Theo was caught in the space between dreams and wakefulness. He realized someone was shaking him, but it felt as though he was ensnared by invisible chains. His consciousness knew he was no longer asleep, but his body stubbornly clung to the last vestiges of slumber. The feeling of immobility was terrifying, a sensation of being buried alive within his own being.
Theo's mind was awake and aware, screaming in desperate urgency for his body to respond. Panic welled within him, his internal voice growing louder, urging every limb, every muscle to break free from their paralysis.
Within the midst of his internal struggle, faint traces of his dreams flickered – Falcon's wild hair and the sting of his father's anger.
Gradually, a distant awareness of weighted eyelids and the subdued ambiance of his room began to penetrate the fog in his mind. It took all his willpower to just barely crack open his eyelids. His eyes, still clouded with sleep's residue, made his father's face hovering over him appear distorted and unfamiliar. Even though he had seen that face countless times, at this moment, it felt alien.
"Get up," his father commanded. The sharpness of his voice cut through the silence of the room. "We must leave now."
With the weight of sleep still pressing heavily on Theo's sluggish mind, he blinked rapidly before forcing his eyes wide open. He attempted to process his father's words.
"Is it even light yet?" he croaked.
His father's eyes, shadowed and unreadable, met Theo's briefly. "It is not. Now hurry."
Theo's grogginess warred with the sudden urgency of the moment. As he pushed himself up, last night's memories filtered in. His father's anger was intense, a tempest that had whirled around their chilly dungeon quarters. The older man had lectured, each word punctuated with precision, his tone unwavering, demanding undivided attention. But after the storm, a calm had settled over him. His anger had given way to understanding, and he had sent Theo to bed with a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder and a gentle, "Goodnight, son."
That kindness seemed a world away from the brusque awakening. The juxtaposition of the two moods left Theo grappling with confusion. He swung his legs out of bed and let his toes burrow into the thick rug at his feet, a cozy addition by Remus that offered a buffer against the dungeon's cold stone floor.
Theo moved mechanically as he dressed. Stepping out of his room, he crossed the sitting room and paused before his father, who stood poised by the fireplace. There was an unsettling intensity in his father's gaze; his eyes so sharply focused, yet still seemed distant. It was as if he was looking through the very fabric of the room, lost in thoughts Theo couldn't begin to fathom.
Theo hesitated before plunging his hand into the jar of Floo Powder. "Where to?" he whispered, letting the fine powder sift through his fingers.
"The Burrow," came the terse reply from the stern man.
Upon arriving at the Weasleys', Theo took note of the contrast between the dungeon's chill and the Burrow's warmth. Arthur Weasley, visibly taken aback and sleepy-eyed, inquired, "Everything okay, Severus?"
"There's been a change of plans," Theo's father replied tersely. "Could you please ensure Theodore makes it safely onto the train?"
Mr. Weasley nodded slowly. "Of course. Don't you worry. He'll be in good hands."
Without another word, his father stepped into the flames. Theo took an instinctive step forward, a nameless plea caught in his throat. But before he could voice it, the man was gone. Though he could feel the warmth of the fire, Theo felt cold. He continued to stare at the flame, his gaze distant, eyelids heavy.
Mr. Weasley's concerned voice startled him back into awareness. "What's wrong, son?" he asked gently.
Theo hesitated, eyes downcast. "I think my dad's angry with me," he admitted.
Mr. Weasley gave an understanding nod. "Parents worry, and sometimes it comes out as anger," he replied warmly.
"Come on," Mr. Weasley murmured gently. He reached out as if to put his arm about him, but Theo instinctively flinched away. Instead of touching him, Mr. Weasley just held his gaze, his eyes seeming to have layers of understanding and concern.
"Molly's not quite up yet. How about some toast to start your morning?"
Mr. Weasley gestured for Theo to sit at their worn wooden table. He hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing over the nicks and scratches on its surface, eyes tracing the patterns as he imagined the countless meals the boisterous family shared here.
With a graceful wave of his wand, the older man charmed a knife to slice through a loaf, depositing two even pieces onto a plate. He raised his wand again, but before casting, his gaze fixed on a peculiar device on the counter.
"Been trying to understand this Muggle contraption," Mr. Weasley confessed with a chuckle. "This bloke at work called it a toaster."
He inserted the bread slices into the strange machine and fiddled with it before exclaiming, "Ah ha," as the bread disappeared inside the device.
But something seemed amiss. The machine crackled ominously, emitting a few wayward sparks. Before Theo could voice his concern, the toaster erupted in flames. Mr. Wealsey jumped back, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Bloody hell," he muttered before dousing the miniature inferno with a swift spell. Theo's toast shot out of the toaster and landed mockingly on the counter.
Meeting Theo's eyes, the older man scratched his head sheepishly. "How do you feel about plain bread and butter, eh?"
Moments later, Mrs. Weasley came thundering down the stairs, her red hair wild and untamed. She sniffed the air before turning to her husband.
"Arthur, have you been tinkering with that Muggle junk again?" she chastised, her eyes narrowing at the scorched remains of Theo's toast.
Mr. Weasley offered his wife a sheepish grin. "Just trying to make some breakfast for our guest." He waved a hand in Theo's direction.
As if on cue, Theo's exhaustion betrayed him as he fought to stifle a yawn.
Molly gave him a discerning look before nodding resolutely. "No time for a proper rest now, I'm afraid," she said.
She then set to work, her wand becoming an extension of herself. With a graceful flick, the cupboards flung open, revealing an array of ingredients that floated into the air. Another twist of her wrist and a pot began to heat up, steam rising gently from it as oats poured in. Eggs cracked open in mid-air, their yolks sizzling as they hit the hot pan while bacon danced next to them. Slices of bread hovered by the fireplace, toasting to a golden hue before they joined the rest of the dishes on the table.
Within minutes, what seemed like a culinary ballet had created a delectable spread.
Something in the motion of Mrs. Weasley cooking breakfast made Theo think about Remus. With a pang at his selfish oversight, Theo wondered how his stepfather and brother fared last night.
"Eat up," Mrs. Weasley interrupted his thoughts. "Though you don't have time for a nap now, try to get some sleep on the train."
Molly handed Theo a warm mug of tea, her eyes locking onto his. "This will help," she said gently, a knowing smile on her face.
As he slowly sipped his tea, a cacophony of noises began to permeate the air as the rest of the household awoke.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairway as the Weasley children dashed up and down the stairs, their faces flushed with excitement and mild panic. Percy, with his perfectly combed hair, grabbed a single piece of toast and held it in his mouth as he scrambled to find a misplaced badge. Twins Fred and George jostled each other, making a playful game of snatching each other's plates while Ginny, the youngest, tried her best to dodge the chaos, spooning eggs onto her plate. Ron balanced a mountain of toast, eggs, and bacon on his plate as he navigated the bustling kitchen. Their mother's admonitions to 'slow down' or 'chew your food' were largely ignored in the frenzy of the morning.
Laughter, the clinking of utensils, the rustling of clothes - it was a jarring contrast to the quiet, scholarly ambiance of his own home; he felt like he had stepped into a lively painting while he was but a grayscale sketch. Everywhere he looked, there was frantic movement: bags zipping themselves shut, books flying around, and clothes haphazardly packing themselves into trunks.
Later, as he watched Mr. Weasley hustle about, attempting to load their old blue Muggle car, Theo marveled at the sheer impossibility of the endeavor. The thought of all eight Weasleys, their belongings, and him squeezed into that thing was simply incomprehensible.
Feeling more and more like his presence was a burden, he turned to Mr. Weasley, his voice tinged with resignation. "Perhaps I should just Floo back to Hogwarts," he suggested forlornly.
Mr. Weasley gave him a reassuring grin. "Nonsense," he said, beckoning Theo closer with a mysterious glint in his eye. "Have a look."
Curiosity piqued, Theo leaned in to inspect the trunk. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he realized the inside had been magically enlarged, making it a spacious cavern that could comfortably fit all their gear. Distracted by the oddity, he barely noticed when Mr. Weasley ushered him into the family car.
It wasn't until the engine roared to life and the scenery began to shift that he was jolted back to reality. As the car sped towards King's Cross, Theo's knuckles whitened, gripping the seat. The trees and buildings outside merged into a watercolor smear.
"First time in a car?" Fred asked with a smirk.
"Is it that obvious?" Theo replied, slightly embarrassed.
"Just a tad," George added, chuckling.
Upon arriving at King's Cross, Mr. Wealsey parked the car, and everyone unfolded themselves from within its confines. Theo paused, overwhelmed by the massive arches and bustling crowds. He pulled his jacket tighter, taking uncertain steps, eyes darting to the fast-paced flow of people around him.
Mr. Weasley rushed around him and began organizing trolleys for their mountain of luggage.
Theo, feeling a bit lost, asked hesitantly, "May I help?"
"No need, Theo. But keep close, alright?" Mr. Weasley replied.
Ron handed him his owl's cage, the small creature chirping in agitation. "Here, hold Pig. He always seems to like you. Try to calm him down."
As Theo cradled the cage, whispering soothing words to the distressed bird, he trailed behind the Weasley family as they navigated through the crowds. Before he knew it, he was standing before the barrier separating platforms nine and ten.
Theo had been prepared in exhaustive detail by a fretting Remus on the procedure to access platform nine and three-quarters. But knowing and seeing were two different things. He watched in amazement as, one by one, the Weasleys seemed to vanish.
Feeling suddenly very alone, he hesitated, an unexpected pang of sadness hitting him as he thought of the distance between him and his own father.
Mr. Weasley beckoned, drawing Theo's attention back. He offered a supportive smile. "Come on, son," he encouraged.
Taking a deep breath, Theo joined the older man, and together they stepped through.
The magnificent sight of the scarlet train immediately lifted Theo's spirits; its shimmering presence compelled him to smile for the first time all day. Lost in thought, Theo was jolted back to reality by a sudden screech of wheels moments before a luggage cart careened into him, sending Pig's cage flying.
A white-hot pain shot up his leg, blurring his vision, as a voice apologized, "Oh, I'm sorry, son, didn't see you there."
Strong hands effortlessly pulled him to his feet. When Theo's eyes adjusted, he found himself looking directly into the concerned gaze of a man he had only met once. Panic surged, and a hot flush started at his neck and rapidly spread to his face.
As soon as he recognized Sirius Black, a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Would the man hate him for leading his daughter down Knockturn Alley? All traces of his fleeting happiness vanished, replaced by a rising dread.
"No need to look so scared, Mr. Snape," the man said kindly before adding a playful wink, "I was young and in love once too."
Defying logic, Theo's face grew even hotter.
"Papa, stop torturing him and look at his leg," Falcon said with urgency. "He's bleeding."
Before Theo knew what was happening to him, he was being lifted to sit on a stack of luggage as the man carefully inspected his leg. Looking down, Theo saw that his trousers were torn, and there was a bloody gash across his knee.
"I'm fine," he said, attempting to move away, but both his leg and Mr. Black protested.
"Stay still, lad," the man admonished gently.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Black," Theo replied, unsure if he was apologizing for being uncomfortable or endangering his daughter.
The man smiled at Theo, "You can call me Sirius, son."
"Theo! What happened?" a worried voice inquired over his shoulder. The Weasley matriarch was suddenly on him, poking and prodding. Her calloused hands took his head and turned it left and right as she examined him. He met the concerned eyes of Falcon, and she gave him a shy smile, which did nothing to alleviate Theo's discomfort. He averted his gaze, cheeks flaming. It felt like he might die from embarrassment.
"All right dear, this might sting a little," Mrs. Weasley said before waving her wand in a complicated pattern. Theo watched as his wound stitched itself back together. He immediately wished he hadn't as he felt nausea replace his previous mortification. He covered his mouth with his hand.
"Here, lad, smell this," Sirius said before shoving an open flask beneath his nose. "Good boy."
Theo's eyes watered as he inhaled the strong scent of what was unmistakably firewhisky. His father often had a nightcap in the evening but had threatened to curse his hide if he ever caught Theo imbibing before he was of age.
"Sirius! What are you thinking? Giving that to a child!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, her eyes flashing with anger.
"I wasn't giving it to him to drink!" the man retorted.
As the two adults argued, Falcon walked over to Theo.
"Hi," she said with a shy smile.
Theo cleared his throat, a touch nervous. "Hey."
She looked down. "I'm really sorry for getting you in trouble; I hope your dad wasn't too rough on you."
Thoughts of his father tightened Theo's chest, and he blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "You didn't get me in trouble. It's fine. We…"
Theo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Before now, he had been careful to avoid thinking about what precisely had happened at Borgin and Burkes.
"You know, back at Borgin and…" Theo began, but his voice trailed off as he inadvertently caught sight of the train. A chilling sensation ran down his spine. Right next to the engine stood the unmistakable figure of the blond man from Borgin and Burkes.
Lucius Malfoy was immaculately dressed in robes that probably cost more than most wizards' monthly salaries. By his side, a woman with similarly aristocratic features – presumably his wife – glanced around with a nose wrinkled in disdain as though the very air of the platform was beneath her. The boy from the shop stood between the two haughty adults. Unlike his parents, Draco looked somewhat pallid, with an air of fragility about him.
Theo observed, almost involuntarily, as Draco's cold, gray eyes settled on a girl nearby absorbed in a book. Theo recognized her as a student his father often complained about.
"Don't mind the smell, Mother, it's the Mudblood," Draco drawled with unmistakable malice, ensuring his voice reached several surrounding families. His lip curled with distaste.
The girl looked up, her brown eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and defiance. She appeared as if she was about to retort but then seemed to think better of it, flicking her bushy hair and returning to her book.
Falcon's brother, Harry, briskly walked over. He cast a sharp glance at Draco before putting his arm protectively around the girl, guiding her away from the Malfoys.
Theo's gaze followed Harry as he brought her over and introduced the girl to Sirius.
"This is Hermione Granger," Harry began, his gesture indicating the girl. "Remember? She's the one I told you about from the Knight Bus."
Harry turned to Hermione, introducing the man beside him. "And Hermione, this is Sirius Black, my godfather."
From the corner of his eye, Theo noticed Arthur Weasley motioning to Fred and George. "Boys, help me with Harry's trunk and…" he paused, "his sister's," he continued, gesturing towards the dedicated luggage compartment at the train's end. The twins quickly sprang into action, effortlessly hoisting the trunks and making their way over.
The train's warning whistle blared. Theo's eyes followed Sirius as he stepped forward, pulling Harry into an embrace. "Promise me you'll stay out of trouble this year," he murmured to Harry.
Harry chuckled softly. "I'll do my best."
The older man released him and then turned to Falcon. Theo noted the moisture in her eyes and the quiver in her lip.
"You've grown up too fast," he whispered to her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Theo felt like an outsider spying in on their private moment. Even though he would see his father in a few hours, he felt sad that he didn't have anyone here to see him off. He was startled to realize that in his ideal fantasy, Remus was there as well, waving at him with a smile and teary eyes.
Suddenly, Theo felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Sirius looking at him. "Look after her," he said simply, his voice gentle.
The words, simple yet filled with meaning, made Theo's heart skip a beat. "I will, sir," he replied, his voice sincere.
The man smiled, shaking Theo's hand firmly. "Young love, it's a powerful thing," he added with a wink.
Before Theo could muster up a reply, the train's final whistle cut through the air. Theo was ushered aboard by a frantic Mrs. Weasley, and the train was moving before he knew it.
Theo watched as Harry, Ron, and Hermione pushed their way through the throng of students looking for empty compartments. The weight of loneliness settled heavily on him, anticipating Falcon's desire to be with her brother and his friends.
A fleeting touch, delicate and unexpected, ghosted over his hand. It wasn't forceful or demanding but tentative. Theo pulled back instinctively.
Looking down, he found Falcon's fingers timidly reaching out to his own. Time seemed to dilate; the cacophony of the crowd around them faded to a distant hum. Theo felt like he was standing before a vast precipice, and Falcon's fingers were asking him to leap.
"Theo?" The name sounded alien coming from her lips, but the tenderness with which she spoke it grounded him. He looked up, and her eyes were a turbulent dance of hope and hesitation.
In that tethering gaze, Theo felt a profound shift, the blossom of realization. Amidst the uncertainty of his day, this — the simple touch of her hand — felt like home. He intertwined his fingers with hers, cementing his decision. Hand in hand, they meandered around the students and found an empty compartment at the very front of the train.
As the door slid shut behind them, the noise from outside dimmed, and Theo felt as if he could finally breathe.
Falcon's fingers slipped from his grasp, and she gracefully settled near the window. She bent down to open a small basket and released a sleek black cat - Hex, Theo recalled. The cat stretched languidly before curling into a cozy spot beside her.
The absence of Falcon's touch left Theo feeling somewhat adrift. Seeking an anchor, he took the seat opposite, his eyes drawn irresistibly to hers. For a moment, they simply stared at one another.
Gathering his courage, Theo broke the silence, "I didn't tell my dad you could talk to snakes."
Falcon's eyebrows raised dramatically, but her smile was gentle. "I never thought that you would."
Pausing to stroke Hex, she continued, "I didn't tell Papa about what happened with the necklace." She met his eyes, concern evident in her gaze. "Theo? What exactly happened?"
Theo paused as he thought about how to explain. "I don't know exactly, but I think it's happened once before."
He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
"When I was younger, just after Remus and my dad got married, I was…"
He paused, embarrassed.
"…I was having nightmares," he continued.
"Remus had this old music box. He told me it belonged to his grandmother."
Falcon leaned in, her eyes fixed on his, absorbing every word.
"Remus would play it in my room at night. He said it would keep the nightmares away. "
Theo hesitated, his eyes dropping to his hands. "One night, I remember waking up from a bad dream, and I reached out for the music box, wanting to play it again. But the moment I touched it, it just… fell apart. Disintegrated right in my hands."
Theo looked up at Falcon, his expression a mix of sadness and confusion. "Remus didn't get angry; I don't even think he told my dad. We never spoke about it."
Falcon's gaze softened, and she reached across the table, her fingers hovering just above his for a moment. "Your stepfather sounds nice," she said softly.
Theo nodded, "He is. But his kindness… I never understood why he wasn't angry about the music box. Honestly, sometimes his endless patience is a bit annoying," he admitted sheepishly. "Especially when it comes to my little brother."
After a brief silence, Falcon, with an encouraging smile, asked, "Have you ever told anyone else?"
Theo hesitated, swallowing hard. "No," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the compartment floor. "I've never really had a friend before."
Her fingers, which had hovered earlier, now gently covered his in a comforting gesture. Falcon's expression became contemplative as if searching for the right words.
"Theo… do you remember our game of chess?"
He blinked, the memory of their brief game returning. "Yes," he responded, a hint of caution in his voice.
Falcon hesitated, not quite meeting his gaze. "You were awfully quiet, and I thought… Well, I thought maybe you didn't like me. Which was confusing because at the apothecary, it felt… quite special, like…?"
"… magic," Theo finished for her. His thoughts drifted back to the apothecary and the unusual pull he felt toward her. "I do remember," he said softly. "It felt like magic, in a way. Not the wand-waving kind, but something else."
She bit her lip, her voice wavering slightly. "So, during our chess match, when you wouldn't talk to me…," her voice trailed off.
Theo shook his head minutely, "Sometimes, I just get… I don't know, lost in my head? It's just… hard to say stuff sometimes."
The compartment door slid open, admitting the trolley witch, her cart laden with a tantalizing array of magical sweets and treats. She peered in with a cheery smile. "Anything off the trolley, dears?"
HP~HP~HP~HP~HP
Harry leaned back, observing his two companions. Hermione was animatedly discussing some complex theory from a book she held, often using it to gesticulate. Her eyes shone with enthusiasm as she emphasized her point.
"And then," she exclaimed, "the author even entertains the idea of time travel! Can you imagine?"
Ron raised an eyebrow, "Why not? Hopping back to last week to avoid Mum's corned beef sounds like a bloody good idea."
Hermione shot him a stern look. "Don't be ridiculous, Ronald. Of course, no one can time travel! It's a preposterous concept!"
Despite his needling, Harry could tell that Ron was more invested than he let on. Whether stealing glances at Hermione, absentmindedly looking out the window, or fiddling with a loose thread on his robe, Ron's actions gave him away. The fleeting expressions on his face—curiosity, confusion, admiration—all indicated an interest he wasn't ready to admit.
Hermione continued, "They did have one interesting theory that suggests magic itself might be sentient."
Ron snorted. "Sounds a bit far-fetched to me."
"You'd understand better if you read it, Ron," Hermione countered.
Ron shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.
Taking a deep breath, Harry decided to interject, "Sounds like an interesting read, Hermione. Maybe you could lend it to me sometime?"
Hermione smiled. "Of course, Harry. I think you'll enjoy it."
Ron pressed his lips into a thin line.
The compartment door slid open with a slow creak, revealing a boy with a round face and a slightly perturbed look. "Hi," Neville began, a hint of distress in his voice. "Some filth-year Slytherins just hexed a bunch of us out of our compartment for a laugh. Mind if I sit here?"
Hermione looked up from her book, her eyes squinting as Neville spoke, but she offered a comforting smile. "That's terrible! Of course, you can sit here."
As Neville settled in, he sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Thanks."
Harry responded, "No problem. I'm Harry, by the way."
Neville nodded, "Neville. Nice to meet you."
As he sat, Neville glanced at Harry warily. "Sorry about my Gran," he said, adjusting his robes. "She's just… well, a stern, old-fashioned woman."
Harry furrowed his brows momentarily, recalling the encounter at Diagon Alley. "Ah, yes, she rather rattled my godfather's cage, but don't fret about it."
The sound of metal wheels preceded the door gliding open once more, revealing the trolley witch, her cart laden with treats. "Anything off the trolley, dears?"
Harry, without a moment's hesitation, stood and pulled a generous handful of coins from his pocket, not bothering to count. "I'll take a bit of everything," he announced, expertly selecting Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Cauldron Cakes, and even a pack of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.
Ron stared open-mouthed, his eyes darting between the pile of treats and the coins in Harry's hand. "You're practically clearing out the cart!"
Grinning, Harry shared his hoard with them. "My treat," he said, handing Hermione the Sugar Quill she'd been eyeing. "Figured we could all use something sweet for the journey."
Noticing Neville's hesitation, Harry handed him a chocolate frog. "Here, Neville, have one for the road," he added with a grin.
As they began to unwrap and sample the sweets, discussing their favorites and making faces at some of the stranger flavors from the Bertie Bott's, a cool draft blew into the compartment as the door opened again. This time, it revealed the sickly pale-faced boy with slicked-back blonde hair who had insulted Hermione on the platform. He was flanked by two much larger boys.
"You're Harry Potter," the blonde boy stated, not really a question. His eyes then flicked to Ron with disdain and then to Hermione. "You really shouldn't keep the company of blood-traitors and mudbloods," he sneered.
Ron rolled his eyes, "What do you want, Malfoy?"
The blonde boy, now identified as Malfoy, smirked. "Just wanted to see what the famous Harry Potter looked like up close."
"He looks like an orphan to me," Malfoy sneered. His eyes briefly settled on Neville with an evil smirk before shifting his attention back to Harry.
"Crabbe, Goyle," he motioned to the two larger boys, introducing them, "meet the Boy Who Lived…without parents."
Harry's temper flared, heat rising in his chest. The arrogance, the disdain; it was all too familiar. Papa had always spoken with vehement disapproval about those who touted blood purity. This boy, with his sneers and jibes, embodied everything the man had warned him against. Harry didn't need to know the boy's full name to recognize the kind of person he was.
Enraged, Harry pulled out a vial of silvery substance his godfather had thrust upon him with a wink just that morning.
With a deft flick of his wand, Harry uncorked the vial and coated Malfoy's hands with the fluid. Simultaneously, with another discreet gesture, he applied it to the backside of Crabbe and Goyle's trousers.
The result was immediate. Malfoy's hands jerked forward, attaching themselves firmly onto Crabbe and Goyle's backsides. The bewildered look on the pale boy's face was priceless, his skin turning a deep shade of red.
"What the—?!" Goyle exclaimed.
"Get off!" Crabbe shouted, trying to swat away Malfoy's hands without success.
Ron burst out laughing, nearly choking on a Bertie Bott's bean. "Looks like Malfoy's really attached to his friends today!"
Malfoy, struggling to detach himself, shot Harry a glare that promised retaliation. But, for the moment, the humiliated boy could only retreat backward out of the compartment, hands still stuck to his companions, their dignity left far behind.
As Malfoy retreated, Neville shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at the door. "He's going to be furious about this, Harry," he warned, though there was a hint of admiration in his voice.
Ron, still laughing, exclaimed, "That was wicked, Harry!"
However, Hermione shot them both a reproving look, her brow furrowed. "You could get in trouble for that!" But as she spoke, Harry noticed the corners of her mouth twitching, betraying her amusement.
"What was that stuff?" Ron inquired with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Harry held up the vial, the remaining silvery liquid shimmering inside. "It's called Mag-Nectar. My godfather gave it to me this morning as a sort of 'going to Hogwarts' gift. He told me it acts like a magical magnet between two coated surfaces. Thought I'd never find a use for it, but…" He smirked, glancing towards the door where Malfoy had made his hasty exit.
Ron snorted.
Hermione, obviously attempting a stern facade, warned, "As amusing as it was, Harry, you need to be careful. Using such things on fellow students could get you in trouble."
Harry shrugged, a playful grin on his face. "Worth it."
The laughter in the compartment had just begun to subside when the train gave a sudden jolt, causing everyone to lurch in their seats. They were still straightening themselves when another jolt rocked their compartment, sending a shower of owl cages tumbling down onto them. The cacophony of noise was overwhelming: the alarmed hoots of the owls and the surprised shouts of the compartment's occupants all mingled in a discordant symphony.
As the train gradually came to a halt, a cold fog began to creep through the cracks of the door.
The lights flickered as they frosted over before going out.
"What the…?" Ron whispered.
Harry felt a feeling of unease and despair gripped him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Darkness began to encroach on the edges of his vision.
The door to the compartment slid open slowly this time, revealing a tall, hooded figure. Its very presence seemed to suck the happiness out of the room. Beneath its hood, there was only darkness, a void where a face should be.
Neville let out a soft whimper. "What is that?"
"Dementor," Harry whispered. But as the word left his lips, the darkness consumed his vision. He felt as though he were being pulled under, sinking into an abyss.
…
..
.
When his senses returned, he had landed in a vast expanse, a place untouched by light. The entire space stretched infinitely, an impenetrable void, punctuated only by the biting cold that nipped at his skin.
From the consuming silence, a voice emerged, crystalline and distinct, breaking through the void's embrace, "Mummy loves you."
A crib materialized before him, and in it lay a baby with untamed dark hair. Beside the crib stood a woman with wild red hair, her figure a stark contrast against the encompassing darkness.
The air shifted subtly, carrying with it the gentle aroma of lavender, a fleeting solace against the void's chilling grip. It was both foreign and familiar, reminiscent of a memory teetering on the edge of his consciousness. As the woman leaned down to kiss the child, Harry felt the fleeting touch of lips on his forehead—a momentary warmth in the icy expanse.
The voice began to chant, its rhythm filling the void, "Abdito Harry James Potter, Invisum Vinculum, Excludo Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Whispers of screams intertwined with eerie laughter, a sudden blaze of green light, and then an explosive force before…
…
..
.
Harry groaned, his vision gradually focusing as he came to. His head throbbed.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice was edged with panic. "You passed out."
Ron, barely letting Hermione finish, jumped in, "Those dementors, nasty things…"
Neville, interrupting, said, "There was this woman—with pink hair!"
Harry blinked in confusion, trying to sit up. "What happened? The last thing I remember is the dementor coming toward me."
"It was targeting you, Harry," Hermione cut in hurriedly. "Like it was trying to suck the life out of you."
Ron blurted, "And then she stepped up, wand out. She cast this brilliant silvery spell and—"
"The dementor just glided away," Neville finished.
Hermione nodded, adding, "After it was gone, she checked on you, told us to keep you warm, and just left. Didn't even tell us her name."
With a soft click, the door parted yet again. Framed by the doorway, a vibrant bubblegum-pink-haired woman looked upon them, her mismatched socks peeking out from below her robes.
"Wotcher, everyone!" she greeted with an energetic grin, scanning the compartment as she tucked her wand behind her ear. She turned her attention to him. "You alright?" she asked, her twinkling eyes filled with concern.
He nodded, albeit slowly, still trying to piece together his scattered recollection of what he experienced in the black void. "Yes, thank you."
She smiled, her cheek dimpling. "Nymphadora Tonks, at your service. Though everyone just calls me Tonks." She winked.
"You might want to get used to Professor Tonks, though. Fresh from the Auror Academy and straight into Hogwarts. They say I'm the youngest they've ever had on board and just the second woman to teach there in centuries."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"
Harry watched Neville as he adjusted his collar and asked cautiously, "What subject will you be teaching?"
Tonks ran a hand through her vibrant hair, her expression turning contemplative. "Defense Against the Dark Arts…Dumbledore didn't exactly come knocking at my door if you get my drift. The Ministry is pushing for change. I guess they thought I'd be a good fit. A bit of fresh blood to shake up the old guard, if you will. Course, I suspect no one else wanted the position, with the rumors flying around that it's cursed and all."
Hermione nodded slowly. "Well, Professor," she began with a small smile, "I think Hogwarts is in for quite the change with you around."
Harry barely listened. He couldn't stop shaking. Tonks considered him for a moment before saying, "You know, it's a shame you don't have any chocolate on you. It's the best remedy after a dementor encounter."
He blinked and then remembered the stash of treats he had bought earlier. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a chocolate frog and offered it to her.
Tonks chuckled. "For you, not me. Eat up. It'll make you feel better."
Harry took a tentative bite, and almost instantly, warmth began to spread throughout his body. He broke off a piece for Ron, Hermione, and Neville and passed it to them.
"Thanks, Harry," Neville muttered. Harry could see the color returning to his face after taking a small bite.
Tonks ruffled Harry's hair playfully, startling him.
"Better?" she asked.
He nodded.
Tonks glanced out of the compartment. "I'd better alert the school about the dementors. Take care, all of you."
With a cheerful wave, she was gone.
After the strange woman departed, Harry turned to Hermione.
"Hermione, do you know what 'Invisum Vinculum' is?" Harry asked abruptly.
Hermione frowned. "I've read it somewhere before…"
She pursed her lips, pushing them slightly to one side before continuing. "…I think I came across the spell last year when I was researching. Lockhart was so useless; we had to take it upon ourselves to learn defensive magic. I remember it having something to do with Old Magic."
"Old Magic?" Ron echoed, tilting his head in confusion. "That's a bit like saying 'old history,' isn't it? All magic's old."
Hermione sighed, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "Not exactly, Ron. Old Magic refers to the very first forms of magic, the primal energy from which modern spells have evolved. It's like raw magic."
Hermione's eyes narrowed with seriousness. "Old Magic requires a deep connection with the spell caster, who has to bind a fragment of their very soul to the spell. It's a sacrifice."
Ron's eyes widened. "Blimey, why would anyone want to do that?"
Hermione pursed her lips. "You know, Hogwarts itself was crafted using elements of Old Magic," she said. "The very bedrock of the castle was imbued with the souls of the founders."
Ron scrunched up his face in apparent disbelief, "Godric Gryffindor founded Hogwarts. There was only one founder. I remember that much from Binns' boring lectures."
Hermione took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Ron, sometimes when a lie is repeated often enough, it becomes accepted as truth."
He snorted. "What are you on about?"
Hermione answered softly. "That version of history you mentioned, about Godric Gryffindor being the sole founder, is just a simplified narrative. The real history of Hogwarts is...different."
Ron's eyebrows knitted in disbelief, his voice growing somewhat aggressive. "I've been at Hogwarts as long as you have. I've never heard anything of the sort."
"Well," Hermione began, a tad defensively, "That's probably because Mr. Penrose, the librarian, never loaned you 'Hogwarts: A Hidden History.' It's a banned text."
Neville shifted uneasily, his eyebrows furrowing in concern, but he didn't say anything.
She paused for emphasis, challenging Ron with her gaze. "Think about it, Ron. Haven't you ever wondered why we have four houses, each with such distinct names? They're named after each of the founders."
"Anyway, why are you interested in Old Magic, Harry?" Hermione asked.
Harry's hand subconsciously moved to his forehead, rubbing the scar that marked him as he considered sharing his surreal experience while unconscious. The stark image of the woman, the voice, and the unfamiliar yet eerily chant echoed in his mind.
"Just curious," he finally replied.
