Chapter 7: The Road to Hogwarts

The last two weeks had passed in a whirlwind. The days had been filled with moments Arcturus knew he would soon miss—family dinners under the golden glow of candlelight, Aurelie's occasional snide remarks that always softened at the edges, Élodie's endless chatter about Hogwarts, and Céleste's quiet but constant warmth. Étienne had taken him on an impromptu trip to Paris, claiming it was "educational," though Arcturus strongly suspected it was just an excuse to spend time together before his departure.

Paris had been dazzling, even in the late summer heat. They had wandered through the old streets of the Latin Quarter, browsed through stacks of books in quaint wizarding shops hidden behind ordinary Muggle bookstores, and even visited the magical district in Montmartre—where street performers didn't just juggle fire but conjured miniature dragons that danced through the air.

One evening, Étienne had taken him up to the Eiffel Tower, its iron lattice glowing against the indigo sky. They had stood there, leaning against the railing, watching the lights of the city stretch endlessly beneath them.

"This place always makes me think," Étienne had said, his voice quiet. "Of how small we are, compared to the world."

Arcturus had nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere. For the first time, he had realized just how far he was about to go. He had spent nearly his entire life in the quiet countryside of France, surrounded by his family's warmth. Now, he was about to step into something completely unknown.

Aurelie had barely spoken about his departure—except for the occasional sarcastic remark about how he would "probably be a Slytherin and start wearing ridiculous green and silver capes." Élodie, on the other hand, had been unbearable, asking him to bring back "secret Hogwarts spells" for her.

But through all of it, there had been one constant—his wand.

Late at night, long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep, Arcturus had started practicing magic in secret. Not grand spells—he wasn't foolish enough to risk underage magic being detected—but small, subtle things.

A floating feather. A silent Lumos. A door locking itself with a whispered word.

At first, it had been difficult. Magic was not meant to be easy. That was something Étienne had drilled into him countless times. But the more he practiced, the more he realized something strange.

Whenever he held his wand, his hand knew exactly how to move.

Not in the usual, clumsy way a beginner learned spells. But something more… instinctive. Almost as if the wand itself was guiding him.

The first time it happened, he had been attempting a basic Colloportus—a spell to lock a door. It was a standard first-year spell, one he had read about but struggled with. His grip had been too stiff, his pronunciation slightly off.

Frustrated, he had gritted his teeth and tried again.

But then—his wrist shifted, as if something unseen had corrected him. The movement had been smooth, fluid, entirely different from the clumsy way he had been practicing. Before he could even register what had happened, his wand had pulled ever so slightly in his grasp, his fingers adjusting as if someone were leading them.

The door clicked shut.

Arcturus had frozen. He hadn't done that—not entirely.

Heart pounding, he had tried again. This time, he allowed the wand to guide him. He let himself relax, let the subtle pull dictate his movements.

The spell worked effortlessly.

It had happened again and again. Every spell. Every movement of his wand felt too perfect, too precise for someone just learning magic. It was as though he had already mastered these spells long ago—but had only now remembered how to cast them.

At first, he had convinced himself it was his own skill improving. But deep down, he knew better.

And then, one night, as he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the words from the letter struck him like a bolt of lightning.

"The thread you carry is bound tighter than you realize."

Thread. Bound. Tied.

The core of his wand—a thread from a Dementor's cloak.

A chill crept down his spine as he sat up in bed, his mind racing. The wand wasn't just choosing him—it was connected to him. It was responding to him in a way that wands shouldn't. It was more than just a tool—it was part of him.

And that… that was unsettling.

His hand tightened around the wand where it rested on his nightstand. It felt warm beneath his touch, almost reassuring. He had grown used to the way it hummed softly when he held it, the way it felt right in his grasp.

But what if he was growing too used to it?

At first, he had needed the wand's guidance. The pull in his wrist. The correction of his grip. The subtle shift in his stance. But then, one night, after repeated practice, something changed.

The wand stopped guiding him.

And yet… he still knew exactly what to do.

He cast Colloportus again—perfectly. Then Obstructo, a defensive spell he had struggled with, flawless on the first attempt. It was muscle memory, he told himself. It had to be. But as he worked through each spell, doubt crept in.

It didn't feel like muscle memory. It felt… ingrained. Like the knowledge had always been there.

The realization left him uneasy.

Because if the wand had been guiding him all this time… then what was he now that it had stopped?

The thought lingered, unsettling in its implications. The wand had shaped his spellwork, nudged him toward precision, but now—now it was silent. The guiding pull that had been there, that unseen force correcting his movements, was gone.

Had it taught him everything it needed to? Or had it simply let go?

A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to shake it off. It didn't matter. He had been practicing, improving, learning. If the wand no longer needed to guide him, then perhaps that meant he was finally standing on his own.

Still… what if he tried something more difficult? A spell beyond his level? Would the wand intervene again? Would it step in to correct him, to shape his magic into something more?

The temptation curled in his chest like a whisper, but he clenched his jaw and shoved it aside. No. That would have to wait.

Whatever the wand was—whatever it was doing—he wouldn't find his answers here, hidden away in the quiet safety of home. No, he would need books, experts, a place where magic was at its strongest.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts to settle. There was no point in dwelling on it now.

Whatever this connection was, he would deal with it at Hogwarts.

For now, he had more pressing matters—his journey to King's Cross was fast approaching.

And, no matter what mysteries his wand held, he was ready.

The morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the wooden floorboards of Arcturus's bedroom. The warmth of the sun felt different today—brighter, more alive. Excitement hummed in his veins as he blinked awake, his golden eyes adjusting to the light. Today was the day.

He turned his head, his gaze settling on the framed photograph resting on his nightstand. A small smile tugged at his lips as he ran his thumb over the edge of the frame. He wondered, not for the first time, what they would say to him today.

"I'll make you proud," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. With a final glance at the photograph, he carefully set it back in its place.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders. His wardrobe was already half-empty, most of his belongings packed neatly in his trunk, but he still needed to get dressed. He pulled on a simple T-shirt and jeans before slipping his feet into his best pair of Converse—the only ones that weren't completely covered in dirt from working in the garden. Satisfied, he ruffled his dark hair into something passable and grabbed his wand, tucking it into his pocket before heading downstairs.

The scent of freshly baked bread and warm butter drifted through the air, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. The familiar hum of voices reached his ears before he even stepped into the kitchen.

"…That's ridiculous," Aurelie was saying, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Dragons are the superior choice. If you could talk to any creature, why would you waste it on birds?"

"Because birds are everywhere, obviously," Élodie countered, her hands animated as she spoke. "Imagine the secrets they know! They could tell you everything. Plus, you wouldn't have to yell at them to be quiet in the mornings!"

Étienne sat at the head of the table, his newspaper folded in his hands, while Céleste sipped her tea, watching the exchange between her daughters with a bemused smile. The table was already laden with fresh bread, pastries, and fruit.

Arcturus stepped into the room with a smirk, walking straight to the table and plucking a croissant from the basket. He waved it lazily toward the window, where Hypnos was perched, watching the morning unfold with his usual stoic indifference. "Élodie's right," Arcturus said, taking a bite of the croissant. "If I could talk to birds, I'd finally be able to ask Hypnos why he keeps stealing my socks."

Élodie burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. "Exactly! See, Archie gets it!"

Aurelie rolled her eyes dramatically, but before she could argue further, Étienne lowered his newspaper and cleared his throat. "Dragons aren't a bad choice, though," he said, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. "After all, dragon tamers are very skilled. Very strong. Very capable."

Aurelie, who had just taken a sip of juice, nodded absentmindedly. "Exactly. They—" She froze mid-sentence, her eyes widening as realization dawned on her. A deep red flush spread across her cheeks. "Wait—no! That's not—!"

Étienne's lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "I'm just saying, there's a reason you find dragons so fascinating, isn't there?"

"I appreciate their power and intelligence!" Aurelie protested, her voice a pitch higher than usual. "Not—"

"But the dragon trainers aren't bad either, hmm?" Étienne teased, winking playfully.

Aurelie sputtered, burying her face in her hands. "I hate you."

Élodie groaned loudly, pushing her plate away. "Ugh, that's disgusting. How can you think about stuff like that?"

Céleste chuckled, setting her teacup down gracefully. "You'll understand when you're a little older, ma chérie."

Élodie crossed her arms with a stubborn pout. "I doubt it."

Arcturus laughed, shaking his head. "I don't know, Élodie. Give it a few years. You might end up wanting to talk to dragon tamers, too."

She gagged dramatically. "Never!"

The living room was filled with the warm glow of the morning sun, golden streaks of light filtering through the lace curtains and casting soft patterns across the wooden floor. The gentle crackle of the fireplace, though unnecessary in the lingering summer warmth, provided a comforting presence, filling the air with the faint scent of charred oak.

Framed photographs lined the walls and the wooden mantel above the hearth—snapshots of birthdays, winter mornings wrapped in scarves, and quiet countryside afternoons. A particularly worn photo sat on the small side table, capturing a much younger Arcturus on Étienne's shoulders, laughing as Céleste tried to tame Élodie's unruly curls.

Aurelie was curled up in an armchair, legs draped over the armrest as she idly flipped through a glossy Witch Weekly magazine. She held it at an angle, half-reading, half pretending not to listen to the conversation unfolding around her. Every so often, she turned a page with a little too much force, making it obvious she was irritated, though she hadn't voiced why—yet.

Élodie, sprawled out on the floor, had an enchanted coloring book propped open in front of her. With each flick of her quill, the magical illustrations shifted and changed—the Hippogriff she had been shading a moment ago gave an indignant shake of its feathers and turned a deep emerald. A few pages back, a sleeping dragon let out a tiny puff of colored smoke, reacting to the soft scratch of her quill as she traced over its scales.

Arcturus sat on the couch, absently polishing his wand with the hem of his shirt, his gaze flicking between his family and the school trunk that rested against the wall. He had spent the morning packing and repacking his belongings, yet somehow, the weight of what was coming hadn't fully settled in until now.

The soft creak of the door made everyone look up. Étienne strolled in with an easy grin, something clutched in his hand.

"Good news," he announced, holding up a battered, old shoe with a hole in the toe. "Portkey to King's Cross, secured."

Aurelie arched a brow, peering over the edge of her magazine. "Charming choice," she said dryly.

"Don't mock the magic," Étienne quipped, tossing the shoe onto the coffee table with a faint thud. "It'll get Arcturus there right on time—though, unfortunately, I couldn't find a return Portkey until eight hours later." He scratched the back of his head, looking slightly apologetic. "Which means we'll be saying our goodbyes here before Arcturus leave for London."

Élodie, who had been happily coloring, suddenly froze mid-stroke. "Wait… here?" she echoed, sitting up. "You mean… we won't be going to the station?"

Arcturus turned toward her, surprised at the way her bright blue eyes widened, as if the reality of his departure had just hit her all at once.

Étienne gave a small nod. "Afraid so, ma chérie. Unless you fancy waiting around at King's Cross for eight hours," he added with a lopsided grin.

"But—but I thought we'd get to see him off!" Élodie protested, scrambling to her feet. "Like, actually see the train, and wave goodbye!" She turned to Arcturus, her voice rising in urgency. "How long are you even going to be gone?"

Arcturus hesitated. "Until Christmas," he admitted.

Élodie's lips parted slightly. "Christmas!?" Her voice cracked, and her small fingers curled into fists. "That's— that's forever!" She turned to Céleste, as if hoping for reassurance, but when her mother nodded gently, Élodie's face crumpled.

"I thought—" she swallowed, her voice quieter now. "If I knew you'd be gone that long, I— I wouldn't have wanted you to go at all."

A lump formed in Arcturus's throat. He had expected Aurelie to be the one to take his departure the hardest, but now, standing there with Élodie staring at him like he was about to disappear forever, he realized she hadn't fully understood until this very moment.

He stepped closer, lowering himself to her height. "Élodie," he said gently, offering her a small smile. "I would've chosen Hogwarts no matter what." His voice was steady but soft. "But you're not losing me. I'll write. All the time."

Her lower lip wobbled, and she looked down. "Promise?"

Arcturus exhaled, turning toward the windowsill. "Hypnos," he called lightly.

The sleek black owl, perched near the glass, cracked open one eye and tilted his head.

"Do you want to take the Portkey," Arcturus asked, reaching for the old shoe, "or meet me at Hogwarts?"

Hypnos let out a slow blink, then eyed the shoe with a level of disdain that was almost impressive. He straightened, shook out his feathers, and then, with an air of absolute certainty, turned his head away in clear refusal.

Élodie let out a sudden giggle, sniffling mid-laugh.

"Figures," Arcturus said, smirking. "I don't blame you."

With a single hop, Hypnos glided down to Arcturus's shoulder, his talons gripping gently as he nibbled playfully at Arcturus's ear. Then, without a sound, he spread his wings and launched himself toward the open window. The owl soared into the morning sky, disappearing beyond the tree line.

Étienne chuckled. "I suppose he wasn't too keen on the last Portkey ride from Diagon Alley."

Arcturus smiled, watching the sky for a moment longer before turning back to Élodie. "See? He'll be watching over me—and I'll be writing to you."

Élodie sniffled once more but nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "Okay," she muttered. "But you better write a lot. And you have to tell me all the interesting things—not just boring school stuff."

"I will," Arcturus promised.

Aurelie, who had been unusually quiet, cleared her throat and finally set her magazine down with a loud thwap. "I still don't get why you had to choose Hogwarts," she muttered, folding her arms. "You had options, Archie. Beauxbatons would've been easier. Familiar. You wouldn't have had to leave everything behind… you wouldn't have been—"

She hesitated, swallowing thickly before finishing, "—all the way across the channel."

Arcturus hesitated. He knew she wasn't really angry—this was just how Aurelie dealt with emotions she didn't like. She covered them up with annoyance, with sharp-edged words that didn't quite match the way she was gripping her armrest a little too tightly.

"I know," he said simply. "But I had to."

Aurelie exhaled, shaking her head. "Fine," she muttered. Then, after a long pause, she added, "Just… don't turn into one of those snobby English wizards."

Arcturus smirked. "No promises."

Céleste, who had watched the entire exchange in silence, finally set down her knitting. She stood, crossing the room in a few graceful steps before gently placing a warm hand on Arcturus's cheek. "We are proud of you," she murmured, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. "Always."

Arcturus swallowed, nodding. "Thank you, Aunt Céleste."

Étienne clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's almost time," he said, glancing at the clock. "Ready?"

Arcturus looked around the room, at the faces of the people who had been his family for as long as he could remember. The fire crackled, the morning light stretched across the floor, and for a brief moment, everything felt perfectly still.

Then, with a slow breath, he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dewy grass and ripening pears as Arcturus stood beneath the sprawling branches of the old pear tree. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting flickering shadows across the soft earth. The familiar rustling of leaves and the faint chirping of unseen birds filled the silence between them.

In his hands, he held the worn-out boot that would take him away. His school trunk sat beside him, packed and ready, a silent reminder of how little time remained.

His family stood gathered around him, their expressions varied but all touched with the same quiet understanding. No one rushed. No one pushed him forward. They all just… existed together in this moment, knowing it would be the last for a long while.

Aurelie was the first to break the silence. She crossed her arms, tilting her chin up with an air of feigned nonchalance, though her fingers tapped absently against her elbow—a telltale sign of nervous energy. "I wrote to a friend of mine at Beauxbatons," she said, her voice light but carrying an unmistakable edge of sincerity. "She told me it's possible to transfer mid-term if Hogwarts ends up being, you know, an absolute disaster."

Arcturus smirked, shaking his head. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm just saying," she shrugged. "If it's awful, you have options."

There was an unspoken meaning behind her words. You don't have to stay if you don't want to.

He met her gaze, and something softer passed between them—a silent understanding, an acknowledgment of the fact that, despite all her teasing, she would miss him.

Before he could respond, Étienne clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, his grip warm and steady. "Now, Arcturus," he said, his tone light but lined with something more profound, "I expect great things from you. But more importantly"—his lips quirked into a smirk—"I expect you to behave like a gentleman. No breaking too many young witches' hearts, understood?"

Arcturus let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I'll try to keep the casualties to a minimum."

"That's all I ask," Étienne replied with a wink.

Céleste stepped forward then, her brown eyes filled with quiet emotion. She reached out, smoothing a stray strand of hair from his forehead before pulling him into a gentle embrace. Her arms, always a source of warmth and reassurance, tightened around him. "If it were up to me," she admitted softly, "I would keep you close to home. But that would be selfish of me." She leaned back, cupping his face between her hands. "I am so proud of you, mon trésor. No matter how far you go, you will always have a home here."

Arcturus swallowed, nodding. "I know."

And then there was Élodie.

She had been uncharacteristically quiet, standing with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her brows furrowed deeply. But now, as she stepped forward, he saw the telltale shine in her wide blue eyes, the way her lower lip trembled as she stared up at him.

"It's not fair," she whispered. "Christmas is too far away."

"Élodie…" Arcturus started, but before he could finish, she threw herself at him, her small arms wrapping around his waist with unexpected force.

"L-Letters won't be enough," she stammered against his shirt, her voice trembling. "It's not the same."

A lump formed in his throat as he knelt down, pulling her into a tighter hug. "I know," he murmured. "But I promise, I'll write as much as I can. And it won't be forever—it'll feel like no time at all before I'm back."

She sniffled, wiping furiously at her eyes with her sleeve.

Arcturus exhaled, pressing a hand to the back of her head, ruffling her curls slightly. "I guess we'll just have to make Christmas extra special, won't we?"

She nodded reluctantly against his shoulder, her grip tightening one last time before she finally let go.

Étienne checked his watch. "It's time."

The air around them seemed to shift, a quiet stillness settling over the orchard.

Arcturus took a steady breath, letting his gaze sweep over them—Aurelie, her smirk defiant but laced with something wistful; Étienne, standing with his usual easy confidence, though his eyes held something quieter, heavier; Céleste, her warmth unwavering, a silent reassurance in the face of goodbye; and Élodie, still rubbing at her eyes, watching him as if he might vanish before she could blink.

This was home.

And now, he was leaving it behind.

With deliberate care, he tightened his grip on the worn boot and his school trunk, grounding himself for what came next.

"I'll see you all at Christmas," he said, a final promise hanging in the air.

And then—

A hook yanked at his navel, and the world around him vanished.

The orchard, the sunlight, the faces of his family—everything twisted into a blur of motion.

Wind howled in his ears. Colors stretched and spun.

And just as suddenly as it had begun—

Something changed.

The Portkey journey should have been over in seconds. But this—this was different.

Everything around him stilled, the rushing sensation ceasing abruptly.

For a moment, he was weightless, floating in a space that was neither here nor there.

And then—

Darkness.

The vision shifted.

Cold.

Snow stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast, silver-white wasteland untouched by wind or movement. The air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed into the bones and smothered breath before it could form. The only sound was the faint, flickering crackle of a weak bonfire, its embers struggling against the oppressive chill.

By the fire, a man slouched on a fallen tree trunk, his fur-lined robes unkempt and dusted with frost. His boots were half-buried in the snow, his face ruddy from drink, and in his hand, a bottle of firewhiskey dangled loosely, tilting now and then as if he might forget he was holding it.

And beside him sat it.

The hooded figure was impossibly still, its tattered black robes pooling into the snow, untouched by the dampness. Beneath its heavy cowl, no face could be seen—only the abyss of its presence. Its skeletal fingers, long and thin, were lightly clasped together, unmoving. The fire's glow barely reached it, as though the light itself recoiled from its presence.

Arcturus could not move. He could not speak.

He could only watch.

The man took a long swig from the bottle and exhaled a slow, rattling breath before letting out a hoarse laugh. "Miserable company, you are," he slurred, waving the firewhiskey in the creature's direction. "Not much of a talker, are you?"

The creature did not answer.

The air around it hummed, a faint, sickly vibration that made Arcturus's teeth ache. A whisper of breath, slow and even, curled from beneath its hood—a sound that did not belong in this world.

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, come on. I know you understand me. You wouldn't be here otherwise." He shifted, leaning forward, his bloodshot eyes sharp despite the haze of drink. "You know who I am, don't you?" He spread his arms wide, his movements loose and careless, as if the very idea of being unrecognized was absurd.

"I'm Gervaise Ollivander," he declared, a slurred edge to his voice, but no less certain. "The finest wandmaker to ever live, damn it."

Arcturus's stomach clenched. Ollivander.

The name slammed into him like a physical force, rattling through his mind, shaking something loose. Ollivander's father.

The one who had made his wand.

By the fire, the man let out a sharp, humorless laugh, taking another swig of firewhiskey. "This stuff—" he sloshed the bottle, the liquid swirling inside like molten amber, "—warms you up. Burns away the cold."

He smirked. "Not that you'd care. Cold as death, aren't you?"

At that, the hooded figure shifted—just barely.

A sound—not quite a whisper, not quite a breath—slithered from beneath its hood. A rustling, like dry leaves against stone.

Ollivander grinned, flashing yellowed teeth. "Thought that'd get your attention."

He bent down, scooping up a handful of snow, packing it absently between his fingers. His expression was thoughtful, almost distant, until—without warning—he hurled the snowball at the creature.

Arcturus barely registered the motion, too caught in the slow, creeping horror settling into his bones. The thing didn't flinch, didn't even shift as the snow hit its robes and scattered in the firelight. No reaction. No breath. No warmth.

And then it clicked—why the cold felt deeper here, why the air itself seemed thinner, why even the weak firelight barely touched the thing draped in tattered black.

A dementor.

His chest tightened. This wasn't just some eerie vision anymore. He knew, with bone-deep certainty, what stood before him.

Silence.

Ollivander watched, his grin widening as the hooded figure moved—a slow, deliberate tilt of the head. And then—

A skeletal hand emerged from the folds of its robe.

Thin, bony fingers reached down, brushing over the untouched snow. It picked up a handful.

And then, with an almost casual precision, the creature threw the snowball back.

It struck Ollivander square in the chest.

For a moment, the world was utterly still.

Then—

The man laughed.

It was a loud, rasping sound, too sharp, too wrong against the quiet of the frozen wasteland. He slapped his knee, nearly doubling over. "You've got a sense of humor after all!" he wheezed. "Who would've thought?"

He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thrust the firewhiskey toward the dementor. "Alright, alright, you've earned it. Here."

The hooded figure took the bottle, lifted it to the shadow beneath its hood.

The liquid inside drained instantly, vanishing without a trace.

When it handed the empty bottle back, Ollivander stared at it for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he grinned.

"You lot… are fascinating," he murmured. His voice had dropped, no longer slurred with drunken amusement, but something quieter. Darker.

Arcturus could not breathe.

The fire flickered weakly, its light struggling against the ever-pressing cold.

And then—Ollivander's head snapped up.

He saw him.

Their eyes locked—bloodshot blue against golden amber.

Arcturus's breath hitched.

Ollivander's grin twisted, stretching too wide.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice almost playful. "Look who finally decided to join us."

The dementor beside him turned too, its hood shifting ever so slightly toward Arcturus.

A chill unlike anything he had ever felt gripped his bones, a deep, unnatural cold, sinking into his very essence.

Ollivander leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his bloodshot gaze locked onto him. "Are you just going to stand there, boy?" he slurred, cocking his head. "Or do you want to see what I've seen?"

The fire dimmed.

Shadows stretched toward him.

The hooded creature breathed, a whisper of a sound curling through the frozen air like a curse.

Arcturus tried to move—tried to wake up—but he was trapped, frozen in place.

Ollivander's grin widened. "Come on, boy," he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. Almost inviting.

"Plenty of fire to go around."

Something in the shadows shifted—

And the world collapsed.

The snow, the fire, the man, the dementor—everything shattered, swirling into darkness as he was dragged back into the pull of the Portkey.

The world lurched, the vision fractured, and Arcturus hit the ground—hard.

A dull thud rattled through his bones as he landed on the cold, hard floor of King's Cross Station. His limbs felt sluggish, his head spinning as if he'd just been dragged through something much worse than Portkey travel. His trunk lay beside him, his belongings thankfully intact, but the old boot—the Portkey—was gone, vanished the moment it completed its job.

For a few long seconds, he simply breathed, willing his mind to catch up with reality.

The fire.
The snow.
Ollivander.
The dementor beside him… watching.

His stomach twisted.

A sharp screech of brakes from a nearby train jolted him out of his thoughts.

Arcturus blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus. He was not in the frozen wasteland anymore. He was here—King's Cross. The station bustled around him, the air thick with the scent of metal, old newspapers, and the faint mustiness of too many people in one place.

Muggles hurried past, wheeling luggage, murmuring to one another, lost in their own mundane concerns. A few had stopped—just briefly—to glance at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and mild confusion.

Not like he had appeared out of thin air—thankfully—but more like they were wondering why a boy was sitting on the floor next to a massive trunk like he had just lost a battle with gravity.

Arcturus exhaled shakily and pushed himself up, dusting off his jeans. His legs still felt weak. His arms trembled slightly, the aftereffects of the vision clinging to him like a ghostly imprint.

No one spoke to him.

No one asked if he was alright.

Muggles had a strange way of ignoring what didn't make sense.

Which is probably for the best, he thought grimly.

He rubbed a hand over his face, willing himself to push past the unease curling in his gut. There was no time to dwell on the vision now—not here, not in the middle of a crowded Muggle station.

A sharp hoot from above made him look up.

Hypnos.

The sleek black owl circled once before swooping down and landing neatly on top of his trunk. His golden eyes flicked toward Arcturus with something almost knowing, and he ruffled his feathers as if unimpressed by his human's current state.

Arcturus let out a short breath of relief. "Nice to see you made it." His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Hypnos simply gave him a slow blink, then turned his gaze toward the arched brick wall between platforms Nine and Ten.

Arcturus followed the owl's line of sight, his destination finally in focus.

Platform 9¾

A nervous thrill curled in Arcturus's stomach, battling with the lingering unease from the vision. The world around him bustled with hurried travelers, the rhythmic chime of announcements echoing through the station. Steam billowed from a passing train, curling through the rafters in lazy tendrils.

But he barely registered any of it.

This is it.

His golden eyes flicked toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Beyond that wall—just a few steps away—lay the path to everything he had spent years wondering about.

A soft hoot made him glance up. Hypnos had landed on a nearby metal beam, his dark feathers barely visible against the station's steel and glass framework.

Arcturus smirked. "See you at Hogwarts?" he asked, tilting his head.

Hypnos blinked at him, then stretched his wings in a slow, deliberate motion before taking off, soaring over the station with effortless grace. Arcturus followed him with his gaze until he disappeared beyond the bustling crowd.

With one last breath, Arcturus turned toward the barrier.

And he walked forward.