"Toothbrush! Can't forget the toothbrush," he said to himself. "What else, what else?"

It was 7 am, and he was late. The international Portkey would activate in ten minutes, and he was not sure if what he had put on his decoy baggage was enough.

"I thought you didn't need your trunk anymore," he heard his father say. He was leaning against the frame of his bedroom door.

"I don't. I've already got everything I need, even things I don't—Grandmama Madea really outdid herself this time—up in here," he said, pointing at his head. "The damn TSA wannabe at the Ministry will ask about my trunk, though, and I do not want to be cavity searched."

"You really don't like him, huh?" His father sounded too amused, the bastard.

"We've talked about this. The guy has a grudge against me, I swear," he threw his hands up.

"And you don't remember doing anything to piss him off? Does he have a daughter in the castle, perhaps?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, pops, really," he shook his head. "And how am I supposed to know? As far as I know, he doesn't get any, he certainly need some if you know what I mean. Besides, this has been going on since the first year. I'm pretty sure he has issues with me being—what do they call it?—a Yank? From the US."

His father sighed. He heard a muttered "tempus" from behind himself. "Come on, Tony, it's getting close, and Berta is not on shift. I wouldn't put it past Williams to activate the Portkey earlier."

It was his time to be amused. "And why would he ever do something like that, huh? It's not like anything... untoward happened between you and his sister, right?"

"Oh, you wanna play that game? Because I could almost swear I saw you messing around with a tourist. Very bad form, wouldn't want Madea to find out, would you?" He froze. It was kind of an unwritten rule: you didn't get involved with tourists unless they were magical tourists; then they were fair game. But non-magical ones? Madea would whoop his ass.

"You win this time, old man," he surrendered.

"Yeah, yeah, move your ass, you little shit. The amount of lip you give me would have gotten me whipped at your age." He knew for a fact that was true too. Ah, fuck it, he was about ready anyway.

"Come on now, we both know I'm an old soul," he laughed.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose. Now, let's go."

It was a little inside joke. He had had an accident when he was younger well a couple of 'em, this one was kind of life changing though. Accidental magic is usually harmless, and true to form, he was not harmed per se. However, he had experienced far more than what he wanted.

You see, his mother died when he was born. Terrible affair, that. It was the height of Voldemort's power in Britain, and his mother, being a magical British citizen, had opted to stay over there and fight. His father had stayed to protect her, of course. However, it all went to shit in an attack on St Mungos. With his mother giving birth, personal shortage due to the war, further chaos due to the Death Eaters, factor in the stress of the situation combined with his mother's frail physique well... she didn't make it. His father had gone on a rampage that day. The reports said he 'felled' 20 Death Eaters. He had counted 36 affected. The other sixteen would go on with their daily lives until suddenly they'd get the urge to kill themselves. It was a very intricate subconscious trigger, something only a handful of people would have been capable of given time. He was fairly sure the number of people alive who could pull off that type of shit in a highly stressful situation amounted to two, perhaps three if the hype Dumbledore had was real.

Why was this in any way important? Well, when he was old enough to form coherent thoughts by himself, he had asked his father about his mother. The information hadn't been forthcoming. Now, for any other normal toddler, that would have been the end of it. For any other magical one, it would have meant a burst of accidental magic and little more. But for him? It meant a nice trip down his father's memories.

The Goldstein family had always been renowned for their prowess in the mind arts. His father was the poster child for them. He was whatever his father had been but better. So, in his search for answers, he relived his father's memories—his childhood, his days in school at Ilvermorny, their eventual meeting, how they fell in love, etc., etc. Of course, his father being who he was, managed to stop the little adventure before getting to the present, but he had experienced enough.

As a side note, he was fairly sure that had Freud been alive and worked as his therapist, he would have gone up a whole tax bracket. Seriously, it was like super Oedipus. He had experienced falling in love with his own mother, after all. It was fucked up.

After a lot of trial and error, they managed to extract enough of his father's personality traits out of him without leaving a mindless husk of a person. Their relationship dynamic changed a lot after that though. They were not the same person, but they had way too similar experiences to be called father and son. He viewed him as more like a brother than anything else. Did this little accident cause him to try and look for new experiences? Maybe. Did he care? Not at all.

It was actually the reason he was attending Hogwarts. He already had the Ilvermorny experience, so to speak. So he chose the British one. So far? It was good enough. Better in some aspects, worse in others, nothing to write home about.

They made it to the atrium just in time. There were a few others who usually traveled to the British Isles, but he was the only student.

"Williams," his father nodded.

"Goldsteins," they received. He was looking at his stopwatch, obviously avoiding eye contact. Jokes on him, he needed to make contact once; after that, he could 'recognize' their mind in the astral plane. "Move along, people. You know the drill. Grab the rope and don't let go."

"He is in a hurry, huh?" he told his father. He smiled ruefully.

"It appears so," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do be careful, okay? I know you can take care of yourself, but... also, be mindful of your hormones, yeah? Remember, you are physically thirteen, no matter what your mind says."

"Oh, ease up, pops. I won't do anything. Or I won't be caught doing it?" he said, moving his eyebrows.

His father snorted. "Works for me," he said, giving him one last pat on the shoulder before stepping back.

"See yah when I see yah!" he shouted at him at the exact moment Williams activated the Portkey. He didn't know if his father heard it, but who cared? They'd see themselves soon enough.

They landed in the designated space in the Department of Travel at the Ministry and were greeted by the usual suspects.

After what felt like a small eternity, he was called out.

"Goldstein," he heard his least favorite person say.

"Perkins," he greeted. He wanted to sigh. This was going to take forever.

"Welcome to the Department of Magical Transportation. Identification, if you please."

"Do we have to do this? You know as well as I do that I'm here for Hogwarts."

"Like we don't have enough of our own students to cater to. Fine, do you have all your acceptance letters and documents?"

"Yes, I have everything right here," he said, handing him his little portfolio. He had made it for this exact situation.

He looked through the carefully organized paperwork with a sour look on his face. "Whatever. Put your trunk on the conveyor belt for security check."

He did what he was told.

"Hold on a minute. What's this? You didn't declare this," he said, looking at a floating piece of parchment. "Open your bag for inspection!" Oh, this motherfucker. He was sure he had not brought anything even resembling a restricted item. Nevertheless, he opened his bag.

"Typical. Foreigners thinking they can get away with anything."

"I am sorry, sir," he spat out, "It won't happen again." One of these days, Perkins, one of these days.

The bastard put on his most condescending smirk. "See that it doesn't. Here's your identification back. Try not to cause too many problems during your stay."

"Thanks, have... pleasant day."

He snorted. "Yeah, whatever. Goodbye." Asshole.

Thankfully, he had taken less time than expected in customs. So he only had to jog to catch the train. Small miracles. He jogged past one of the Prophet's stands and had to stop.

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" he muttered. He paid for it and put it under his armpit. No time to read right now. He had seen enough though. Sirius Black escaped. He didn't know who that was, but the photo was enough to give him an idea. He looked insane enough to be in St. Mungo's. He did notice there was a way stronger contingent of Aurors around the platform, which was good.

He managed to get into the train before it started moving, which was a first. He didn't have to wrestle his way in either. Some people acted like they'd never see each other again, crowding the station without any consideration for the unpunctual folk. Like dude, it's only a couple of months. After a couple of minutes looking around the compartments, he found his little group.

"Sup, witches," he said after opening the door. Inside were the only two housemates he had bothered enough to talk to: Michael Corner and Terry Booth.

"Hey, look! He made it in time this year," Mike said, making a show of closing his handheld mirror.

"Believe it or not, I do have eyes," Terry drawled. "Do try not to congratulate him too much. Punctuality should be the norm, after all."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to cross the ocean or deal with asshole TSA wannabes," Anthony said, levitating his trunk out of the way.

"Language."

"... what's gotten into him?"

"More like, what does he want to get into," snickered Mike. "A little bird told me that young Boot over there," he pointed, "has been visiting one Miss Bones quite often over the holidays."

"Oh? Do tell. Last I saw her, she was growing quite... erm... nicely, one could say," Anthony said, smiling widely.

"She has indeed," said Terry. "I would advise you not to speak of her like that, though."

"Oh, protective," added Mike.

Terry waved it off. "Nothing like that. I don't like it, sure, but well, she is beautiful. Comments like that are to be expected," he said. "I'm doing it for your own good. Don't make a habit of it. Keep it above the waist, so to speak, or she will make her displeasure known."

"Wait, so, you two are like, a thing?" asked Mike, taken aback. "I was... kidding?"

"Is... is little Michael jealous?" Anthony looked at Terry. "He looks kinda jealous. I seem to remember him saying something about redheads."

"He better get over it then," he said, "And yes, we are indeed courting."

"Well, damn, you went old-style. Shouldn't you date a while before, you know…" Tony said.

"We are not engaged, if that is what you are thinking," Terry said. "Although our intentions have been made known to our families." Terry nodded.

"Not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but that sounds pretty much the same," Tony said.

Before Terry could answer, Mike intervened. "For the record, I don't have a thing for Susie. She's way too scary for me," he said. He had a point. "And to touch a bit on the engagement situation, to put it simply, they aren't— not really. It's more like they are dating with the intention of, if it all works out, discussing the possibility of marriage. Still a lot more serious than what I expected. Then again, old families tend to follow tradition."

Terry nodded.

"... I see," he didn't, "moving on, what can you tell me about this?" he said, showing the Prophet he had bought. "One of you wants to catch me up?"

They shared a look.

"You... didn't read the Prophets I sent you, did you?" Mike said.

"I'm a working man, Corner. There's not enough time for readin'," it was one of the reasons he didn't want Grandma Madea to know he had fooled around with tourists. She had been generous enough to give him a job in one of her Voodoo shops. It paid well.

"You were goofing off in one of your Gran's stores selling trinkets, you absolutely had time to read the paper."

Terry sighed and cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Right, so, the commotion is about one Sirius Black. Widely regarded as You-Know-Who's right-hand man. Permanent resident of Wizarding Britain's highest-security prison, Azkaban. He is also known as the responsible for the death of 12 Muggles and the Potters," Terry said.

"Ok...? What about him?"

"He escaped," was the succinct answer he received.

"I mean, yeah, it says so right there," he said, pointing at the paper. "What does that have to do with Hogwarts, though?"

Terry and Mike shared another look.

"There are reasons to believe he'd go after Potter. He was responsible for his parents' deaths, and Potter allegedly killed his master, so..." Mike said.

"Poor guy, can't catch a break... oh well," he shrugged. "Hopefully, this won't get in the way too much."

"In the way of what?" Terry asked.

Mike groaned. "Why would you even ask? You know he's going to say something absolutely mental."

Terry shrugged, "I've been surrounded by very strict, overly self-important, square-thinking pricks for the better part of my life. I might indulge in his casual barminess once in a while."

He ignored them. "Right, so... as I said, I worked over the summer."

"Selling trinkets, yes."

"You're not going to let that go, are you?" he shook his head. "Thing is, I made some money, and I bought myself a couple of Acromantula silk boxers."

"You... spent your money on underwear?" must have sounded strange for someone their age.

"Not all of it!" he defended. "And believe me, it was important. Anyways, I discovered that a) Acromantula silk is expensive as fuck, and b) it's really, really comfortable. Like, I can't even describe just how comfortable it is."

"If I may interrupt," added Terry, "where are you going with this?"

"Getting there. So, I figured that if I make the garments myself, it would be infinitely cheaper. I could even sell whatever silk I don't use, a total win/win scenario."

"Disregarding the fact that Acromantulas are incredibly aggressive, not to mention venomous. You do realize the more accessible colony is in Australia, right?"

"About that..."

For the third time, Terry and Mike shared a look.

"Please don't tell me you bought yourself an Acromantula," there was real desperation on Terry's face. Tony understood, though. He was dating the niece of the head of the DMLE, and Acromantulas were highly restricted creatures.

"I did not, no. It would be highly inefficient and a total waste of resources." At their inquisitive looks, he continued, "I do happen to know that there is a colony very, very close to the castle, though."

Both Terry and Mike paled a little.

"The forest?" asked Mike with more than a little trepidation in his voice.

"What... how? Why? Does the Headmaster know? Does the Ministry know?"

"I erm… I might have taken a 'peek' about what happened last year, you know, with the heir and whatnot."

Terry dropped his head on both of his palms and sighed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but let's ignore your casual disregard for privacy for the moment," Terry said. "Are you absolutely sure that there is an Acromantula colony near the school?"

"Yep, apparently Hagrid had one as a pet when he entered the school. Long story short, Aragog - that's its name, by the way - lives in the forest now and has had a very fruitful life, if you catch my drift."

"Not to side with future Mr. Bones over there, but we really should tell someone. Mail the Ministry, or the headmaster... hell, maybe even Mr. Flitwick. This seems like something a tad too big for us."

"Yeah... no." At the incredulous looks he received, he elaborated, "The spiders have been there for, like, 50 years. If something was going to happen, it would have happened already."

"And yet, you still want to go and disturb them," Mike said.

"I mean... yeah."

"You can be a very dumb smart person, sometimes." rude, but there was no heat in his words.

"There's no need to be mean," Tony replied, smiling.

"You are not thinking about the consequences," interjected Terry. "What if the Acromantulas don't like someone messing with them? They could very well go on a rampage, and if they have been in the forest for as long as you say, their numbers..." He shook his head. "Not that it matters, you won't be able to get into the forest in the first place."

"How so?" asked Tony, curiosity marrying his features.

"Well, as you saw, they upped the security but it's not only around King Cross's station, around the school too. There will be Aurors stationed all around Hogsmeade and patrolling around the Forbidden Forest, for sure. Beyond that, i have it on good authority that the ministry will be posting Demen-"

Whatever he was about to say got lost in the screeching of the train's wheels.

"Shit!" he yelled, having almost been ejected from his seat. Thankfully, the trunks didn't fall from the racks. "Who wants to bet this has something to do with this crazy bastard?" He pointed at the Prophet. There was no response. "Guys?" he said, turning around. He found them cowering in the corner of the compartment. It was clear something was not right.

"Can't you feel it? That's the next part of our security this year," Terry whispered. He was clearly shaken.

"Feel wha-"

The oppressive feeling made itself known then. It was not something above his capability to ignore, but it had sparked enough of a recollection to figure out what was happening. "Dementors?" He walked to the window and took a look outside. He could barely see them through the rain, but the cloaked figures were there. They were too far for them to do something to him though. "There has to be at least one of those fuckers inside," he thought. "Do any of you know the Patronus?" he asked. Two trembling "no" was the response he got. "Well, not my problem," he thought before sitting once again. "Who in their right mind sends Dementors to a school anyways?".

Of course, even if he had no intention of going out to find out if one of the beasts got inside, it didn't stop the ones outside from coming to look for him.

He looked through the window, and sure enough, several of them gravitated towards his compartment, they were not fond of him."Looks like we're getting guests, boys," he told them.

Thankfully, they had gathered their bearings rather quickly, even if they were trembling like leaves once again.

The windows outside their compartment started to frost. The doomlike feelings were coming back with a vengeance, and he welcomed them eagerly. It had been some time since anyone tested his defenses.

"Come on then, ugly bastards, let's see what you all can do," he taunted.

He had no idea if the beasts could hear him, let alone understand him, but from their place floating outside the train, they were unable to do anything to hurt him.

"Color me disappointed," he said, only for a new contender to appear, this time from the hallway.

He could see the eerie silhouette of the cloaked reaper gliding towards the door, bony fingers slipping through the unlocked door, dragging it through the frosted hinges.

"Think you can do better, huh?" he asked.

He did feel a little bad for the guys; they were practically catatonic now. He wouldn't let anything happen to them, obviously, but it bothered him seeing them that vulnerable.

Of course, the beast used that exact crack in his armor to come at him, metaphorically of course.

She felt the sun on her skin, the sensation muted yet familiar. Her feet carefully maneuvering to adjust for the difference in height. The ice cream tasted different in her mouth, but he was so close, just across the street. Screeching tires and indistinct shouts, she felt so very cold.

He shook himself, knuckles white over the hilt of his wand.

"Enough!" he yelled. He hadn't lost his composure in quite a while. "You shouldn't have done that," he snarled. He dug deep into himself. He knew the Patronus charm would work; he even had the memories of this summer to fuel it, but he chose otherwise. He had saved the feelings carefully, secretly. The shame of even having them provided enough to avoid using them, but this time he felt it necessary.

Love flowed through him, enveloping him like nothing he had felt before, washing away the cold feeling of the Dementor along with most of his anger. He knew happiness could chase away Dementors; love, on the other hand, love hurt them.

"Expecto Patronus!" he shouted. Butterflies poured out of his wand, swarming the creature. It was an incredible sight—the little butterflies flew through the corpse-like being, burning its robes and searing the little flesh it had. The thing flew away faster than a freaking Nimbus.

"So that is what they sound like," he said absentmindedly.

He turned to his friends, both looking way better with the thing gone. He took pity on them and handed them each a chocolate bar.

"That was incredible. I didn't know corporeal Patronuses could do that," praised Mike.

"They can't," Terry said. "As far as I know, the only advantage of a corporeal Patronus over the mist form is the range."

He knew for a fact that they could carry messages too, but that was thanks to his father, and he didn't exactly know how mainstream the knowledge was, so he just nodded.

"He's not wrong. The difference isn't in the form; it's in the process. A Patronus, at its base, is emotion and intention (like pretty much all magic) shaped into a protector. That is what 'Patronus' means, actually. You can use pretty much any emotion, but happiness is the more accepted one, unless you want to be labeled a dark wizard."

"So you didn't use happiness?" Mike, always quick on the uptake, asked.

"Nope. I used love."

"Love?"

"Sure, I mean, those bony bitches hate happiness, and there is only one positive emotion that can topple that." Actually, did hope count?

"Do you have to call them that?"

"I do not, no."

"You think there's more of them inside the train?" Terry asked, already done with his chocolate.

"I don't think so. Wouldn't hurt to check, I suppose." He stood up, might as well do something productive.

"I... can you lend me one of your butterflies? I want to go check on Susan," Terry asked.

"I want one too! Not for Bones, obviously. But if we are patrolling the train, might as well have something to defend me, right?"

"Sure," he said, slashing his wand. Three silvery butterflies frolicked around before settling on the shoulders of each one of them. "I'll go south, you go north, Terry goes to Susan," he said, opening the door of the compartment once again. "See you guys before Hogsmeade, yeah?"

"Of course, I'm not spending more than strictly necessary walking around."

"I might take a while with Susie. But yes."

With that, he walked off. They had chosen a compartment straight down the middle of the train, so he'd have at least some space to stretch his legs. The train was not particularly long, but it did make extra compartments whenever someone needed them, so it was always longer than it looked.

Ravens almost always chose the front compartments, Puffs and Griffs in the middle, and the Snakes at the back. So, it came as little surprise when the compartments he passed by were composed mostly of Puffs. He knocked on every door, asked if they were okay, handed a couple of bars of chocolate, and went on his way. He did hear some interesting news. Apparently, their new DADA professor—who looked like a homeless man—had rescued Potter's little group from a rogue Dementor. There were some rumors of Potter passing out. Poor guy. He didn't want to imagine what he must have experienced to lose consciousness. He knew for a fact that the guy had no form of mind defense whatsoever.

Having done his good deed of the day, he headed back to his compartment.

"You know, I'll probably join him," he heard Mike say.

"Are you sure?" asked Terry.

"Sure am. I mean, I'll have to get better at offensive spells just in case. But other than that, it sounds like a profitable idea."

"Thank you!" he said, taking his seat.

"Of course you'd think about profits." Terry rolled his eyes. "Could any of you please think about the consequences?"

"You think enough about them for the both of us. Come on, live a little," Mike said.

He sighed in defeat.

"If it makes you feel any better, I am more than willing to help Mike get up to par defense-wise," Tony said.

It was a good opportunity for them to start exercising too. He knew Terry was in shape; he came from a very militaristic family. While Mike and himself were not overweight, they were actually on the skinny side. Their physical prowess left much to be desired.

"You could always come with us, if you are that worried, that is," Mike said, apparently already on board. "I mean, imagine, Acromantula silk bed sheets sell for a very hefty price. We could become financially independent by the end of the year." He enthused.

Terry snorted. "Do you think he is interested in money?" he asked, clearly talking about him. Rude.

He had a point, though. He didn't particularly care about it. His family was wealthy enough to be considered rich, and his father contributed a lot to it regularly enough for their funds to only increase. Being a 'special' consultant paid extremely well. Besides, if he was really hurting for money, he could enchant something and sell it. Making money in the magical side of the world was fairly easy once you figured out a couple of key factors.

Old Magical families were generally wealthy because they had started whatever business they had ages ago. Said businesses allowed them the time to experiment and create different sorts of family magic. in a society where the more you know about magic, the better your standing, secret family magic gave them enough of a leg up to situate themselves in positions of power once the ministry came into existence. It also created a sort of prejudice against starting a new business from scratch. They were old and powerful, why should they start over?

New magicals, on the other hand, had their own preconceived ideas about the market. See, most mundane folk thought that the enchanted products in stores were somehow better or impossible to recreate. It made sense to them; a normal non-magical person couldn't just go to their garage and make themselves a TV, after all. To be fair, they were not completely wrong. It is difficult to create something comparable to what an overly specialized magical family had produced. However, it was far from impossible, and the results of creating your own were often of surprisingly high quality.

All that is to say that if you were willing to produce something, it would be bought pretty fast, even if people could make something better. This was because they either thought it was beneath them to do so or they overestimated the quality or difficulty of creating it. Entrepreneurial people did very well. You could even take the Corners as an example. Mike's family went back, like, three generations. Not old enough to be established, not fresh enough to think they couldn't do a better job making things. So they thrived. He was fairly certain the Corners were currently climbing the ranks wealth-wise. Mike was just a chip off the old block, as they say.

Of course, this was an overly simplistic way of seeing the current magical market, but it was enough to get a picture of how to make money.

"What does it matter if he does or doesn't? Our objectives won't change any. Besides, I'm sure he wouldn't turn his head on the profits, even if we split them in three," he said, leadingly. "Come on, Terry, wouldn't you want to buy Susan shiny, expensive things? pamper her to your heart's desires?" Who was he, the devil?

Terry raised an eyebrow. "'Shiny things'? What is she, a raven? Besides, I can already buy her those types of things, not that she'd ask me to."

"Well, yeah, but now you could do it with money you've earned! How cool would that be? Going out at night, having adventures, and coming back with your bounty. Isn't that romantic? I thought you Brits loved that stuff, being all gentlemanly and whatnot," Antony tried. "Besides, girls like that type of stuff. It's to show them you think about them. I think."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt. You dunderheads would burn the forest down without me anyway."

"Attaboy!"

"Now, wait a damn second, at night!? I need my sleep, mate. You know how cranky I get if I don't sleep," Mike protested. God, he could be such a drama queen sometimes.

"We'll go after classes then, no big deal, jeez," he told him. "We'll have a couple of weeks before going anyway, so we should probably plan what to do in the meantime."

"A couple of weeks?" Terry asked. "I thought you'd go as soon as possible."

"Don't look at me. I'd go tonight if I could, but neither of you know the Patronus, do you? I'm not about to go out with you two if you can't do it. That'll be very irresponsible."

"Yeah, and the real reason?" Damn it, Mike.

"...my cardio ain't shit," he shrugged. "If I go out tonight, I'll make it until like a quarter mile inside the forest, tops, and I'll be toast."

Terry snorted. Mike snickered. He flipped both of them off.

"Like yours is any better," he said, looking at Mike.

"Sure is. I'm thinking of getting into the Quidditch team this year. I've been working my arse off over the hols."

So he was the only one out of shape. "...hate you guys" yeah this couldn't stand.

The rest of the way was spent creating a schedule for themselves—some physical training and a lot of spell practice. Overall, this year was going to be a busy one.

A/N: I own nothing of the Harry Potter franchise.