In the black midst of the behemoth cavity, a boy gazed into the empty void down below. There was no way he could possibly get anywhere.

What made him suspicious though, was the lack of civilisation, when the garlic-shaped room he had first entered was quite obviously man-made...

Trailing his stare from the somewhat incredible hole, Arthur looked down at his perch. He was quite astounded to see that the ledge he had created was part of an enormous, oddly shaped, rather stout stalactite, which pointed into the abyss. It was like a hag's hut combined with a teepee, chucked upside down, magnified to the size of a great pyramid, turned to Blackstone, and merged into the ceiling. Arthur wondered whether it was structurally sound or if magic held it in place... or if the structure was simply magical?

Now there was the problem of getting off the stalactite and trying to find where on earth he was...

He anxiously checked his watch. 8:37am. One and a half hours to go...

"Accio broom," he said to his wand as he pointed it outwards rapidly. Sure enough, his old Firebolt was there in seconds.

Arthur hopped on and flew about the stalactite. It was quite eerie with the mysterious winds, not to mention that the floor was far out of sight...

Not at all wanting to continue the method in which he had before, Arthur decided to use a special magic that worked as a homing beacon, in a way. All Arthur had to do was close his eyes, clear his head, move his focus from his eyes down to the back of his neck, and think of his twin subtly – if he thought intensely, then both siblings would get a terrible headache. (They had practised.)

Arthur landed back on his ledge and moved a little deeper into the passage in preparation.

Here we bloody well go.

A sweet humming that you would hear from a soprano vocalist reverberated through his head in deep tones, quite unlike a soprano vocalist. Confusing. Entrancing purple light flowed through his vision, followed by his twin's iconic aroma, and brought home by the flash of emerald green. Her eager, iconic eyes.

Arthur opened his own. A red dot pulsed in a direction just further right than 90˚ right, in relation to the stalactite. We still have it. We will always be twins, I guess. Ugh, the fuckin' cheese...

The boy mounted his broom again and set off from a run to the mouth of the cave.

It was not long before he came to a large break of wall, speckled with tiny caves, the size of that of his ledge before he broke through the hole-ridden wall. Already – after only what seemed like minutes – Arthur was starting to feel the cold penetrating through his clothing again. He decided to veer right along the wall, but after turning a corner a few hundred metres later, he found that the wall continued onwards.

Following the side of the wall, Arthur eventually came across a small village situated on a ledge considerably larger than his own. Fat little huts with sloped and coned tops collected chimneys of a wide variation. Smokestacks issued and blew about the cave.

This looked promising.

He whizzed down to a landing close to the edge and skidded across the soft soil as he landed, steadying himself in time to see an older woman looking at him confusedly.

"Tried to get to Stagheart by broom I see," she said in an obviously Scottish accent, in a way as if this event had actually happened before, "what did you do? Slam into a wall poor dear?"

"Sorry Ma'am, I really don't know where I am... Is this Deagon?" Arthur fruitlessly looked for anything that could be signage and tell him where he was. Obviously in a town this small there would be no need for directions...

"Yes deary," she replied, looking quite concerned, "...um, you may want to travel about one hundred and seventy kilometres that way if you really did try to get there by broom..."

She pointed towards the red dot in Arthur's eye.

"Oh shit..." he definitely wouldn't be able to get there by broom. "Hey, would you mind if I used your fireplace Ma'am?"

The Flu Network was sure to get him there in no time.

"Of course, darling!" Then she put on a stern look and said strictly "But no more of that foul language."

Wow. Arthur was not expecting this at all. "Thank you Ms...?"

"Nimbus. Ms Nimbus, but my friends call me Jane," she glanced towards the small village. "And before you ask dear, it has nothing to do with the celebrated broomstick I'm afraid. What's your name, deary?"

"Arthur Ravenclaw," he claimed.

"Ravenclaw?" Ms Nimbus appeared astounded and a bit winded, as if royalty had entered her metaphorically humble house.

"Yeh."

"Wow. As in–"

"Yeh," he cut in. "Um... sorry to be rude, but I really need to get going... could we talk some other time?"

"Oh, sorry deary. Nothing much happens around here," Ms Nimbus seemed a little put out. "I'd lose track of the time if not for the town clock... oh – right! We better get you on your way!"

With that, she took off down a track of oddly cut stone, set into the soft dirt. Arthur thought she had quite a pace for a woman of her age, for she looked almost seventy; for every few steps he needed to jog a little to keep up, even with his long legs.

They arrived to one of the many bungalows. This one had white stone bricks of an assortment in size, with a circular dark wooden door – not unlike that of a hobbit's home – set into its side. Set square windows claimed the sides not unfashionably.

Ms Nimbus opened the door and hurried Arthur in. Thanking her, again, he glanced at his watch. 9:49am.

"Come on sweety! Hurry!" she said curtly but not unkindly.

"Coming Miss!"

She led him down a neat hallway with a brilliant amber rug, past an extravagant shining copper mantelpiece, to the straight, firm fireplace. The hearth gleamed with wonderful red light.

Arthur absorbed all the warmth he could in the two seconds before Ms Nimbus threw in the green powder, shouted Green Street Terminal, and shoved him in.

Arthur coughed up some soot as he tumbled from the fireplace and out into a packed, brightly-lit common area, not unlike that of a bank. You could barely see the white marble floor under the hundreds of scuffling feet.

So much for missing rush hour...

He looked over the heads of the surrounding first-years – although he was their age, he was quite significantly taller – and saw the stark, new station clock. 9:52am.

Arthur merged into the bustling crowd, relieved but thoroughly exhausted after the mornings' exploits.