Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction using the characters from the Harry Potter world. I do not claim any ownership. I only claim ownership of any OCs.

This story explores several mature and sensitive themes, including underage drinking, violence, and explicit language.

Additionally, this book in particular delves into the complexities of adolescence, including the exploration of puberty and the evolving understanding of sexuality from the perspective of a growing teenage boy. There will be explicit sexual content and references, handled to authentically portray the physical, emotional, and psychological changes that accompany this formative stage of life. Reader discretion is advised.

For anyone who has stumbled upon this, this is Book Four. You might need to read the other three for the whole story.

Extended Summary

Alexander begins his fourth year at Hogwarts burdened by a dark and harrowing truth: the grandfather he idolises all his life is responsible for his mother's death. Wracked with repressed grief, simmering rage, and a gnawing fear that he might inherit his grandfather's capacity for darkness, Alexander feels more adrift than ever.

The excitement of the Triwizard Tournament temporarily distracts the students, but when Harry is unexpectedly chosen as a fourth champion — no surprises there, of course — Alexander's unease only deepens. His sharp instincts whisper that darker forces are at play, and Harry may be their target.

Alexander's suspicions are soon vindicated as strange magical phenomena ripple through Hogwarts. Spells go awry with no explanation, ancient wards crackle and fail, and rumours of old, volatile magic hidden deep beneath the castle begin to surface. As Alexander investigates, it becomes clear these anomalies are not mere accidents and may be linked to his family's past.

Also complicating matters is the arrival of Luc Bonaccord, an enigmatic figure tied to a centuries-old feud with the Laurents. Luc's presence at Hogwarts is unsettling, his cryptic warnings and sharp intellect hinting at a hidden agenda. For all his distrust of Luc, Alexander is reluctantly drawn into uneasy cooperation as their paths cross in the unravelling mystery. With the shadow of their families' rivalry casting doubt on every word and action, Alexander must determine whether Luc is an ally or a threat in disguise.

Meanwhile, Alexander's relationship with Esmée — a familiar sharp-witted and fiercely independent Beauxbatons student who mirrors his rebellious streak — becomes both a spark of fiery passion and a source of much-needed distraction.

But this year is no ordinary one, fraught with shifting alliances and emotions that churn like the stormy seas.

Alexander finds himself increasingly agitated that Hermione's attention appears drawn to students from other magical schools. Whatever this feeling is — annoyance, unease, or something else entirely — it clings to him, leaving him bristling. The more he tries to rationalise it away, the more it tightens its grip, leaving him tense and restless. It's not like him to be so affected, and yet, no matter how hard he tries to push it aside, this inexplicable reaction stubbornly refuses to fade.

The year presses on, and Alexander finds himself navigating more than he bargained for.

All he has to do is untangle the mystery behind the magical surges happening at the worst possible moments in the castle, keep Harry alive in this chaotic tournament while uncovering who is targeting his best friend (besides the noseless psycho, obviously), and somehow navigate the awkward tension between Harry and Ron during their first serious fight. Breakup? Fallout? Whatever you want to call it.

Oh, and if he can deduce why his chest tightens and his temper flares whenever he sees Hermione talking to that guy, it'll be fantastic. He hasn't spoken a word to the bloke, yet he wants to throw a punch every time they cross paths.

And just for good measure, if his body can stop with these changes thanks to the wonders of puberty (and whatever magical nonsense is adding to it), he'd really appreciate it.

Easy stuff for a fifteen-year-old boy to handle, right?

EPIGRAPH

❝What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.❞

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Jab. Jab. Cross. Slip.

Lately, there's been a comfort in feeling the sting of pain flashing across knuckles — a sharp, undeniable reminder of being alive, that the weight, the anger inside has somewhere to go.

Alexander inhaled deeply. The air smelled faintly of iron and sweat. Around him, the world seemed muffled, the rush of his breath louder than the squeak of his trainers against the linoleum flooring. He flexed his fingers, watching the reddened and raw skin stretch. The sting of it lingered, a faint throb pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

The heavy bag swung like a pendulum before him. Sweat dripped from his temples, stinging his eyes, but he blinked, focusing on the heavy thud of his gloves connecting with the leather.

A voice rang out. "Don't rush it, Alex. Keep your guard up."

The words were familiar, almost background noise, but Alexander adjusted anyway, snapping his gloves back to protect his face. It wasn't about pleasing Coach. It wasn't about anyone else, really. It was about the quiet that came after.

His fists rose again, instinctively, without thought. A left jab connected with the bag, the impact jolting through his arm. His right hand followed with a cross that sent the bag swinging harder this time. The chain rattled faintly above, the sound sharp against the otherwise quiet gym. He'd changed for the better than when he first walked into the gym, fists clenched, brow furrowed, looking for some kind of distraction.

Alexander had tried everything that summer — running, cycling, even football. But it wasn't enough, no matter how many laps he ran or how hard he kicked the ball. His anger churned relentlessly, a gnawing at ribs that refused to let go. His body buzzed with a restless energy, desperate for release. He didn't just want an outlet — he needed one. The first time he laced up the gloves, it was like striking a match in the darkness. For the first time, the chaos inside him felt like it belonged.

"Don't hit too hard, kid. Bag's older than you are."

"Might be time for an upgrade, then," said Alexander.

His training Coach chuckled, a deep, gruff sound that seemed to come from somewhere far down in his chest. "Let me know when you're buying the next one."

The moment passed as the Coach wandered off toward his desk to answer the phone, leaving Alexander alone with the heavy bag again.

Truth be told, he hadn't been particularly skilled to begin with, and Eliot had always seemed hesitant about the whole thing. Every punch had been wild, every movement clumsy. His feet would tangle, his arms would drop, and his punches lacked the precision Coach kept harping on about. Still, there was something about boxing that kept pulling Alexander back. He couldn't use magic but this Muggle method would have to do. Even as Eliot's subtle scepticism hung in the air, Alexander found himself returning to the gym day after day. The sound of gloves smacking against the heavy bag was strangely satisfying, almost meditative. It wasn't about being good or impressing anyone, least of all Eliot. It was about doing something, quieting the noise in his head with each punch.

Alexander stepped back, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the bag as it swung back toward him. His lips pressed into a thin line. His teeth clenched, so tight his jaw ached. The flicker of his shadow moved with him.

Then, unwillingly, the memory slipped in, unbidden.

Not the vivid colour of recollection but the ghost of it, jagged and raw. Jonas's face — bloated, his eyes half-lidded and glazed. A mask of decay, a half-snarl frozen on his lips. . . Alexander blinked, but Grandfather was there next. That hawkish glare, the mouth drawn tight with disdain, as if the boy before him was never enough.

Alexander swung again. Harder. A right cross cracked against the leather. A hook tore into it next. His body moved faster now as if chasing something that refused to be caught. The bag jerked back violently, its chain creaking in protest. He followed, closing the distance, driving a straight punch square into its centre. His breath came in sharp bursts, his muscles tight and coiled.

The room closed in. His world narrowed to the rhythm of his gloves against leather, the tang of sweat on his lips, the ache spreading through his knuckles. Somewhere, buried deep, was something raw — an ember that refused to burn out, no matter how much he tried to extinguish it with sweat, grit and broken skin.

He didn't hear the creak of the door behind him, nor did he notice the faint footsteps echoing. He only felt the heat climbing up his neck, the tension coiled in his stomach, and his hands beginning to shake when they weren't clenched into fists. Perhaps this restlessness had always been inside him like a fester, and underneath, he was as twisted and rotting as his grandfather was — or is rather.

"You keep hitting it like that, you're gonna need a new bag."

The voice cut through the haze, low and dry with a trace of amusement. Eliot stepped into view, head tilted, hands tucked into his cardigan pockets. The worn jeans clinging to his lanky frame looked out of place in the dim-lit gym, but the smirk on his face didn't. He stopped just out of reach, his eyes flicking to the battered bag, then to his form.

Alexander dropped his fists slowly, his chest still heaving, and met Eliot's gaze. "What are you doing here?" His voice was hoarse.

"Figured I'd find you here. Not exactly a hard guess."

Eliot's smirk softened, his head tilting slightly to the side. He leaned casually against one of the support beams, arms crossing over his chest. His posture was easy, but his eyes sharpened as they scanned Alexander, taking in the sweat-soaked shirt and the trembling hands.

Alexander's lips twitched, but the smile refused to take shape. He ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to steady his breathing. The heat in his chest hadn't dissipated; it churned like unruly hail. Instead, he turned away, unstrapping his gloves with sharp, jerking motions. The Velcro tore free, leaving his hands exposed. His knuckles were red and swollen, flecked with small splits where the skin had given under the relentless punishment. He dropped the gloves to the bench, the sound muffled by the linoleum.

"You haven't answered my question. What is it that you want, Eliot?" His voice came out rough, and he immediately winced at the bitterness laced in it. All he'd been lately was bitter and irate like a caged animal frothing to get out of his rib cage.

Eliot raised a brow, pulling his hands from his pockets and holding them up in mock surrender. "Relax, Rocky. I'm not here to critique your technique. Though, for the record, it's pretty solid." His grin softened as he stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly to Alexander's hands. "Was just wondering if you wanted dinner. Or, you know, some company. It's getting pretty late, no?"

Alexander didn't respond immediately. He glanced at the chafed skin contouring across his bones as he flexed his hand. Company. Dinner. It sounded so simple, so ordinary, and yet the thought of it made his chest tighten.

Eliot didn't push. He just stood there, leaning casually against the support beam, the faint smirk lingering on his lips as if he had all the time in the world. Maybe he did. Alexander had been staying with him since the start of summer when he'd walked out of his grandfather's house with nothing but a suitcase and the violin case he refused to sell or abandon, even if it now collected dust under his bed.

Eliot had barely hesitated when Alexander showed up at his door, jaw clenched and his face drawn and pale. "You can stay," Eliot said simply, stepping aside without a question. It was that same easy, nonchalant attitude that kept Alexander from bolting now.

"Dinner?" Alexander finally said, his voice flat. He wiped his hands on his shirt. "I'm not hungry."

Eliot sighed, his grin fading just enough to let a trace of concern slip through. "You say that every night, Alex. You're gonna waste away if you keep skipping meals. Not exactly the fuel you need to keep throwing punches at that bag."

Alexander shot him a glare but didn't argue. He was too tired, the ache in his arms spreading to his chest like a weight he couldn't shake. Without another word, he grabbed his water bottle and took a long drink, letting the silence stretch. Eliot waited, his arms still crossed.

Finally, Alexander spoke again, his voice softer this time. "I'm fine, alright. You don't have to worry about me."

Eliot snorted, pushing off the beam and stepping closer. "Fine, eh? Aye, sure looks it." He waved a hand, gesturing at the gym, the gloves, and Alexander himself. "If this is what 'fine' looks like, I'd hate to see you when you're not fine. You should be out, y'know, havin' a laugh, enjoyin' yourself. It's the summer hols, for God's sake, Alex. Come on, lad."

Alexander's lips pressed into a thin line, but Eliot didn't give him a chance to reply.

"Look," he said, his tone softening, "I didn't wanna bring this up but I'm getting worried and all. And I know you've got your reasons for being angry, and I'm not gonna tell you to get over it or whatever. But batterin' your hands to bits every day? That's not gonna fix anything, mate. And it sure as hell isn't gonna make the past vanish, no matter how hard you hit."

Alexander flinched, the words striking a nerve he wasn't ready to confront. He looked away. "It's not about that."

"Ain't it?" Eliot's voice was quiet now, his smirk gone. He watched Alexander closely, his sharp gaze cutting through the wall Alexander had spent months building. "You don't have to talk about it, lad. I'm not asking for a therapy session. I just. . . I want you to know you don't have to deal with it alone. That's all."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The gym seemed to grow smaller, the faint hum of the overhead lights pressing in. Finally, Alexander exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

"Fine," he muttered, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "I'll eat. But don't expect me to talk."

Eliot's grin returned, but it was softer this time, almost relieved. "Deal. How do you feel about Thai?"

Alexander shrugged, his expression guarded but no longer hostile. "Whatever."

"First though, mister, you need a shower. No restaurant in London will allow you to walk through the door smelling like that. Seriously, mate, you're like a walking gym sock right now."

Alexander rolled his eyes. "I didn't realise you had such a sensitive nose." He sighed, shaking his head as he headed toward the locker rooms. "Okay, fine, give me like twenty minutes."

As they left the gym, Eliot walked beside him, and for the first time in a while, Alexander felt something almost like gratitude. He hadn't realised just how hungry he'd felt.

∞ ϟ 9¾

Eliot sat at the small kitchen table, the soft clinking of his spoon against the coffee cup the only sound breaking the morning stillness. Alexander stood by the window, gazing out at the rain-soaked street, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since cooled.

"Looks like it's going to be one of those days," Eliot remarked, his tone light. "Though if you ask me it's worse up North. Proper grim, it is. Rain comes at you sideways, wind's cold enough to freeze the soul right out of ya."

Alexander hummed in agreement, his gaze unwavering from the droplets racing down the glass, as he fought a shiver. "Sounds like a Dementor's near then."

"I reckon a Dementor'd feel warmer than a January gale in Newcastle. Least they're more upfront about suckin' the life out of ya. But y'know what they say — if you wait for nice weather, you'll never get anything done in this country."

"Guess so."

Alexander's neck hair bristled as he could feel Eliot's tilted head as he studied him.

"You alright, though?" asked Eliot, "Or are you just doing that thing where you nod along and hope I stop asking?"

Alexander glanced over his shoulder, giving a half-smile. "I'm fine."

"'Fine,'" Eliot repeated with a scoff, setting his cup down with a decisive clink. "You and that bloody word. It's like your safety net? But it doesn't fool me, Alex. You're about as fine as this tea's hot — and that's not very."

Alexander sighed. "I said I'm fine, Eliot."

Eliot hummed then turned silent.

"You know," he began once again after a few minutes, keeping his voice casual, "I was thinking about that old violin of yours. Haven't heard you play in a while. You still have it, no?"

Alexander's grip tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening. "Yeah. Been busy," he replied curtly, the words clipped.

"It's the summer, Alex, or what it's supposed to be in this country. What's a kid like you got to be busy with?"

"Stuff, I don't know. Who knows, maybe it's time I get a job."

"You're too young to be thinking of a job."

Alexander was almost offended and it must've showed in his voice. "I'm almost fifteen."

Eliot leaned back in his chair. "Ah, yes. Practically ancient. Next thing you know, you'll be retiring."

"Aren't you particularly witty this morning?" Alexander scowled, his lips twitching a tad.

Eliot's grin widened as he set his mug down on the table, the faint clink breaking the quiet rhythm of the morning. "What can I say? The rain brings out my inner comedian. Look, pick up that violin and see if it still works as well as your fists. The flat's quiet and it'd be nice to hear some of your music."

Alexander stiffened, his gaze shifting away from the window for the first time. He didn't turn to face Eliot, but the tension in his shoulders grew. His comment had struck a nerve.

"Get a boombox if it bothers you so much. Violin's just an old piece of wood with strings," Alexander said flatly, setting his mug down on the windowsill. His voice carried a sharp edge, one he couldn't help. "Nothing special about it."

"Funny, I remember you sayin' it meant summat more back then. When you first showed me, like. You wouldn't shut up about it for weeks — had it on all the time. Bet the neighbours were ready to throttle you and all."

Alexander's fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw clenching. His posture grew even more rigid.

"Why are you bringing this up?" he finally asked, his voice tight, controlled. "You've been lately poking at things that don't matter."

"Don't matter?" Eliot's tone remained light, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath it now that caused an itch to rise at the back of Alexander's neck. "Mate, you're acting like it's some random trinket you picked up at a flea market."

Alexander let out a harsh laugh. "You don't know what you're talking about." He turned abruptly, walking toward the small hallway that led to his room. "Just drop it, Eliot."

"Alright, suit yourself, Mr Grumpypants."

Alexander scoffed over Eliot's laughter. "Alright. Real mature." He turned back towards the window and watched an old lady with an umbrella walking her dog down the avenue. "Still think I could get a job, though," he muttered, almost as if talking to himself. "Plenty of kids my age work. It's not like I can't handle it."

Eliot hummed. "And what exactly would this illustrious fifteen-year-old career path look like? Delivering papers? Flipping burgers? Or do you have some secret stock portfolio you're managing on the side?"

Alexander shot him a sideways glance, frowning. "I could do more than that."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Eliot said seriously, his teasing tone slipping away. "But you've got plenty of time to figure that out. You don't have to be in such a rush to grow up. You're still the bright-cheeked eleven-year-old I remember who'd wait to hear his grandfather's car arrive in the driveway." Eliot's voice turned wistful. "I miss that boy."

This angered Alexander, who was reminded of just how different his life was now. "That's easy for you to say," he shot back, his voice abrupt again. "You're not the one sitting around with nothing to do. Maybe I don't want to just waste time."

"Waste time?" Eliot frowned slightly. "You think playing your violin or even just figuring yourself out is a waste of time? You're fourteen — sorry, almost fifteen. You're allowed to not have your whole life mapped out yet, Alex, slow down."

Alexander's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill. "It's not about that."

"Then what's it about?" Eliot asked, his voice calm but insistent. "You keep acting like you've got this clock ticking down, like if you stop for a second, something bad's gonna happen."

"I don't know, alright?" Alexander snapped, spinning away from the window. "I just—" He sighed loudly, rubbing his temple. "I just need something to do before school starts and I go back."

Back to whatever's in store for them this year. There was always some shit happening at Hogwarts and Aleander would be a fool to think otherwise. Alexander pushed away from the windowsill, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He didn't meet Eliot's gaze. His fingers flexed at his sides as if searching for something to latch onto. Eliot examined him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. He drummed his fingers lightly on the edge of the table, his expression thoughtful but casual, as though he weren't measuring every word before speaking.

"Alright," Eliot said, his tone easy. "So, you want something to do. What about helping me out around here? You're always complaining about the clutter. Maybe you could organise some of it, show me what I'm doing wrong."

Alexander didn't respond immediately. He turned back to the window. His reflection was muted, distorted by the droplets.

"I don't want to play housekeeper," he muttered. "Besides, it's your mess."

Eliot sighed, pushing his chair back with a faint scrape against the wooden floor. "Fair enough," he said, his tone carefully neutral. He stood, crossing to the sink to rinse his coffee cup. The faint clink of ceramic against metal filled the silence between them.

Alexander stayed by the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His reflection in the glass seemed older, heavier. He shifted uncomfortably, the air in the room feeling too close, too heavy.

Eliot leaned casually against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel. "You know," he said lightly, "there's something to be said for talking it out. Not with me, necessarily, but. . . someone."

Alexander was quick to answer. "I'm fine."

Eliot folded his arms. "Alright, then," he said after a beat, his voice careful. "But just so, whatever it is — whatever's eating at you — it doesn't have to stay bottled up. Sometimes saying it out loud makes it smaller, you know?"

Alexander's shoulders tensed. "You don't get it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're not the one who had to find out. . ." He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. "Just drop it, Eliot."

"I just — if it's about your grandfather—"

"It's not! I told you to drop it!"

"Alright, alright. Dropped."

"I'm serious, Eliot." Alexander's voice was lower now, quieter but no less intense. "I don't want to talk about it. Not with you. Not with anyone."

"Well, if that's what you want," Eliot said, though his tone betrayed that he didn't believe him. "But you know—"

"I don't want to know!" Alexander interrupted. He turned away, his movements stiff, and started toward the narrow hallway leading to his room. "Just leave me alone, will you?"

"Alex—"

Alexander didn't stop. His footsteps echoed faintly as he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut cutting off Eliot's next words.

∞ ϟ 9¾

Unsurprisingly, it hadn't been Alexander's best summer this year. Everything seemed awry since he'd hastily left his grandfather's house in Notting Hill and moved into Eliot's small two-bedroom flat in Camden. The once-familiar rhythm of his days had been thrown off balance, and a gnawing sense of displacement replaced the nostalgic feeling at his grandfather's place.

Eliot, who passed as his grandfather's closest friend and the man who had practically raised Alexander, had welcomed him with open arms. Yet, even with Eliot's kindness, the flat felt cramped and chaotic compared to the sprawling comfort of Notting Hill.

The flat smelled faintly of damp wood and burnt toast, no matter how many times Eliot claimed to 'air the place out.' The walls were paper-thin, and Alexander had learned more about the nightly habits of their upstairs neighbours than he'd ever wanted to know. The worn-out sofa in the living room, the constant hum of the traffic, and the faint smell of mildew in the bathroom — all clashed against Alexander's memories of his grandfather's orderly, sunlit home with its wide windows and shelves of neatly arranged books.

It was almost enough to send him back.

Almost.

His days had fallen into a messy routine: in the evenings, he often found himself on the small balcony, a chipped mug of tea in hand, staring out at the rows of brick houses stretching into the distance. Mornings, however, began with Eliot's failed attempts at cooking breakfast; the kitchen was often filled with smoke alarms and Eliot's colourful curses. Alexander would grin despite himself, waving a dishcloth under the alarm to quiet it down. How easy it would be if I could just wave my wand and fix it, he thought wistfully. He had a sudden sympathy for Muggles but more so for squibs like Eliot. To be surrounded by magic all your life and then not inhibit any yourself would be enough to drive anyone over the edge. Alexander was shocked at how composed Eliot was.

He wondered why Eliot didn't move to some other place, another flat or house even. He remembered when he was a kid, trailing down the stairs, and overheard his grandfather during the late hours' offer to fix Eliot up with another place, that it'd be no trouble at all. It was the only time Alexander had seen Eliot turn angry and raise his voice. Eliot had declined the offer with a sharpness that startled Alexander even now, years later. He could still recall the way Eliot's voice had tightened, low and firm. "This is my home," he'd said, the words clipped but resolute, as though daring anyone to challenge him.

Alexander had crept back upstairs before he could hear his grandfather's reply, but the tension in Eliot's tone had lingered in his mind like a fragment. What was it about this place that Eliot clung to so fiercely? Whatever the reason, it had been enough to silence even his grandfather, who rarely took no for an answer.

Still, Alexander couldn't quite shake the feeling that Eliot deserved better than this cramped, chaotic flat. The man who had raised him deserved more than peeling wallpaper and neighbours who seemed to think furniture rearranging was a midnight hobby. Eliot never complained. If anything, he seemed to relish the imperfections of the place, as if the clutter and creaking floorboards were part of its charm.

"Not every home has to be perfect to be worth loving," Eliot had told him once, years ago, when Alexander had — unknowingly — with underage magic knocked over a vase and immediately burst into tears, terrified he'd ruined everything and that Eliot would never speak to him again. "It's the people in it that matter. The rest is just. . . stuff."

He tried to keep to this thought but it was hard sometimes when he'd never felt so alone before — not even in the cramped room that Jonas had held him hostage in. The worst moments came in the quiet hours, when he lay on the lumpy mattress that passed as his bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't run away then. The muffled sounds of the city outside — sirens wailing in the distance, laughter and arguments spilling out of late-night pubs — did little to drown out the relentless churn of his thoughts. He told himself he didn't miss his grandfather, that leaving had been the right choice.

But the ache of it lingered, sharp and persistent, like a splinter he couldn't quite remove.

Alexander couldn't decide what bothered him more: the fact that his grandfather hadn't reached out, or that he hadn't even tried to visit since he'd left. Maybe he thought this was just a passing phase, a temporary rebellion that would fizzle out. Perhaps he was waiting for Alexander to show up at home in a few days — or by Christmas at the latest.

And yet, no matter how far Alexander tried to distance himself, he couldn't quite escape the ghost of his grandfather's presence. It crept into his thoughts at the oddest moments — when he caught a whiff of the familiar cologne someone wore on the Tube, or when Eliot, in his unpolished way, tried to offer advice that sounded eerily like things his grandfather would have said, albeit with far less finesse.

He hated these moments when his mind drifted, unsought, to things he didn't want to think about.

Like how his body felt so alien recently.

Alexander sighed and leaned closer to the fogged-up mirror, dragging a towel through his damp hair. A bead of water trailed down his temple, tickling as it went, and he swiped at it absently, his hand brushing against the faint shadow above his upper lip. His shoulders had broadened over the summer. He'd grown an inch or two, and his voice had deepened, though it still cracked embarrassingly at the worst times. A faint shadow had begun to appear on his upper lip, barely noticeable unless he was standing in just the right light, but enough to make him feel self-conscious.

He wiped a hand across the glass, clearing a streak down the middle as he clutched the porcelain sink. His own eyes stared back at him, sharper than he remembered, framed by a jawline that seemed to have crept into existence without permission. He flexed his hand experimentally, fingers curling into a fist, the sinews along his forearm standing out. He almost laughed — it felt absurd, this body, like someone had swapped his reflection with a stranger's.

His gaze wandered down to his chest, where the shirt he wore earlier had left a slight imprint from being tighter than he expected. His ribs were less visible now, the faint lines of muscle beginning to carve themselves across his torso. His skin, damp and pink from the heat of the shower, glistened under the faint light. He frowned. The weight of himself was unfamiliar, like wearing a jacket that was too big for him.

How very convenient, he thought scornfully. My grandfather and my body are both strangers now.

When the clock struck nine, Alexander sat cross-legged on his bed, his damp hair curled, the worn springs creaking under his weight. His gaze flickered to the edge of the mattress, where the corner of a magazine peeked out from beneath a rumpled jumper.

A blush crept up his neck at the sight of it, heat spreading to his ears. He couldn't stop looking at it, and he hated himself for him in the aftermath. He turned his head quickly, as if looking would somehow make it worse, but the memory was already bubbling up.

It had started months ago — a restless, aching pull near his lower pelvis area that gnawed at him in quiet moments. At first, he thought it was just stress or frustration from the usual events at Hogwarts and worry for his friends, the same emotions that made him throw himself into the heavy bag at the gym. But this was. . . different, sharper, and it didn't go away when his knuckles split or his muscles burned.

It came at night, in the stillness of his room, when the walls felt too close, and his skin itched with a need he couldn't name. And during the mornings, too. The familiar pressure would be there regularly, low and insistent as if his body had decided without consulting him. His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling as if pretending not to notice would somehow make it disappear. It didn't and some days it caused him to wallow in frustration.

Even now the temptation was too hard to resist. He wetted his lips and then swung his legs over the bed.

Still, he hesitated, his fingers hovering in the space between reaching and retreating. A nervous flutter stirred in his chest, the sensation both foreign and maddeningly unyielding, like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. He shouldn't but he couldn't help the curiosity.

When he finally pulled it free, the glossy surface felt strange in his hands, almost too vivid against the muted tones of his room. The cover was brighter than he remembered, the bold title Playboy emblazoned across the top, a woman with hair that spilt like liquid gold over her shoulders, her eyes sultry and half-lidded as though she knew something Alexander didn't. His thumb traced the edge of the page, the faint scent of ink and paper rising as he hesitated.

He flipped it open.

The first image was a shock of colour and curves, a woman sprawled across an impossibly white bed, her skin luminous against the stark sheets. She was smiling — no, smirking — one hand resting on her hip while the other trailed suggestively down the curve of her thigh. Alexander's breath hitched as his gaze lingered, his stomach tightening with a sensation that was equal parts interest and discomfort. It was so starkly intimate like he was seeing something he shouldn't, yet he couldn't look away.

The woman on the front smiled up at him with a confidence he couldn't quite fathom, her eyes bold, her pose deliberate. He flipped the page with a clumsy, guilty motion, as though expecting Eliot to burst into the room at any moment, armed with a lecture about boundaries and bad influences.

The pages felt heavy between his fingers. He stared at the images, half-fascinated and half-repulsed by his curiosity. The women seemed impossibly perfect, their bodies smooth and symmetrical in ways that didn't seem quite real. One leaned against a chair, her back arched. Another stretched languidly on a bed draped in silk, her expression a mixture of seduction and indifference.

But the one thing they all shared was the same: an overwhelming expanse of bare skin.

His breath caught, his pulse pounding in his ears as he shifted awkwardly, the fabric of his plaid pyjama trousers growing uncomfortably tighter.

Alexander could still see Connor's smirk in his mind's eye — the older boy from down the street who had handed him the magazine a few weeks ago, also somewhat reminded him of Sebastian. Connor's grin had been sly, conspiratorial, his teeth just a little too sharp in the glow of the streetlamp they stood under. Alexander had run into him by accident on the way back from the corner shop, his bag laden with bread and milk, and Connor had leaned casually against the lamppost, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

He offered a slimy wink that made Alexander feel like worms were crawling down his back as he held out the rolled-up object. "Something to keep you busy," Connor had said, his voice dripping with mock wisdom. His leather jacket had hung loosely off his shoulders, and a cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash threatening to fall at any moment. "Trust me, mate, you'll thank me later, as one bloke to another."

Alexander had been caught off guard, standing in the shadow between their flats. He didn't know how to respond, so he took it, stuffing the magazine into his bag without a word. Connor's laugh had followed him all the way home, low and knowing.

Now, sitting on his bed with the evidence in hand, Alexander wasn't sure whether to feel intrigued or ashamed. The memory of Connor's smug face only made it worse, a constant reminder that this wasn't something he'd sought out on his own. It was given to him, like a challenge or a curse.

One part of him wanted to toss the magazine under the bed and pretend it had never existed, while another — the part that had taken it from Connor without protest — kept him glued to the images. A wave of guilt washed over him, leaving him feeling every bit like the peeping Tom.

The girls seemed so far removed from anything real, their confidence and poise almost alien to him. He couldn't imagine meeting anyone in his life who looked like this, let alone acted like it. The women in the pictures were not just girls who were grown-ups; they were something entirely different. They were women.

There was something about it — not just the images but the idea of it, the forbidden nature of holding something meant for older boys, for men. It made his pulse quicken and his skin feel hot like he was stepping into another territory.

The sound of a floorboard creaking snapped him out of his thoughts. His head whipped toward the door, his heart hammering in his chest. He held his breath, listening for the telltale sound of Eliot's footsteps, but the flat remained quiet. Just the rain tapping softly against the window.

Curiosity wasn't a bad thing, of course. Eliot had always said it was how people learned about the world and themselves.

Alexander wondered if the boys at Hogwarts thought about girls this much, too — or if they noticed the way such thoughts seemed to stir something in their lower bodies. Did Seamus and Dean ever dwell on soft skin, the curve of breasts, and all the other things boys weren't supposed to think about? Did they feel that same guilty heat creeping in when their minds wandered too far, too fast? He imagined Harry's determined face softening with confusion, Ron's ears turning red in that telltale way they did whenever someone mentioned girls. Alexander wasn't sure, but he suspected they did — or at least some version of it.

He sighed, his fingers drumming absently on his knee. He'd never thought about the opposite sex more in his life than he had during those weeks spent in Eliot's flat because there was nothing to distract him.

All of a sudden, girls were everywhere and nowhere all at once — smiling from the pages of magazines, laughing in half-remembered snippets of school corridors, existing in the kind of hazy perfection his mind painted when it was left unchecked. They were enigmas, distractions, obsessions. Faces from school flashed in his mind — girls who had smiled at him, girls he'd barely noticed before but suddenly seemed so luminous, so impossible.

Eliot's voice rang in his mind as he flipped through the pages, a memory emerging of one of those painfully awkward talks he insisted on having.

"You're at that age," Eliot had said, standing by the sink with a mug of tea in his hand, "where. . . well, stuff's gonna start happening. Feelings. Urges. Whatever you want to call it." He'd taken a sip of tea, clearly uncomfortable but determined to see it through. "Just, uh, be smart about it, yeah? Don't do anything stupid. And for the love of God, use protection. You don't want to end up with an STD, or worse—"

"Worse?" Alexander had asked, horrified.

"Kids," Eliot had replied, his smirk both teasing and serious. "Babies, mate. Think about it."

Alexander had fled the room, cheeks burning and the need to bury himself under the floorboards, and Eliot's laughter had followed him down the hall.

Now, the memory made him groan and bury his face in his hands. He could almost hear Eliot's voice in his head, mocking him. What's the plan, Rocky? Gonna have a whole family before you hit sixteen?

Alexander shook his head sharply, trying to banish the thought. The magazine sat open on his lap, the pages glossy and surreal. He flipped another page, his fingers trembling slightly. This time it was a close-up: a woman with dark, glossy hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her lips parted in an expression that was equal parts alluring and unreadable. She stared directly into the camera, and Alexander felt like she was staring straight at him. The pressure was becoming unbearable now and he knew that not even a cold shower would help him now.

He leaned back against the bedframe, exhaling a shaky breath. He averted his gaze swiftly, his heart pounding as his eyes darted toward the door to confirm it was locked. His thumb hovered hesitantly at the waistband of his trousers, tracing a slow, uncertain line as guilt and shame churned uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

∞ ϟ 9¾

The cigarette hung loose between Alexander's fingers, its faint orange glow barely illuminating the tremor in his hand. He flicked ash onto the crumbling edge of the park bench. The wood was splintered, worn like him, like something meant to last but weathered beyond its years.

A shallow inhale. The smoke clawed at his lungs, but it didn't bother him anymore the way it might have before. Before he had stopped noticing much of anything. He watched it curl into the cold air, twisting upward, dissolving into nothing. Alexander wondered, briefly, what it might feel like to drift away entirely, to let himself become as intangible as the smoke.

The rain hadn't started yet, but the dark clouds churned over the skyline like something restless and alive. The street hummed with faint chatter — car engines, someone calling for their dog, a radio blaring a pop song he didn't know. Alexander felt as if he were underwater, all sound distant and warped. He tapped the cigarette, scattering ash onto the concrete path, and took another drag.

His mother's written words echoed faintly in his head: If you insist on smoking, at least get yourself something decent. A little luxury goes a long way. He'd scoffed when he'd read that, but she wasn't wrong. The smooth flavour of a Dunhill or Davidoff — it felt like silk compared to this, which he'd bought randomly from the nearest corner shop near Eliot's flat. He wasn't sixteen yet — the legal age to sell cigarettes to customers — but he didn't think the shopkeeper cared much. The man barely glanced up from his tabloid, taking Alexander's crumpled notes with a grunt and handing over the pack without a second thought.

He didn't smoke every day, but today was one of those days — the kind where his skin felt like it didn't quite fit, his body and mind a stranger he couldn't get comfortable with. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the sensation, but it lingered like the heat.

Across the park, a group of kids, probably younger than him, raced by on bicycles, their shouts cutting through the air. Alexander envied their easy energy, the way they laughed without hesitation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that. Carefree. Untethered. Lately, all he did was glance over his shoulder, flinching at every hand that came too close, bracing for the moment it would be another Jonas, ready to take him hostage again.

He took another drag and stared at the dark clouds rolling in over the city skyline. They swallowed the horizon inch by inch, the edges bruised with purple and grey. He tightened his jacket around his chest, trying to keep out the creeping chill. What a summer, he grumbled inwardly. But the chill was inside him too — had been for weeks now, maybe months. A deep, marrow-heavy cold he couldn't shake. Sometimes Alexander felt like an old man trapped in a younger body, his bones tired, his skin too loose, like he didn't quite fit in himself anymore.

He wondered if he was too young to be feeling like this.

He stared out across the park, the edges of his thoughts fraying like the threads of his jacket cuffs. It should've been the kind of summer that should have felt infinite, filled with the thrill of possibilities.

But it didn't.

There was something in the air, something heavy and electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.

He hadn't told anyone about the dream. Not even Eliot. Not even after Eliot had caught him staring off into space one evening, his hands trembling just like they were now. "You alright?" Eliot had asked. Alexander had just nodded, brushing him off with a half-hearted joke about needing more sleep.

But he didn't tell him about the dream — the one where the sky was filled with shadows and a high, cruel laugh echoed endlessly. Where the castle, Hogwarts itself, seemed to crumble and burn. Where he ran but couldn't find his friends, couldn't find anyone, couldn't even find himself.

It was stupid, Alexander told himself. Just a dream. Nothing more.

Hey! Hope you guys had a lovely Christmas and happy new year! Welcome to the fourth book. I hope you'll join me on this journey.

First chapter of the new year and we're starting strong with a rift between Alexander and his grandfather. Hope you enjoyed the opening chapter. This is also a reminder that there's going to be a bump in the rating towards mature, which means explicit sexual content and themes featuring this.

This also has different POV shifts instead of just Alexander but if there's a specific perspective you want me to explore then please let me know.

Thank you for reading and your interest, I'm very much grateful for the feedback, support and kindness shown, more than you'll know, even if it takes me a while between chapters.

Hope your day is going well and see you next time!