Hawks.

And from under the table, Eleazar took her hand again. This time with more intent. More firmly.

The plates began to disappear, one by one, as if the magic had grown weary of feigning ceremony as well. The glasses were emptied without toasting. The conversation died down like a fireplace running out of wood. And then Grimblehook stood up. Not abruptly. Like someone ending an audience.

—Professor Fig, —He said, this time in a more affable tone—. The Ministry will trust you. As it has before.

He paused. One that weighed.

—I only ask that, if the contents change... if the parchment reveals something uncontrollable... that you inform us first.

Eleazar rose to his feet with the same measured elegance.

—Of course, Deputy Headmaster.

Grimblehook nodded. Then he looked at Loraine again. This time, without judgment. Just... consideration. And something harder to define. As one who assesses neither ally nor foe, but a force in the process of becoming a legend.

—It will be my duty to inform Director Black that, without his apprentice, this find would not have been possible —He said—. A remarkable talent, Miss Hawks. You will be talked about for a long time to come.

Loraine held his gaze. She did not say thank you. She did not smile. She only replied:

—Whatever is said, sir, let it do some good. Not to feed rumours.

Grimblehook raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled. It was brief. And sinisterly sincere.

—Not all rumours are dangerous, miss. Some... protect.

And with that, he left.

The door closed behind him with a dry, definitive sound. Like a spell cast without a wand. There was no click of a lock, no murmur of incantations. Only the subtle weight of an ending, of a scene dissolving into its own invisible curtain.

Silence enveloped them like a warm, but strangely heavy cloak. There were no more knives disguised as words, no more sharp smiles. Only the distant echo of ghostly cutlery, and the almost imperceptible murmur of the cleansing spell that was beginning to unravel the ministerial scene.

Loraine dropped her body slightly backwards. Her shoulders, at last, dropped a few millimetres. The gesture was small. But to anyone who knew her tension - that tremor that showed not in her voice, but in the pulse under her skin - it was a controlled collapse. She closed her eyes for a moment. Just one. And exhaled. Slow. Long. As if the air was coming from a place too deep, where the echoes of the lake, of the parchment, of the decisions no one was meant to see, were still throbbing.

—Well, —She murmured quietly, without opening her eyes, barely a whisper to herself— the dinner with Auror Thorne was much more fun.

Eleazar let out a short laugh. Serious. Intimate. The kind only he could make.

—You think so?

She tilted her head in his direction, her eyes opening slowly. The smile was slight, but genuine. Almost mischievous.

—Oh, no doubt. That one had tension, but the fun kind. This had been a parade of knives and words that smacked of old politics. The whole room was full of verbal traps. And you, so dignified, cutting with white gloves.

Eleazar rested his forearm on the table. He looked at her with a mixture of pride and tenderness. Then, with a gesture so gentle it was almost unnoticeable, he took her wrist. His fingers wrapped loosely around her skin, like someone holding something precious that has returned from a storm.

—And yet... —He said in a low, warm tone— you were unharmed. Composed. Precise.

She raised an eyebrow, rehearsing a grimace of modesty that wasn't entirely believable.

—Because I'm good —She said, shrugging her shoulders with a grace that barely concealed her weariness—. And because you held my hand just when I needed it most.

He didn't respond immediately. He watched her. Her face still lit by the last remnants of the floating candles. Her eyes, tired but steady. The way in which, despite everything, she was still so in control of herself.

—I always will —He said, simply.

Loraine looked at him. No laughter now. Just that silence that doesn't need to be filled. The kind of silence shared only by those who have survived something together. And in that instant, the tension faded. Not abruptly. Not like a spell dissolved. But like mist yielding to the sun. As if the whole Ministry - with its eyes, its whispers, its suspicions - had sunk beneath the waters of Loch Lomond, and they were left above, floating, untouched.

Loraine straightened and stood up. Her dress fell into place with a faint rustle of enchanted fabric. She glanced around the empty dining room, as if checking that no more shadows were hidden.

—Shall we go, Professor? —She asked, with a slight nod that was not submission, but courtesy among equals.

Eleazar rose as well, unhurriedly, and adjusted his tunic.

—I will escort you wherever you wish.

She smiled. A different smile. Lower. More private.

—Home —She said, lowering her voice— With you.

And they left the dining room. Not as fugitives. Not as conspirators. But as two people who knew exactly what they were, and what they had achieved. The echo of their footsteps was the only thing that followed them. Slow, steady, reverberating through the corridors of marble and ancient magic. Because the rest - the intrigues, the unspoken questions, the eyes that already saw them as a threat - were left behind. Where they belong.

The carriage ride back was a quiet one. The night outside was black as thick ink, and silence settled between the two like an old friend who did not demand explanations. They did not speak. They didn't need to. Words had run out between ministerial knives and thinly veiled confessions. What remained now was an intimate recollection, a calm that resembled not exhaustion but the peace that comes after surviving the storm. Eleazar had removed his cravat, leaving it folded in his lap. The open collar of his tunic revealed the first button undone, a gesture that, on him, was almost a declaration of surrender. Loraine leaned lightly against his shoulder, without weight, without demand, just as one who needs to touch land amidst the swell. The brooch he had given her - so silent, so eloquent - still glowed faintly on her chest, like an intimate beacon that needed no light.

The carriage glided gracefully through the sleeping trees. The creatures of the forest were silent, as if they too knew that this night was not to be interrupted. And then, through the thick foliage, the silhouette of the castle appeared. Imposing. Cut against a moonless sky. The towers and turrets were dormant, save for a few tall windows where a magical light still flickered. Teachers marking exams. Elves picking up. The occasional student in detention. But for them, the world... was already shut down.

They descended from the carriage with slow steps, as if not yet wanting to break the delicacy of the shared bubble. They crossed the threshold of the main entrance - dark slabs, high ceilings - and it was then that he spoke. The voice was low. A murmur that seemed to carry with it all the weariness of the day.

—Tomorrow we go back to the routine.

Loraine didn't stop. She walked two more steps, without looking at him, and only then did she reply:

—Tomorrow can wait.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. He smiled thinly, following her as she took the lead in the corridors. She walked briskly up the stairs, determined, but not in a hurry. As if the castle folded to her gait, as if the stones themselves recognised her new place among them. The night at Hogwarts was unlike any other. Quieter than the forest. More attentive than the Ministry. The walls, still warm from the afternoon sun, returned soft echoes of shared footsteps. Torches flared as they passed, with a golden light that did not hurt. One that seemed to say: welcome back.

Loraine walked with her hands folded behind her back, cloak billowing slightly. Her boots made no sound. Eleazar, at her side, had his hands behind his back as well. The tunic still spotless, but the shoulders more relaxed. Though not entirely. The day still throbbed in the folds of his clothes, in the corners of his mouth, in the tense line of his jaw.

—Did you think we'd come out of all this unscathed? —She asked, at last, in a low voice, as if speaking to the shadows. —No —He replied, with a lopsided smile— But I didn't think I'd walk out with you hand in hand, either, with the parchment in your suitcase... and the Deputy Headmaster admitting that without you nothing would have been possible.

She gave him a sidelong glance. There was something in his expression that wasn't mockery, or vanity. It was a mixture of disbelief and acceptance. Like one who still accommodates herself to the weight of a crown she didn't ask for.

—Does that bother you? —The recognition? —No —She looked him straight in the eye this time—. The fact that you now know that Ancient Magic answered to me... and not to you.

He gazed at her with that look that doesn't judge. That never did. There was a sweet weariness in his face. But also a certainty.

—It doesn't bother me. It amazes me —He paused, barely a heartbeat— You're the key I never knew I was looking for. You're... what makes all this make sense.

They walked in silence a little longer. They passed through a tall corridor that led to the astronomy courtyard. The moon, still hidden, let the stars dominate the sky, and the light coming through the stained glass windows tinged their faces a deep blue.

And then, they arrived. The inevitable crossing.

To the right, the stairs leading down to the Slytherin dungeons. To the left, the teacher's tower. And in the middle... them. Standing in front of that unspoken choice once again. An imaginary line drawn on ancient stone. Loraine stopped. She didn't look at him right away. She just felt him stop too. Then, yes, she raised her head. Her eyes, green with amber streaks, searched him calmly. There was a silent ember in them. And a question that needed no voice.

He understood. Of course he did. He understood it all: the chin lifted in mock pride, the fingers clenched behind his back to keep from trembling. The tiredness. The desire. The need to stay together. And he wanted to stay with her. Not out of lust. Not just for that. It was something rarer. More pure. He wanted to hear her breathing in her sleep. To feel the weight of his body on the other side of the mattress. To know he wasn't alone. So...

—You know we have to be careful —Eleazar murmured, still not moving.

She took another step. And then another. Until they were a ridiculously, intimate distance apart. Her lips barely moved.

—And you know I'm an expert at not being heard? —A mischievous smile curved her mouth— Or have you forgotten?

He swallowed. He breathed in. Slowly. Like someone trying to fill his breath before an inevitable fall.

—I remember it very well. Too well. —Then don't make me go back to those lonely dungeons —She whispered, feigning a pout—. I've been good, Eleazar. All night. I deserve to sleep where I really belong.

He gave her a long look. Then he lowered his voice just barely, leaning toward her ear.

—In my bed... there's a hole exactly your shape. Always.

She bit her lower lip. She smiled at him. He didn't respond with words. She only slipped behind him as he turned in the direction of the tower. Stealthy. Light as a shadow. Like one who has passed through that door many times before, unseen.

They climbed the stone steps together. They did not speak. They didn't need to. The castle knew them. It protected them. The witnesses slept. Or so they thought. But as they turned the second flight of stairs to the faculty tower, a faint sound broke the harmony. Footsteps. Steady. Steady. Climbing from the bottom flight. They were not the erratic steps of a lost pupil, nor the clumsy steps of an elf. They were purposeful. And familiar. They both stopped immediately. Loraine's reaction was instinctive. In a single movement, she slipped into the shadow of a wide pillar and whispered the Disillusioning incantation low.

The enchantment covered her instantly. Her figure blurred with her surroundings, becoming part of the stone, the air, the gloom. Only her eyes, if one knew where to look, betrayed her presence: two attentive embers under a perfect spell.

Eleazar did not even look her way. His posture remained natural, as if no one else was there. And just then, the figure coming up the stairs revealed herself: Professor Matilda Weasley, her scarlet robes billowing and her inquisitive expression as carefully neutral as ever. She carried a parchment in one hand and a wand in the other, held without urgency, like a forgotten pen.

—Professor Fig, —She said as soon as she saw him, lowering her voice a little out of respect for the silence of the night— I'm glad to find you still awake. —Professor Weasley —He replied with a slight nod—. Has something happened? —Nothing urgent —She paused at her level, eyes searching. But I wanted to ask you directly... how did the mission go?

Eleazar kept his face serene. A veteran professor's expression, accustomed to the questions of those who want answers without arousing suspicion.

—Partially successful —He replied measuredly—. The object was recovered. But it is not yet under analysis. The situation turned out to be more... delicate than expected.

Weasley nodded. She didn't blink.

—What about Miss Hawks?

Eleazar raised an eyebrow, barely.

—She proved indispensable. Her link to Ancient Magic has surpassed our initial assumptions. The Ministry watched her closely tonight. Too closely, I'd say.

Weasley sighed, somewhere between resignation and understanding.

—I'm not surprised. Exceptional figures always arouse more suspicion than admiration.

Her eyes watched him closely. A pause lengthened, measured, precise. She knew how to read between the lines. And perhaps that's why she didn't ask any more questions. She said only:

—When you write your report, Eleazar, leave out the personal details. Walls have ears. And so do offices. —I always do.

She allowed herself a slight grimace. Almost a smile.

—Rest. You've both earned it.

And without waiting any longer, she continued her ascent up the staircase, losing herself behind the next landing. Only when her red cloak was completely gone and the echo of her footsteps died away did Eleazar turn his head, very slowly, towards the column.

—You can come out now, shadow —He said quietly.

Loraine deactivated the spell with an almost lazy wave of her wand, as if she had just returned from a parallel world.

—And that was the kindly Matilda? —She whispered, half in mockery. —That was the Matilda who knows more than she lets on —He said, giving her a veiled warning look—. She never asks me about you directly. That only means one thing: she already knows everything. —Then she's protecting us. In her own way. —In her own way —Eleazar repeated, with a half-smile.

And they resumed their ascent without further interruption until they came to a plain, dark wooden door, carved with ancient runes. There were no portraits, no guards. Only an enchanted lock that answered to a very specific wand. The door closed with a soft click, sealing itself with an automatic incantation as soon as Loraine crossed the threshold behind him. They were no longer teacher and student. They were no longer Ministry agents. Here, within these four walls, it was just them.

The room was warm. Walls lined with dark wooden bookshelves, books neatly lined up - Loraine's work - and others stacked chaotically. A desk still glowed with fresh ink, as if the day refused to die at all. And in one corner, the low fireplace burned discreetly, casting long shadows on the thick, fluffy carpet. Everything smelled of jasmine tea, dried parchment, and home.

Loraine moved forward in silence, removing her jacket with a slow, graceful gesture. She dropped it on a chair, letting the heavy fabric sag with a rustle. Then she unfastened the brooch —her brooch— the one he had handed her that very morning with a glance and without a word. She held it between her fingers for a moment. As if it still retained the warmth of her palm. Then she placed it on the side table, next to a small flat stone with a rune that they used as a bookmark.

Eleazar, meanwhile, had approached the low table by the fireplace. His movements were meticulous, almost meditative. He pulled out the strands of jasmine and verbena with the delicacy of one who disarms a spell. He conjured a subtle note of cinnamon with a barely visible wave of the wand. And warmed the floating cups with a faint breath of magical heat. He had made that tea for her many times. But tonight... every scent, every gesture, every step seemed more intimate.

Loraine disappeared behind the carved wooden screen that separated the bathroom from the rest of the room. And Eleazar paused for a moment. He closed his eyes. He breathed in. As if he knew what he was about to see again... and he didn't want a second of the image to escape him. When she reappeared, he turned his head with an almost reverent reflex. And there she was. Her loose hair falling like a living shadow down her back. His shirt. The white one. The one he wore on lazy Sundays, to correct essays and watch the rain from the window. It was too big for her, of course. It fell loosely over her thighs. The sleeves were rolled up to her wrists, and the wide collar revealed a bare shoulder, like an unspoken promise. And finally the socks, his socks. The thick, dark wool ones, a little long for her. They came up almost to her knees and were slightly wrinkled at the top, as if the socks themselves didn't know how to hold something so delicate.

He didn't move. His eyes remained trapped, still. Because he liked nothing better than to see her like this. In his clothes. In his space. In his world. He felt something that wasn't just desire, or just tenderness. It was that dangerous and precious mix that only she could provoke in him: that of wanting to care for her, and to lose himself in her at the same time. Loraine looked down, knowing full well what she had just done to him without saying a word.

—My feet are cold —She said, like someone apologising while stealing treasure.

He blinked, then let out a soft laugh. Serious. Irredeemably delighted.

—Of course your feet are cold —He murmured—They always are. Like a winter sprite.

She shrugged, advancing to him with slow, wool-padded steps.

—And your socks... they're always enchanted to warm themselves. I thought you wouldn't mind. —I don't mind. I'm in love with it —He said, without thinking— That you leave your scent on my clothes.

She smiled, satisfied. A smile that knew its power well.

She sat on the sofa as lightly as a spell dissolves. She crossed her legs, letting the shirt barely shift, revealing more skin, while the socks puckered sweetly over her calves. A strangely intimate, domestic, and devastating combination. He looked at her as if she were the embodiment of all the good things still left in the world.

—What? —She asked, noticing his glance.

Eleazar shook his head, slowly. Then he leaned down and brushed her knee with his fingers, almost in adoration.

—Those damn socks —He muttered—. You shouldn't have the right to make something so simple turn me on so much.

She arched an amused, satisfied eyebrow.

—More than the shirt? —All together —He said, not taking his hand away— But the socks... the socks are obscene. —Then I'll keep them on —She whispered, and took a sip of tea as if she hadn't just set his soul on fire.

Eleazar leaned his head against the back of the sofa for a moment, closing his eyes, smiling. Defeated. Conquered. Lost. Completely hers.

—You are a dangerous creature, Loraine Hawks.

She moved closer. Kissed his cheek. Then the corner of his lips. And said softly:

—And you let me be.

He opened his eyes again and looked at her.

—Are you tired? —He asked softly, his eyes still lingering on the curve of her collarbone, on the smooth line of her throat. —Tired for what?

He smiled. Barely. The most dangerous smile of all: the one he only used on her.

—To give you your reward.

She lowered the cup carefully, setting it down on the table as if returning an offering.

—I thought I already had it.

The crackling of the fire accompanied every silence. The shirt —his shirt— seemed more a part of her than of him now. And Eleazar wouldn't look away.

—You've been good all night —He said, his voice deep, like someone reading an ancient incantation—. Restrained. Elegant. Smart. And thanks to you... —He added, barely brushing her knee with his fingers— we have recovered one of the most valuable artefacts in the recent history of Ancient Magic.

She swallowed, though her face remained serene. It was the fire in the fireplace, yes, but it was also his.

—It wouldn't have been possible without you —Eleazar said— And tonight... you deserve to remember that.

She looked at him then. Soft. Sincere. But with that unwavering gentleness that sometimes disarmed him more than her irony.

—Eleazar... —She murmured, lowering her head a little—. You've spent all day with me. You've fought with the library, with the memories, with the Ministry files... and with me, too, at times. You must be exhausted.

He didn't answer instantly. He just looked at her. Then he smiled. Slowly. Almost imperceptible. And that shade of mischief curved his mouth as if time had turned back ten years.

—Ah, my love... you forget something.

She cocked her head to one side, curious.

—What?

And then his hand, that hand that had held wands and graves, secrets and wounded bodies , slid firmly up her thigh. Not rough. Not hesitant. Just sure.

—My stamina is legendary.

She laughed, as one who surrenders to desire without losing the war.

—Surely you're not too... old for these rewards?

He leaned in. His mouth at her neck. The exact whisper, where he always found her again.

—You want to check it out? —Mmm... maybe. —Then don't make me beg —He murmured.

The white shirt fluttered over Loraine's thighs like a flag of graceful surrender, sensual and dangerously aware of her power. Every time she moved, the light linen brushed against her bare skin, leaving invisible trails, like invisible fingers tracing lines of desire. The fire, dancing with a life of its own in the fireplace, cast wild shadows over her body and her burning cheeks.

Eleazar leaned over her, his hands trembling not from weakness, but from the hunger that had been building for too long. His fingers stopped halfway, so close to her waist that he could feel the heat, but not the pressure. He was about to devour her with his eyes, with his body, with his years of restraint... when something changed.

—Wait a minute —He murmured next to her ear— We can't be careless.

She opened her eyes, her skin already prickling at his nearness.

—Something wrong?

He denied softly, but decisively.

—No. I just don't want Abraham, your Charms teacher, to hear us and start his pranks tomorrow.

She cocked her head to one side, amused.

—Yes... he's that kind of man. He wouldn't be shocked. He would make a very graphic comment over breakfast.

Eleazar was already on his feet.

He drew his wand, barely twisting his wrist with surgical precision. His lips moved, barely visible, and a whisper of runes spread across the walls of the room, like a stream of invisible ink coating the surfaces. The fireplace crackled. The door closed with a deeper click. The windows flickered as if invisible eyelids were lowering.

—Enchantment of silence reinforced —Eleazar said, turning to her with that dark, fiery gaze—. No one will hear you. No one will feel you. Not even if you choose to scream.

She looked at him long, slow, unblinking. And irritating. That crooked smile, so much hers, that disarmed all his barriers.

—And will I want to scream?

Eleazar leaned over her and gently caught her lobe with his teeth.

—Oh, yes.

Loraine stood in front of him. The shirt barely covered her anymore. The unbuttoned collar fell over one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone. Her eyes, one forest, the other sun, never left his. From that figure she knew so well in the corridors, in class, in whispers... but who was now only for her. And he... he was still dressed. That damned ministerial robe. The waistcoat. The buttons. The whole thing. Still with the runes glowing faintly on the cuffs. Even with that scent of spices, old paper, and him. Loraine looked at him like she was about to burst.

—You look so... damn ravishing in those clothes —She mumbled—. It pains me to take them off. —Then do it in anger.

She didn't need him to say it twice. She ripped off his cloak without a second thought. Her hands flew to the buttons on his tunic. One. Two. Four. Eight. She didn't even count them. She pulled. He let her do it. The white shirt appeared and she gasped as she saw the line of his chest, the silver hair, the skin already warm underneath. And she knelt to undo his belt. She unbuckled it with trembling hands, her heart thundering in her temples.

He gasped. Still standing. Head tilted back. Holding back. She pulled down his trousers. The fabric fell. And then she saw him. Hard. Ready. As if he'd been waiting for it for hours —or all through dinner—. Loraine took it in her hands with mingled reverence and hunger, stroked it from base to tip, and looked up, her smile crooked, venomous.

—Were you like that all dinner? Thinking about my tongue?

He just nodded. Teeth clenched. She ran her tongue over her lower lip. And stuck it in her mouth. Slowly at first. Just to hear him moan. And, when he murmured her name, hoarse, like a lost incantation, she squeezed harder, swallowed deeper. She moved her head. She made noise. Saliva ran down her chin and she wouldn't stop. He grabbed her hair with one hand. He guided her. But he was trembling.

—Loraine... if you keep going like this... I'm going to come in your mouth.

She paused, licked with a line of glistening saliva on her chin.

—And if you do, what? You're going to punish me? —I'll recover like I always do. And I'll fuck you. —Promises, promises... —She purred.

She laughed, choked with adrenaline, and flopped back against the soft sheets, her shirt open just enough to let him imagine —and know— that there was nothing but her underneath. But before he could lean over her body, she brought her hands to her thighs and lifted her legs slightly, letting the shirt slide up a little, revealing, again, the woollen socks.

—Before we continue —She whispered, resting a foot on his chest— Do you want me to take them off?

Eleazar looked at her. He swallowed. With anger, with need, with veneration.

—Come here —He said it in a low, husky tone, the one between whisper and sweet threat.

He came over kneeling on the bed, He crawled over her like a restrained animal. And that's when he did it. He leaned down to one of her feet, so slowly that she giggled softly.

—Really...?

But Eleazar wasn't joking.

His fingers wrapped around her ankle, firm, warm, and he brought the sock to his mouth. His teeth pulled with precision. Slowly. As if undressing her was a hunting ceremony. The wool rustled slightly between his fangs. Loraine didn't move. She just looked at him, chest heaving under the loose fabric.

When the first sock hit the floor with a soft plop, he said nothing. He just ran his tongue along the instep of his foot, then up slowly, leaving a wet line down his calf. The second one he plucked faster. His teeth pulled the fabric down, without tearing it, until the edge curled up and slid all the way off. She pulled it behind her as if it didn't exist.

Loraine sat up, took his face in her hands and kissed him with sudden violence. Nothing sweet. Lips that crushed. Desperately searching tongues. Biting, wet noises, shuddering breaths. He thrust with his body. She felt him, hard, hot, pulsing between her legs. And then it was her turn. He turned suddenly, face up again, and undid his shirt with a snaking motion. The fabric fell like a sigh to the floor. Her breasts came into view, full, erect, the left nipple already hardened by the friction of the air and the look that undressed her even more than the touch.

Eleazar moved down. His lips went straight to the centre of her breast, circling the areola with his tongue before catching her in a wet kiss. She arched her back. Her hips lifted on their own, seeking friction, contact, skin. He moved his mouth from one breast to the other, as if each deserved its own attention, its own delivery. Her hands tangled in his hair. They guided him. They demanded it. She passed his navel with a line of saliva. Reached her pelvis. He parted her legs with both hands. He looked down at her, lips glistening, chest rising and falling like a restrained beast.

And then... he slid his hand between her legs. Loraine shuddered at the first touch, hips rising just barely, her breath shattering like fogged glass. Eleazar slid his fingers down her already moist centre, feeling the living texture, the skin that burned like embers and begged for more. He parted her lips gently, almost reverently, and the heat that bubbled up made him let out a low growl.

—So fucking ready for me —He whispered, half to her, half to himself.

And then... he slipped a finger in. Slowly. Deep. He felt her opening, accepting him. Loraine's gaze was lost for a second, the moan barely held back by the lower lip she bit down hard.

—Ahh... —She gasped, her hands clenching the sheets—. Gods...

Eleazar sat up and leaned over to look at her. He added a second finger. He moved them inside her in a steady rhythm, drawing circles, pressing against the inner wall until he made her moan again. His thumb found the exact spot on her clitoris, that little nub of fire, and he began to rub it with cruel precision. Little circles, faster and faster. The response was immediate. Loraine arched her back, her whole body pushing against his fingers, as if she needed more of him inside, more depth, more rubbing, more of that delicious torture that was tearing her in two. And he reveled in that image.

—Look at me as I fuck you, Loraine. Look at me as you did when you opened that scroll.

And she did. She looked at him with her whole soul. He was kissing her, marking her. He was not sweet. It was frenzy pent up for too many hours. And when she came... when she cummed with a long, ragged moan, he kissed her. Her neck, her collarbone, her breasts.

The first round had passed like a storm. Furious. Desperate. But now… Now the air was hot with another need. Loraine lay on her back, hair in disarray on the pillow, skin still quivering inside. Her chest was rising and falling, still picking up rhythm. And he… he hadn't given up. He was there, kneeling between her legs, body still hard, sex erect with arrogance and pent-up desire, eyes narrowed as if still reading her skin with the tip of his tongue. Eleazar watched her as one looks at a sacred word. As if her body were a profane text he was learning by heart. She noticed his gaze.

—You haven't had enough, have you? —She whispered.

He didn't answer with words. He bent down. He kissed her with sudden slowness, as if suddenly every second was worth more than the last. His tongue savoured her slowly. Hungrily without haste. And then he turned her over. With a strong hand on her waist. He moved her as if he knew exactly where he wanted her.

Sideways. Back against his chest.

—Like this? —She asked, her voice already husky, her thighs shiny, wet, sensitive. —Like this —His breath hit her ear like a controlled lava flow—. Where I can kiss you...and fuck you at the same time.

He put his arm around her, lifted her leg with measured, firm force. His hand hooked just behind her knee. His other hand held her by her belly, holding her like an anchor. The tip of his member slipped between her still open, still soaking wet folds. She let out a shuddering sigh.

—Fuck... I'm still shaking all over. —Perfect —Eleazar whispered—. You're going to feel every fucking inch.

And he pushed inside her all at once. Deep. Brutal. As if instead of thrusting, he was sinking. As if every millimetre of her body was coming in with a softly spoken prayer, his lips on her neck, his chest pressed against her back.

—Still so... fucking tight —He groaned against the back of her neck.

Loraine moaned with each exhale. There were no words left. Only sounds. He moved with rhythm. With weight. There was no rush. Just that obsessive, sticky back and forth that drove her crazy.

—By Salazar... don't stop... —She whispered—. Don't... don't change the rhythm... like that... ahh, like that...

His fingers intertwined over her belly, he kissed the curve of her neck, down her shoulder. Biting. Licking. He made her a map marked with saliva and teeth. Loraine turned her face and found him And they kissed like that. Half cocked to one side. Mouth to mouth. Shared breath. Him ramming with perfect cadence, his leg still hooked around her hip. His hand between her thighs now, rubbing that spot with cursed precision. She was biting her lips. She screamed into his mouth.

—Look at me —He said, in a voice of broken thunder.

She looked up at him. Her eyes filled with tears. Not of pain. Of everything. From too much pleasure. From being so full. So taken. Of feeling him there, hard, throbbing inside, like an extension of her soul.

—Eleazar... —She sobbed.

And he felt it. The change. The exact moment his body tightened. He grabbed her throat. Not to choke her. To hold her back. To hold her while he came.

—Fuck, don't stop squeezing me like that —He growled through his teeth.

She squeezed. And screamed. She screamed his name. She came with her whole body, shuddering, wetting the bed with uncontrolled moans. And he... he lost himself. He sank to the bottom. He thrust hard, shuddering. He let out a low moan. He came in spasms, spilling inside her like lava, his hips clinging, quivering. They stayed like that. He still inside. She still trembling. They still kissing. Drinking each other.

The fire in the fireplace still crackled, but no longer roared. The shadows were longer now, like arms wrapped around them, protecting them from any world but this one: the world of the bed, the flesh still throbbing, the skin furrowed with footprints. Loraine's body curved around his like a satisfied question. She still had one leg hooked around his waist, fingers entwined at the base of his neck, breathing ragged. She was panting softly, with that tremor that was not exhaustion, but slow surrender. Skin glistened in the warm light of the fire, dotted with new marks, wet kisses, traces of coiled fingernails.

Eleazar wasn't moving. Not yet. His body was still inside hers, deep, still, as if he wanted to melt into her and stay there forever. He kissed her slowly, without urgency. As if every corner of her face deserved a shrine. He bit her cheek, the bridge of her nose, her jaw. A sacred journey. As if he wanted to memorise her from the inside and from the outside. But she, though exhausted, was never quite docile. She opened her eyes, trapped him between her thighs and with a dragging smile, full of sass and tenderness, bit his lower lip. Just barely. Just so he could feel the edge in her voice as she whispered:

—I can't even imagine the stamina you'd have at my age...

He let out a low, throaty laugh and kissed her again. Deeper this time. Rougher. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and pulled away with an almost painful slowness. He left her body like someone abandoning a promise fulfilled. She moaned softly. Out of emptiness. Out of tenderness. At the way he pulled away with such reverence.

She saw him sit up. Naked, tall, his torso full of scars she had kissed. Chest hair still damp. Skin pearly with sweat, taut in the muscles of his back. He walked to the chest of drawers, and Loraine felt something in her chest shrink. That man was hers. Eleazar Fig. Years older. And yet so made for her that she sometimes found it hard to understand it. She grabbed a delighted towel, warm inside. And went back to bed.

—Are you coming, my love? —She asked in a silken voice.

Eleazar knelt down beside her and began to wipe her with a gentleness that broke her insides. It was not a mechanical gesture. It was devotion. He brushed her hair away from her forehead. He ran the warm towel over her thighs, between her legs. He wiped her as if he was in no hurry. As if every nook and cranny was part of a ritual. She looked up at him from the pillow, squinting, with a languor that was not only physical, but emotional.

—That mouth of yours —She whispered— and your hands... they break me and rebuild me. —I just want you to feel loved —He replied—. All of you. From the inside out.

She stroked his wrist. Barely. And he wiped himself with the same calmness. Then he lay down beside her again. Loraine rolled over herself, seeking his chest like a compass heading north. Her leg crossed over him again. As if her body knew exactly where it should rest.

—I loved that position —She murmured against his skin—. I felt it... all of it. You... all of you.

Eleazar smiled, burying his lips in the crown of her head.

—I know. The way you moaned my name... it almost broke my soul. —You were right about making me scream —She laughed, her voice already drowsy—. If the spell failed... —Professor Ronen would have reported us... or sent us flowers.

They both laughed, in whispers. And then... the silence returned. That beautiful silence that only exists when everything has been said. When bodies understand each other better than words. Loraine clung to him a little tighter. She caressed his chest with her fingertips, tracing circles where the hair tangled.

—I like that it's with you —She murmured— That this... the sex, the desire, the calm... all of it, is with you. I never thought sex would be love. It was always... a nightmare. Something I put up with. That I pretended. But with you... there's nothing to pretend. With you... I can be me.

He kissed the top of her head, his heart breaking a little as he felt her vulnerability. Imagining her not screaming with pleasure as she deserved, but begging for them to stop. She was a pure treasure. Yes, she could be the most impure creature at times, but never dirty. Always innocent even in those moments of debauchery.

—You'll always be like that with me, darling. Always. I wouldn't know how to touch you any other way.

She smiled into his chest and finally closed her eyes. Surrendered to the journey. Surrendered by the ritual. Surrendered by the dinner. Surrendered by so much love.

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