In the candle-lit halls of Hogwarts, where magic stirs with every whisper, Harry Potter begins his first year - unaware that fate has woven another soul into his journey.
Elsa Scamander, silent as snowfall and powerful as a storm, arrives cloaked in...
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"Good, cause I have already marked you"
☆☆☆☆☆☆
ELSA POV
Today, Harry looked criminally attractive. I'm talking rolled-up sleeves, hot-boy strut, the whole "I'm-the-Chosen-One" vibe dialed up to eleven. Honestly? It took all my willpower not to pounce on him and snog the daylights out of his smug face.
But priorities. We visited Hagrid today and found out Buckbeak was going to be executed. Yes, executed. Cue dramatic gasp and the immediate urge to hex the Ministry—and Malfoy—into next week.
Seriously, Malfoy. The bane of our existence. If karma exists, he's due.
Later that night, Harry and I sat together in the common room. Dumbledore, sweet old rebel that he is, allowed Olaf to stay with us now. So yes—our talking snowman mascot was chilling next to the fireplace like it was a beach resort.
"Elsa, come see this," Harry said, waving the Marauder's Map like it was a golden ticket.
The infamous map Fred and George gave him—the one he used to sneak into Hogsmeade. We looked at it together. Six names danced across it: Moony, Niffler, Wormtail, Kitten, Padfoot, and Prongs.
"Look here," Harry pointed. "Peter Pettigrew."
"But... he's dead," I blinked.
"Exactly. We need to check."
I nodded. "Olaf, off to the girls' dormitory with you. We'll be back."
He winked at Harry—what does that even mean?—and waddled off.
Under Harry's invisibility cloak, we crept down the corridors.
"Lumos," I whispered, lighting the way.
"Put that light out!" barked a painting.
"Sorry!" I hissed, dimming it instantly.
Suddenly, we saw a name—Pettigrew—move right past us.
But when we turned, there was no one. Cue synchronized shrieking. Paintings yelled at us to keep it down. Before we could regroup, Harry's eyes widened.
"Snape's coming," he whispered.
He quickly pocketed the map, muttering, "Mischief managed," and then—plot twist—pinned me to the wall.
"Harry, what—"
"Just trust me," he whispered and buried his face into the crook of my neck.
Excuse me?!
I nearly passed out on the spot as he started pressing soft kisses. I choked back a gasp. Why was he so good at this? Where did he learn this?
