Ace and Harry stepped into the adjacent compartment, their duel behind them.
The scene that greeted them felt a little off-putting to Harry, who hadn't been to many fancy places in his life.
He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd been anywhere that could qualify as even remotely fancy.
Even then, they didn't hold a candle to the train cart he was currently standing in.
The first thing he noticed was the faint aroma of cinnamon and vanilla— they worked together in a subtle dance of smells that wafted through the air, creating a fragrant tapestry that clung to the train cart.
The scent of cinnamon brought a warm, spicy richness, evoking images of cozy dinner at Hogwarts and freshly treacle tart. Its presence was assertive yet comforting, like a fond memory that wrapped Harry in its embrace. Each inhale carried with it the promise of something savory and indulgent.
On the other hand, the vanilla, with its sweet and creamy notes, added a layer of softness to the composition. It was a gentle partner to the boldness of cinnamon, smoothing the edges and infusing the air with a subtle sweetness.
The second thing he noticed was the hordes of people busying themselves around the compartment—several of whom had begun to take stock of their late arrival.
"—who's that—"
"—what's Monroe doing with a kid—"
"—is that the Harry Potter—"
The subtle shift of attention was palpable as a collective gaze pivoted toward Harry. It was as though an invisible thread connected the onlookers, and, with a silent cue, they synchronized their focus.
No, really. It was a bit frightening.
Their heads turned like petals following the sun. Eyes, varied in expression and curiosity, locked onto Harry and Ace.
Some gazes were quick and fleeting, stolen glances that sought to decipher the sudden interruption. Others lingered, curiosity etched into furrowed brows and parted lips.
The initial surprise that had prickled Harry's skin transformed swiftly into an unsettling sense of displacement, draping over him like an unwelcome second cloak.
The once mild and almost pleasing scent now bore a searing quality, assaulting the inside of his nose and casting a numbness that dulled his senses.
Firmly setting his jaw, Harry diverted his attention to the details of the train compartment.
It was a familiar coping mechanism, a practiced ritual to counterbalance the unease that brewed within him.
The deliberate focus on tangible details, with their static and unchanging nature, served as an anchor, a means to tether himself amid the turbulence of his emotions.
Every inch of the room screamed extravagance and sophistication. Well-dressed guests chatted animatedly, their laughter like tinkling silverware against fine china.
Waitstaff in crisp tuxedos gracefully glided through the crowd, expertly balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
In the center of the compartment stood a mesmerizing fountain, not of water, but of cascading strawberry milk. Its rosy hue shimmered in the soft light.
A bartender, dressed in a sharp suit, skillfully mixed drinks at the bar adjacent to the fountain, his wand conjuring colorful concoctions with effortless grace.
He kind of looked like a conductor—he'd jab his wand at bottles of alcohol, and they would pour themselves into tiny glasses. He'd wave his hand, and a pestle would begin crushing lime and pouring it into a shaker.
Dozens of what Harry assumed were mentors crowded around him, deep in conversation about one thing or another. As the bartender spoke to other mentors, a shaker magically poured the contents of its drink out into a chilled glass.
A lot of the mentors looked trim and proper, as Harry had expected, but a fair few of them looked a bit outlandish, as well.
One mentor caught his eye, in particular. It was a man—who, if he had to guess, was around the age of Dumbledore. He was dressed in a robe of purple whose back was adorned by twinkling stars. An animated rubber duck sat atop his head, stealing hors d'oeuvres off unsuspecting mentor's plates.
They would eventually notice, and start looking around, but the old man would scarf the food down before anyone could catch him. On the third iteration of stolen food, as he stuffed his mouth with jelly beans, the man caught Harry's eye and winked.
Around the edges of the compartment, tables were laden with an extravagant buffet of food. There were platters of bite-sized delicacies, dishes of every cuisine imaginable, and desserts that seemed to defy gravity.
Harry's stomach rumbled in appreciation at the mouthwatering spread. He'd never had much of an appetite before, but after a month or so under Rowena's tutelage, he'd been eating more food than ever.
Ace gestured for Harry to take a seat at one of the tables, a small smile on his face. "Welcome to the mentor-mentee mixer, Potter. Help yourself to whatever you fancy, as you Brits would say. The food here's always top-notch. I think the ICW foots the bill, so all the grub you see is made by a specialist in their craft. I'm going to get a drink. You want anything?"
"I'm thirteen," Harry returned evenly. The polished wood of the table felt smooth under his fingertips.
"Oh. Right," Ace said, his smile faltering for a second. He reached for the buttons of his jacket, his powerful frame making the movement look effortless. With a quick, practiced motion, he began to undo the buttons, one by one.
The midnight-hued suit jacket slid from his broad shoulders, revealing a crisp, white shirt underneath. As he folded the jacket neatly and set it aside, his arms flexed with a hint of the strength that lay beneath. "I'm going to go do my rounds, kid. I've got a list of about twenty people to say hello to. Damn politics. Make sure to get some food. Using magic always burns through calories like fire."
With that, he was off. Harry noticed Ace's presence seemed to fill the compartment, and without the jacket, his powerful physique was even more evident.
Some of the mentors gave him a wide berth as he ambled past them. A few whispered amongst themselves.
Amid the relaxed atmosphere in the compartment, Harry's thoughts were still swirling with the memories of the intense magical duel.
He'd touched his magic. Sure, it had felt wild and unrestrained, but the feeling had been euphoric. All he could see when he closed his eyes was that silver pool, and he wanted nothing more than to try and access it again.
Before he could think about it any further, Rowena's voice echoed in his mind.
[Harry,] she said with a gentle tone, [I'd suggest heading over to that buffet table in the corner. They've got a variety of delicious meats and fresh bread. A hearty meal will help you regain your strength after that duel. As nice as it felt to feel your magic, you're more fatigued than you realize because of the adrenaline. If you try it again, you're going to faint.]
Following Rowena's advice, Harry made his way to the designated buffet table, where an array of meats, including roast beef and slices of ham, awaited him.
Loaves of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven, were stacked nearby. They were in all kinds of shapes, sizes, and colors.
The precarious ordering of the bread reminded Harry of a trip he'd taken to the countryside with the Dursleys. There, too, there had been a vendor with a cart of bread in all kinds of funny shapes, but back then, Harry hadn't gotten to try any.
Now, though?
The warmth alone was enough to make his mouth water. The bread crackled as he grabbed it.
With a plate in hand, Harry helped himself to a generous portion of meat and a couple of slices of bread.
"Harry, there you are!" Cho's voice said from behind him. "I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Sorry, I was talking to my mentor," Harry replied slowly, turning around and seeing Cho, who had a plate of her own with a blend of salad and pasta on it. Her smile dashed away some of the anxiety Harry felt. "Is the food here good?"
"Oh, Merlin, yes. Look!" Cho urged, sticking her fork into the pasta and holding it up for Harry to see. The pasta glistened on the fork, each twirl perfectly coated in a rich, savory sauce. "I think this is the best pasta I've ever had! I must've taken the whole tray by now, I just keep going back for more."
Harry privately agreed. It looked way better than Aunt Petunia's pasta, which, on a good day, looked just edible enough to give you salmonella. On a bad day, it could be used as a brick.
"Careful," Harry warned, making a big show of looking behind Cho. "I think people are noticing that you hogged all the pasta."
Cho's cheeks flushed, and she whirled around, only to turn back and see Harry fighting a smile. She swatted his arm lightly. "That's not funny, you ass! I thought people were going to be mad at me!"
"I couldn't resist," Harry chuckled, biting into some bread. A hiss of hot air rose from the inside of the loaf. "Have you met any of the other duelists?"
"A few," Cho confessed, her fingers wrapping around Harry's arm. Her touch, gentle and reassuring, sent warmth coursing through Harry's arm like a shot of espresso. She began leading him toward the back of the traincart. "We've made a little group. I'll introduce you."
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels served as a backdrop to their journey. They wove through a tapestry of people engrossed in conversations, games, and shared laughter.
The atmosphere was vibrant, and Harry couldn't help but be swept up in the energy around him. More than ever, Harry had begun to realize the true magnitude of what he'd agreed to.
At first, it had just been a way to escape going home for the summer. The opportunity didn't even matter—it could've been painting fences, interning as Hagrid's assistant, or being a Knight Bus conductor, and he would've taken it.
Then, Harry had mistakenly assumed that it was just going to be a month or two of studying alongside Professor Flitwick. A straightforward, if not boring summer of doing coursework in an empty castle.
Now, it was clear that this was more than just some studying, or a gathering of witches and wizards; it was a community. One that he was aiming to be a part of in the long term.
As Cho led him deeper into the compartment, the hubbub of voices and laughter grew louder. They turned a corner and were standing in front of a booth where a smattering of other kids who looked around Harry's age had gathered.
"Hey, everyone," Cho interrupted their conversation with a bright smile. Harry ignored his heartbeat quickening as she added, "I'm back with Harry!"
"Oh, Harry Potter! It's a pleasure to meet you," A Welsh boy—at least, Harry thought he was Welsh—was the first to speak up. His jet-black hair was neatly combed, contrasting sharply with his fair complexion. Harry was momentarily caught off guard by his eyes. They were a striking shade of gray, like storm clouds on the horizon—deep and intense. "I'm Magnus. Cho was telling us about you."
"Please, this fraud?" Another voice chimed in from across the table. Blue eyes, partially concealed by shaggy blonde hair, locked onto Harry's. The speaker's accent was coarse, reminiscent of Ace's. Another American? "His quidditch highlights aren't even all that. He's a system player."
"A system player?" Harry echoed, his brows furrowing. The lingering unease he felt from standing in front of a group of random people was eclipsed by the unrestrained curiosity that had been his constant companion throughout the entire summer.
Every time he had the urge to ask something, Rowena all but forced him to speak his mind. It didn't matter if it was a dumb question or not.
"The important thing is not to stop questioning," She'd say. "Curiosity has its own reason for existing, Harry."
"It means you're only good because of your teammates," The boy continued, crossing his arms. "I've seen your highlights. You could never play for the international team. Unlike me. I'm a chaser. Lead chaser. On my way to being on America's U16 team, Nike sponsored, and everything."
"That's…nice," Harry replied after exchanging a glance with Cho. She was looking back, unimpressed. Besides, Harry thought. Weren't chasers even more reliant on their teammates? As a seeker, you could go the whole game without interacting with your teammates. Chasers needed to constantly pass each other the ball, run fakes, and shoot. "I'm…happy for you?"
The boy huffed, "You should be."
"Don't mind Alex," Magnus said with a glare at the overconfident boy. Harry had a feeling this wasn't their first time having this conversation. "He's just insecure because Cho said you'd whoop his butt in Quidditch. She also said—"
"And I meant it," Cho interrupted, with a little bit of steel in her voice. She slid into the booth and scooted down, patting a seat next to her. "Sit, Harry."
There were two more kids at the table—a girl named Leslie, also from America, and a boy named Arun from India.
"Shouldn't there be more kids at this table?" Harry wondered aloud.
"Well, obviously," Alex's lip curled. Harry got the sense that the boy didn't like him very much. "There's a bunch of other kids around here. Some of them are hanging out with their mentors. Others are reading, or playing games. A few of them are probably in isolation, casting spells and practicing for the duels."
"Not everyone wants to be chummy with their competition," Leslie added helpfully. Her pigtails whipped around her head as she turned to face Harry. "There was this Russian kid who walked by us and scoffed, like, five different times."
Rowena spoke up for the first time in a while. [Mind games, I suppose. It's only natural that a few of the children see you as competition. They likely believe that speaking with you might somehow put them at a disadvantage—that you'll glean things from your conversations and use them to win the tournament. While somewhat understandable, I hardly think it matters. It's like I've been telling you. Your mind is a very powerful force. If you learn to tame it, you can achieve anything."
What kind of kid plays mind games, though?
[Don't be so quick to disregard what you've learned so far,] Rowena chided. [Ace mentioned that rising in the ranks of the ICW will grant you access to more spells and better training, no? It's only natural that some of your competitors want to reach those heights. Look at your friend Cho, for example. This has been her dream for quite some time.]
I mean, I guess.
[This may have come out of nowhere for you, Harry, but some of these children have been looking forward to it for a long time. This is more than a summer excursion for them—it's the beginning of the rest of their lives. I suppose the question you should be asking yourself isn't what kind of child would resort to such measures, but, rather, whether you possess the drive to beat someone who is that focused on winning.]
The group devolved into a conversation around Quidditch as Harry drummed his fingers on the table, replaying Rowena's words in his head. The adrenaline from before, like Rowena had predicted, had faded.
Harry fought back a yawn.
Do you think I should be more focused on winning?
[That isn't a question for me to answer. Your focus is yours, and yours alone. I'm only here in an advisory aspect.]
So, you don't want to have any sway over what I do?
[Within reason, no. I don't take you for a sociopath, so I doubt you'll do something I don't approve of, but that's on the other side of the coin. In the same line of thinking, I don't want to force you to do something I would, if that makes sense.]
Kind of. So, you don't want to push me into doing one thing or another, but you'll step in if I go off the rails?
[Essentially. Your journey is your own, and no one else can force you to realize that,] Rowena said. [I've lived a very focused, neutral life, Harry. The pursuit of knowledge became a sacred duty to me—an exploration of the profound and the mundane alike. Along the way, I learned more than a few lessons. The paramount of which, of course, is the notion that to be a scholar, a true scholar, means understanding that the destination is not a tangible reward but the boundless expanse of understanding. It's a commitment to curiosity, a promise to keep the flame of inquiry alive, forever casting light into the caverns of the unknown. It took me a great many years to learn that, though now, it appears that's what I'm remembered for. Similarly, you need to give yourself time to grow and learn. Only then will you learn what truly drives you. Beyond your short-term goal of becoming, strong, that is. And, of course, by short-term, I mean a few years. Your life goal, as you'd expect, will span a lifetime.]
I guess I'll keep looking.
As he tried to think through what Rowena had told him, Harry found himself tuning back into the conversation.
"Cleansweeps suck!" Alex cried, his voice strained. His eyes were wide and unblinking as if he couldn't believe the words he was hearing. "I can't believe you backwater Brits would use something like that!"
"I can't believe you backwater Brits would use something like that," Arun spoke up, his voice dropping into an over-the-top imitation of Alex's voice. The table erupted into peals of laughter. "Do you even hear yourself, man?"
"I don't think he does," Cho giggled, resting her hand on her cheek. She raised one of her hands and rolled her finger around in a swirly motion. "His brain is probably being overheated from having to think more than one thought at once. Take your time, sweetie. We've got all day."
Cho's animated gestures and infectious laughter caused another round of laughter, and Harry couldn't help but marvel at the way she effortlessly commanded everyone's attention.
It was like a spotlight followed her every move, and those within its glow were captivated by the sheer magnetism of her personality. The booth buzzed with energy, and even Alex managed a smile.
Cho possessed a unique gift, Harry decided. She had the uncanny ability to turn a simple conversation into a communal experience. Kind of like a stand-up comedy routine, or a play.
Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect on Harry.
It wasn't that he didn't find the joke funny—he did. He laughed a little, too, but that was here nor there.
The problem was deeper than that.
As the conversation swirled around him, Harry couldn't shake the growing sense of being a bit out of place. It wasn't that he resented the attention Cho was receiving—far from it.
It was just that, well, in the wake of her captivating presence, he felt like he was a little… disappointing.
Everyone else had found their way here and effortlessly melded with one another.
Harry had been brought here by Cho. Unlike everyone else, who had made the conscious choice to spend time with everyone else, he'd been shoehorned in. They hadn't chosen to spend their time with him. He felt like he'd been forced into their dynamic. A wrench thrown in an otherwise smooth system.
He wasn't funny like Cho, nor did he have her conversational skills.
Harry tried to engage in the conversation, to contribute a word or two, but each attempt felt like a pebble dropped into a bubbling stream.
The ripples were there, but they quickly melded into the broader current of conversation, effortlessly absorbed by the charisma emanating from the center—Cho.
The unease from before settled over him all over again, accompanied by an awareness that at this moment, he was a peripheral player in a story not entirely his own.
And that didn't feel right.
Harry saw it for what it was now.
The ebb and flow of the conversation, the shared laughter, the magnetic pull of attention—it all unfolded without him, leaving him feeling a touch isolated, like a steadfast rock in the midst of a river, with the currents gracefully curving around him.
But why did she even bring me here, then?
Eventually, Harry reached his tipping point, and cleared his throat, "Hey, is there a bathroom around here?"
"Oh, of course!" Magnus said, his attention refocusing on Harry. He blinked a few times, like he'd forgotten Harry was there, and smiled brightly. "Right down the hallway, to your left."
"Thanks," Harry managed a smile and pushed off the cushion, tracing the wall with his hand as he went deeper into the compartment. He muttered, "You won't even notice I'm gone."
Harry ambled through the corridor, the scent of aging wood wafting from the polished floor beneath him. Now since he wasn't surrounded by conversation, the rhythmic clattering of the train wheels outside seemed to echo in the empty spaces around him, creating a sense of isolation that clung to the air.
Somehow, it felt comforting, though. It reminded him of his bed back in the Gryffindor dormitory. He could sit there for hours with the curtains drawn, just in his own world, with no one else bothering him.
The walls, adorned with elegant portraits depicting magical creatures in vibrant hues, seemed to observe his solitary journey. Phoenixes cawed at him, vying for his attention. Unicorns neighed.
The air carried a peculiar stillness, broken only by distant echoes of laughter and conversation from behind him.
And then suddenly, he felt it.
It was like someone had run an electrical current through his body. Harry felt himself shiver. The hairs on his arms stood. His heartbeat quickened.
Someone was using magic. A lot of it.
Up ahead, Harry's gaze caught glimpses of private rooms veiled in soft glows of magical light. He inched closer, intent on seeing what could cause such a reaction in the air.
"What are you doing back here?" An unkind voice snarked, and Harry wheeled around.
The voice belonged to a girl who looked a few years older than him.
Her features, ethereal and sculpted, gave her an almost inhuman beauty. She was unnaturally pale—her skin possessed a porcelain luminescence that set her apart from the warm tones of those around her.
Her eyes, like pools of liquid silver, held an otherworldly allure. Framed by long, silvery-blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a cascade of moonlight, the girl looked like she materialized out of nowhere.
"Are you a ghost?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.
"Are you a little boy who is clearly not supposed to be here?" The girl returned nastily, a French accent dripping off her words. "Connard. Leave, now."
Harry frowned. "Why?"
Ice crackled on the wall next to him, and the girl crossed her arms. "You do not belong back here, little boy. These compartments are for proven ranks. You have not yet placed, have you? No—of course you have not. I would know if you had."
"Ah, Fleur," Ace's voice boomed from the other end of the hallway. Saved in the nick of time. He was standing next to the eccentric-looking man Harry had seen earlier. "I see you've met my wayward charge. I was about to send out a search party for him."
"Monsieur Monroe," Fleur said politely, declining her head. She stepped to the side of the hallway and placed her hands behind her back. The ice that was crackling in the wall receded. "I was unaware that you had taken a student."
"Ah, most people are. Not much of a teaching type, really," Ace chuckled indulgently, and Fleur managed a small smile. "But, I've got a good one. I think he'll break your record in no time."
Fleur's smile dropped comically fast. She chose her next words carefully, "You believe…he will break my record? Perhaps we are thinking of different records, yes? I have many."
"Ah, Fleur, you crack an old man up sometimes," Ace continued with a wide grin. Harry realized he was winding Fleur up on purpose. He shrugged, "Give him two matches and he'll be moved up. You'll see. Come on, Potter. Say bye to your friend."
"Potter? As in Harry?" Fleur asked, her cold gaze shifting back to Harry. She held out her hand. "Pleased to make your…acquaintance. I look forward to seeing whether discussions surrounding your skill hold any real merit."
That felt like an insult.
[That was definitely an insult. I don't like her very much.]
"Bye, Fleur," Harry said as he grabbed her hand and shook. The moment their palms met felt akin to plunging his hand into an icy abyss. It was as if he had dipped his fingers into the snowstorm outside. "There's nothing wrong with second place."
[I don't condone insulting people…but she earned that one.]
"Got around, then, Potter?" Ace asked, rubbing Harry's shoulder. "Be careful with that one. A lot of people bark but don't bite. She'll do both."
"You got it," Harry said. The sensation on his fingers lingered, an unsettling memory etched into his skin, and he couldn't help but briefly clench his fingers afterward, as if trying to restore warmth to the places where the cold had seeped in.
Ace gave him a quick once-over and gestured to the man beside him. "Anyway, I wanted to introduce you to Ogier. He's one of the chairmen on the ICW, and one of the most powerful wizards I've met. I think he's a good man to know, and he was equally interested in meeting you."
"Ah," The old man, Ogier, croaked in a scratchy voice. He smiled genially. "You're far too kind, Alexander. I am no more powerful than Mr. Potter here—I am merely a guide, a humble interpreter of the threads that weave through time."
Ace chuckled. "Your modesty, Ogier, is as legendary as your insights. But I've seen you work wonders with those ancient runes and mystical artifacts. There's a reason they call you the Sage of the Arcane."
Ogier's eyes twinkled with a blend of humility and a hint of mischief. "Titles are but echoes of deeds, my friend. Now, let us turn our attention back to young Mr. Potter. Your reputation, of course, precedes you. With your permission, I would like to see your palms."
"My palms, sir?" Harry repeated.
Ogier chuckled. The rubber duck on his head quacked loudly and marched in a circle. "The lines on one's palms may tell all kinds of stories. Let your hands tell your story to me."
Harry looked at Ace, who gave him a reassuring nod and extended his palms, calloused from gardening in his aunt's garden over the summer and years of Quidditch.
Ogier's touch was gentle, his fingers tracing the lines with a delicate precision that hinted at a connection to something beyond the ordinary. "I see a path of greatness before you," he murmured, his eyes distant, "These hands hold the magic of a thousand stories, woven into the fabric of time. Very interesting."
Harry's gaze flickered with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Ace, however, listened with laser focus. "Greatness, you say?"
"Yes, Alexander. Your charge is brimming with potential," Ogier nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He turned back to Harry, "You are destined for more than you can imagine, young one. A journey awaits you, and your steps will echo through the pages of history. Ah, the tapestry of greatness is woven with threads of adversity. Your palms bear the marks of battles won and lost, of courage in the face of darkness. But remember, the phoenix rises from its ashes. And do not fear the shadows that dance upon your palms—for in darkness, you will discover the light within. Embrace your destiny, young one, for greatness awaits."
Harry stared at the man with wide eyes. Ogier smiled sagely, and his duck quacked in his ear. He began looking around, his gaze settling on a waiter who was gliding toward them. "Oh—a plate of cheese puffs. How delightful."
[This man might officially be crazy, Harry.]
I think you might just be right, Rowena.
AN: Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay in updating this. I've been trying to work on my prose a bit more. Writing in the third person is hard for me, but I figure that the only way I'll ever really work through it is by writing more…so here we are.
I'm trying to world-build a bit more and introduce the idea of more wizarding cultures, here. I do think there is a balance to be maintained, though, so if you feel that this story is leaning too far in one direction, please do let me know.
This was mainly a conversational chapter introducing characters, Harry's feelings, and the like. I want to build upon the idea of Harry's isolation a bit more, so I'm laying the seeds here. Do remember that Harry might not be the most reliable narrator, and these kids might not be outright ignoring him. Just some food for thought.
The next chapter will have a bit more action and magical theory.
Also, I will try my hardest to do Fleur justice. I know she's been done about everyone way you could imagine, but I promise mine will be different…even if her introduction might frame her to more or less be the same.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, however. Hope you enjoy time spent with loved ones.